Wandering Off: Stories of a Blessed and Somewhat Mischievous Southern Life

By Phill Bettis

Phill Bettis is a storyteller who believes in and loves the Lord. He also trusts that although the younger generation is adequately prepared to positively change the world, that God is the true author of our future.

In a collection of profound writings that include newspaper columns and editorials, travel blogs, and other stories, Bettis begins with a commencement speech that challenges university graduates to wander off from convention in their careers, their methods of worship, and the way they will form society in a constantly evolving world. While outlining his writings with poignancy and supporting a new reformation that is long overdue, Bettis does not shy away from controversy as he shares his heart through thought-provoking stories that lead others through his childhood and beyond as he transformed from Opie growing up in Mayberry amid sunflowers, biscuits, and revivals to embrace all the personal and professional gifts of adulthood.

Wandering Off is a volume of writings that underscore hope, faith, what is good, and what can be.

“Reading Phill Bettis is like sitting in a porch swing surrounded by friends and family at the end of a summer day, with a full moon rising behind a stand of pines, a whip-poor-will’s plaintive call riding a soft breeze, and the sparkle of fireflies dotting the sky over a garden patch …”

—Norman Baggs

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: May 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781664260221

Phill Bettis

Phill Bettis is a history aficionado who has practiced law for over four decades in his hometown of Cumming, Georgia. He is a graduate of Emory University School of Law and Mercer University in Atlanta, serves in leadership positions on several foundation boards, and is an associate magistrate judge for Forsyth County. Bettis and his wife, Wanda, have three adult children and two grandchildren. This is his second book.

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PART 1

WANDERING AND WONDERING

WANDERING OFF

It may be odd to begin a book with a speech, but nevertheless that is what I have done. I was blessed to deliver the commencement address at Shorter University in Rome, Georgia, on May 5, 2017. That address outlined much of where I am at spiritually and politically in this season of life. Shorter is a Baptist institution and there were some concerns in my family with the content of my address. I am not known for political correctness or adherence to convention. After much soul searching, here is the final result. I was not excommunicated. I did experience a mishap that morning though. Stopping for breakfast, I spilled coffee creamer all over my suit. It was a mess. There was no time to change or find a dry cleaner, so off I went, stains and all. I guess that fits all of us. Off we go, stains and all.

***

President Dowless, elected officials, distinguished faculty, alumni, graduates, parents, and family, it is one of the great honors of my life to stand before you today. As I collected my thoughts, my family was very adamant that I should be positive and encouraging. I will endeavor to do so, but first I must make some confessions about myself.

I am a storyteller. I can be very emotional. I believe in and love the Lord. And I believe that this graduating class and their cohorts will change this world and this nation, not in negative manner but by implementing reforms and changes that are long overdue. Graduates, regardless of what is going on in this world, it has gone on before, and we are still here this morning. There is but one author of our future, and He is quite a writer.

One other thing about me though—I have been known to wander off on occasion. I started early too. My first episode reportedly occurred when I was two years old during our first family vacation. As the only child of young parents who bravely ventured to Savannah, Georgia, in an era before interstates, I celebrated my newfound mobility by wandering off somewhere near the Atlantic Ocean. I confess no memory of the episode, but I can imagine my parents thinking the worst and hoping for the best. I am pleased to report that they found me.

My wandering off continued as a preteen when I would take to the woods hunting, exploring, and generally wondering what was over the next hill. While on school field trips, I would often leave my classmates to observe people and happenings. Back in the day, it was considered educational for our elementary classes to attend the now long-defunct Southeastern Fair. Located at the Lakewood Fairgrounds in Atlanta, Georgia, I can imagine the angst of any teacher carrying forty children to a location with incalculable distractions. On one such field trip, I took advantage of the simulated parachute jump along with a fascinating observation of hogs and cattle on display by 4-H Club members. I did join classmates for a few rides just to impress the girls. Burned into my memory though are the smells and sights of the midway—onions cooking on griddles, the alluring fragrance of fresh cotton candy, incessant noise of the barkers hawking views of the monkey boy or bearded lady, not to mention places where gawking boys were sure to get in trouble.

