The Counterfeiter

 

     After the war Dad worked at several jobs before he found his calling. He worked on the ore ships that sailed the Great Lakes until Mom made him come home. Once he was back home he drove a cab in Gallatin and at some point he became an apprentice butcher. Being a butcher turned out to be his calling and he became very good at the trade so much so that as the years passed he developed a reputation and was in demand. He trained under several older butchers and worked for a local chain called Logans.

     By the late 1950's Dad was the butcher / meat manager for a small independently owned  grocery store called C&S Foods, the store was located in an older group of buildings along Lebanon Rd. in Donelson. I don't know how old the building was but it was small with wooden floors, the stock room and butcher shop were located in the basement and a conveyor was used to get products upstairs. The store was part of a long group of store fronts connected by common walls. 

     All of the stores had basements but not all of them utilized them for product storage so there were businesses located in a couple of the basements that were accessible from the rear. As best I remember there was a repair shop of some sort and a print shop. The print shop produced fliers / handbills and odd sized signage for local businesses. Dad would see the workers now and again when off loading trucks but he didn't know them enough to call them friends, they sort of kept to themselves. 

     One day there was quite a commotion at the print shop, police cars were every where along with a few unmarked cars which turned out to be from the FBI. The print shop workers were handcuffed and put in the back seats of the patrol cars and a truck was being loaded up with boxes from the shop. Dad found out later that the print shop had been raided because they were printing counterfeit money.

     I wasn't a teenager yet but I heard Dad tell this story several times, he always ended it with "there I was working a hard forty hours a week for a few dollars and these guys were right next door printing two months salary with every turn of the handle". I sometimes wondered if maybe he wasn't just a bit jealous.

Hand Me Downs

 

     By todays standards we might have been considered low income or even poor, we were a family of seven living on one income in the 1950's but we kids had no idea of our financial status and we really didn't care. We had food on the table, a roof over our heads and clothes on our backs and we have good memories of those times. 

     Being the oldest boy on either side of the cousins there was no one to hand their used clothes down to me so I got the new jeans, shoes and shirts. Being the tallest of the family my clothes were handed down to brother Pat if they were still in serviceable condition.

     Here now is the theme of this story with the key words being "serviceable condition". Unlike todays kids who seem to get everything their little hearts desire, back in the fifties folks were a little more thrifty and had millions of ways to extend the life of just about anything, in this case clothing.

     Kids, especially boys are hard on clothes, what they don't outgrow they rip, tear, poke, and generally wear thin any material known to man or mothers. My mom was a master at repairing jeans. She started out by buying them extra long, back then you could buy jeans about six inches longer than you would ever need. There are many pictures of me in new jeans with a 4 - 5 inch cuff, as it turns out deep cuffs were a fashion statement and then again they were havens for for mud, dirt, leaves anything that might be looking for a home.

     Then comes wear and tear issues. These are issues that occur normally in a day of a boys life as we are always in some sort of scuffle, crawling into some place we should not have been or it was just a matter of accidents happen. Usually it was the legs that incurred the most damage especially the knees. The knees got ripped, torn and worn thin before any other part other than the seat, but mom had a fix for that too. At first the fix involved a needle and thread but it was not long lasting but then mom found the "iron on" patch which came in various sizes and was suitable for adjusting to smaller sizes with a pair of scissors. It was really easy, just cut a piece to overlap the offending area then heat up the iron and slide it across the patch, the attached glue would bind the two pieces together and add at least another season to the jeans. Some of the more inventive moms would even put a matching patch on the other leg just for appearance sake.

     Shoes were the next big thing that kids tore up or outgrew on a regular basis. I think it is a well know fact that a kids feet grow at the same rate and possibly faster than the rest of their body, either out or up. In our case it didn't matter as mom's dad was a manager for General Shoe (cowboy boot division), at least twice a year we would go to their house and grandpa would bring out a grocery bag of boots that he just turned up in the floor, whatever fit was ours. I think I was about 15 before I bought my first pair of shoes.

      It would have been nice to have grandpa around when Danny was a young boy, Linda looked up one day and saw that a brand new pair of tennis shoes had the toe worn out on both shoes. Turns out Danny had a skateboard that he would get down on one knee to ride, the only means to stop it were to drag his feet.

