County Commission | The Magazine November 2019 | Page 4

President’s PERSPECTIVE
I
Hon. David Money
President
We are all
called to service
Always give the best
of yourself, and thank
people who help you
along the way
Editor’s Note:
This is an excerpt of
the prepared text of
David Money’s
inaugural address.
4 | NOVEMBER 2019
remember my momma telling
the Trailways bus driver, “Now
you keep an eye on my boy, and
make sure you don’t let him off this
bus until his grandma is there to
meet him in Cordele, Georgia.” I
was 5 years old and about to make a
three-hour bus trip by myself. Such
was the rural South in 1953 — not
many of us would put our 5 year-old
on a bus alone in today’s world.
What I remember most about
those visits was the sound of train
whistles all through the night. My
5 year-old mind wondering: “Who’s
on that train? Where are they going?
Where’ve they been? What have they
seen?” That began my fascination
with trains.
I was born poor, but everyone
on that Henry County dirt road
was poor. We didn’t miss what
we’d never had. Didn’t miss indoor
plumbing — we were fine with the
outhouse and the proverbial Sears
and Roebuck catalog. I had no
problem with inside sponge baths in
cold weather in a wash tub in front
of a wood-burning stove. But I did
have a problem with my mother
bathing me in the late afternoon
summer sun by stringing a water
hose over the limb of the Chinaberry
tree in the side yard … in view of
the entire world. Daddy always said
a pair of pliers was cheaper than any
dentist, and Christmas to us meant
some fruit and peppermints, maybe
a flannel shirt — and, in a really
good year, a hand-me-down bicycle.
When I was in the second grade,
Daddy lost his job and moved us to
Port St. Joe. He and Mother both
worked in a box plant — living from
week to week, from paycheck to
paycheck. What they got on Friday
was generally gone by Wednesday.
Most weekends meant bonfires on
St. Joe Beach, two or three couples
with their children. My job as an
8 year-old — and the oldest child
there — was to hang near the adults
and take ‘em a beer from the ice
chest when they wanted one. This
was well before pop tops, so I’d open
it with a can opener (also known as a
church key) and take it back to ‘em.
I would drink the foam from the
top of the beer can on that very slow
walk back to where they sat on the
shore of St. Joe Beach. This went on
weekend after weekend, party after
party. Their marriage soon became
very shaky.
As school broke for Christmas
during the fourth grade, I got home
to find that Daddy had packed
our clothes and loaded them in
the car. He was taking me and my
7-year-old sister back to Alabama;
our 4-year-old sister was staying
with Mother. They were getting
something they called a divorce.
As he drove back to Abbeville, I
saw my daddy cry for the first time
in my life. This was his second
marriage to fail. Daddy married
five times; my mother was married
twice. From those seven marriages
came many children scattered over
Alabama, Florida and Georgia. I’ve
often said that I have more steps
than the Lincoln Memorial.
After moving back to Henry
County, Daddy worked at a truck
stop. It was where Great Southern
Wood is located today. The three of
us lived in a run-down mobile home
behind that truck stop. With no
curfew and very few rules, I’d walk
around in the late-night shadows,
looking for a half-empty beer can or
a not-fully-smoked cigarette. And
there were always domino games
lasting well into the night. Daddy
would often leave and tell me to take
over his hand, leaving a 10 year-old
boy to play dominoes against grown
men for $5 a game. They were often