Kombi was a little green and white microbus. He lived in a garage with his parents and sister in the little town of Wolfsburg. His parents’ names were Käfer and Cabrio. His sister’s name was Karmann.

Kombi’s cousin Carrera lived in the garage next door to them with Uncle Coupé and Aunt Targa. Kombi’s Papa delivered mail in the town with the man who lived in the house next to the garage. Twice a week, his Mama took the man’s wife to the shops and to the grocery market. Sometimes the man’s wife would take her to town when she had to pick up a package at one of the shops.

Kombi’s sister Karmann was beautiful. She was a light blue convertible. She took the man and his wife’s daughter and her friends on rides through the countryside. Karmann had won blue ribbons at car shows in Wolfsburg and some of the other little towns close by.

His cousin Carrera was very sleek and fast. He ran races on the roads and tracks around town and won many of them. His trophies were proudly displayed on a shelf above where he parked in the garage.  

But Kombi didn’t have a job at all. He felt very odd and left out. One day in the garage he told his mother, “Mama, I have no purpose.” “Why, Kombi,” replied Mama, “why would you ever say a thing like that?” “Papa delivers the mail in town,” replied Kombi.   “You take trips to the grocery store and the post office. Karmann wins blue ribbons at the car shows and Carrera wins trophies at the races. I’m just a dumpy little bus who never delivers or picks up or wins anything.” He looked at his mother with his big, sad eyes. “Oh, Kombi,” said Mama. “You are a beautiful little bus. One day soon you will get the chance to prove to yourself and to others what you are capable of doing.” Kombi waited and waited for the opportunity, but it never arrived.

On the way back home after delivering the mail one day, Kombi’s Papa saw him parked down by the river looking sadly at the footbridge by the bend. After he took the man who lived in the house home, he went to the river to check on Kombi.

“Good afternoon, son,” said Papa. “”What are you doing this fine afternoon?” “Watching the children coming home from school cross the bridge,” said Kombi. The schoolhouse was on the opposite side of the river. He loved children and liked to come to the river to watch them coming home from school. “It is a beautiful afternoon’” replied Papa. “Very peaceful.” “Yes sir,” replied Kombi. “A little too peaceful.” “Whatever do you mean?” asked Papa. “How can it ever be too peaceful?” “I’m bored Papa. I never do anything useful around town like you and Mama,” said Kombi. “Kombi, you are a young and strong microbus,” said Papa kindly. “There will be a job for you soon, a very important one that only you can do. You’ll see.” “I guess so, Papa,” said Kombi wistfully. “Come on home to the garage soon. It will be getting dark.” “Yes, sir,” said Kombi.

The next afternoon a bad rainstorm came through Wolfsburg. It was raining so hard that Kombi decided not to go to the river but stay inside the garage instead. The mail had to be delivered rain or shine, so Papa and the man set out for their appointed rounds.

Kombi, Mama and Karmann were in the garage watching the rain when all of a sudden the man came running up the driveway, soaking wet, waving his arms and shouting for his wife to come quickly. “What is it dear?” she called as she ran out of the house. “The footbridge has washed away in the storm and the children are stuck at the schoolhouse across the river,” the man cried. “I’m going to take the little bus and get them!” “How are you going to get them from across the river?” she asked. “The little bus can float!” said the man. “We’re going to float across and rescue them!” Kombi’s oil leaped in his crankcase! “Float?” he said to himself. “What does he mean I can float?” But by that time the man had jumped onto Kombi’s front seat and the two of them went roaring out of the garage toward the river. The man’s wife followed in Kombi’s Mama and their daughter in Karmann. The family who lived next door hurried down in Uncle Coupé, Aunt Targa and Carrera.

When they got to the river the childrens’ parents were all gathered at the bank. Their mothers were hugging and crying, their fathers talking excitedly, rubbing their chins and pointing across the river. The children were on the other bank crying and waving at their parents. Their teacher was trying her best to keep them calm but she was just as frightened as they were.

Kombi and the man pulled up right in front of the children’s parents. “Don’t worry, folks, the little bus and I are going for the children right now,” said the man. “But Mr. Kagelmacher, how are you going to get across?” sobbed one of the mothers. “This little fellow can float,” he replied. “We’ll be back across in no time!” And with that, they took off toward the boat ramp. It was raining even harder by now. “All right, little fellow, I know you can do this,” said the man. Kombi was terrified. They went down the ramp and splashed into the water.

Kombi’s front wheels and his face went under the water, followed by his back wheels and bumper. But then something strange happened. He leveled out and began to float. His oil leaped in his crankcase again and a feeling came over him he had never felt before. He could float and he was determined to get across the river to the children! “Ha, ha, I knew it! Full speed ahead!” shouted the man. The boat ramp on the other side of the river was ahead of them but further downstream. The river was flowing rapidly, so Kombi turned first right and then left to move in a straight line through the current. The children saw Kombi coming for them and began to cheer wildly. Their parents were cheering and clapping across the river, too. When they were almost at the other side of the river, Kombi turned to ride the current to the boat ramp. His wheels hit the riverbed right in front of the boat ramp and he and the man roared up the boat ramp. They stopped in front of the teacher and the children. The man swung Kombi’s two side doors open along with the passenger door. “Come on, kinder, your parents are waiting,” called out the man. The children all climbed in the side door and the teacher jumped onto the front seat with the man. They shut the doors, took off down the ramp and into the river. Kombi was not afraid this time.