     The other thing was that mom was a master with a needle and thread, she was always sewing shirts for us boys and dresses for sister Vicky, one year the whole family matched at Christmas. Another time I needed a new jacket for school so she pulled out dad's Navy dress blues uniform which I wore for Halloween (it was a tight fit and I was about 15) afterwards she turned the "blouse" into a jacket for me, unfortunately it was only good for one year then I outgrew it.

     Money may have been tight for us, I don't know, we often ran around in old clothes that had patches or hand me downs from a neighbor who had older kids but so did a lot of other kids. You have to understand that our parents grew up in the "Great Depression", they learned to make do with what they had. A lot of parents today want their kids to have the things they never had so they shower them with the latest toys, games, clothes, cars what ever their little hearts desire and that is never a good thing.

The Heartbreak

 

     For two years we dreamed of a future where things would be better, for two years we lived on the hope of a life free of Drs. and hospitals. We made plans for next month and next year all the while in our hearts we knew it was futile but we had hope. Over the forty seven years we were married I had seen Linda happy, thrilled, upset and mad and now I was going to see another emotion, one that I never knew existed in her.

     When I brought her home from the hospital, in July of 2014, it was to be the last time, we both knew this but the Dr. had said months but never how many, he said this as he always said it - with an air of hope. Linda's outlook immediately grabbed hold of this hope and ran with it, she was always happy and upbeat with whoever came to see her. She craved laughter and gaiety, tears and sorrowful talk were not allowed. Friends and family came to see her, they talked of old times, they thanked her for all she had done for them - they said their goodbye's in different ways. She knew her fate but she denied it, she never gave up hope, she held her head high as she had always done. They said she was brave.

     Not long before she passed I returned from an errand one day, Linda was sitting in a chair while her friend made the bed for her. Linda was upset, she had overheard a conversation on the back deck, a statement was made " All I know is Mike said that if I wanted to say goodbye I better come soon". I had never seen Linda scared of anything but now I saw fear in her eyes. All of a sudden I was faced with the most difficult task of my life.

     I bent over and put my arms around Linda and pulled her up to me holding her close as her friend told me what had happened, her eyes were looking at me with a longing for me to make things better. Sometimes Linda had problems with depression and during those dark times I was able to pull her through but this time I just didn't know if I could. With her face buried in my shoulder, I held her tight, ran my fingers through her hair and kissed the top of her head, I told her that I didn't know how much time she had left but however much there was I was going to do my best to make that time the best that I could. Her arms squeezed me and she cried with her face on my shoulder. We stood there for a while holding each other as we had done on many occasions, I kissed her many times, told her I loved her and held her tight. I wanted to cry with her but I had decided I would not cry in front of her, she had been my rock for many years it was my turn to be her rock and I was determined not to let her down.

     By this time even I could see the end was near, the words of the Drs. and hospice nurses no longer carried an air of hope but every day we hoped for another tomorrow. 

     It wasn't long after this day that Linda passed, I have not forgotten this day and doubt I ever will. I have held off writing about this episode because it involved someone close to her, that someone passed away sometime back so they can no longer be hurt by reading this. This is a part of my memories of Linda that I can't escape from even if I wanted to, it is another memory I want to share with my children, grandchildren and future generations.

                                                                                        

 

     

Tidbits of Thoughts and Memories

 

     Grandpa Riggan was a farmer of the old school, he plowed his fields walking behind a team of mules, sowed his grains walking the plowed field and with a flip of his wrist scattered the seeds of a new crop. Small plants grown from seeds over the winter were called slips and had to be carefully planted by hand, this required him to walk bent over and individually place the slip in the ground.

     He raised pigs that were born from his sow, the pigs foraged in the pasture and woods. To keep the pigs from tearing up the fields too bad in their quest for roots he would put a ring in their nose. To do this he first lured them in to a feeding pen by putting feed in a trough. As the pigs were busy eating Grandpa would walk over and grab one by the ear and lift it up on it's hind legs, he had a special pair of pliers that held an open ring, he would quickly insert the ring into the pigs nose and squeeze the ring against the cartilage of the nose then pull the pig to the gate and push it out of the pen. This ring didn't really hurt the pig until it started rooting with his nose but you would think they had been shot from all of the squealing they were doing. 

     I would watch this process from afar because when I was barely walking I wandered out in the paddock where a sow was feeding a bunch of young piglets, I reached down to touch one and the sow bit me. More than seventy years later I still carry an inch long scar on the back of my right hand.

