Pennsylvania or Bust!
Local place names can be deceiving.
Dad and I had finished installing a new heater for one of his customers. We were headed home north on the interstate. When we exited, we saw two people walking on the side of the road.
Which, at the time, was strange. First, it was freezing, even for South Alabama. Secondly, the Interstate construction ended at that exit. It would take another thirteen years to complete the Interstate through the Mobile River Delta onto Montgomery and beyond.
There was a large green sign at the previous exit that stated: “For Local Traffic Only.”
In other words, it was a dead-end road.
Dad pulled his blue and white 1971 Chevrolet Silverado Pick-Up over, put his half-full cup of coffee on the dashboard at about a 20-degree angle, and took a long puff from his Pall Mall cigarette. When he’d absorbed as much nicotine as possible, he opened the door, exhaled, in the cabin of course, threw the cigarette butt on the ground, stomped it out, and walked towards the wayward couple.
“Where ya headed?” he asked in his gravelly voice that one of my former friends had described one time to her mom as sounding just like John Wayne. He appreciated her excellent ear when I told him later.
