1969 —HITCHHIKING TO FLORIDA—Part 4—

A continuation from:

My third morning on the road saw me waking early, on a porch of a closed YMCA smothered by invasive kudzu vines, with no place to shower and no place to eat. Obviously there was only one solution to the fix I was in: A cup of coffee. I trudged back to the drug store where I’d interrogated locals the night before to see if they were open and served coffee. They were, and the coffee did wonders. Ordinarily I strongly frown upon all drugs, but coffee gets a pass, in my book. And this is my book.

I seemed to experience a sort of “second wind”.

In case you have never been tested, and stressed, and do not know what I am talking about, a “second wind” is a term runners use to describe a remarkable experience of rejuvenation which occurs in the middle of a race, wherein they have experienced exhaustion and cramps and feel like quitting, but press on, and abruptly the cramps are gone, the exhaustion is gone, and running is not merely easier, but in some ways joyful.

Mountain climbers experience the same exhaustion as they climb, and their sort of “second wind” contributes to the euphoria of cresting the final rise and standing at the peak. And a sixteen-year-old hitchhiker, even if he thinks joining the Track Team is a stupid waste of time, and climbing a mountain is an even stupider waste of time, is bound to learn about the mystery of a “second wind” if he, for some odd reason, decides to hitchhike 1800 miles. He is bound to get very tired, and feel like quitting, and then abruptly everything is better. Coffee helps.

The drug store I visited was of the old type, which besides having a counter where a pharmacist handed out pills to make you feel better, had a counter where you could drink a concoction which made you feel better. Originally called “tonics”, these concoctions could contain anything the pharmacist thought would be helpful. The original “coca cola” contained cocaine. Other tonics contained opioids. But then the government stepped in and robbed independent pharmacists of their freedom, and tonics became less interesting.

One thing that made people feel better, which was still allowed, was ice-cream. Therefore in 1969 one could still walk into a drug store and get a “phosphate” or “float” or “soda”, sitting and swiveling on a stool with a circular cushion on top, at a counter. Or, in the morning, you could get a tonic called a “coffee”. Some places also served bacon and eggs, sort of as a side. Many local people might therefore stop in at the drug store to start their day.

They don’t make drug stores like they used to, and I only bring this up because it was one of the details I did not note down in my “private files”. However I was very aware of such details as the coffee hit. In a strange way I felt like I was on the set of a movie. Everything was perfectly placed, to set the mood.

There are certain things I neglected to note but saw, as I traveled south, which affected my mood. There were beauties I took for granted, unaware they were not forever. For example, 1969 was a decade before the dogwood blight began in 1978, and back in 1969 these beautiful small trees filled the understory of southern forests with clusters of white blossoms in April. From Virginia south they paraded by on either side of the vehicles I traveled in, enchanting even while hardly noticed and not worth mentioning in my “private files”. Also, starting around Florence, I saw, like festoons draped from trees, Spanish moss. I chuckled when I saw it even draped from electrical lines. It was very cool stuff, utterly unlike anything I saw up north, but I never mentioned it. I mention it now because it contributed to my mood. And what was my mood? Southern.

Even as this lovely mood made morning beautiful, a sort of tough pragmatism was also stimulated by the coffee. I was annoyed at myself for oversleeping the day before, and was afraid I might fall behind schedule crossing “small road country”. Although I had saved $5.00 the night before because I didn’t have to pay a YMCA for sleeping on their porch, my budget was tight, and I didn’t want to have to pay for an extra day heading south. Also time was tight, and if I took too long heading south it would leave me less time to head north again, after visiting my grandparents. Common sense was winning out, over my romantic side.

Time to gulp the last swig of coffee, pay the tab, and hit the road.

Ride 13 where to where florence to 95  how far 3 miles
 who buisness man on his way to Darlington. glasses, 
thin, didn't seem very southern.

I noticed the weather was getting hot, which made me appreciate the next ride.

Ride 14 where to where intersection of 52 and 301 to intersection
of 378 and 95 how far 29 miles who rich fatish man
super air conditioned car. kindly. gave me a
map of south carolina.

I must have mentioned something about my road atlas being outdated that motivated the “fatish man” to rummage about and hand me a amazingly up-to-date map of South Carolina. Thank you, sir, from 54 years in the future.

I am amazed how short the next ride was, due to the large block of my memory it holds.

Ride 15 where to where 95 and 378 to 301 at tuberville
how far  4 miles who to very black men
with deep southern accents. I was pretty
scared but they were friendly and I
think I learned something as we 
passed fields with tin shacks and
mule pulled plows.

In some ways it is likely best to leave things as I stated them. Memory is too liable to exaggerate and embellish. “I think I learned something.” But what did I learn?

I can only look back, confessing my memory may be full of exaggeration and embellishment, and then try to plump up what I didn’t write down.

Because I-95 was incomplete, there were times the route shifted to the old route south, 301. But occasionally this meant you were neither on I-95 nor 301, but some rural route connecting the two. I found it humorous that the rural route would be emblazoned with I-95 signs. In fact the highway was a two-lane entrance into the impoverished landscape of sharecroppers.

The pick-up that pulled over to pick me up was big, green, and very battered and rusty. I assume I threw my pack in the back, as the second man scrunched over to make room for me in the front seat. I don’t recall him saying a word. Down at my feet was a child, or more likely a grandchild, who regarded me with round eyes as if I was a martian. But mostly I was focused on the driver.

Notice I do not describe the man as “black”, but as “very black.” He also struck me as very powerful. He had, or in my memory he has, a sort of thing I guess I’d call “presence.” He seemed much smarter than most, but not snooty about it, but was rather graciously finding ways to share his wisdom. I think he might have picked me up on a hunch that a smooth-cheeked white boy with a backpack might be a good way to show his friend and grandchild that all white people are not jerks. Of course, this is all my wondering, a half century later.

