I caught this post on Facebook the other day—someone had snapped a photo of a clunky old soda vending machine from the late ‘90s or early 2000s. The caption read, “U just had to be there.” And suddenly, I was back in the hallway of Warren Jr. High on Pine Street.
By Rob Reep, Saline River News
You know how certain smells, sights, and sounds can yank you out of the present and fling you straight into a memory? That’s what happened. One look at that battered soda machine, and I could practically hear the roar of the old compressors chugging along, fighting valiantly to keep those metal cans near sub-zero temperatures.
For my grandmother’s generation, that campus was the high school. By the time my generation rolled in, it was the Jr. High. My mom taught on the northwest side of that old brick relic. She had a classroom tucked away near the back, and for years, I found myself navigating those corridors, the floors squeaking underfoot. If I stand still and close my eyes, the dingy smell of the place is all too real.
There was a routine: after school, I’d wander down that long, historic hallway—chipped paint, echoing voices of who-knows-how-many decades—heading for the vending machines in the east wing. My mom would give me 50 cents (maybe it was a quarter once upon a time, but inflation and all that), and I would embark on the day’s most crucial decision: Coca-Cola or Barq’s root beer.
The can would tumble down with a satisfying thud, and the moment you popped the tab, you knew this was going to be cold—like, freeze-your-lips-to-the-can cold. It was something magical, a million times chillier than any iced drink you’d get now. I haven’t found a soda machine since that could do it better, not even close.
The old building itself—man, what a place. To the right of the east-wing entryway, maybe a couple classrooms. I think Mr. Roger Gatling’s room was over there once. When you entered the building’s easts wing, the big open entryway was framed by huge glass doors that looked a bit like a portal to another universe. The walls, that probably hadn’t changed in half a century, were saturated with bright orange lockers.
I remember the auditorium too. That iconic stage echoed with who-knows-how-many generations of talent shows, assemblies, and squeaky clarinets. If you ever performed there, you know the rush you felt stepping out in front of your classmates. The building’s been gone for a while now, but that place had character you just don’t see anymore—an architectural style that wore its years on its sleeve.
It’s funny how time compresses. I still go for walks with my wife and kids around that old site. The building may be missing, but it’s not gone from my head. I can still point out exactly where my mom parked her old grey van, see the entrance where I was dropped off by the school bus as an elementary student, and hear the scuffle of shoes trudging to first period.
So here’s the experiment: maybe you have your own memories from that old school. Different decade, same building. If you do, drop a comment on the shared link to this article on the SRN Facebook page, or shoot me an email at [email protected]. I’d love to hear your stories—reminders of that stage, those hallways, or the you’d-better-believe-it coldness of the vending machine sodas.
Let’s stir up those memories together. After all, every aging landmark has a million tales to tell, tucked in every cinder block, soaked into every tile floor. I want to know yours. Because sometimes, you really did just have to be there.