During my high school years, I was known to wander off campus for quick runs to the Dairy Queen. These trips could have caused immense difficulty if I had been caught, because my mom worked for the school system. My transgressions were quickly communicated to her with the reassuring comment that I was just being a boy. During those same years and while my parents and an aunt and uncle enjoyed a Caribbean cruise, I wandered off first to the local drag strip to test my uncle’s car. There is a dusty trophy in my home office that was difficult to explain to my children as they began driving. Immediately following the drag strip episode, a few friends joined me during school hours for a tour of downtown Atlanta. There we visited almost every car dealership we could find—window-shopping for the perfect car we would someday own. Our tastes ranged from Ferraris to Firebirds. I have never owned either. At the time, I had never driven in downtown Atlanta, and any hope of rescue was sailing in calm waters hundreds of miles away. We assumed the role of Ferris Bueller long before he existed. I taught him all that he knows.

There have been more serious wanderings. I wandered off from a successful law partnership after twenty-one years because the Holy Spirit told me to do so on the way to work one morning—and to do so without hesitation. A little over six years ago, I wandered off from the church I had attended for fifty-five years. God had called on me to lead a challenge for discipleship training and greater awareness of needs surrounding our community. Change was not accepted in that instance. Instead of dwelling in defeat, the Lord called on me to wander off with Him on an incredible and continuing journey of observation and learning about the state of faith in our land.

Recently, a much too busy schedule and two children marrying in short order caused me to journey into being a bit down and out. My family was changing. I realized those marriages and jobs would soon take them away. The fact that we would never experience family life in the same manner hung over me. A mixture of joy and a bit of sadness that things have changed is odd. I cannot wait for grandchildren and to see all that lies in the promise of my wonderful children and my soon-to-be extended family. Yet part of me wants to hold on to those little guys that I carried fishing or coached in baseball. I suspect I am holding on to my youth in doing so, a youth that no longer exists. In the bedlam of change, somehow, I seemed to wander off from my relationship with my heavenly Father. Immediately I missed the most profound influence in my life. Awakening before sunrise on a Sunday morning, I poured my heart to my heavenly Daddy one more time. His welcoming and warm arms took in this prodigal son, lifting my spirits, providing reassurance and comfort. I realized for the first time that if we do not wander off on occasion, we lose track of forgiveness and love that our heavenly Father so freely shares. I then began to wonder if we were designed to wander off, to explore, to learn, to grow, to fail, to aggravate, to agitate, and to become all that much closer to our Creator. How remarkable it is that our heavenly Father, as omniscient as He is, has one need. He needs a relationship with us. We are His jewels and a treasure so precious that He gave His only Son not only to reconcile us but to provide a path back to Him even after we have wandered off. He is a God of reconciliation.

Graduates, let me challenge you today. Wander off. We need you to wander off. It is my belief that if we don’t wander off, we become very stale. Every institution existing at this time in history is stale and is in need of reform. Every institution. We are in the midst of what I call a cold civil war. No shots are being fired, but our divisions shout that we must change. You are the instruments of change, and you can and will do better, and do not let convention and others restrain your creativity and motivation to do so. Your views and opinions, political, social, and otherwise will immediately confront a real world that is not so kind or patient. You will be challenged to decide what really matters. That process demands critical thinking skills that will inevitably lead to challenging the norm. And you will be rejected and dismissed on occasion. While rejection hurts, deal with it. Let it make you stronger and more resolved.