     Grandpa also had two cows that he milked by hand everyday. Even though the cows had been foraging on grass in the pasture all day they would return to the barn at night and walk in to their stall where Grandpa would have corn waiting in their feed troughs. While the cow ate Grandpa sat on a stool and pulled on their tits as milk streamed  in to a pail, when he was done he poured the milk into a special "milk jug" that was picked up by the local creamery for processing.

     Being an farmer of the old school was hard work, Grandpa was up before dawn feeding the live stock and after breakfast he hitched up the mules and headed out to the fields. He was lean yet muscular, he walked from the time he got out of bed till he climbed back in it. If he was lucky it would rain every now and then  giving him a day off. Regardless of the weather Sunday was his day of rest after he milked the cows and fed the livestock, it was a day when he went to church and enjoyed his family who visited every Sunday as long as he lived. I never knew him to be sick with so much as a cold, he had a double hernia and couldn't hear very well but that was it. In the end he retired in his late 70's, one day not long after retiring his heart just gave out.

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     I often find myself comparing the times I grew up in with the times I live in now, the difference is  stark in my opinion. For instance the welfare system was put in place in 1935 and it has helped many poor families but it has also been riddled with graft and corruption, it was never meant to be a way of living but there are those who thought otherwise and found way to cheat the system.

     Now I can't say that we were poor, maybe we didn't have a lot of money and for sure we weren't on welfare. Dad was the bread winner, Mom was a housewife and we five kids had to be fed everyday, had to have a roof over our heads and clean clothes on our backs and new shoes at the beginning of every school year. Dad balked at the expense of sending us to school, new shoes, new clothes ( what mom didn't sew ). School supplies consisted of writing tablets or notebook paper, pencils, erasers, crayons all the standard fare for staring school and everything we needed Dad supplied. As for lunch we had PBJ or baloney sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, a couple of cookies for desert then wrapped up in a brown paper bag. When we didn't have the makings for lunch Dad begrudgingly gave us the 25 cents to buy lunch in the school cafeteria. We had everything we needed and never went hungry.

     So fast forward to today, school systems feed kids a free lunch and sometimes a breakfast because they can't get it at home, they even continue the program in the summer months when school is out. As for school supplies the local TV stations support a program called "stuff the bus" where people are encouraged to purchase backpacks and stock them with all sorts of school supplies and after all of this teachers have to dig into their own pockets to purchase class room supplies.

     From time to time I wonder just what has changed, I understand there are less people on welfare than ever before, wages are up, jobs are plentiful so why are their so many in need ? It used to be "pride before the fall", maybe today some don't mind the fall because they have no pride ?

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     There is a poem written by a A.E. Housemen "When I was one and twenty" it's a short poem that deals with naivety of youth. Naivety of youth is something every older person sees everyday in the youth of the day that reminds them that somethings never change.

     I can honestly say that when I was one and twenty I thought I was ready to tackle life head on, there was nothing else to learn because I knew it all and there was no sense in anybody trying to tell me otherwise because I wouldn't have listened. I think this is true about most young people although there are some that are wise for their age.

     I turned 21 during my third year in the Navy, I had recently returned from my first tour in Vietnam, Linda and I had not yet been married for a year and had been separated for half of that. Three months later I would volunteer to go back to Vietnam because we couldn't afford to live in San Diego. There was a war on, I and thousands of other young people were involved in it, sadly many of them would not survive to see one and twenty even though they were as cocksure as me.

     We all make mistakes on our way through life, turning twenty one is often no help and many people don't seem to find that out till years later, looking back I can say I was a bit of a slow learner. I'm an old man now and I see young people full of spit and vinegar and I have to wonder how long it will take them to realize they're not as smart as they think.  

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     My two grandfathers were as different as night and day. Their only similarity is that they were my grandfathers. Grandpa Riggan was older than Grandpa Wade, he was also smaller in stature, Grandpa Wade was louder and more vociferous while Grandpa Riggan was quiet and laid back ( I inherited that trait ).

     Earlier today Kay and I were driving around rural Georgia and as we passed through a small town, I saw a sign advertising "live wrestling" every Friday night, the sign brought back a memory or two. Back in the early or mid fifties my uncle Sam bought a small black and white TV for Grandpa Riggan, up until then they had only heard of TV and had very little idea of all the programs available to them. Granny found the soap operas pretty quick and it wasn't long until they found live wrestling.