 

He bobbed front and back like before, then started across the river. The children were all laughing, talking excitedly and looking out of Kombi’s windows. The current was getting stronger and suddenly the teacher shouted, “Oh, no! Look!” She pointed at a big rock that was in the middle of the river, right ahead of them.” Kombi saw the rock, and felt the courage and determination rise up from his crankcase. He turned to the left and let the current take them right by the rock. His right side scraped against it and the children began to shriek and cry. The scrape hurt badly. Kombi could tell there was a big scratch on his side and some of his paint was missing, but he did not care. He moved back and forth, keeping in a straight line until he reached the riverbank. But because he had to swerve to miss the big rock, they were further down the river from the boat ramp. When his wheels hit the riverbed, he dug in with his back wheels and, using every bit of his little fifty-three horsepower engine, climbed up the bank and onto the road beside the river.

 

The children were all jumping up and down, cheering and shouting. The teacher was laughing and clapping. The man was banging his hands on Kombi’s steering wheel and shouting, “I knew it! I knew you could do it!” They started down the road toward the children’s parents, who were running toward them. Kombi stopped when they reached him, but his two side doors would not open because of the scrape across the big rock. The man opened up Kombi’s back hatch and the children all climbed out and ran to the open arms of their parents. It had almost stopped raining by now. The man rubbed his hand along the scrape on Kombi’s side. “That’s a nasty gash, little fellow. We’ll get you to the shop and have you fixed up in no time,” he said kindly. Up ahead, Papa and Uncle Coupé’s headlamps were beaming bright with pride. Mama, Karmann and Aunt Targa’s windshield washers were squirting and their wipers kept moving back and forth. Carrera gave him two toots on his horn and revved up his turbo. Kombi felt a warm and happy feeling in his crankcase. He was a hero.

 

After Kombi had his side repaired in the auto shop, the little town of Wolfsburg had a big parade for him and the man. All the cars of the town were in the parade, along with Mama, Papa, Karmann, Uncle Coupé, Aunt Targa and Carrera. At the very back of the line was Kombi. The man and the teacher were on the front seat, waving at the crowd. Kombi’s canvas roof was open, and the children were all waving at their parents and friends from it. At the end of the parade, the Mayor of Wolfsburg made a speech and presented Kombi and the man each a big blue ribbon. The teacher kissed Kombi on his face and the man on the cheek. Then a photographer for the newspaper took pictures of all of them together.

 

But the best thing of all was what happened afterwards. The footbridge was replaced with a stone bridge wide enough for a microbus to drive across. When the bridge was completed, the Mayor declared that from that day forward, Kombi would be the school bus. He and the man would take the children to school. Then the man and Papa would deliver the mail. In the afternoon they would pick the children up from school, bring them back across the bridge and deliver them safely home. Kombi had proven himself, just like Mama had said he would and found a job only he could do, just as Papa had said. He was a very happy little bus.  

Last Sunday was, of course, Easter Sunday. It was also Masters Sunday, which to me is a National Holiday all its own. The tournament itself has been tentatively rescheduled for the second week of November. But April 12th was still Masters Sunday. I wore my traditional green shirt and white slacks. Jackie and I had our traditional steak dinner. The final round of the 2019 Masters was aired on CBS. Many have referred to Tiger Woods’ stirring victory as the greatest comeback in golf history and even sports history. As great as his victory was, I have to disagree.

On February 2, 1949, Ben and Valerie Hogan were driving home in their new Cadillac sedan to Fort Worth, Texas from Phoenix, Arizona and the Phoenix Open. This was at a time before private jets, swing gurus, equipment deals and clothing sponsors. Pro golfers drove from stop to stop on the tour. East of Van Horn, a little town in the middle of nowhere about a hundred miles from El Paso, a bus attempting to pass a car on a narrow bridge hit them head on. In the instant before the collision, Ben threw himself across Valerie to protect her. It was an act of chivalry that ultimately saved his life, because the steering column punctured the left front seat. While Valerie was basically uninjured, the whole left side of Ben’s body was crushed, including his pelvis, ankle, knee, ribs, collarbone and shoulder. He also sustained injuries to his internal organs and suffered damage to his left eye, which worsened as he grew older.

At first he was told he would never walk again. After he began to walk, he was told he would never be able to play golf again. When he started to play golf, they said he would never be able to play competitively again. When he started back on the tour, they said he would never win again. Mr. Hogan proved them all wrong.

The first week of January 1950, eleven months after the accident, Hogan teed it up at the Los Angeles Open, which was played at Riviera Country Club. Tied for the lead with Sam Snead after 72 holes, he lost to Snead in an 18-hole Monday playoff. Famed sportswriter Grantland Rice wrote that, “his legs simply were not strong enough to carry his heart any longer.”

The 1950 U.S. Open was played June 8-11 at Merion Country Club outside of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Hogan made the cut and at that time the USGA required players to play 36 holes on the final day of competition. Hogan almost fell down on the twelfth hole and could barely walk after that. He would later admit that he almost quit after the 13^th, but his caddy admonished him to press on. When he came to the 18^th tee, he needed a par to force a playoff. He hit his drive to the middle of the fairway and faced a two hundred thirteen yard shot to the green. He pulled out his 1-iron and striped it to the middle of the green, then two-putted for par. He would later admit, “I only had one shot left in me.”

Hy Peskins, a photographer for Life magazine, positioned himself behind Hogan and caught him at the end of his follow through, facing the green in perfect form with the 1-iron parallel to the ground. The fairway and green are lined with the gallery and the photograph became one of the most iconic pictures in golf history.

Hogan would defeat Lloyd Mangrum and George Fazio by four strokes in an 18-hole playoff the next day. Seventeen months after being run over and maimed by a bus, Ben Hogan was the U.S. Open champion. He would defend that title in 1951 as well as winning The Masters. In 1953 he won The Triple Crown of The Masters, The U.S. Open and The Open Championship. All told, he won twelve tournaments and six majors after the accident.