You may ask, Where should I wander? Good question. Some of you may be called into missions or careers that God is defining today. Some of you may be the new Martin Luther designated to challenge our church traditions that have driven so many away. Lack of spiritual influence has affected our society and this world more than we could have imagined. Two weeks ago, I wandered off on a fishing trip to South Georgia. Returning home during church hours, I noted many churches had no attendees. We stand on the precipice of many churches failing because of tradition and doctrine that has included more of humankind’s influence than our Savior’s. There is but one doctrine that matters, and that doctrine is a risen Savior inviting whosoever will to accept and follow Him. Wander off from those that trust rules more than the Holy Spirit and those that value tradition more than an individual’s salvation.

Not long ago I joined others on a mission trip to eastern Kentucky. Our team had undertaken, among many projects, health screenings. As one young nurse shared the gospel, a grizzled coal miner angrily rejected the message. He retreated from the screenings to his motorcycle, and the Holy Spirit urged me to talk to Him. I did so, commenting on his rather unique motorcycle. He was still angry, but he was passionate about his wheels. We began our short talk. His mother was a devout Christian; he had faced death in his career and on the road many times. His girlfriend was an adherent to Nordic paganism; his daughter was a Wiccan. As I cautiously delved further into his life, he opened up even more. He had no use for Christianity because our beliefs rejected good nonbelievers and condemned them to eternal punishment. His example was Gandhi. His commentary stung, because a simple Sunday school depth of belief was no match for his bitterness and anger. I did not argue with him, I simply told him I hoped we would have another opportunity to talk. There is bit more to this story than time permits, but that night I was troubled. This rough and tumble coal miner had confronted me with one of the most troubling issues affecting our faith in this century. Most people do not like to hear about eternal punishment, and many do not buy it. I get it, but if we do not differentiate ourselves as Christians from the rest of the world, what are we? That night, I prayed for an answer and God provided an unusual scripture. The story of the adulteress facing death by stoning weighed on my heart. I read and read that story and wondered why that one had been provided. Found in the John, chapter 8, we pick up after Christ asked those without sin to cast the first stone.

"At this, those who heard began to go away one at a time, the older ones first, until only Jesus was left, with the woman still standing there.

Jesus straightened up and asked her, ‘Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?’

‘No one, sir,’ she said.

‘Then neither do I condemn you,’ Jesus declared. ‘Go now and leave your life of sin.’" (John 8:9–11)

As I read further, the next verses provided the answer for me. Following a challenge by the Pharisees, Jesus stated:

"You judge by human standards; I pass judgment on no one.

But if I do judge, my decisions are true, because I am not alone. I stand with the Father, who sent me." (John 8:15–16)

If we wander off to listen to our Savior, we are cautioned about our human standard of judgment. Do you think those empty churches in South Georgia would have a few more cars in the parking lot on Sunday mornings if we followed Christ’s controversial admonition about judgment? Those suffering in lostness could and should find a home in our churches instead of feeling as though they were on trial. We would find renewal and purpose in love and the Gospel would be listened to and accepted by invitation from the Holy Spirit, not our contrivances. I was surprised to later learn that Gandhi was fascinated with Christianity but because of his caste and color, he was turned away by South African congregations. He was later quoted as saying he liked Christ but not Christians. That missed opportunity haunts us today as well it should. Are we wandering off from even more opportunities because of our judgments?

Wandering off is not an alien concept in the Bible. In fact, many Bible stories are undergirded by wandering off. I am not only referring to the prodigal but heroes like David, who fled more than once into fear and uncertainty. Think about Elijah wandering off in despair and defeat to a cave where God’s still small voice spoke once again. Imagine Paul’s experience on the Damascus Road when every ounce of his scholarly learning was challenged by a risen Christ. And certainly, consider Christ wandering off into the Wilderness just before His ministry began. I was blessed to visit Temptation Mountain with Shorter students in 2009. Inhospitable is an understatement. Hot, dry, almost devoid of vegetation, I learned to appreciate Christ’s endurance even more. Jesus’ commitment to mission provides the supreme example of obedience and rejection of conventional thought. You probably have more examples in mind, perhaps someone you admire in history or someone closer to home and our time. World changing artists, politicians, writers, and scientists are not remembered for repeating the same acts as their colleagues.

