Why I Have A Soft Spot For the South
How did I end up here? Well, I really messed up.
For a while there in South Carolina’s steamy boondocks it was just me and a few crows.
I mean, what could be lonelier than trudging along a sparsely traveled Southern road in summer, sweating away in my Army uniform as I hitchhiked to Charleston to catch a military flight to Puerto Rico?
Bizarre sounding, I know, but 1965 wasn’t the best year of my life. The girl I was in love with during college had ditched me; I had been fired from my job teaching English at a junior high school in Niagara Falls, and I found my draft notice waiting for me when I got home to Pennsylvania.
After basic training at Fort Gordon, Georgia, the Army determined my fate. They knew I had been a teacher. Now I was being sent to drum English into Spanish-speaking draftees in Puerto Rico. Did I have any knowledge about the place except from a popular Broadway musical? No. Did I know any Spanish? Of course not.
Those crows wheeling darkly against the sharp blue sky above a distant cornfield didn’t pay any attention to me. I seemed trapped in an immense green silence, and the blistering sunlight didn’t help. Sweat created semicircles under my khaki shirt’s armpits and the duffle bag slung over one shoulder weighed a ton.
How did I end up here? Well, I really messed up. On my trip south to get to Charleston Air Force Base for transport to that semi-tropical paradise in the Caribbean, I was supposed to transfer at Charlotte, North Carolina, to a bus headed for the historic coastal city. At the depot I didn’t ask if the bus I was riding on was the right one; I just assumed some loudspeaker, or the driver, would tell me.
As my journey continued, I panicked when I saw shacks that I’d seen on my way to Georgia a couple of months back. I knew this was wrong. So, I approached the Greyhound driver to ask about our destination. He confirmed my worst fears — he was headed for Atlanta.
At my desperate plea to be let off, he broke the rules and pulled over. He only did so because I told him I might be declared AWOL and face punishment if I didn’t reach the air base that day.
The helpful driver assured me the two-lane road I was now on would take me to Charleston. He didn’t tell me that it was more than a hundred miles away. The first 45 minutes with absolutely no traffic, I still felt hopeful. I had six hours to make it. The sky was clear, no clouds in sight. What could possibly go wrong?
But this wasn’t the Northeast, where cars endlessly zoomed by. Here there were simply no cars at all, and I wasn’t seeing any houses or farms where I could get help if I needed it. As I walked, I began to wonder if my impulsive action had been such a good idea.
Finally, thank God, I saw a vehicle approaching. It was a battered pickup truck driven by a wizened farmer or laborer. He swung wide into the far lane to avoid me, as if horrified to see a uniformed soldier standing out so starkly in his pristine countryside.
Crestfallen, I prayed for someone else to come along.
About twenty-five minutes later, someone did. A red Cadillac convertible with the top down exposing its creamy interior stopped and the driver, who looked like a businessman in a blue tie and white, short-sleeved shirt, asked me where I was going. I told him my plight and he said he could take me about 15 miles to his turnoff. I threw my duffle bag in the back seat and sighed with relief as we rode along.
“Do you have a gun?” was the first thing he asked me.
When I said no, he asked me where I was from.
I told him Pennsburg, a little town in Pennsylvania, and that I was a recent graduate of a liberal arts college in nearby Allentown. Thinking to make conversation, I said I was interested in the Civil Rights Movement going on around the country, and what was his opinion on the situation with African Americans in the South?
He clammed up immediately and said not a word more to me until his turnoff. I wondered if I had been a black man whether he would have picked me up. As he let me out, he said, “Charleston is a long way from here, buddy. Good luck!”
I resumed my trek, sweat pouring down the sides of my face from under my shiny-brimmed hat. I couldn’t take it off to cool my head because I feared the beatdown of that unbearable sun.
I was starting to feel tired, and with no water or food to restore me, decided to rest on some nearby grass and hope for another passing car. Before I could sit down, though, one did come along. It was an old, white Chevy with rust spots on the hood. Even though I had my thumb out, the driver seemed unwilling to stop. Dejected, and with my head down, I decided to resume my laborious march.
But when I looked up, the Chevy had pulled onto the berm, maybe 100 yards down the road. I quickened my pace until, huffing and puffing, I finally drew alongside.
“Hey, where you going?” the 20-ish male driver said across the passenger seat, where an attractive young woman with auburn hair sat looking at me through the open window.
“I’ve got to get to Charleston Air Force Base this afternoon or I’ll be in big trouble,” I said.
“Well, hop in back. We’re going right near there, so maybe you can make it in time.”
I felt euphorically grateful for this incredible stroke of good luck. Out of just three passing vehicles in two hours the third one was my savior!
When I did climb into the back seat, I found another passenger there. The gray-whiskered, balding man was obviously a hobo. He had his personal stuff stored in an old sheet like a bag tied with rope and he smelled bad. I squeezed my duffle against his bag anyway, so glad to be out of that sun.
Mike, as he said his name was, reached back and offered me a swig of something from a brown pint bottle he kept in his lap while driving. I politely declined, since I had to keep a clear head to somehow complete this ludicrous adventure of mine. His companion — I think her name was Linda — commented that he should watch how much he was drinking and keep his eyes on the road.
I tried to make small talk above the sound of air rushing in the open windows, telling them where I was from and where I was going to be stationed. I avoided saying anything about the Civil Rights Movement. The hobo said nothing.
We chugged along endlessly (God, how far away is this place, anyway?) until we began to see signs of civilization. There were other cars, stoplights, and even houses in isolated spots.
That’s when it started to rain.
I began to pray that it would let up by the time we reached Mike’s destination, which he said was a motel right next to the Air Force base. All I had to do was walk a couple of miles to the entrance. Great — as if I and my duffle bag’s contents wouldn’t get completely soaked in the process.
Outside the motel cabin Mike had rented, the hobo, who didn’t even say “thank you,” scooted off into the rain with his possessions. I asked if I could come inside for a minute to use the bathroom and drink some water. Mike said yes, but then I would have to leave. I thanked the couple for their hospitality and said I would only trouble them for a minute or two longer.
Afterwards, reluctant to start walking, I stood on the cabin’s little covered porch for about 10 minutes and hoped the rain, which was a downpour by then, would subside enough so I could reach the base without getting drenched. While I waited, the door opened behind me, and Mike came out.
“C’mon,” he said. “I’ll drive you there.”
“Are you sure?” I said.
“Yeah, let’s go.”
He drove me the couple of miles, pulled right up to the entrance, and I got out in the rain with my duffle bag.
“Here,” I said, reaching for my wallet. “I want to give you something for your kindness. All I have is five dollars, but I want you to take it.”
“No way, man,” he said. “You need it more than I do.”
I thanked him profusely and watched the white Chevy as he drove away.
That ended my ridiculously risky travel gamble with its fortunate outcome. It happened nearly 60 years ago. But despite the region’s flaws, I will always have a soft spot in my heart for the South.