Tiger Woods was run over by a bus as well, although metaphorically and largely of his own making. Hopefully he has conquered his demons and will continue his march toward nineteen professional majors. Was his comeback win at the Masters in 2019 great? Absolutely. Was it the greatest comeback in history? Not by a long shot.  

   

Forty Seven years ago this week, the Storm Of The Century hit Atlanta. The ice storm in January of 1973 was like none we had seen before or since. Snowjam ’82 was bad, the storm in March of ’93 has also been called the SOTC, but none can compare to 1973. We still talk about it today and remember the events vividly.

It was my senior year of high school. We were living in Gresham Park and to the best of my recollection we never lost power. We were lucky. The temperature dropped below zero. Transformers blew due to the extreme cold. Trees began to bend from the weight of ice, eventually snapping and taking power and phone lines down with them. But for kids in school fresh off of Christmas vacation, a week off due to the storm seemed like an extension of the holidays.

The roads iced over and driving was treacherous. I had a ’63 Volkswagen I had bought from a buddy at school for $75. That was back when a $75 VW could be both practical and dependable. The old ’63 was the famous VW seafoam green and had a left front fender that was unsanded and unpainted Bond-O. Like all ’63 VWs, its heater was non-functional, but I didn’t care. The little car ran and that was all that mattered. I let the air about halfway out of the back tires, put a concrete block in the cubby hole behind the back seat and, to my mothers chagrin and my father reminding me that I did not possess the intellectual capacity of a burro, cranked up the old 6-volt Seafoam Green Monster and headed up the hill on Rollingwood toward my friend Kerney’s house.

The power was out at Kerney’s, so his dad climbed the pole out in front of the house and with a pair of jumper cables managed to jump the power from the main line to the line going to the house. The cables stayed up there for months, until Georgia Power discovered them while doing routine maintenance. Kerney and I climbed in the Bug, backed out of the driveway and took off for a great adventure. We decided to head up Mary Lou Lane. The most fun was making right hand turns. I would punch the Bug about halfway through the turn, the car would make a three-sixty and we would continue on our way. After chugging about halfway up the hill on Mary Lou, the old VW couldn’t make it any further, began to spin his rear wheels and slowly at first, then picking up speed, slid backwards down the hill to the bottom before coming to rest with the rear wheel resting against the curb. Giggling and laughing, we headed back the other direction.

I spent the night at Kerney’s house that night. The next morning we rode over to my house and my father had softened his stance the parallels of my intellectual capacity and a burro’s. That was because he needed cigarettes. He gave me five dollars for two packs of Lucky Strikes and gas for the Bug. Kerney and I made it to Gresham Road and the Tenneco station was miraculously open. We bought the cigarettes, filled the Bug up and headed home. My father was happy and we were set up with gas for the rest of the week.

We took off again and picked up a few buddies. Emboldened, we decided to ride to Cedar Grove. The little car chugged along and as we passed a Georgia Power work crew on Bouldercrest Road, one on the men gave us the finger. We looked and laughed because, bundled up under the layer of clothing and the hard hat was a friend of ours who was a few years older and worked for Georgia Power. While were playing road warriors, he was getting paid double time. And we wondered why he owned a yellow and black ’70 Mach 1.

It wasn’t all fun and games, though. We made a couple of runs to the grocery store for my parents and Kerney’s. We picked up his little sister who spent the night with a friend and brought her home. We also made a cigarette run for his dad. So Kerney, the little ‘63 and me emerged the heroes.

Eventually the snow and ice melted. Power and phone lines were restored, life returned to normal and we all went back to school. My father talked me into letting him build a dune buggy out of the old Seafoam Beetle. Then he never let me drive it. Spring came and then graduation. We had to make up the days missed from the ice storm at the end of the school year. That’s one thing that kids never think about during snow days. We graduated on a Wednesday night and I had to be at work at eight o’clock the next morning. But the memories of the Ice Storm of ’73 remain to this day.

Driving in a winter storm is no fun now. I hear all the time how we Southerners don’t know how to drive in snow and ice. The storm of 2014 that crippled the city and made a national laughingstock out of Atlanta comes to mind. I was out there and it took seven hours, but I made it home. So, I must know a little something about driving in adverse conditions. Along the way that evening, the thought struck me that a great percentage of the Atlanta population is now made up of northern transplants. I figured that since they all knew how to negotiate the ice and the hills that they were all safely home. I never realized that many of us dumb old Southerners were left in the city. There sure were a lot of us. The weirdest part was the fact that a great number of the cars that were swerving, careening and abandoned on the side of the expressway had Ohio and Indiana tags on them.

Cross one off, near the top of The Bucket List.  After sixty two years, I finally followed the exhortation plastered on the roofs of barns to birdhouses across the Southland and Americana.  I Saw Rock City.  Jackie and I walked the whole Fairyland Trail.  We started up the Grand Corridor and through Needle’s Eye.  We then went under the Gnomes’ Underpass, past the Lion’s Den, Shelter Rock and through the Cave Of The Winds.  We decided to throw caution to the wind (literally), and crossed The Swinging Bridge out onto Lover’s Leap.  From there we saw Seven States and took a lot of pictures.  We don’t take very many selfies at all.  But, this was one time we wanted one, and that particular feature on the stupid iPhone decided to not function properly.  A nice lady took our picture with seven states in the distance behind us and on either side.  On the way back down we went past Tortoise Shell Rock.  We made it through Fat Man’s Squeeze, even with Jackie’s camera hanging around her neck.  Then it was through the Goblins’ Underpass and Fairyland Caverns.  We finished up at the Gift Shop, where I bought a See Rock City birdhouse.  A tourist all the way, all I needed was a pair of Bermuda shorts, sandals and a Hy-waiian flowerdy shirt with a See Rock City Guide in the pocket.  I didn’t care.  I was beginning to think that I may not see Rock City in my lifetime, so I was thrilled.   