Wandering off requires freedom but to do so effectively requires discernment, common sense, inspiration, and spiritual grounding. Wandering off consumes, inflames, and tatters you. Wandering off is not for those needing safe places. Relationships may fail. Some of you need to shed relationships that restrain you from God’s plan in your life. Some of you need to wander off from addictions. Generational addiction and apostasy must end and end with you. Make that happen.

Wander off from those that try to manipulate our differences in religion, wealth, race, class and gender. We are all precious in God’s sight and our laws must once again afford equal protection and support equality. That means our system of government should never be a source of advantage to anyone or any one group. If that goal is not obtained, we deepen jealousies that in turn intensify strife.

Wander off from those that devalue life and our individual worth. Wander off from those that do not value personal achievement and accomplishment. We are individuals designed to excel, create, and innovate. Be exceptional, not predictable and then be proud of it. I heard a radio personality on the way here today state that our past should not define us. She further stated that we have a choice to be pitiful or powerful. Today you have an exceptional and powerful person graduating with you. Rev. Horace Sheffield is eighty-eight years old and will receive his diploma today. Join me in recognizing this great achievement.

You owe no one an apology for achievement but remember that to whom much is given, much is required. Wander off from focusing on yourselves and look to what is good for the next generation and beyond. Wander off from the dysfunctionality destroying our education systems and our families. Wander off from courts and governments being the solution to all our problems. They are not. Find fixes instead of panic. Panic is easy to find, fixes are not. And don’t be offended too easily. If we wander off toward God, we can count on restoration and renewal.

"He gives strength to the weary

and increases the power of the weak.

Even youths grow tired and weary,

and young men stumble and fall;

but those who hope in the Lord

will renew their strength.

They will soar on wings like eagles;

they will run and not grow weary,

they will walk and not be faint. (Isaiah 40:29–31)

I pray for revival and renewal of this nation so that my children and their children and all of you might know the beauty of a blessed land full of God’s grace and promise. I pray for a land not filled with wistful reminiscence of what once was, but for a land filled with hope for what is to come so that we may soar on wings like eagles. Graduates, that is your high calling—change us, inspire us, and renew us in your wanderings.

Today many of you are wandering off from your childhood home and to some extent, your childhood. Remember those who cared for and prayed for you. Do the same for others. Some of you are wandering off from your formal education today. Please, please do not wander off from lifetime learning. Make your wanderings amazing and remember that all of us will someday permanently wander off. I hope you too might wonder what is over the next hill. I think we all might just be surprised. Thank you and God Bless.

I GREW UP IN MAYBERRY

In my youth, the first run of The Andy Griffith Show was a staple of American television. One of the first programs to give a positive portrayal of the South, many found something in common with this unique program. While television has become the vast wasteland once predicted, reruns of this old show still touch lives with homespun goodness.

Legend has it that the real Mayberry is Mt. Airy, North Carolina. I disagree. I grew up in Mayberry.

All right, I admit it. I was Opie.

Dad, like Sheriff Taylor, would come home in the evenings counseling, correcting, and sharing a good dose of southern wisdom. Aunt Bee was that metaphorical mother-grandmother person. She was one that could cook, clean house, and fret. Fretting is a lost art. Fretting is not worry. Fretting is a blend of the right amount of concern, mixed with a little fear and a whole lot of faith. My mother and grandmothers fretted plenty.

I grew up on Preacher’s Row. It seemed that every house on my road was occupied by a preacher or a deacon in the church. Every infraction at school or on the bus was transmitted to my parents faster than any email or satellite communication. These facts of life had a profound effect on my actions and my rear end.