     Live wrestling was not new but it was new to TV and for some reason Granny and Grandpa were both hooked on live wrestling. Every Friday or maybe it was Saturday night "Live" wrestling from the Hippodrome in Nashville was shown on TV and come that night they waited impatiently till the program came on about ten o'clock at night which was way past their bedtime. Just before the fight started a couple who were friends with them would come in to watch wrestling with them. 

     This is where things got a little weird at least to a young six or seven year old grandson. Up to this point I had never seen my Grandfather upset or excited about anything, Granny was a different story but even she got excited to say the least. There I was standing beside my Grand parents when all of a sudden one of them would jump up, shake their fist at the screen and loudly yell out "hit him again" or "kick him, kick him". I think the first time I ran and hid scared to death. 

     Grandpa Wade on the other hand was a sports addict particularly for baseball and football. He was so intense at watching a ballgame on TV that he could watch it with his eyes closed, a trait that we kids quickly learned about. A Sunday visit usually found Grandpa holding court in front of the TV, telling his stories to all who cared to listen, at certain points in the story laughter would break out even from Grandpa although uncle Harold always laughed the loudest and hardest.

     When the ballgame came on brother Pat and I would watch a little and after a while Grandpa and uncle Harold would start to dose off. Once the snores became louder than the TV we would change the channel, within moments Grandpa would snap awake "who changed the channel, turn that game back on I was watching that". 

     I looked up to my Grandfathers, regardless of their stature they were both instrumental in the formation of my life. I have inherited traits from both of them, I have Grandpa Riggan's laid back personality and Grandpa Wade's gift of storytelling but when it came to TV they were giants in their own rights.

                                                         

      

Coming Home

 

     When I went to Vietnam the first time Linda and I had been married for less than a six months. She had decided to stay with my parents while I was away, staying with my family had it's ups and downs but Linda settled in to her new life. She got a job at Becker's Bakery just down the street from where Dad worked and they often rode together.

     Getting to know my siblings was ok especially getting to know Clint and Ronnie, when things got a little overwhelming they seemed to know when she needed to get away. Getting to know Vicky had it's ups and downs, I think their relationship didn't really mature until much later, Vicky was just starting into her teenage years and could be a handful at times. Mom helped Linda enhance her cooking skills and taught her a lot about sewing an art she excelled in for the rest of her life. Dad was proud of his daughter in law and took opportunities to show her off.

     All was not always cheerful and bright, Mom could be testy at times and Dad had a drinking problem. Linda wrote to me about how she would be scared of Dad's driving when he had been drinking. Being the man I was at the time I immediately fired off a letter to Dad and chewed him out for driving Linda around when he was drinking, in retrospect I should have calmed down before writing the letter but I didn't. This created some hard times for Linda.

     When I finally got back to the states I was anxious to get back home and bring Linda to California but the Navy wanted me to start six weeks of KP before going on leave. It took some arguing but I won out and got leave. During all of this I would call home and say I was getting leave then call back and say I wasn't then call back and say I was, in the mean time things were getting a little testy at home so Linda decided to take things in to her own hands.

     I finally got leave and called home to say I was on my way, Mom answered the phone and told me Linda had loaded the car and was own her way to California. Mom got on the phone with the highway patrol and they found Linda somewhere west of Nashville. The story Linda told me was that she was so upset and mad that when the trooper stopped her she rolled down the window and defiantly said "what". The trooper was understanding and gave her my flight number, she turned around and met me at the airport.

     We probably should have headed straight out for California but we went home instead, I returned to a cool reception. The next day we headed out, halfway to Memphis we heard on the radio that Dr. Martin Luther King had been killed in Memphis and riots were starting to form. We made it through Memphis an hour before the curfew started, then we headed on to Little rock where again we beat out the curfew. We didn't stop that night until somewhere in Oklahoma. 

     Day's later we arrived in California and went looking for a place to stay. We found a place and the realtor started filling out the paperwork then he asked us for a $100 for the first months rent and another $200 for deposit. We didn't have all of the money, Linda was devastated and started to cry the realtor took pity on us and let us move in with out any deposit.

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     The second time I returned from Vietnam was in the spring of 1969, Linda had gone back to Florida while I was overseas and was working for the local newspaper.

     I caught a flight from San Diego to Orlando, it was a night flight and believe it or not there were few passengers. During this time there had, for years, been several high jackings of passenger planes to Cuba. Several passengers were of obvious Spanish decent and the thought crossed my mind that I just spent seven months in Vietnam and now I could be on my way to Cuba. As it turned out we landed in Orlando with out a hitch, Linda was waiting for me and we spent the night in a local motel. A couple of days later we started our drive back to San Diego.