Please don’t laugh.  As far as traveling, I really don’t get out very much.  There are great chunks of the world outside of the southeastern United States I have never seen.  I have never seen the Grand Canyon, Old Faithful, Disney World, the Giant Redwoods or the Pacific Ocean.  I have seen Ruby Falls, and now Rock City.  I rode the original Starliner Roller Coaster in Panama City.  I have been to the United Kingdom thrice, where I saw St. Andrews, Loch Ness and Land’s End.  I have played golf in Scotland.  I have snorkeled in the Caribbean and fished in the Gulf of Mexico.  I have ridden in an airboat across The Everglades, where we also saw some guy who was a few balls shy of a bucket stick his head into the open mouth of an alligator.  There are a few other things here and there, but that is pretty much the short list.

When I was a kid, the family vacations my parents and I took always consisted of one of three things.  We either went to Dallas, Texas to visit my mother’s family.  Or, we went to Fort Pierce, Florida to visit my aunt (my mother’s sister), uncle and cousins.  We went to New Orleans a couple of times because her daughter lived there.  At times, on holidays we would remain close to home.  We would stay in a cabin at the City Of Atlanta Firemen’s Recreation Area at Lake Allatoona.  We didn’t didn’t do that very often, though, because my mother couldn’t swim, hated boats and was afraid of the water.  Beginning to see a pattern here?  

We never went to Panama City, Gatlinburg or Washington, D.C.  We never went on a train trip or a cruise.  I was fifty-plus years old before I ever saw Savannah, and a young adult before I crossed the Mason-Dixon line.  I went to Trevose, Pennsylvania for a work-related seminar in 1978.  I have crossed that line exactly twice since.  We went to Indianapolis in 2010 to see the 500, and this summer flew into Newark, New Jersey to go on a cruise.  From what I can tell, New Jersey is all that it is cracked up to be.  I saw New York and The Statue of Liberty from the deck of the cruise ship.  We then sailed to Maine and Nova Scotia.  Maine is indeed all that it is cracked up to be, absolutely gorgeous.  Nova Scotia, not so much.  Atop the bucket list now is taking a driving trip through New England.

I had only been to Chattanooga twice before, both day trips.  It is beautiful.  I love the small city atmosphere.  We stayed in the Hampton Inn downtown and became fast friends with Tina, the manager who checked us in.  The downtown area is very clean, with a lot of restaurants and shops.  We walked to dinner each night and never once felt threatened.  We also walked to the Hunter Museum of American Art.  We then crossed over the Tennessee River via the Walnut Street Pedestrian Bridge to Coolidge Park and rode the carousel.  The gentleman who ran the carousel told us that it was built in 1894 and was in Atlanta’s Grant Park before going into storage and eventually being moved to Chattanooga.  The carousel featured a lot of unique animals including a fish, a frog, a seahorse, an ostrich, a rabbit, two different cats, a Scottie dog and a brontosaurus.  I rode Otis The Pig, while Jackie opted to be more conventional and rode Jordan The Pony.

Our first morning in town, we got up and turned on the local news before heading down for breakfast.  When the traffic report came on, we both fell out laughing.  There were a few cars going by on the Traffic Cam, all at a speed limit ride.  No pile-ups or overturned tractor trailers.  None of the sheer volume congestion like the nightmare that is Atlanta traffic.  I woke up in the middle of the night several times, and it was very strange.  We were in the middle of downtown, and it was still and quiet.  No sirens.  No gunshots.  No honking horns.  No loud music.  No screaming or yelling, although we did hear the street cleaners come by a couple of times.

As our newfound friend Tina was checking us out of the hotel, we asked for directions to Brainerd Road.  We told her we were meeting our friends Wayne and Jan for lunch.  She asked us where, and we told her Ankar’s.  Her eyes flew open wide and she shouted, “That’s my family!!!”  She told us that her cousin had opened the restaurant around forty years ago.  She also told us where her elderly aunt sat every day, and suggested we tell her that Tina told us to come to lunch there and see her.  We did so, and the family could not have been more gracious.  The food was excellent, and the place filled up in a hurry.  Apparently, the restaurant is very well known in the Chattanooga area.  Wayne is a regular and on a first name basis with everyone there.  If you are in the area, I highly recommend it.    

As beautiful as Chattanooga is, I fear for her.  As time passes, and more and more Boomers retire and flee the monstrosity that Atlanta has become, I hope that she does not expand, sprawl and choke on herself .  I hope that she retains her beauty, charm and Small Southern City atmosphere.  

There is still a part of me that longs to chuck it all and buy a Volkswagen bus.   A part that longs for Jackie and I to load up my easel, her camera, our dog and take off.  There is whole world out there to see, to paint, to capture on camera and to write about.  But then, my practical side takes over and reminds me of my daily commitments and responsibilities.  I am well aware that the clock is ticking.  As we grow older we learn that the most precious resource is time.  So, I will have to wait a few more years until such is feasible.  The Good Lord willing, I will have to squeeze what I can into the time that I am fortunate enough to have available to do so.  Until then, though, I’ll continue to be Writing and Rolling and Still Cruisin’!  –J.              