Rev. John and Lois Lummus lived next door. I played in their piney woods and ran barefoot in their front yard. Down the road was Wansley Puckett’s store. I would save a few pennies for a Coke or a BB-Bat or some other sweet that made my trips to the dentist a frequent occurrence. Those old Coca-Cola coolers had a smell about them; mysterious, inviting. This was particularly true when you stuck your head in hunting a Coke with a little ice in the bottle. Granddaddy would argue at great length that small bottle Cokes were better than the big ones. We would often look on the bottom of the bottle to see if it came from Gainesville or Jasper or some more exotic place, like Macon, Georgia.

The families lining the road of my youth would watch out for each other. They might gossip a bit too. We would travel the road on bikes and on foot to see Granny and Granddaddy just up the road. Milk and tea cakes were almost always there waiting.

One could go up the road or down the road or out the road. The difference was subtle, but important.

Rev. Eric Ridings would go on at my brother and myself as we walked by his home. Eric always thought it fun to call my brother a little girl. On this prompt, my brother would immediately assume the role of Ernest T. Bass and throw rocks at Eric with all his might. My brother would later become a decent pitcher and he and Eric became good friends.

I could hunt or fish on anyone’s land without asking permission or being run off. If a neighbor needed help, others were there. We all had our turn at being a Gomer or Barney. Foul-ups would happen and most were soon forgotten. We never heard of child abuse. Crime was so infrequent that it was a bit of excitement for a neighbor to have a car stolen.

Once, a drunken circus worker pulled into our driveway, unable to go any farther. I had probably seen one drunk in my life and this one drove right into my yard. We asked if we could help him. He wanted to give us stuffed animals. A neighbor stopped in to see if he could help. My cousin, visiting from Atlanta and unschooled in the way of the country, must have assumed that every intoxicated person in the community was headed to my house. Are you drunk too? he queried the well-intentioned neighbor. The neighbor could not control his laughter. He talked for weeks about those boys that had more going on in the front yard than they could handle. My dad and uncle carried the poor circus worker to the old Lakeside Motel to sober up and get off the road. That initiative of helping others without the law or some government agency was a way of life.

Yes, Otis was around. Goober went to high school with me. I swear. I am reminded of the Darling family when I remember those that would make music. An old tradition would bring members of the community together to play instruments and listen to old ballads that are long gone.

All of this took place within a few yards of where my parents lived, my granddaddy farmed, and my great-grandfather taught school. I have been privileged to live my life in the same area. My children know many of the same people. They share a heritage in a community and church that has not changed that much in five generations. They will probably be the last generation to share this special place. Change knocks on the door with each new subdivision up, down, and out the road. Their friends and playmates may have been born across the country instead of across the road.

Mayberry may be a mythical place to some people. In the hearts of many, it is a place that embodies the goodness, the humor, the hope that was once part of American life. For a few of us, Mayberry is not mythical; it is not just a dream. It is where we live.

SWEET SIXTEEN

The following was written in early 2000, just as the new century began and just as my firstborn matured into a beautiful young lady. This was my second guest column published in the Forsyth County News.

We had spent the evening at a basketball game in Blue Ridge, Georgia. The games were exciting, and we talked about great plays and almost wins driving through the late-night darkness surrounded by north Georgia hills that were now leafless and imposing shadows. A few hours earlier the hills were awash with the waning light of the setting sun—red, ocher, wondrous. It is no secret that I love the mountains any time of year. Altitude puts me that much closer to God and above the cares of the world.

As with most of my life, work had delayed my trip to my daughter’s basketball game. A sophomore, she plays on the junior varsity at South Forsyth High School. I had calculated that she would play very little against powerhouse Fannin County. She will be the first to admit that her skills are developing, she plays more bench than ball, but she loves the fellowship and even the effort to play basketball. I admire her tenacity. I was met at the door of the Fannin County gym by a disappointed daughter who mildly chastised me for missing her game. Several parents commented on how well she played. She had rimmed out a shot. We have been working on assertiveness, and taking a shot is the ultimate assertion for her. She was proud of herself, and I missed it all.

