Walking into that old junior high building was like stepping into a living scrapbook of South Arkansas’s youth—hallways echoing with laughter, basketballs pounding the gym floor, and the distant hiss of a soda machine that kept generations refreshed and, perhaps, just a little bit rebellious. A few days back, I penned a piece on those legendary soda machines that once stood guard in the east wing entryway of the old Warren Jr. High building on Pine Street—cool sentinels of caffeine and carbonation. Frankly, I had no idea the tidal wave of memories that article would unleash. Nearly six hundred reactions, over two hundred thirty comments, and a flurry of shares later, I’m still reeling.
By Rob Reep, Saline River News
But that’s Warren for you. If you know anything about this place—if you’ve ever roamed these historic brick streets, nodded to a neighbor on the porch, or sunk your teeth in a Pink Tomato—you know we hold our memories close. We pine for them the way city folk chase the next big food fad. We wear them like a snug jacket on a brisk autumn day, stained with the grit of a thousand fleeting moments. We’re proud to have grown up with the squeaks of that old building beneath our feet.
Echoes and Laughter
I’ve been sifting through your comments on the Saline River News Facebook page—each post a little time capsule. Rick Neill captured it perfectly: “Core memories formed in that building. Great friendships and amazing teachers! Who says you can’t smell a picture, right? Great article!” Indeed, the place had its own scent: a curious blend of pencil shavings, floor wax, and youthful ambition.
Latresia Thomason Whitlock chimed in with a nod to the late ‘70s, recalling the thrill of the auditorium and the peril of those big, old stairs: “Lol, I also fell down the stairs on the West side of the school…I wonder how many people have stood around the old oak tree.” This building transcended class years or graduation photos; its walls witnessed everything from the awkward clumsiness of our earliest steps into adolescence to the proud strut of young seniors, wide-eyed and on the cusp of discovery.
Stories in the Floorboards
Among my favorite snapshots are the tales of leaving campus for lunch—something most schools in bigger cities would frown upon today. In fact, my own generation came too late to witness those glory days. Sandy Ballentine Gavin took a stroll down memory lane: “Back in a different time, when we could leave campus for lunch, we could walk down Bond St. to Mr. Porter’s store…Or we could walk just across the street to Mrs. Parnell’s Lumberjack Cafe where we ate many hamburgers & hot dogs!” It’s the kind of nostalgic detail that conjures visions of greasy brown paper bags, that first rush of independence, and a crisp Dr Pepper to chase it all down.
The references to beloved teachers and staff flooded in, too—stories of yards sticks tapping on desks and cafeteria ladies turning a blind eye to mischief. Genevieve Hamilton remembered it well: “We were immersed with so many wonderful educators. With BIG personalities, but full of love. I still remember the bats and rats. Mrs. Bryant yelling at us to walk with some purpose…Mr. Grider having a running meltdown over a bathroom fire.” Makes you wonder how we survived it all, and yet, it’s precisely those little brushes with danger (and rodent life) that made the place feel so real, so undeniably ours.
Halloween Carnivals and High School Dances
Gloria Williams Alpe took us further back: “This was our High School—Class of ’68! One stand-out memory was the annual Halloween Carnival dating back to the 50’s. Junior and Senior plays were on stage in the auditorium. There wasn’t a lot going on in Warren—everything centered around school or church.” And that’s South Arkansas in a nutshell. When you’ve got big hearts, big talent, and not much else to do, the local gym or auditorium transforms into a hub of creativity. Plays, concerts, pageants, pep rallies—those events helped shape us, teaching us the art of performance long before we understood it as such.
Michelle Mendez brought us into the era of radio giveaways and class competitions: “We were the class that won a dance at the Y because we came in 2nd?? for sending in the most ‘We want Michael Damien’ index cards to B98.”
The Weight of History
Of course, sometimes a moment in that building became part of a larger collective story. Alexis Pacheco recalled a day etched in our national memory: “One of my most poignant and life-changing memories was watching 9/11 happen in real-time on the news in 2001 while sitting in Ms. Karen Ferguson’s class that morning. I’ll never forget it.” Because while so many of our recollections are steeped in local color and personal nostalgia, world history has a way of barging in, reminding us we’re part of something bigger.
Adrian Pacheco’s Story
One of the most detailed recollections arrived by email from Adrian Pacheco, who painted a vivid picture of navigating these hallways in the ’90s and early 2000s. He remembers stealthily carrying a CD player into class, hoping not to be spotted. He recalls listening to Mr. Grider’s tales about hunting (and missing “the big one”), reading The Client in 8th grade English, sneaking away on a “bathroom pass” to roam the halls, and even those ephemeral trips to Mazzio’s after school to watch TV in the “party” room—an adolescence powered by soda, cheese sticks, and MTV’s greatest hits.
Adrian also recounted a particularly funny moment on the first day of my mom’s(Beverly Reep) class in 8th grade, when he couldn’t resist setting the tone for a year of pranks and silliness. He described standing up on his desk, pushing the tiles of the ceiling skyward, trying to get a few laughs from his classmates. That is, until Mrs. Reep walked in. “Adrian,” she said sternly, “looks like you are having a good time. I will make sure and let Mrs. Cindy(Adrian’s Mom) know how much fun you are having in class when I give her a call tonight!” According to Adrian, the call did happen. It’s a small-town comedic gem, capturing that balance of discipline and motherly protection. Moments like these—spontaneous, sometimes a tad mortifying—are the memories that shape us.
The Ties That Bind
Of course, Adrian was quick to mention beloved educators—Mrs. Morris, Mr. Kolen, Mrs. Nix, Mrs. Booker, Mrs. Saunders, Mrs. Tina McKinney—and the pranks, triumphs, and lessons that took place under their watch. He recalled how the 9th-grade year felt like being at the top of a “social circle,” watching high schoolers cruise by and gleaning some harmless mischief from the older kids. But no matter the era, the common thread remains: Warren’s teachers—past and present—shared a knack for blending strictness, warmth, and unwavering devotion to their students.
An Ode to Warren
Say what you will about small towns in south Arkansas—call them “sleepy,” “out of the way,” or “too quiet”—but those of us who grew up here clutch our memories like prized antiques. The old junior high building might have been creaky and outdated by modern standards, but its ghost remains a keeper of stories. Stories of first dances, first heartbreaks, runaway basketballs, sneaky sips from a soda machine, and entire class periods spent daydreaming beneath the gentle hum of fluorescent lights.
Thank you to everyone who shared their piece of Warren’s past. I’m still working through the hundreds of comments, delighting in each tidbit of your personal lore. If you’d like to read more or add your own recollection to the tapestry, head over to the Saline River News Facebook page. The now vanished building—these memories—belong to all of us. And stay tuned: I’ll be posting a few more of my own recollections in the coming days and weeks.
We may be older now, maybe wiser, definitely more aware of our own mortality. But for a brief moment, reading your stories, we were back there—kids again, shuffling along those halls, the hiss of that soda machine in the background, pulling the tab on an ice-cold soft drink and feeling like kings. That’s the magic of Warren. It’s not the biggest city. It’s not the loudest. But it’s ours. And that, my friends, is special.
