As agood friendwrote recently, older minds seem to have a way of finding the weirdest things in uncommon places, or, something like that.
Saturday, October 9th, about 4:45 p.m., I left Rockingham Speedway after a fantastic day of racing and in the great company of Jeff, Jimmy, Dave and Leon. The weather was beautiful, the racing was outstanding, and I called Ann when I was leaving to find out my Gamecocks were beating Number One Alabama. It was going to be a good trip home.
I left the speedway listening to my CDs of Disney music as I am a big fan of Walt Disney. The sun was bright in my windshield as the music was bringing memories of Peter Pan as "The Second Star From the Right" filled the van. The music continued as I went through the shaded and twisty streets of Rockingham heading South on U.S. Highway 1. Soon, the sign welcomed me to South Carolina.
Maybe it's was the spirit of the day, the music, or the aloneness of the van as I left the city limits of Cheraw, virtually alone on the highway. Whatever it was, I started to remember the story my mother had told me once of how I came to live in South Carolina, having travelled from upstate New York, Rochester to be precise, in the front seat of a 1932 Plymouth, in her lap while my Daddy drove, car sick all the way. I was five months old.
You see, when the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor in December, 1941, my Daddy was a 19 year old Rochester boy working in FDR's Civil Conservation Corp because there were no other jobs. He enlisted within days and was shipped to Fort Jackson in Columbia, SC, for basic training. On his first pass from the base, after 11 weeks of intensive training, we went to Carolina Skating Rink, about a mile from the gate to the Fort, and met my mother, who was an 18 year old dark haired beauty from Columbia. For the next several months, my Daddy courted my mother by walking 12 miles from the base on every pass to see her where she lived just north of Columbia. On September 19, 1942, they were married in Chesterfield, South Carolina one week before my Daddy was to ship out to the Pacific Theater.
I cannot even imagine what it was like for the Southern lady to move to Rochester, NY, to live with my Daddy's family while he fought the war, but she did. She worked at Baush and Lomb there throughout the war. When the Japs surrendered, my Daddy returned to Rochester, got a job at Kodak, and they were prepared to make their life in New York. Five months after I was born, my mother's mother became very ill and it was decided they would move to South Carolina so my mother could take care of my grandmother. They built a house across the street and moved in on my first birthday. Thus, Timmy (as I was known then) became a Southerner and was raised to the tune of stock car racing engines thanks to my mother's youngest brother who is 11 years old than I.
I guess that all came back to me yesterday because it was on trip to Rockingham in the motor home, about 1975 or so, that my mother told me of the trip down U.S. Highway 1 and how it looked almost the same in 1975 as it did when everything they owned was packed in that 1932 Plymouth. Of course, things had changed as there was now I-95 as the main north-south route, but the highway was essentially the same she said.
Anyway,my point here, is that yesterday as I traveled that highway, I was overcome with nostaglia, not so unusual for one my age I suppose, but a little more intense than usual. The ARCA race was great, much like the races I grew up watching, where young guys gave it their all to win, and crews worked hard for little or no pay to help it happen. It was just a super day of racing. But, there was more.
Traveling Highway 1, this time of year, at that time of day, you drive into intense sunshine at some points, and almost night-like darkness when you go through trees hanging over the highway. You run a long portion of straight road, then twists and turns as if you're in the mountains. Some of the highway is flat, sometimes it's up and down over the hills. You go through the small towns, McBee, Patrick, a town of moderate size like Camden, and the speed limit ranges from 25 to 55. I was enjoying the drive, what a beautiful day.
As I left Camden and pulled onto I-20, it was about 6:30 p.m. I was headed due west, directly into the setting sun which was blinding to say the least, even with my ever present sunglasses. My speed went from the 55 I had been driving up to 75 as I fell in with a pack of fast moving 18 wheelers. I was headed home. I called Ann and she told me our team was winning the game but, as we all know, it's never over until it's over.
Ok, I know by now, someone,maybe many someones, are asking "what in the world does this have to do with Racers Reunion"? My demented mind would offer the following explanation:
U.S. Highway 1 brought me to South Carolina which, in turn, introduced me to stock car racing which became such a big part of my life. The last race we were able to attend in the motorhome my parents had before my Daddy's cancer advanced to the point we couldn't do it any more, was to the fall race at "The Rock" in 1988. Driving home that day in the motorhome was much like Saturday, except my Mother was talking about the race, making sure everyone had had plenty to eat, and just generally did what my Mother always did. My Daddy drove, because that was his thing, most of the time anyway. I don't recall who all went with us on that trip but it was always max capacity in the motor home and usually a car or two behind us with our friends. Racing was, for us, a family thing, and we included anyone in our family who would join us.
Mostly though, I have spent much of today thinking about how my life was full of those bright sunny days, for the most part, and sometimes those dark, shadowed areas where the trees shaded the road. The long straightaways where everything was smooth, the twisty curves encountered sometimes, the ups and downs of the hills. I also though about how road-worn most of U.S. 1 is these days, sort of like me, I suppose. I thought about the great sights as I passed through Camden with the Blue Festival in progress and how my life is complete with my awesome wife Ann, the two children we have raised, and the awesome 6 grandkids I get to play with and who enable me to watch cartoons, Disney movies, and go to Disney World without having to make excuses.
As I entered I-20 heading west into that intense sunshine and picking up speed as I moved toward home, I thought how metaphoric it is to being saling into that bright light as I get older and knowing that the future of Racers Reunion is to be determined by pursuit of goals of those heading toward the light of that sun, not retreating into the darkness of those tree lined streets. Life, they say, moves faster as you get older, and certainly moving on I-20 west was much faster than the restricted speed on U.S. Highway 1. But, you know what? Because of U.S. Highway 1, I am a Southerner, a blessed individual with the family I have, a proud race fan and a very intense supporter of the efforts of Racers Reunion to see that the history of stock car racing remains intact, much like Highway 1, a little worn, but it still gets me home. Much like heading into that brillant sunshine! Bright, bright, bright! Intense. Burning with a passion like I have for this site.
Tim
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What a change! It's been awhile since I've checked in and I'm quite surprised. It may take me awhile to figure it our but first look it's really great.
updated by @tim-leeming: 12/05/16 04:02:07PM
