October 7, 2013 (Monday)
The year was around 1952. I was 20 years old, driving my old 1941 Mercury down Highway 75 towards Houston. I had just passed through Conroe when I hit a bump and felt the rear portion of the car drop as the big leaf spring that stretched between the rear wheels snapped. I knew right away what had happened because it had happened before and I recognized the symptoms. I came to a stop on the shoulder of the road and walked back to a house on the highway, where sat an elderly gentleman enjoying his big front porch and a cup of coffee. Traffic was light and it was a nice day, warm with plenty of sunshine. I visited with the man for a short while, explained my car trouble and asked if he might have a short length of old rope or some wire that I could use to tie the spring to the frame so that I could drive on into Houston and get a replacement spring at some junk yard. He had no rope, but he did have a short rusty chain that could serve the purpose well, which he generously gave to me. I got under the car, tied up the spring, and slowly shepherded the old vehicle southward. Even though Highway 75 was the main route between Houston and Dallas and points beyond, it was not full of cars.
When I visit my daughter Dianna and her husband, Mark, these days I have to drive on I45 (which replaced old Highway 75) to 1488 and then turn west to get to her house. I’m pretty sure the old house in my story was located near that spot. The last time I drove through that intersection with all of its heavy traffic, I recalled the old gentleman on his front porch, his neighborly ways, and the relaxed atmosphere of the whole situation 60 years before. I no longer have to worry about my nice late model car breaking down, but I sort of miss the tall pine trees, the smell of coffee, the lack of traffic and the warm summer day when I met a very friendly man on his front porch. It’s just a memory now, and one must have a strong imagination to visualize the old country home on the old highway at a place now visited by thousands of cars every day. You will look in vain for a kindly old man on a big front porch, sipping his coffee and enjoying the Piney Woods quietness.