(My writing has strayed a bit from politics of late but I am heading back in that direction because of the accumulation of injustices and the ignoramuses who run our state. I’ll confront all that again next week, but it feels like summer time already down here and memories come along unbidden. I hope you will enjoy this, share, and subscribe, if you have not. And thanks again for all the kind words and support).
Where the hell you been, Coldwater? Imagine my surprise when my company offered me a transfer to Coldwater 25 years later. I laughed when the offer was made and then had to explain my response. Good times!!
Another beautiful piece of writing and strong memory. As a kid in the 60s we visited my Father’s parents in Alabama once a year. Makin’ “good time” was important to my Dad, too. Only for us (a black family driving through John Bell Williams’ and George C. Wallace’s “south) it meant gettin’ to where you needed to get before the sun decided to set in the west. My Dad always wore his USAF uniform for that drive from Champaign,Illinois (home of my Mother’s people) down past the “cotton curtain” to visit his folks and back. He prayed the uniform might persuade roadside “wizard
wanna-bes” to look elsewhere for trouble and convince any gas station attendant that we, like the rest of the traveling public should be allowed to use the “good” restroom without interference. Just in case it didn’t, we took along our own “slop jar” to be emptied at the first opportunity. Only once do I remember it becoming necessary to revert to that “second option.” Once was enough.
My father drove his 6 (later 7) children on Route 66 from Tennessee to the city of the angels in 1958. I was two or 3 at the time and have no memory of the drive. I do feel confident, however, that we made good time.
A Southern Sensibility
Where the hell you been, Coldwater? Imagine my surprise when my company offered me a transfer to Coldwater 25 years later. I laughed when the offer was made and then had to explain my response. Good times!!
You had to be there. But those of us who were, know that few things were more important than makin' good time.
Thanks for the memory.
Another beautiful piece of writing and strong memory. As a kid in the 60s we visited my Father’s parents in Alabama once a year. Makin’ “good time” was important to my Dad, too. Only for us (a black family driving through John Bell Williams’ and George C. Wallace’s “south) it meant gettin’ to where you needed to get before the sun decided to set in the west. My Dad always wore his USAF uniform for that drive from Champaign,Illinois (home of my Mother’s people) down past the “cotton curtain” to visit his folks and back. He prayed the uniform might persuade roadside “wizard
wanna-bes” to look elsewhere for trouble and convince any gas station attendant that we, like the rest of the traveling public should be allowed to use the “good” restroom without interference. Just in case it didn’t, we took along our own “slop jar” to be emptied at the first opportunity. Only once do I remember it becoming necessary to revert to that “second option.” Once was enough.
My father drove his 6 (later 7) children on Route 66 from Tennessee to the city of the angels in 1958. I was two or 3 at the time and have no memory of the drive. I do feel confident, however, that we made good time.