     Several months later I was discharged from the Navy in San Diego and was faced with a long drive back to Tennessee. Linda had been ill and had a surgical procedure she wasn't able to drive as yet. We had a 1962 Chevy which we loaded up with all our worldly possessions including a large trunk strapped to the roof.

     I had a friend from Tennessee who had broken his arm and was going home on leave, he opted to ride with us and help with the driving. Back then I was more interested in getting from point "A" to point "B" than stopping to look at anything in between, Linda on the other hand was interested in the view and the places we could see.

     Our first issue was crossing the lower Sierra mountains out of California. the climb was too much for the car and it overheated, fortunately for us a friendly state trooper came along and helped us out, overheating plagued us the entire trip. 

     When we got into Arizona Linda insisted we see the Grand Canyon so I relented and we made the detour. I planned on spending  a couple of hours but we wound up spending the whole day, after spending the night in a local motel it was a race back to Tennessee.

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     I was 18 when I went in the Navy, I was the first to leave home, my youngest sibling was my brother Ronnie he was seven when I left. Returning on leave was usually a big deal especially for Ronnie. On one of my returns from Vietnam it was quite late when Linda and I got in Mom was up and waiting for us Dad had not gotten home as yet, Ronnie had fallen asleep waiting for us. I went into Ronnie's bedroom and sat on the side of his bed and woke him up, he rubbed his eyes saw it was me then he gave me the biggest hug, that night I was a proud brother.

     There have been many homecomings over the years each with it's own joys and sorrows. Kay and I have been back several times now, it's different from years ago. Home as I remember is no longer there, my family has gotten smaller the places I remember have changed or disappeared. Time has taken it's toll or progress has moved things along - take your choice. The important thing is that even though I have a home in Georgia now Tennessee is my real home every where I have been has been an adventure in the scheme of life.

     

A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words

 

     There is an old saying "a picture is worth a thousand words. I think the phrase really means that a picture can lead someone to write a thousand words about it. Pictures themselves don't always give you all of the information you need to realize the story that goes with it but it does give you something to spark the imagination or feed your curiosity. 

     Before photography there were artist who drew and painted what their eyes saw, their work was beautiful and fill museums around the world today and then came photography.  Photography got it's start back in the early 1800's, the cameras were large cumbersome boxes made of wood that had to be set up on a tripod, the negatives were glass plates that had to be handled with care. The person or item being photographed had to remain perfectly still for about 30 seconds and all of the pictures were black and white.

     By the time I was born anybody could be a photographer, the cameras were small hand held and contained rolls of film that were sent away to be developed after exposer. The pictures were still black and white but a professional photographer could colorize the picture after it was developed, my and my brother Pat's baby pictures were colorized in this way. Sometime around the late 50's or early 60's you could buy color rolls of film for your camera, here again there are color pictures of me as a handsome teenager, in a swimsuit no less, showing off my lean mean body.

     Now I was never a camera type of guy although I did from time to time take a few pictures, my mother was the camera person in the family and Linda took her place when we married. Between the two of them my life and that of my boys is well documented. Way back then  ( circa 1967 ) one of the big things was taking pictures after they were developed and putting them in photo albums that then accumulated on coffee tables and book shelves. Linda cherished her photo albums, for her they stored memories of the people she loved but after a while they became collectors of dust. When she passed away we had 19 albums filled with photos going back to the 1930's plus a stack of loose photos, mostly the albums held memories of our 47 year marriage.

     Technology has advanced at a rapid pace in my life time, pictures once printed on a piece of paper and accumulated in albums which accumulated on bookshelves or closet floors now fit in to a flash drive the size of  your little finger with room to spare. Even cell phones have a larger capacity than 19 albums. There is no more waiting for the pictures to be developed and they can be uploaded to a printer if you want a hard copy.

     Five years went by before I decided to do something with our photo albums, they held a lifetime of memories which I carried in my thoughts, they no longer held the same meaning they once held so what am I to do with them. I decided to sort the pictures and have them installed on a flash drive for the boys but there was a problem - I was not the person to do this because I had no idea what the hell I was talking about.

