An Expensive Swimming Lesson

Congratulations,  Brookside, Alabama - you have made the big time.  Just keep in mind that when a town of 1,200 people gets their name splashed over every news show in America, you can be pretty sure it ain’t good news.  And it ain’t.  In case you don’t know, Brookside is a big time speed trap. This tiny town has elevated ripping off motorists to an art form. That’s why 49% of the town’s entire budget comes from revenue obtained from traffic violations. Who says government doesn’t know how to do anything right?  

But you don’t have to choke money out of motorists one citation at a time to be effective. Sometimes there’s a more efficient way to shake down people -

like the one Trussville, Alabama used on me and a bunch of other kids when I was 17 years old.  I haven’t forgotten, even though it happened a long time ago.  In fact, I can almost forgive them now.  

The Alabama summer of 1971 was typical.  Hot, sticky, and unbearable.   Kind of like a walking around on the the sun, except there’s humidity and pollen along with it.   

We were doing what kids do in the summer - looking for a place to cool off.  Consequently, swimming was a high priority.  It could’ve been a creek, a lake, a pond, or a river.  But since there was a well known rock quarry that was nearby, it became our swimming hole of choice.  It just happened to be in the Trussville city limits. 

At the time, Trussville was a dinky little town on the outskirts of Birmingham.  A two lane highway was their only lifeline with civilization.  What I recall about Trussville is that; 1) they had a driving range outside the city limits, and 2) the high school football team was so bad that everyone tried to schedule them for homecoming.   There were almost no businesses other than a supermarket, a drug store, a beer joint, and an ice cream parlor. It wasn’t Metropolis.  

But, they had a police force.  I never had any dealings with them.  And to my knowledge, they had never bothered anyone that swam in the rock quarry.  That was about to change. 

The quarry was a great place to swim. You pulled right off a paved road, then walked about 50 easy yards. When you topped the rise, it stretched out in front of you.   It was pretty in a rough sort of way - imagine a large pool hewn out of a hill of stone.  It was deep and dark blue.  The topside of the quarry was perfect for climbing and jumping - sometimes we’d go as high as 50 or 60 feet before leaping into the water. It was a rush that I remember fondly - feeling the swoosh of that air before hitting the water.  We quickly learned how to perfect our entry.  If your arms weren’t by your side and your toes weren’t pointed, there would be bruises to show for it.  

This particular day was especially hot.  I suppose that’s why there were so many people there.  I recall about 40 or 50 kids in the water.  And we were just being kids. There was no drinking, no fighting, no funny cigarettes.   It was simply a group of people enjoying swimming and sunning on a summer day - until the police showed up. 

Af first, we didn’t see this as a problem.  In our minds, we weren’t doing anything wrong.  So, you can only imagine our surprise when they herded us up, told us we were trespassing, and would have to appear in court to answer the charges.  Then they began taking names.  Never mind that there were no signs, or the place had been a swimming hole for as long as anyone could remember.  We were lawbreakers. We were trespassers.  

The proper way for the cops to deal with this situation was obvious:  break the swim party up, tell us we were trespassing, then make us leave.  Subsequent posting of signs, and a chain link gate blocking the entrance would be an appropriate follow up.  But no. This pair of  Barney Fifes had to stop this crime wave.  Nip it, nip it, nip it!  Maybe after we served our time, with proper rehabilitation, we could yet become productive citizens.    

When the police asked for my name, I came very close to giving them my alias - Gene Trent.  Yep, at the age of 17,  I actually had an alias.  Years before, I dreamed up this name 

 in case I ever got in trouble.  And I even used it once when I got caught throwing water balloons off a parking deck downtown. It worked perfectly.  Unfortunately, my partner in crime had not thought of an alias, and when pressed to give a name, he blurted out, “Joe Hobby!”.   I should’ve killed him for that.   

In retrospect, using my alias would’ve worked out fine, because  this was not an attempt to uphold the law, but a money grab. I didn’t realize it was a sham at the time. Ah, the naïveté of youth.  I would understand their true intentions soon enough. 

On the day of our hearing, over 100 people packed the Trussville courtroom.  Predictably, each kid had at least one parent in attendance with them.  To Kill a Mockingbird it wasn’t.  About the only thing this kangaroo court had in common with Mockingbird was that justice wasn’t served.  The judge sat down, waited for silence, and then rendered his verdict to the masses, saying, 

“All of you are charged with trespassing at the rock quarry on Green Drive.  Those charges have been dropped, so there will be no fines levied, but each of you have incurred court costs totaling $300.” 

 (Note:  I recall the amount being $100, but my friend who was with me, adamantly says it was closer to $300.)

And with that he got up and left the bench.  

Brookside would’ve been proud. 

The courtroom exploded in anger.  My Mother and Father were furious, along with all the other parents.  They saw this for what it was, a way for a little town to line their pockets faster than a speed trap could ever do. It was a large baited field.  I’m not sure if it was a recurring event, but my friend thinks it was. 

Of course, this happened over a half century ago, and much has changed since then.  Trussville is all grown up, with large subdivisions, strip malls, and chain restaurants replacing the woods that used to blanket the area.  The high school football team is no longer homecoming fodder.  Now the rock quarry is part of the city’s utilities department, and it’s enclosed with tall barbed wire fences and signs.  If you look carefully, you can still get a glimpse of where we swam.  

But with all the changes, the court house looks exactly like  it did a half century ago.  I only hope that it’s different on the inside now.  

Please like and share!  

Thanks, 

Gene Trent

#Wereyouthere 

#Swimmingholes

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#Smalltownscams

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