Allow me to vent my spleen here.  I am talking about the growing trend of driving around in the dark with no lights.  No headlights.  No taillights.  No parking lights.  No fog lamps.  No lights, period.  I have heard the stories of it being a gang ritual, that if you flash your lights at them they will turn around, chase you down and do mean things to you.  Personally, I think it is something much deeper than that.  I think it delves into the psyche, in particular the realm of human stupidity.

A couple of mornings ago I was driving to work on I-285 at about a quarter of six in the morning.  It was raining.  I came upon a black crossover in the right center lane, running about 50 mph with no lights on.  To me, this discounts the Gang Theory.  I don’t know anything about gangs, but I’m pretty sure they don’t drive black crossovers in the pre-dawn hours, presumably on the way to work.  I did not see the vehicle until the last second and swerved to avoid hitting them in the rear end.  Thank goodness no one was in the other lane.  I sat on my horn and they, in turn, sat on theirs.  Let me get this straight.  This genius is driving on a major interstate in the dark and in the rain with no lights on, and if I blow my horn at him (or her), then I’m the jerk?  I suppose if I rear ended them it would be my fault.  One Call, That’s All.

This leads me to the bigger question.  Driving  in Atlanta these days is harrowing enough.  What kind of an idiot drives up I-285 at six in the morning with no lights?  I see it all the time.  If I’m lucky enough to spot one of the Stealth Motorists, I hit my brights and go around them.  I would rather drive with them behind me than in front.  I have actually seen cops drive by and go around these idiots and not pull them over.  I certainly am no expert in any areas of law, but doesn’t driving with no lights in the dark constitute at least a warning ticket?

Doug DeMuro of autotrader.com offers this opinion which has a lot of validity.  Modern vehicles come from the factory with instrument clusters that are illuminated.  Motorists enter and start the vehicle. They must figure that the lights are already on, because the instrument panel is lit up.  There are no warnings or reminders like there are with seat belts.  I’m sure that this is the case many times.  But when you see a 1978 lime green Caprice with wagon wheels come by with no lights and the bass box thumping and rattling, that theory doesn’t hold water.  The other evening I saw one of these type vehicles traveling down the expressway, no lights, speeding up, slowing down and swerving.  As I cautiously went around him, I look over and the “driver” has his cell phone up, texting.  Now, that’s a real mental giant right there.

Okay, I’ll admit, I’ve done it.  I’ve climbed in my car, pulled out of the driveway and started down the road, forgetting to turn my lights on.  But, long before you get to a well-lighted major thoroughfare or interstate, you first have to drive down darkened side streets.  This is where you realize what you have not done, and turn on the light switch.  The graphic above is courtesy of 2CarPros.com.  It demonstrates the proper technique for turning on the headlights and taillights.  You simply grasp the knob, turn it all the way to the right and, wah-lah!  You and the people around you are much safer.

Mr. DeMuro offers a solution which, in my opinion, makes the most sense of all.  And, that is to make it mandatory for manufacturers to make the lights come on automatically whenever the car is started.  When it comes to cars, most everything is done for you today.  Cars can park themselves, and in some cases, drive themselves.  That may be a good thing, because the car may drive better than the idiot behind the wheel, but that’s beside the point.  How hard would it be for automotive engineers to implement a feature such as the lights coming on automatically?  I think it’s a great idea.  And after that, maybe they could perfect making the turn signals function automatically… Still Cruisin’!  –J.  

 

Before streaming, Netflix, Hulu and Amazon there were movie theaters.  NBC introduced “Saturday Night At The Movies” to television in 1961, but the movies aired were usually five or six years old and well past their run in the theaters, re-runs included.  If you wanted to see a movie, you went to the theater.  Or, the drive-in theater.  In South DeKalb, we were lucky.  We had a drive-in theater right around the corner.  The Starlight Drive-In, located on Moreland Avenue.  Drive-in theaters were plentiful in the second part of the twentieth century, and really did not begin to disappear until the late Eighties or early Nineties.  Some of the ones in the Atlanta area that I remember were the Thunderbird Drive-In on Jonesboro Road in Forest Park,  The Glenwood Drive-In on Glenwood Road, The North 85 Twin Drive-In at I-85 and Shallowford Road, and the Northeast Expressway Drive-In, located down in a hole at the intersection of I-285 and I-85 North.  The Thunderbird was under a landing pattern and, since the Atlanta airport was only a couple of miles to the west, the planes were regularly passing overhead on their final approach, engines roaring.    All of these drive-ins are now all dead and gone the way of the dodo.  All, that is, except for The Starlight.

Built in 1949, the Starlight is still thriving today, sporting six screens.  I know people who drive all the way from Paulding County and beyond to the Starlight to take their kids to the drive-in.  In the summer the theater hosts a “Drive-In Invasion” featuring live music, classic cars and B-movies from the Fifties and early Sixties.  The “Rock and Roll Monster Bash” is also featured each year showcasing local artists, organizations, vendors and, of course, horror movies.

I remember going to the Starlight with my parents when I was a kid.  My mother would pop a big container of popcorn.  We would take that along with Cokes, iced tea and my father’s thermos of coffee.  I remember seeing a Doris Day and Rock Hudson movie with them where he drives a convertible into a swimming pool full of soap suds.  They also took my cousin and I to see “The Blue Max” in 1966.  By then we were becoming much too cool to sit in the car with my parents, so we sat in the folding wooden movie seats on the patio outside the snack bar.  The sound was piped over speakers, and you didn’t have near as far to walk to the snack bar or the restroom.