In any case, from the moment I was in the cramped cab all his attention was on me. I had trouble grasping his accent but he had no trouble grasping mine, so I assume he had experience with northerners; perhaps he served in the army in World War Two.

We only travelled four miles together, but the old truck was slow, and it may have taken ten minutes. Much of what he asked me I forget, but I clearly recall that I paused in mid sentence at some point to gape at a sharecropper at the side of the road straining as he plowed a field with a plow pulled by a mule. The driver followed my eye and then inquired, “Don’t see that up north?” I shook my head. He continued, “You got tractors?”

This question embarrassed me, for the fact of the matter was that, (with the exception of a single amazing farm to the west of the town center), every single farm in Weston had sold out to developers, and the land no longer produced food for man nor beast, but rather produced lawns. Lawns. What a contrast with a sharecropper in the April sunshine, in a sheen of sweat as he wrestled with a mule drawn plow, who actually fed a family. And what a contrast with my first ride that day, the businessman who “didn’t seem very southern”.

Thankfully I could avoid confessing my suburban shame, for my father and stepmother had run away from that world, and lived on a hardscrabble farm in New Hampshire that never made any money. So I could shake my head and, after a long pause, could say, “on our farm we use an old tractor that breaks down a lot”. The old man nodded.

Shortly after that I got out and was standing by the road again. Yet in some ways that was the most important ride of the trip. I felt very impressed by the man, and within a strange state like Deja Vu, thinking, “What just happened?” Now I can see I recognized the presence and power of a man is not measured by money, but at age sixteen the recognition was wordless.

My pragmatic side jumped ahead to thinking that, at four miles a ride, it was going to take a long time to get to Florida. Then I saw a battered truck, (commercial trucks almost never stopped to pick up hitchhikers) pull over.

Ride 16 where to where tuberville to Manning on 
301 How far 19 miles who Truck driver of 
the old type (who pick up hichhikers), Shaded 
type truck...
...............with an old weary
engine. Talked a lot about nothing

I enjoyed the laid-back cheerfulness of the character, and the sense I was again in a movie driving in some sort of prop, but as I climbed down from the cab the sun was getting high and I was getting hot, and I’d come only fifty-five miles in four rides. Then I heard the roar of a very fast car coming down the road towards me. Despite the fact the driver had pulled out to overtake a slower vehicle, and had roared by the other vehicle, the car swung across to the shoulder to pick me up. I noticed it had Florida plates.

Ride 17 where to where Manning on 301 south to where
15 forks south - south to Walterboro 17A south 
to 17 - south- 17 a over Savanna River south 
on 17 all through Georgia. Florida - 95 south 
to Daytona Beach 4 west to Orlando west
to florida turnpike how far 383 miles
who Greasy sort of kid in a thunderbird.
Might have been queer but didn't really
Push me any. Went over stinking
rivers in Georgia. Florida I see first palm trees

Though we spent over six hours together we didn’t talk much, largely because the “greasy sort of kid” was very focused on watching out for police while driving as fast as he could on old-style highways that often had no passing lanes. The driver knew passing was allowed because the double line in the center of the road became dashed on his side, but often it was dashed for only a short stretch. The young man would floor his Thunderbird and zing right by the puttering pick-up or lumbering tractor that slowed him down. Only past Savanah did the highways return to being the four-lane-racetracks which interstates initially seemed like they were. There were fewer cars in 1969.

Another reason we didn’t talk much was silly. We started to get a whiff of a bad odor. Of course, one does not make a big deal of another’s fart, especially if one is a hitchhiker and the person farting is the driver, but as time passed the whiffs became stronger and stronger, until they became alarming. I was wondering what sort of sulfurous beans the driver could have possibly consumed, but then saw him giving me an accusatory look, as if I was the culprit. I wanted to defensively protest, but neither of us felt able to bring the subject up even as the reek became extreme. Only when he rolled down his window and the smell got worse did we realize the smell came from outside.

I blamed the rivers, but in fact the stench was from the paper mill in Savannah, which produced a reek of near legendary proportions. 1969 marked a national awakening in terms of how bad pollution had become; the fire on the Cuyahoga River that June led to the creation of the EPA, but in April in Savannah there was a stink you could practically cut with a knife, and 16 months later, when talking with someone I had very little in common with in northern Scotland, just the mention of the stink in Savannah broke a smile on the other person’s face; it was something we could agree upon and laugh about. However it was not so laughable to endure.

I think it was all the sidelong glances, some about the stench and (I think) some to see if I appreciated how daring his driving was, that made me wonder if the fellow “might be queer”. Once the highways opened up south of Savannah he could really show me how fast the Thunderbird could go. He sped throughout the drive and we never saw the southern police I was warned to watch out for.

Thanks from fifty-four years in the future for a great ride, whoever you were. I was whisked from feeling bogged down in the backwaters of South Carolina to an abrupt landing in the middle of Florida. But that is seemingly how the angels who watch over hitchhikers work, and especially how they worked in 1969. They’d keep you in a place only as long as it took for for a dimly defined lesson to be learned, and no longer.

Ride 18 where to where int 4 and florida turnpike 
back to orlando - how far 5 miles-who some kids
Had to go back it was getting dark.

The kids giving me a ride back to Orlando hadn’t heard of a YMCA, and didn’t even appear to know what a YMCA was. The people in the first coffee shop I visited were doubtful one existed. I was tired and needed a place to stay, so I then did exactly what everyone advised me not to do. I walked up to a southern cop. But that episode deserves its own chapter.

(The tale concludes here:)