Almost sixteen years ago, I missed going with her mother to the doctor and looking with excitement at the sonograms and all that comes with being a new dad. It seems that building a law practice and all that goes with it took much of those special times away, but I am thankful that I have been able to provide for my family. I have recently made a belated effort to balance family, spirituality, and community with work, but it is a tenuous balance, one that I battle on a daily basis.

The reality that this person that I love very much will begin driving in a few days has hit home. I realize that life will never be the same when she acquires this new freedom. Driving is a coming of age, a rite of passage.

Recently, we have taken long drives together, just the two of us, returning from a vacation or a ball game. We have talked like we never have before. My children call me the lecture king and my new year’s resolution is not to lecture as much. I did not rule out discipline, just lectures and the stories of the old days that I said I never would tell. You know those stories, We walked five miles to the school bus stop, uphill both ways while tending the farm animals, doing our chores and making straight A’s studying in candlelight while the temperature fell below zero. I swore I would not do that to my children, but I do. She told me that she actually likes the old stories, just ditch the lectures.

At eleven thirty at night, the restaurant choices are limited on Georgia Highway 515. If it isn’t Waffle House or Waffle King, forget it. I love waffles, but would I submit to a midnight visit to a Waffle House in Jasper, Georgia? In another life as a struggling student driving big trucks, I lived on the four basic food groups: fat, lard, starch, and sugar. The visit to the Waffle House was familiar, reminiscent.

A jukebox is as attractive as nectar to anyone under age 21 and she quickly found the need for two quarters. A teenage boy in the corner strained to look at her and her basketball uniform. I think he had motives other than finding out what school she attended. The waitress was one of those consummate late-night treats that seemed as perky and fun-loving as you could tolerate after a long day. I have visited fine New York restaurants and been served by elegant servers named Armando and none are quite as warm and memorable as the honeys and y’all come back now, sweetie you hear from a Waffle House waitress.

My daughter returned from the jukebox to tell me that she had selected my favorite song as one of her choices. I know I have shared my favorite movie, Field of Dreams. She made sure that I owned that movie. I wondered how she knew my favorite song. When had I shared that? I must have at some time. She had chosen American Pie by Don McLean. We talked about her choice and how that not all that much had changed since I was sixteen. Back then, we didn’t have computers in our home, there were only three, maybe four television stations, cars were classics, most everybody went to church; let me correct that, most everybody went to a Baptist church. Other than that, not a lot had changed. We concurred as we finished our toast, bacon, and smothered and covered.

Bye-bye Miss American Pie

Drove my Chevy to the levee

But the levee was dry

At sixteen I drove my dad’s 1971 Chevrolet pickup truck to a park off Pilgrim Mill Road, just outside Cumming, Georgia. Lake Lanier was as close to a levee as we had. I am sure there were some boys with beer, and all had the ominous cloud of Vietnam hanging over them. We built bonfires, solved the world’s problems, talked about girls, college, and cars. American Pie spoke to us in its symbolism and its simplicity. The dirt track races around the Corps of Engineer’s park are another story for another day. Dad always wondered why there were problems with that truck.

I was touched that she knew something that was a favorite of mine, that she had picked up a tidbit of knowledge about me in a time in her life when all that is around her seems to change daily. I have occasional desires to be sixteen again, but usually I get over it. Forty-year-old men have an innate desire to play sports again; they would be better this time around. Perhaps we want to play life again; we would be better this time around.

I share with her the joys, frustrations, and uncertainty of her coming of age. There are things that frighten her and there are future events that excite her. Unjaundiced by a world that is not always kind, I bask in her optimism and hope for the future.

