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Dirt Roads, Beer, and a Racoon

The commercial opportunities for fun in rural counties is limited. Because of this, we found fun where we could. One of the things we did was to ride dirt roads. To some this doesn't sound fun, when you throw in a case of beer, three guys telling jokes, and what we thought was a dead raccoon, you end up with a whole lot of fun. Before I go any further, I am not condoning drinking and driving. WE WERE STUPID!! This particular story happened the winter of '92 or '93. I, along with two of my friends were making the best of a cold winter night by riding the dirt roads of Wilkes County Georgia. We were drinking ice cold Miller Lite and telling all of our favorite jokes; jokes that had been told countless times before, and as is always the case, funnier than the first time we told them. Sometime in the night a raccoon ran out in front of us and was ran over. The guy driving jumped out and examined the raccoon. He stated that there was no damage to the hide and that it would make for a pretty mount. He then threw the carcass in the back of the truck and we continued riding around and telling jokes. One of the side effects of drinking beer is that eventually nature will call. I happened to be riding shotgun when I received that call and I informed the driver to stop so that I could answer. While I was taking care of business my friends inside the truck hollered at me to "get them a beer". After finishing what we stopped for, I turned toward the bed of the truck intending to get refills out of the cooler. Imagine my surprise when the raccoon that we previously thought was dead was now standing up on his rear legs and had his front paws propped up on the toolbox staring at me. Ironically, he had assumed the same position that coondogs take in the back of a truck. He looked happy, he appeared to have a smile on his face. A sadistic type of smile that I interpreted to mean "I'm about to jump on your head". The stories of the damage a raccoon can do to a dog came to mind. I told my buddies that if they wanted a beer that they would have to get it themselves and that I wasn't reaching into the cooler. Afraid that I may startle the raccoon, I slowly took two steps backwards and climbed inside the truck. The raccoon was subsequently dispatched in a humane manner.

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Summer of '77 The summer of 1977 I was fresh out of kindergarten, six years old, and ready to conquer the world. I spent that summer with my maternal Grandparents in Melrose Park Illinois; a suburb of Chicago. This was a grand adventure for me. I flew without a parent or guardian on the now defunct Eastern Airlines from Atlanta to Chicago. I do not remember much about the flight other than having a window seat and being in awe at how small everything looked from the air, especially the baseball fields. The gentleman sitting next to me was kind, pointing out landmarks and offering me a piece of chewing gum so that my ears would “pop”. I have no recollection of who picked me up at the airport. It may have been my Grandparents, Aunt, or Uncles; it may have been all of them. However, I do recall several adventures in particular. On one occasion, my Uncle Jim took me to Toys-R-Us. This in itself is not that big of a deal. Couple it with the fact that the only toy store that I had ever seen was the two aisle toy department at Harpers 5 & 10 and what you have is one wide-eyed child. My Uncle told me to pick out something, that he would buy it for me. Having never seen so many toys in one place, I wanted to be sure that I looked everything over before making my choice. I must have been taking my sweet time because I remember him telling me “Hurry up, we don’t have all day”. Of all the toys available, I choose a toy firefighter’s equipment set, the parts that I remember are: face mask, air tank, fire extinguisher, and an ax. I was one happy child. I also attended several baseball games. I saw the White Sox play at Comiskey Park, and at Wrigley Field, I not only saw the Cubs play, but Harry Carey sing “Take me out to the ball Game”. It was at Comiskey Park that I got an autograph. Manny Minoso, better known as “The Cuban Comet”. He signed the bill of a cap that was two sizes too big for me. My Grandpa tried to make the hat fit better by stapling some fabric to the inside to take up space. The first signs of my OCD kicked in and I pitched a fit and hollered at him because he put holes in my hat. I regret doing so to this day. My firefighter outfit would soon come in handy. My Grandma had cooked grilled cheese sandwiches; actually she had burned grilled cheese sandwiches and smoked up the house. I told her not to worry and gathered my equipment to put out the fire. I don't remember how long the visit lasted; a couple of weeks maybe. In fact, I don't have many other memories of the trip. One thing is for certain, the memories that I do have will last a lifetime. My Grandparents would later move to Hibbing Minnesota, and we visited them the Summer of 1980. My Grandmother traveled to Georgia in September of that year to help out after my brother was born. Sadly, the summer of 1980 was the last time that I saw my Grandfather, and that fall was the last time I saw my Grandmother, they both passed away in March of 1981, 18 days apart.

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The Wha-Woom:circa 1998

In 1998 and with the generosity of my Uncle, I became the proud owner of a 1978 Mercury Marquis. If your not familiar with the body style of this car, imagine the SS Minnow on four wheels. As if the size of car isn't impressive enough, picture the power train; a four barrel carburetor on top of a 460 cubic inch motor. The interior was made of a dark brown plush velour type material, the exterior was a golden color. The car was in near mint condition. At the time of ownership, I was stationed at Pope AFB (now Pope AAF) in North Carolina. On many weekends, myself along with my wife and daughter would load up the Titanic's little sister and travel to my hometown of Washington Georgia. The route most often taken was south on Interstate 95, hanging hard right onto Interstate 20 at Florence South Carolina, then continuing west until we reached our exit in Georgia. This route afforded for nice flat straight roads with wide open scenery, perfect for a car of this size. The return trip was simply to reverse the route. In order to maximize the amount of time visiting with family and friends, we would normally wait until after Sunday dinner to depart for our return trip. If your not aware, the Troopers in South Carolina take their job very seriously. Simply put, one does not speed through South Carolina, you will be pulled over. You can thank South Carolina for the invention of cruise control. One Sunday, in no particular hurry to get back to North Carolina, somewhere on I-20 between Columbia and Florence SC, we were traveling along with the cruise control set at just above the posted limit. Maybe a half mile or so in front of me was a truck, one of those nice shiny foreign models. He too must have been aware of the Troopers reputation, as he was traveling roughly the same speed as I. Because of the closeness in our speeds, it took several miles for me to catch up with him. Upon reaching him, and with the cruise control still set, I eased into the left lane, eventually overtaking him and eased back into the right lane. I'm guessing that the amount of time it took to pass him, or the fact that I was in a car 20 years his senior made him mad. He passed me right back, traveling at a high rate of speed, almost as if he saying "look at me you old piece of junk". He quickly put distance between us. Have you ever heard the Wha-Woom? Let me explain the Wha-Woom. It is the sound the car exhaust makes when the engine is fed with fuel as all four barrels of the carburetor open up, and that's just what I did. I said out loud "Oh Hell no". I pushed the foot feed to the floor allowing the remaining two barrels of the carburetor to open, and when they did, as the saying goes "Katie bar the door". The rear end set down, the front end raised ever so slightly, and that 460 was purring; the race was on. Scratch that, it wasn't a race. I quickly caught up with him, passing him back, this time putting enough distance between us that I was no longer able to see him in the rear view. I can only imagine how much shame he must have felt knowing that over two tons of Detroit Steel left him in the dust. I kept the car for another three years, until she finally went down in a blaze of glory. It really was a blaze of glory, it caught fire outside of Washington Ga on US378 one cold rainy night. That's a story for another time. (Originally posted on my Facebook page)