Feed Bag Physics

One inspiration I can recall that led me to love old cars, cherish simple southern life and understand acceleration was a trip to the feed store with my grandfather, who I affectionately called Pop. My pet name that he called me was Pete.

I spent hours on end looking up to Jack Bailey.

There is a store just above the now present Exit 5 off of I-20 six miles from my hometown of Tallapoosa, Georgia. It’s still called the Buncombe Community. He, along with my dad, built it in the early Sixties. He ran it for a while. It changed hands many times after his death in 1972 and has been called Don’s Shoppett from some time now.

Sometimes when we get burnt out on the craziness of life we need something like this. Take yourself back to 1970 and see if this causes you to wander your soul of when your grandfather created memories for you.

---Feed Bag Physics

To my wonderment my grandfather could make the simplest chore or event seem Herculean in scope or proportion.

His most unusual task was the ritual of fetching a bag of feed from a small country store down the road. He would have me sit up beside him in the ’53 Chevrolet sedan and poke along to what seemed an eternity toward an odyssey. The Chevy was a straight shift. Three on the column. I watched as he gently stroked the shift lever on the barrel of the steering column. The floorboard was an ashy gray.

Once we arrived he would pull into the small parking area in front of the store.

“Now Pete, keep your seat.”

He threw open the door and pivoted his bottom bringing both legs out the car door. Holding the steering wheel for leverage he pulled himself out of the car. I sat still as I watched him open a door to a building adjacent the store. Pop disappeared into the shadows of the wooden shed. Seconds later he strode out into the morning sun with a huge sack of sweet feed under his right arm.

Walking past my side of the car with an opened mouth smile he flopped the double lined paper bag onto the top of the trunk lid. He called it the boot. There was no string or rope to tie the sack to the car. It just sat there anchored by its own weight. He winked and went into the store to pay.

As he returned, I fidgeted with the thought of the bag of horse feed sliding off the back of the car. Bursting onto the rode. Kernels corn and sweetened oats flying everywhere.

“Will it fall off?”

“Nah, it’s fine.” He rubbed his finger against his nose.

Looking over his right shoulder he slowly backed around. Going forward, he passed under the awning of the little store, looked both ways and pull out onto the highway. His left foot and right arm worked in tandem to help accelerate the old car.

Not to fast.

Amazed by it all, I crawled over to the back seat and wedged myself between the back glass and the top of the seat. It was warm there. I watched to see if the bag would slide or vibrate off the trunk lid.

It never did.