Travels, Chapter 2

June 1965 - Now married with two children, the Air Force was sending me to Keesler AFB in Biloxi, MS for additional training.  I'd be there for nine months, so we were moving as a family.  I hadn't yet served enough time  to merit a government financed move, so we rented a trailer, hooked it to the bumper of my 1958 Oldsmobile and left Denver.  My folks had wanted us to visit, but the expense of driving to New Hampshire and then Mississippi would have a devastating effect on my E-4 pay, so we explained we'd have to pass.  Mom upped the ante with the offer of a gas credit card if I'd paint their house during my visit.  A no-brainer there.

Our crib mattress fit perfectly in the back seat of the Olds, a diaper pail in one footwell and a cooler in the other.  In 1965, we didn't yet know that kids needed to be strapped in special seats to ride safely.    Our son John was 7 months old and had declared his independence by creeping and crawling and pulling himself upright, but he had yet to manage more than a single tentative step which more often than not was immediately followed by an abrupt plop on his diaper-padded bottom and a grin.  With his sister, three-year old Sheila prompting and giggling, he took over that back seat.

The date we left our apartment in Denver and headed east is forever etched in Colorado history - June 16, 1965.  Look it up - the devastating flood, but we were blissfully unaware of any problems except that we knew we'd had an enormous amount of rain in the past week.  I'd had to do my final processing at Lowry AFB before we could leave, so it was mid-morning at least before we crested the eastern hills that made up Denver's valley.

In 1965, the interstate highway system was still as much an Eisenhower dream as it was a transportation medium.  Big cities in the northeast and California allowed many miles of unimpeded travel and pay-as-you-go turnpikes had sprung up in several eastern states, but between Denver and Chicago our choice was a four-lane divided highway interrupted by frequent towns, small cities, and farming communities.  If you look at a map, US 36 now seems to be a rural roadway

My wife's grandmother, ever doting, tried to make certain Sheila and John weren't bored on their long adventure by purchasing toys for them to take.  Noise making toys.  Things that squawked, rattled or had a string you pulled to hear baby talk.    There were many of this types of toys safely packed in that trailer attached to our car, but now the kids had new noise making toys.  By the trip's end, I had to restrain myself from throwing them out the window at 55 MPH.

That first day we made it all the way to St Joseph, MO, but it was nearly dark by the time we found a motel.   That it had been a rather long day had taken a toll on us all, but 7 month old John seemed to be the one most impacted.  Try as we might, we could not get him to settle down and, of course, the harder we tried, the louder he wailed.  Our budget didn't allow for high end accomodations, and it soon became apparent that there was little or no insulation in the walls between our room and the folks next door began banging on the wall, which of course, caused John to wail even louder  Eventually, his battery ran down and he fell asleep.  The next morning, I got some pretty serious glares as I loaded the car.

Day two found us near Chicago with a threatenly dark sky catching up to us and warnings of possible tornadoes on the AM radio.  I kept an eye on the road while watching for an affordable motel with  a 'Vacancy' sign while my wife kept a nervous eye on the sky.  Secretly, I was hoping to see a tornado, but I don't remember daring to mention it.

The rest of the trip has pretty much been absorbed by my grey matter, likely never to resurface.  I do remember stopping at a gas station somewhere between Chicago and Pennsylvania because hanging on the wall behind the cash register was a Stevens Crack-Shot 26 .22 rolling-block, single-shot rifle with friction tape holding the cracked stock together.  I asked him about it, but he reckoned it wasn't for sale.  I have one over the fireplace in our home now, the first gun my father ever owned.

After painting most of my folk's house between rainy days, it was time to head south to Biloxi.  We spent one night with relatives in Baltimore and then were on our way.  Now this was late June and driving through the south was a test.  As I said earlier, the Interstate Highway system was nowhere near complete, but we made it through Virginia, the Carolinas, and Georgia (probably passing within 20 miles or so of my home today).  I remember Atlanta only as a slow drive through what was then basically a small city and we finally reached Biloxi in the middle of the afternoon of June 28th 1965, my 23rd birthday.   The very idea of traveling that route today without air conditioning in the car is enough to cause shudders up and down my spine, but in 1965, AC still wasn't universal in automobiles.

We found a small motel within our budget that actually had a small kitchenette and was across Beach Boulevard from a market that had affordable fresh shrimp and sold cold beer.  We ate like kings that night and afterward, I sat outside on the covered porch finishing my beer.  An older fellow came out of his room a few doors down and saw me, so he came over to talk.  He saw my beer and asked if I drank the hard stuff.  When I allowed that I'd had the opportunity from time to time, he told me to get a 7-Up from the machine nearby and come to his room.  He was in his mid 60s and with him was his wife and mother.  On a dresser were several vodka bottles and in the trash can was another one.  He drained out part of my 7-Up and then filled the can from one of the bottles.  It certainly wasn't vodka.  He told me they made their own up in northern Mississippi.  My first taste of moonshine.

One thing I do remember from the trip is that my seven-year old Oldsmobile used oil and at about every fill-up, I'd have to add a quart.  I'd be advised of the engine's need for oil by a clacking noise as what I suspected was one or more lifter began starving for oil.  The car was black with a white top in what was called a 'hard-top convertible'  and by trip's end in Biloxi, MS, the rear of the car had a thick coat of oil that I cleaned off with many applications of Babo and lots of water.  We actually kept that car running another year and one more cross-country jaunt before we traded it.

One more note:  By the time we reached New Hampshire, my 7 month old son had developed sea legs in the back seat of that Oldsmobile and was no longer just creeping and crawling and pulling himself upright, but walking by himself unaided.