Then came the teenage years and, along with them, mild juvenile delinquency.  The big thing was to try to sneak into the Starlight for free.  I really don’t know why, seeing as that most of us had part time jobs and could easily afford to pay for a ticket.  Drive-in tickets were about half the price of a conventional theater ticket.  We did not think twice about going to a movie theater and paying full admission for both ourselves and a date.  Maybe it was just the challenge, the thrill of the conquest, the wanting to see if we could pull it off.  Whatever it was, it wasn’t limited to my general neighborhood.  I went to the drive-in with my cousin in Fort Pierce, Florida once and we went through the same ritual.

The Starlight had secondary exits for both the North and South theaters, so one of the tricks was turning off your lights and driving in through them and sliding into a space.  This was dicey, at best.  It would work if you came in about halfway through the first movie and were able to find a parking place immediately. If you had to ride around and look for a space, you were making yourself conspicuous.  It also helped if you were driving your parents sleek black Ford sedan that was quiet as a mouse.  When you tried to do it in a jacked up yellow Fairlane with glass packs, sneaking in quietly and stealthily was not an option.  Especially after the owners got smart and began stationing a DeKalb County cop car at each exit.

Of course, the age old tried and true method was to put one or two guys in the trunk.  Notice I said “guys.”  Sneaking into the drive-in was strictly a male activity.  You never, NEVER asked a girl to get in the trunk.  If there was a group of guys and girls and one or two guys got in the trunk, that was okay as long as they didn’t have dates.  I would hazard a guess that if you went to the drive-in with a girl and either asked her to get in the trunk or got in the trunk yourself, that would be your last (or only) date with her.   And probably your last date with any other girl, once the word got out.

On paper, the Get In The Trunk Technique seemed pretty foolproof.  Until you got into the drive-in, and then the next step was the Getting Out Of The Trunk Technique.  If it was still dusk, things were considerably more difficult.  Trying to hide behind the snack bar and do it was dangerous, because there was generally too much foot traffic.  The easiest way was to park away from cars where you were kind of isolated.  The driver would then get out, discreetly unlock the trunk and head for the snack bar.  The refugee(s) inside would hold the latch to keep the trunk from popping wide open, then open it slowly and just enough to slide out.  Then they would stay low and go around the car and slide into the back seat.  If you popped the trunk, jumped out, high fived and yelled ,”Hey, man, we did it!” you might as well have blown an air horn and lit up sparklers.

The last time I went to the Starlight was in 1989.  A bunch of us from the neighborhood took the kids to see “Who Framed Roger Rabbit?” and “Batman.”  We took a grill and lounge chairs.  We backed our S-10 Blazer into our spot and opened the rear hatch.  We folded down the rear seats and spread out sleeping bags for the kids to lay on and watch the movie.  We cooked hamburgers and hot dogs.  It was fun, a lot of fun, but it wasn’t the same.  It may sound crazy, but it seemed too luxurious.  It didn’t seem like the drive-in.

The last time I went to the drive-in was in 2005.  It was in Blue Ridge, Georgia.  We had friends who owned a cabin there.  The Swan Drive-In is in downtown Blue Ridge.  Built in 1955, it too is functional and thriving.  They have strict rules, though.  No grills, and all hatchbacks have to be tied down.  It was a double feature.  A mountain fog rolled in and we could hardly see the screen throughout either movie.  The movies we saw?  “War Of The Worlds” and “Batman Begins.”  The last two trips to the drive-in, two Batman movies.  Holy Popcorn!  Still Cruisin’!  –J.        

The Sugar Dog was old and crippled.  He had a terrible pain in his tummy and in his back.  One day, while in The Back Yard with Elvis The Puppy,  The Sugar Dog laid down and went to sleep.  When he awoke, all of his pain and stiffness was gone.  The lake was still there.  But Elvis The Puppy was not there.  There were four others in The Back Yard when The Sugar Dog awoke.  There was Charlie The Siamese Cat, Dan The Horse, Penny The Pony and Sluggo The Solid White English Bulldog.  The Sugar Dog noticed a large concrete statue of a seated bulldog that he had not seen before.  The statue was at the edge of the woods, facing the lake.  At the far, far end of The Back Yard was a long bridge.  The Sugar Dog could not see the other side of The Bridge, but there was a big and beautiful Rainbow above it every day.

There was always plenty of food, water and warm sunshine in The Back Yard.  The Sugar Dog and Sluggo The Solid White English Bulldog played together every day.  Charlie The Siamese Cat basked in the sunshine, licked her paws and purred.  Penny The Pony and Dan The Horse grazed in the field and would often gallop from one end of The Back Yard to the other.

As time went by, other friends came to live in The Back Yard as well.  There was Otto The Orange Tabby Cat, who was allergic to himself.  He sat around and sneezed all the time.  Then came Elvis The Puppy, who had grown big and strong and was no longer Elvis The Puppy.  He was now Elvis The Dog.  He brought a lot of rubber squeaky toys with him, but their squeakers were all missing.  After Elvis The Dog came Shorty The Scent Hound.  Shorty liked to sit around and bark for no particular reason.  But his barking did not bother The Others.  Not too long after Shorty The Scent Hound came Georgie The Cat.  He would sit snuggled close to The Sugar Dog and doze.  You see, Georgie The Cat thought that The Sugar Dog was his Momma when he was a kitten.  He also liked to walk around the edge of the yard, stopping to sit on the bench by the lake and look at the water.  When he meowed, it sounded like “Hel-lo!  Hel-lo!”  Lelu The Grey Cat came next.  She was a very pretty and nice cat, but she was a bit jumpy and slow of foot.  She liked to lay close to the ground behind a rock and watch.

