My Redacted Life: Chapter Two: (Cont. _ 4)

So here I was, a mid-twenties vagabond, just released from the military going to a city I knew nothing about and not optimistic at all. An recent acquaintance said he knew two young urban planners who had started a consulting firm in Little Rock. That’s all I knew. More on that later.

It was 1970 and nearing the end of the so-called “Great Society Era.” More on that later.

A bit about me. I had quit smoking two years before. I moved from sometimes three packs a day while overseas (depending on how the six-hour watches fell) to zero cigarettes per day in one four-hour period. Quitting is that easy. You just stop. You don’t use medication. You don’t brag about your efforts. Your don’t do it gradually. You don’t make a big fuss about it. You just goddam quit.

You also get fat if you’re not careful.

I had quit my second day aboard the USS Hunley. Navy ships serve four meals a day, one of them at midnight (Midrats) for those going on, or coming off, watch. Guess who, with a newly found and ravenous appetite availed himself. Yep. Oh, and there was a "Gedunk Bar" on board that stayed open from eight to 12 bells. It specialized in calories and I was a regular.

So I wasn’t the very picture of a modern urban heartthrob as I motored toward Little Rock. Overweight and wearing cheap “civilian” clothes, I probably looked like an applicant for a Fuller Brush job. Oh, I was a handsome devil to those discerning souls who chose to look beyond mere physical appearance into the more meaningful character of a person. (I’ll have more on that later).

I was mentally visiting another planet when I reached the outskirts of Little Rock, When I returned to the actual moment, I was surprised to see two new modern office towers rising above the downtown area, dwarfing a third, the Tower Building. It had been built while I was in college, as part of an urban renewal program.

It struck me, the sight did, not a blinding strike, such as the one Saul of Tarsus experienced on the Road To Damascus, but an eye-opening strike. Here was modern American city in need of a new band of heroes. My eyes opened to new possibilities. Scenes swirled in my head, and none involved the State of California.

I squirmed in my car seat and straightened Daddy’s old “wedding and funeral” tie.

Look out Little Rock.

Look out World.

Tell me more about
urban planning. I'm
terribly interested.

My Redacted Life: Chapter One, (Cont. 2)

Having earned my release from the bondage imposed by the military in general, and the U.S. Navy in particular, I continued my “free-world” journey November 12, 1970 from Starkville, Mississippi.

I loaded my belongings: the old Gibson guitar, a sea-bag containing what I had not donated to shipmates, a plastic container of papers, three additional sets of civilian clothing, and a grocery sack full of books. Everything I owned didn’t fill the back seat of Steinbeck, my beloved 1967 Impala.

How often since have I wished my wife and I could get everything we own into the back seat of a car and take off toward the horizon.

I headed west on U.S. Highway 82 toward Winona, Indianola, and Greenville. It was nice farm country. Our country was yet not fully blemished by interstates. White flight had not devastated some cities and created new ones. Farming still required manual laborers who shopped at local stores. I passed through still-proud downtowns, places that had served white folks proudly and black folks begrudgingly for years. But change would be coming and time wasn’t an ally.

I pressed on. After Winona, I entered the portion of the state that the Flood of 1927 had inundated, although I didn’t know it at the time. That day, dead cotton stalks chattered at me in the cold November wind, wanting to tell me of those dreadful days. If the State of Mississippi shares a collective gift, it exists in the telling of stories. But I wanted nothing of dreadful tales on that second day of my freedom. I wanted joy. How about some stories of happy slaves dancing around those mansions for “Massah”?

Sliding an eight-track cassette of Hello, I’m Johnny Cash, into the slot, and with See Ruby Fall blasting away, I drove on, past Indianola and toward Greenville. Much later in life, I would meet a man from Greenville, now living in Oklahoma. He is a fine man who cooks pastries and takes them to a local nursing home where he paints the toenails of the women there. Mississippi, like all places, produces its share of saints I suppose.

Reaching Greenville that day, I detoured through Downtown and saw the levee where, in 1927, armed troops held African-American farm workers in bondage to prevent their escaping to the north during the confusion of the flood.

Today though, all was wise and wonderful. People milled around as if the past was only a taunting dream. I circled back past the brick buildings and turned right, ready to embark on my future, whatever it should be. The military, with its mixed memories, was fading further and further into its sea-scented but shrouded history.

That's when I saw the Mighty Mississippi.

Farewell to the old me.