A Family's Life Changing Tragedy
A Family’s Life Changing Tragedy
The High School that I attended sat alongside Friendsville rd. with 224 just to the south. It was during the fall season so all of the teachers would leave their windows open to let in a little breeze. All day long you would hear nothing but dump trucks and semis going past our school because of the large gravel pit that were located just a couple miles down the road. It was mostly just a rural high school with not much around but a few houses and barns here and there. There were only about 800 students in the whole school. It was a place where everyone knew everyone, just the way that I like it. Out in front of the school was our two small student parking lot. The “Senior” lot and the “junior” lot is what they were called. It was highly frowned upon if a junior was to park in the senior lot so that is why the lots were named so that it made it official parking. No matter what lot you looked at, they both had a lot of trucks parked in them. Most people would say the only reason we had a lot of trucks parked in our parking lots is because our school schooled many hillbillies, rednecks and sons and daughters of farmers. During the fall of my junior year at Cloverleaf High School, on a cool frosty morning, I was barely sitting through another history lesson with Mr. Farrar just gazing out the window like usual or maybe just engaging in a little day dreaming. I was trying so hard to not let my head hit the desk even though I rather be sleeping than listening to this teachers lecture. The teacher just kept going on and on about how world war one began or something similar to that which no one really cared for. Mr. Farrar, was also my baseball coach, would always harass me about doing well in class and finishing my work. But, it was only second period and my eye lids would still feel really heavy as I sat there wishing that it was lunch so that I could eat my lunch that my mom packed me. But, I could just tell that this day was
The High School that I attended sat alongside Friendsville rd. with 224 just to the south. It was during the fall season so all of the teachers would leave their windows open to let in a little breeze. All day long you would hear nothing but dump trucks and semis going past our school because of the large gravel pit that were located just a couple miles down the road. It was mostly just a rural high school with not much around but a few houses and barns here and there. There were only about 800 students in the whole school. It was a place where everyone knew everyone, just the way that I like it. Out in front of the school was our two small student parking lot. The “Senior” lot and the “junior” lot is what they were called. It was highly frowned upon if a junior was to park in the senior lot so that is why the lots were named so that it made it official parking. No matter what lot you looked at, they both had a lot of trucks parked in them. Most people would say the only reason we had a lot of trucks parked in our parking lots is because our school schooled many hillbillies, rednecks and sons and daughters of farmers. During the fall of my junior year at Cloverleaf High School, on a cool frosty morning, I was barely sitting through another history lesson with Mr. Farrar just gazing out the window like usual or maybe just engaging in a little day dreaming. I was trying so hard to not let my head hit the desk even though I rather be sleeping than listening to this teachers lecture. The teacher just kept going on and on about how world war one began or something similar to that which no one really cared for. Mr. Farrar, was also my baseball coach, would always harass me about doing well in class and finishing my work. But, it was only second period and my eye lids would still feel really heavy as I sat there wishing that it was lunch so that I could eat my lunch that my mom packed me. But, I could just tell that this day was