Dimon Kendrick-Holmes: Moments in herky-jerky driving
The other day I saw something that reminded me of a trip I took a long time ago.
I was driving to work on Second Avenue when the guy in front of me suddenly swerved for no reason. It was one of those herky-jerky swerves that usually means one of two things.
It was 8 a.m. so I figured he hadn't been drinking, and I was right -- when I passed him in the outside lane he was holding his cellphone aloft and choosing letters with his thumb.
Stop it, people! Stop texting and driving! It's incredibly dangerous.
Even more dangerous than reaching for a brownie.
So here's the story: When I was 10, my father drove my little brother and me to Tuscaloosa to watch Alabama play Virginia Tech.
We lived in Chambers County, Ala., where Dad ran a summer camp. He was a University of Georgia grad, but that year we rooted for Alabama and Auburn because one of our camp's counselors, Keith Pugh, played wide receiver in T-Town for Bear Bryant, and another, Mark Clement of Phenix City, played center on the Plains for Shug Jordan.
It was October of 1978. We left home at the crack of dawn, hauling a big tailgate lunch prepared by my mother and riding in an early '60s model Lincoln Continental that somebody had just donated to the camp.
We had a perfectly good station wagon, but we'd never ridden in a Lincoln Continental before. It looked like an antique but it had power everything -- power windows, power seats, power you name it.
I still remember that morning, riding in the front seat of a fine luxury automobile on the way to watch somebody I actually knew play for the No. 1 football team in the nation, smelling fried chicken and watching the sun rise over the pines.
In Camp Hill, when we stopped to add a quart of oil to the Lincoln, we opened the cooler and sampled the pimento cheese sandwiches.
In Alexander City, when we realized the power windows were broken and to get some fresh air we'd have to stop and open the doors and push down the windows with our hands, we each snuck a deviled egg.
In Sylacauga, when we stopped to add another quart of oil, we broke into the fried chicken.
It was a great day. Keith caught a long touchdown pass and caught another one that should have been ruled a touchdown.
My brother and I slept most of the way home, except for the time when our father took a sharp left turn and the tin of brownies on the dashboard slid to the passenger side.
When Dad tried to reach over to snag a brownie, the car made one of those herky-jerky moves, which back then usually meant only one thing.
That didn't wake us up, but the siren and the blue lights did.
My father opened the door because he couldn't roll down the window. The officer asked if he'd been drinking and Dad told him about the brownies.
"You won't believe how good these brownies are," my father told the officer, holding out the tin. "You really should try one."
The officer politely declined, urged us to drive safely and turned and walked away. Then he stopped.
"Hey, nice car!" he yelled.
After he drove away, we got out and added another quart of oil.
Those were the days.
Dimon Kendrick-Holmes, executive editor, dkholmes@ledger-enquirer.com
This story was originally published October 9, 2015 at 10:32 PM with the headline "Dimon Kendrick-Holmes: Moments in herky-jerky driving ."