The last to come to The Back Yard was Maggie The Whippet.  She was white with two large black spots on each side of her chest and face.  She was the most beautiful dog that The Sugar Dog had ever seen.  Maggie The Whippet had big brown eyes and was lean and athletic.  She could run very fast and jump very high.  She was very sweet natured, and liked to lay in the grass with her front paws folded in a very ladylike manner.  Maggie the Whippet thought that The Sugar Dog was the most handsome gentleman she had ever seen.

Everyone in The Back Yard was happy and content.  But something was missing.  They each missed The Boy And The Girl.  The Boy And The Girl were very special to each and every one in The Back Yard.  But The Boy And The Girl had to be left behind, you see.

One day, as they were all running and playing together, The Sugar Dog sensed something.  His ears perked up and he peered intently into the distance.  His stubby tail began to wag.  His hips shook and his body quivered.  Suddenly he began to run from The Group.  The Others sensed something as well, and took off after The Sugar Dog.  He was moving so fast that even Maggie The Whippet could not outrun him.  They were side by side, flying over the green grass with their legs stretching and their hearts racing.  Elvis The Dog was right on their heels, with Penny The Pony and Dan The Horse were right on his.  The cats ran as fast as they could, with Lelu The Gray Cat lumbering along behind them.  Shorty The Scent Hound and Sluggo The Solid White English Bulldog ran as fast as their short legs would take them.  Shorty The Scent Hound was barking the entire way, his wagging tail propelling him forward.

It was then that The Sugar Dog realized that what he thought he saw was indeed what he saw.  It was The Boy And The Girl, standing at The Brigde!  He leapt through the air and landed in The Boy’s arms.  Maggie The Whippet leapt at the same time and landed in The Girl’s arms.  The Sugar Dog kissed The Boy’s face over and over again.  The Boy hugged The Sugar Dog ever so tightly and laughed and laughed, rubbing the happy dog’s head.  The Sugar Dog sensed The Boy telling him he was sorry for the times he had scolded him.  The Sugar Dog let him know that it was all right and that it did not matter because they were together again.

Maggie The Whippet rained kisses on The Girl as well, then bounced and bounced to show her how high she could jump again.  Then she laid on her back with her feet in the air, waiting for The Girl to give her a belly rub.  The Girl and then The Boy rubbed her belly, and her back foot started kicking the air as if she were starting a motorcycle.  The Boy and The Girl then hugged each other and Maggie The Whippet got in between them, barking loudly and happily.

“Hel-lo!  Hel-lo!” meowed Georgie The Cat, rubbing against their legs.  Otto The Orange Tabby rubbed against their legs as well, then sat down and started sneezing.  Elvis The Dog then jumped into The Boy’s arms and almost knocked him down.  Elvis The Dog, you see, was a bit of a lummox.  Penny The Pony and Dan The Horse whinnied and snorted until The Boy and The Girl hugged them.  The Girl rubbed Penny The Pony’s forehead and nose over and over again.  Lelu The Gray Cat jumped bouncily about, and Shorty The Scent Hound barked and barked.  Then he sat on his side and showed The Boy and The Girl his hurt leg.  His leg was no longer hurt, but he showed it to them anyway.  Finally, Sluggo The Solid White English Bulldog sat at The Boy’s feet and pawed The Boy’s leg.  He looked up at The Boy with his big brown trusting eyes, smiling at him through his underbite.  The Boy picked Sluggo The Solid White English Bulldog up and gave him the biggest hug of all.  For, you see, The Boy had not seen his stocky friend in a long, long time.

Then, The Sugar Dog ran ahead of The Group and looked back, wagging his stubby tail and shaking his hips.  Then, Maggie The Whippet ran up to The Sugar Dog.  They both went a little further and looked back anxiously at them again.  The Boy And The Girl then knew what their beloved pets wanted.  The Girl swung up onto Penny The Pony’s back.  The Boy swung up onto Dan The Horse’s back.  With The Sugar Dog and Maggie The Whippet leading, they all started across The Bridge.  The Sugar Dog could now see the other side of The Bridge with The Rainbow above it.  It was the place where they would all be now, together forever and ever.   

  

I was introduced to auto racing at a very young age.  My father raced on the old dirt tracks of the South in the late Forties and early Fifties.  I remember him listening to the stock car races on his transistor radio while flying his model airplanes in the early Sixties.  He and my uncle used to take my cousin and I to the races at the old Peach Bowl racetrack in Atlanta.  But I really was introduced to racing when I was sixteen years old, thanks to a gentleman named Bob Buchler.  Bob was an art teacher at Walker High School.  He was also the sponsor for Jr. Civitan, coach of the swim team and in charge of The Bookroom.  The Bookroom is capitalized because it was one of, if not the, coolest (and I don’t mean temperature wise) places in all of Walker.  If you were lucky enough to land a job in The Bookroom, you really only had to work twice a year.  Once at the beginning of the school year, distributing books to classes and again at the end of the year, collecting and inventorying books.  The rest of the year we basically loafed.  We sat around listening to music on the school’s record players, read magazines, played Ping Pong on the table which was set up in the room, ate lunch from McDonald’s and created artwork containing announcements, proverbs and philosophy which was posted on the wall outside The Bookroom.  And we would talk racing with Mr. Buchler.  Most of us called him Bob.  Or, Buchler.  Or, Buckley Duckley.  Very few, if any, of us called him Mr. Buchler.  He was really more of a friend than a teacher.  He also owned and raced a Formula Vee car and introduced many of us to sports cars and road racing, a passion which many of his charges still hold to today.