     This is where it helps to have kids who are smart and up to date with technology, Danny to the rescue. I sat down and removed all of the pictures from the albums, sorted them by year, labeled them with names, dates and places and gave them to Danny, he in turn copied them on his phone then transferred them to a flash drive, it took him almost a year but I was in no hurry.

     I started this blog so my kids, the grandkids and hopefully future generations will have something to look back on and see several generations of family that they never knew. I have put down every memory that comes to mind, they come a little slower now but they do still come. The pictures will put a face to my stories. 

     So, MJ and Matthew, somewhere there are pictures of people you never knew, your dad and uncle Clay from the time they were babies, your grandmother and I from when we were babies, great grandparents, great great grandparents back to the 1800's. Hopefully all of this will light a fire in your curiosity from an early age and you will add to what I have started.

The Sunday Drive

      I haven't written anything since June of last year. It's not that I didn't have any ideas I actually have several draft stories waiting for me to finish them but this has been a rather hectic year to say the least. I never for a moment thought I would have a year like this in my life time. First it was the election of a US president, the two candidates ( the sitting President and a former Vice President ) both were very controversial and had the nation turned topsy turvy before the election and even more so since the new President took office this last January. 

     Then there was this virus called COVID 19 that struck the entire world with sickness and death. Kay wouldn't let me leave home for months which turned out to be no big deal as so many businesses were closed, short staffed and out or low on merchandise. My barber was closed for about four months so I let my hair grow long and I grew a beard which I still have ( I look very distinguished if I do say so myself ). To make a long story short life as we knew it has mostly disappeared and the the new lifestyle just  sort of got in my way. 

     One of the things Kay and I started when we met  was to spend our Sunday afternoon on a Sunday drive around the countryside. We have traveled far and wide over north Georgia and sections of the states of North Carolina and South Carolina. Most of our travels have been on what we call "back roads", small two lane roads that twist and turn through and over the hills of Appalachia. We generally are out for 4 or 5 hours but have been out as much as 8. 

     These chaotic times had us looking forward to Sunday afternoons. We would ride around until we saw something of interest and stopped to look around, flea markets, antique stores, scenic overlooks and even wild flowers on the side of the road have caught our attention from time to time. Being a master gardener, Kay has a keen interest in the flora, fauna and foliage we see along the road side and we sometimes stop to dig up a plant or two for our own yard. Actually, after digging up plants with my bare fingers or a stick I bought a trenching tool that we keep under the seat of the truck. There are quite a few specimens adorning our yard, Kay has done herself proud with the arrangements of the plants she has spread around the house. Every evening before calling it a day Kay will stroll around the yard just to see what flower has opened that day sometimes I walk with her, I found a few of the plants and like to see how well they are doing.

     When Kay's Coonhound, Boone, passed away she had him cremated and one Sunday last fall we hopped in the truck with Boone's ashes, Kay wanted to spread them in the same place she had spread Wayne's ashes; after all Boone was really Wayne's dog so it was fitting they be together again. Kay had spread Wayne's ashes in a stream on a WMA north of Helen, Georgia so off we went. 

     Now at this time let me say that my knowledge of a WMA ( wildlife management area ) was that it is a big forest of trees with undergrowth of briars, wild grape vines and a floor of rotting leaves and dead trees, It is occupied by coyotes, raccoons, opossums, deer and bears with an occasional skunk thrown in for good measure. In addition to the wildlife and flora there are the views of endless mountains, hills and valleys of trees reaching to the horizon. To get to all of this there are a network of roads carved into the sides of the hills, some are maintained and easily driven while others are no more than two ruts running parallel to each other. 

     So here we go looking for a stream in the woods north of Helen. When we found the turn off from the highway it wasn't long ( maybe a hundred yards ) till the asphalt ended and the gravel took over, then we came to a stream or small shallow river littered with rocks of all sizes worn smooth after eons of being washed by the waters of the mountain. I thought to myself this was going to be easy, here is the stream just stop and spread Boone's ashes and move on but this was not to be, turns out this portion of water was too frequented by people. The small stream we were looking for was further into the forest so we drove into this small river of cold running water, emerging on the other side I couldn't help thinking how long it had been since the under carriage of the truck had been under water.