I have heard her pray sweet prayers. I have observed her being excited about making a ball team, dressing up for a dance, and squealing with little girl delight at a success. She has become a pretty, level-headed young woman that will soon be off to college. She wants to go to law school, but she worries that she might not be there for her children as she should be. This delightful, fun, and thoughtful young lady has brightened my day with the simple choice of an old song, but most of all she has brightened my life with her love and laughter. How quickly sixteen years have passed, but how rich and blessed those years have been.

I can still remember how that music

Used to make me smile

And I knew if I had my chance

That I could make the people dance

The words to that old song seem to appear in my life at opportune times. American Pie first aired in 1971. That year was a time of change for our country and for me. I was teenager, excited about the future and as optimistic as my daughter. I am now at midlife, another time of change. But for a brief moment, I danced with memories and excitement about our futures while sharing an old song with my firstborn. Don McLean, you did make me smile and be happy for a while and I thank you.

THE PINE RANCH BOYS

There was once a place where a band of brothers gathered. It was an oasis for late night cheeseburgers and fries, for talk and music.

The recent passing of one of these brothers reminded me of a simple clapboard-sided building. Pine trees lined the front entrance, their roots exposed by constant footsteps. Cars were parked facing the building, almost in homage to a place that we were sure was the center of the world.

Each Friday and Saturday night we met there. If you came before ten, you either did not have a date or nothing was going on in town. It was necessary on weekends to, first, go to town. In town, we cruised between the Dairy Queen and the Tastee Freeze. Sometimes, we would just sit at the Robo Car Wash or hang out at Barnett’s Supermarket.

Occasionally, the police would join us to talk too, but most of the time they would gently urge us to move on. The police station was a little block building on the courthouse square. Inside was the one fire engine servicing the entire county and a white World War II surplus amphibious vehicle. It was always a curiosity.

It is still a curiosity why we wanted to sit and talk so much. There was a tradition of older men hanging around the community stores, playing checkers or talking weather and politics. I heard a story of several old men observing a tornado while sitting on the porch of Doc Holcomb’s store. One of them calmly commented, Yonder comes a cyclone, as they went back to talking or playing checkers.

Hanging around town had an element of cool to it. You were there if something interesting happened. Something interesting might happen every decade or so, but you might miss it if you were not there. Somebody might lay circles in front of the police station or shoot firecrackers over buildings with slingshots or have a new car that would cause our jaws to drop.

I guess the real reason to drive around town was to see if there were any girls doing the same. If you were really lucky, you might talk to a whole carload of girls. Most of the time, they would drive their parent’s four-door Buicks or Oldsmobiles. You could easily tell which cars were girl laden. Any boy relegated to the family hauler would likely stay home.

Boys had to have racing stripes or glass-pack mufflers or a hood scoop. If you were really serious, you had traction bars and headers that once dropped would wake up the entire community. Mustangs, Camaros, and SS Chevelles were the steeds of choice and most would bring ten times now what they cost back then. Many would measure what kind of car they had by trying to pass at Sawmill Field, a short stretch of curves just south of town. Only the brave and those with the hottest cars would try such a feat.

As the action in town waned, we would convene at the Pine Ranch Café in Ducktown. Greeting us there were the owners, Billy and Bonnie, who seemingly adopted all of us as their own. They added a pinball machine which we played while our cheeseburgers were cooking. I wish I could still eat a burger at 10:30 at night without gaining a pound or two. Many adults would come in for a late-night snack and talk to us. The community was small enough that most would join for church the next day. After dining, we would meet on the front steps of the grocery store next door to recount what had gone on in town, which was mostly nothing. There were some guys with long hair and some with crew cuts. Some liked country music, some hard rock. We were a microcosm of the county. Our times were diverse, but at the same time, we shared a heritage and a concern for each other. Some would spend their last hours at the Pine Ranch before leaving for college or for military service. I saw handshakes, plenty of encouragement, and of course, some mischief. Mild by today’s standards, a dusting of snow meant a little clowning with our cars. Some nights, we could hear the state patrol cruisers moaning through the night as they gave chase to someone or rushed