My buddy Chip and I worked in The Bookroom and made our first trip to Road Atlanta in the fall of ’71.  We drove up there in my father’s Chevrolet Apache pickup truck, taking two sleeping bags, a pop tent, two packs of bologna, a giant loaf of Colonial bread, a jar of mayonnaise, a container of mustard, a case of Schlitz and a pint of Mogen David 20/20.  For a pair of sixteen year olds, we were well prepared.  We camped along the fence between Turns 4 and 5.  After that race we were hooked, and didn’t miss another race for years.  We began to bring friends, neighbors and acquaintances, and over the years our accommodations upgraded significantly.  We began to bring pop up campers and grills, burgers and hot dogs, steaks and potatoes, guitars and transistor radios.  Our camping locations changed over the years as well.  Chip and I moved from Turn 4 to the top of the hill at Turn 5.  Camping was eventually prohibited there because of the fact that the hill was the track’s prime spectator point.  We then moved across the track to the fence along the back straight for a couple of years.  The picture shown below of myself, Chip and Jeff Landers photo bombing us is from that era.  The top picture is from sometime in the Eighties, taken at the straight away coming out of the Turn 7 hairpin.  As you can see, my beverage of choice had upgraded from Schlitz.  There wasn’t a bottle of Mad Dog in sight.

We used to get paddock passes and go down to watch the crews working on the cars.  You could walk right up to the cars.  The drivers were often in the paddock areas and were generally always friendly and accessible.  Paul Newman raced at Road Atlanta a lot, and we would always hope to catch a glimpse of him in the paddock, but never did.  The man who started it all for us, Bob Buchler, moved from Formula Vees to the Trans Am series, driving a Chevrolet Nova sponsored by EZ Wider (yes, those EZ Widers) and a Dino Ferrari.  It was really cool partying with someone you knew at the track and then seeing them drive by in a race.

The crowds at Road Atlanta were always generally very laid back, although there were moments.  One year a group of hillbillies camped behind us.  Their tent was along the dirt road that ran around the perimeter of the camping area.  I don’t think any of these guys ever walked over to the fence or saw one race car.  All they wanted to do was drink and fight.  With each other, thank goodness, although we did our best to avoid them.  One of them was a big red headed guy named Abner.  He was the only one that we ever heard called by name but, as I said, we didn’t exactly go over and socialize with them around the campfire.  On one occasion Abner and one of his buddies were outside of their tent.  Abner pushed his buddy by the shoulder.  His buddy pushed Abner back.  Abner then shoved his buddy and his buddy shoved him back.  The fists started flying, and the two of them wound up on the ground, rolling, kicking and punching.  About that time a pickup truck pulled up next to them on the road.  The driver obviously knew Abner.  He was wearing a cowboy hat and smiled revealing a missing front tooth.  “Are you ready to raise some hell, Abner?” he said in a drawl that would make Bill Elliott sound cosmopolitan.  Abner jumped up, yelled “BLANK YOU!!!” and gave the driver the finger.  “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh”, grinned the driver, returning Abner’s one finger salute before driving off slowly.  Abner chased after him and kicked the truck’s rear quarter panel with his bare foot.  “Are you ready to raise some hell, Abner?” became a catchphrase in our group of friends for years afterwards.  Later on, from inside of their tent we heard Abner’s buddy exclaim, “ABNER!  AH’M GITTIN’ TARRED O’ YOU SMOKIN’ ALL MAH BLANKITY BLANK CIGARETTES!!”  “AH AIN’T SMOKED BUT TWO!” said Abner, to which his buddy retorted, “THAT’S A BLANKITY BLANK LIE!!”  Then there was a loud smack, which presumably was Abner putting his fist in his buddy’s eye.  The tent started rolling and jumping, the two of them settling their argument in the only way they knew how.

We managed to avoid Abner and his pals that weekend, and that was the only time I ever saw such behavior at Road Atlanta.  I went to the Atlanta 500 once and camped in the infield.  Notice I said once.  That was enough.  The infield at a NASCAR race back then made Road Atlanta look like a spiritual retreat.  In all of the years I went there, the only fights I ever saw at Road Atlanta were between Abner and his pals.  We pretty much always got to know the people camping around us and would see them again at subsequent races.  However, Road Atlanta could get really wild and crazy as well.  I saw guys dancing in exploding packs of firecrackers and young ladies exhibiting bare parts of their upper bodies.  Once a State Patrol trooper rode through and we all piled onto the hood and trunk of the prowler and rode around the camping area.  The troopers didn’t mind.  When we jumped off the car, we shook the trooper’s hand and thanked him for the ride.  He just smiled and told us to be careful.  One Sunday morning, I woke up halfway out of the tent with my head in an open and scattered pack of Oreo cookies.  I felt like I had been run over by a Can-Am car, and that’s all I’m going to say about that.

The stories about Road Atlanta are manifold, far too many to cover in this space.  There’s lots of pictures as well.  A lot of them I would never share.  Too incriminating, and not just to me.  The last time I was at Road Atlanta was in the fall of 2009.  I was invited to exhibit my car art in the Vendor Village at the Petit LeMans race.  Things had certainly changed.  We camped along the back straight.  A friend had brought his camper trailer and we stayed there with him and his two sons.  Plugged into electricity.  Running water.  A bed.  A bathroom.  A kitchen.  A television.  A golf cart.  All the luxuries of home and a lifetime away from a pop tent, a loaf of bread and a pack of bologna.  We rode up to our old camping area at the hairpin.  There is a skid pad there now and a racing skills school.  That weekend all of the high dollar motor homes were parked there.  Some things never change, however.  On Friday night we almost got arrested for driving the golf cart on the track… Still Cruisin’!  –J.