     We started up the road as it rose higher into the trees, this was a one lane road with a steep incline climbing higher on one side and an equally steep drop off  falling through the tops of  trees far below on the other side. I kept waiting for us to start our descent down the other side of the mountain so we could find Wayne's stream but we kept going up and up. Every now and then we met a truck or Jeep going the other way both of us would hug the side of the road so we could pass with just inches between us. We kept going up and up, we were several miles from the main road before Kay said, "stop" and there it was not much more than a trickle of water sliding over the rocks of the hillside and running through a culvert in the road on it's continuing path on down the mountain into the valley far below. I watched as Kay carefully emptied Boone's ashes into the water. After a while we got back into the truck and as we continued up the road Kay said, "I hope you can find this place again because if I die before you I want my ashes spread here also". I made her a promise, if I'm not around Clay would fill in for me.

     Never one to like going over the same ground twice, we continued heading up the mountain, as we  closed in on the top the road conditions worsened, the gravel slowly turned to mostly dirt and then there was this huge mudhole filled with water, I hoped it was not too deep. We made it through the mudhole and crested the mountain. The road down the other side was washed away in places, the tires would fall into deep ruts one minute and rise up on a large piece of granite the next. The pace was bumpy and slow, exciting and beautiful , finally we emerged back on the main highway just north of Helen. We probably should not have made this trip in our two wheel drive truck but we did and now we are ready to do it again.

     We rarely miss one of our Sunday drives, once in a while the weather may be too bad and sometimes we hook up the boat and go fishing instead but mostly Sundays are for driving the backroads. One Sunday we wound up in Cherokee, N.C., another time it was Augusta, Ga. and then Lake Jocassee in South Carolina but most of the time it's some two lane road leading to nowhere in particular. I keep thinking we have been on all of the roads in north Georgia and then we find one hidden by a curve or low hanging trees, we even bought a road map that shows the gravel and dirt roads of the WMA's.

     A couple of weeks ago we went for a ride with Doug and Luanne in their new SUV. We headed up past Lake Burton and came out on Hwy 76, Doug asked if we had been to Tate City, we hadn't. After filling up the gas tank we found this little two lane road and started out for Tate City. It wasn't long till we turned off the paved road and struck out on a graveled road into one of the many National Forest. This particular road followed the headwaters of the Tallulah River, it was most of the time narrow, mostly gravel and definitely about 20 degrees cooler than than what we left behind in Statham. We found Tate City, population 32 + or -. There were some really nice summer homes in Tate City, Kay and Luanne got a few pictures and we headed back.

     A few days later, a Sunday, Kay and I decided to go back towards Tate City and take our time exploring the area but this time we found another little known road that took us close to Tate City from a different direction. This road veered off Hwy 76 a little farther west of the Tate City road, it started out as pavement  and a couple of miles later turned into gravel  ( sort of ) and it started going up. There were hairpin turns carved out of the hillside with occasional gullies left over from a previous storm.

     We ran into a group of four wheel Toyotas  who soon disappeared up a path into the trees, we continued on up what we hoped was the main road. The gravel slowly disappeared into the deep ruts of dirt and mud, the rocks so huge and I had to ride up on the side of the dirt curb so  I didn't scrape a hole in the oil pan.  At this point I told Kay I was glad to be going down hill because I didn't think I could make it going up, after all we only had a two wheel drive truck. At one point we found a wide point and stopped so we could dig up some flowers for our yard then we continued our downward trek one hair pinned rut after another and the we came to the river. 

     The Tallulah River at the point was about 25 or 30 yards across and the water being crystal clear made it hard to determine the depth and there appeared to not be a place to drive out on the other side so we stopped to ponder the situation. Turning around and going back may have been doable  but the emphasis was on "may have been"  and the path forward was also precarious looking. As we sat there pondering our next move two women walked out of the water and one of them told us the water was not deep and people drove through it all the time, of course they had four wheel drive trucks and Jeeps. Well it was a case of the good road ahead was within site while the miles of bad road behind us were doubtful so we eased into the water. I took it slow and we still bounced over the abundant small smooth rocks in the stream bottom, water pushed ahead of our bumper as a man standing in the water guided us around some bushes on the bank to the path out of the water, we made it.

     There were a few times that day when Kay was worried about our chances of getting stuck or broke down, there were a few times I was wondering but I stayed confident. We have been thinking about getting a new vehicle and after this trip Kay has decided we need to look at four wheel drive vehicles. Four wheel drive would open up another avenue of adventure for us.

     Our Sunday drives have become a norm for us, we look forward to them. They remind Kay of drives with her family when she was a young girl, they remind me of drives with my grandfather when I was a kid. At this time in our lives anything that invokes happy memories is a good thing.