Pennsylvania Or Bust

Why local place names can be deceiving

Dad and I were driving home on the (local only) interstate. Just before we exited, we saw two people walking on the side of the road.

It was freezing at the time, which was unusual for for South Alabama. Secondly, the Interstate ended at that exit. It would take another thirteen years to complete the Interstate through the Mobile River Delta onto Montgomery and beyond.

A large green sign at the previous exit stated: “For Local Traffic Only.”

In other words, it was a dead-end road.

Dad pulled his blue and white 1971 Chevrolet Silverado Pick-Up over, put his half-full cup of coffee on the dashboard at about a 20-degree angle, and took a long puff from his Pall Mall cigarette. When he’d absorbed as much nicotine as possible, he opened the door, exhaled, in the cabin, of course, threw the cigarette butt on the ground, and walked towards the wayward couple.

“Where ya headed?” he asked in his gravelly voice that one of my former friends had described one time to her mom as sounding just like John Wayne. He appreciated her excellent ear when I told him later.

My Dad had a habit of pulling over and giving people rides, much to my mother’s chagrin. I didn’t care much most of the time. Because we weren’t in any real hurry to get home that Saturday, I didn’t mind this time either, so I stayed in the truck.

“Pennsylvania,” said the guy with a week-old beard, torn blue jeans, and a Panama Jack t-shirt. The tired woman by his side held a baby wrapped in a tattered blue blanket and slept as if he were in a comfortable bassinet in his home. I didn’t know if they had a house, though. They were tired from their journey and just needed somewhere to rest for a while.

To make matters worse, it was the dead of winter in Mobile, Alabama, which is nothing like a Pennsylvania winter, but it was cold enough for a coat. South Alabama has two seasons of predictable extremities: hot and warmer, with an ample supply of humidity for both.

The Interstate System was in full growth mode. Interstate 65 started at Interstate 10 going north and ended at exit 15; beyond that, it was gravel and dirt up to the Mobile River Delta.

When I heard they were going to Pennsylvania, I was relieved. To local folks, Pennsylvania was a neighborhood just up the road in Satsuma.

Dad returned to the truck, crammed the temporary visitors into the cab, and drove the mile or so to our house on Celeste Road. I got out, and he left with the visitors to run them up the road to Pennsylvania.

But he stayed away for several hours. I went about playing or something and didn’t pay much attention to that because it was his routine to stay gone. Usually, it was to repair an air conditioner or walk-in freezer at a bar.

At about 10:30, he returned, visitor-less. I asked what had happened to the couple and kid. Did they make their way to their home?

“No,” he said. “They’re on a Greyhound Bus headed north.”

I was only about 11 or so. But I thought that was a little overkill for going just a few miles up the road.

“Not our Pennsylvania,” he said. “The State.”

“The State,” I said. “Dang. That’s a long way.”

I can’t imagine that happening today with the ubiquity of GPS devices. Dad had called some friends, pooled their money, and bought the couple a ticket north.

I just hope they made it home.