Highway Song, Part II

By Tom Poland

A Sunday Drive

Highways 321 and 301 meet my criteria for back roads. Little traffic. Lots of abandonment. Old stuff getting older. Those 1950 snowbirds heading to Florida spent a lot of money. Before I-95, Highway 321 led to 301 and the route to the Land of Flowers hummed. When all that traffic moved to the interstates, people wept.

Approaching Allendale, from afar I saw its standpipe, ca 1915, a predecessor to today’s water tanks. Imagine the biggest silo you’ve ever seen and multiply that by a factor of five.

Driving the back roads, I come across nightspots that gave up the ghost. These forsaken hotspots make me scratch my head. They’re most always in the middle of nowhere. Not far from Georgia I witnessed yet another dream that died. A cheap sign proclaimed, “Roaring 20’s Inc.” Across a weed-infested expanse there it sat, a fuchsia building that roared itself out of existence I dare say.

The majestic swallow-tailed kite. Photo credit Bennie Brawley

A fork in the road. I leave 321 for a smidgen of Highway 301’s 1,099 miles. The South Carolina Welcome Center is closed. Just after I crossed the mud-tinged Savannah movement caught my eye. That swallow-tailed kite. I passed the Georgia Welcome Center, closed. I drove on thinking of that wondrous kite as I passed pecan groves, land flat as a fritter, and accommodations. Motels from the 1950s line Highways 321 and 301. Places to stay on the way to the Sunshine State once upon a time. Some abandoned. Some with customers. Snowbirds nested in them. They’ve become the domain of sportsmen and paramours I suppose.

I passed cotton fields beginning to bloom and semi-circular, corrugated metal buildings designed by Quonset Point Naval Air Station engineers. Ten men could build a 20-foot Quonset hut in one day. Seemingly here forever. I wish I had a dollar for every crumbling building.

When Eisenhower signed the Interstate Act I don’t think he realized he was killing livelihoods and creating an abomination. I avoid interstates at all costs. The speed, risks, and wear and tear on your nerves just aren’t worth it. I made it on time to Double Heads Baptist Church, so named because the headwaters of two creeks form nearby. Two sermons, one for kids about peanuts and George Washington Carver, though no children were present, and one for big folks on using the gifts God gives you. Just by showing up I put myself in the sermon.

It was good to see my preacher friend, Big Terry, and his wife, Little Terri. She gave me a baggie of chocolate chip cookies that didn’t make it to the state line. I should have declined because …

May 15 I faced another fork in the road. Sunday, August 24, was my 101^st day since open heart surgery. I’m getting there physically but psychologically I have a piece to go as the old folks would say. “I reckon you have a ways to go. It’s a piece down the road. You’ll get there terectly.”

I keep going back to those caskets and that swallow-tailed kite. The caskets speak of the end of things, something more palpable to me than ever. Flying with grace over cotton fields in early bloom, that noble raptor with its fine white head, tuxedo plumage, and scissored tail, its tiny heart beating to my highway song, my heart beating too, speaks to life. I need to be more grateful. I need to do better. I’ll get there terectly I reckon, if it doesn’t kill me first.

Photo credit Bennie Brawley.

Georgia native Tom Poland writes a weekly column about the South, its people, traditions, lifestyle, and culture and speaks frequently to groups in the South. Governor Henry McMaster conferred the Order of the Palmetto upon Tom, South Carolina’s highest civilian honor, stating, “His work is exceptional to the state.” Poland’s work appears in books, magazines, journals, and newspapers throughout the South.

Visit Tom’s website at www.tompoland.net

Email him at [email protected]