Several friends and I were having a Memorial Day supper on the Jackson Country Club patio. As those of us who have been around the block a few times often do, we were reminiscing about the places we'd been, the people we'd seen and the things we'd done. I began talking about Rebel Holler, the vacation home husband Willard and I had in Colorado and trips I'd taken with a few of my lady pals to the western slopes.
"From what all I've heard, flying or driving, you all didn't go out west first class and come back like normal people." One of my friends scooted her chair closer to the table, clasped her hands and leaned forward. Frown lines appeared between her eyes.
"You had to go through the woods, hide from wolves and trick witches to get to grandma's house."
That's putting it mildly, I thought. Hearing those words put me in mind of the Slope Dopes, a group of ladies from Mississippi. Almost forty years ago, for several winters eight or nine of us little old ladies drove our travel van, the Lame Duck, straight through from Jackson to Steamboat Springs, Colorado—everyone took her turn at the wheel.
"Here's to friends and comrades we'll never forget." I tilted my wine glass. "And with those words, and those recollections I'd better get on home to take care of Miss Lettie Lou."
When I returned home from the club, feeling a need to ponder for a moment, I let my four-legged companion out to do her business, then I sat down. Picking up a scrapbook with my old Sun articles, the first travel story I turned to was about the Slope Dopes.
I had a sudden memory of our maiden voyage. Mileage wise, it should have been a 28 hour trip; somehow the hours on the road, that first ride rolled into 36. But that's another adventure, a tale to be told on another day, so I turned the page to our most memorable moments on that ride.
One of our ladies, who had four children, was going through an agonizing divorce. Her husband, a doctor, had paid no child support for many months. This middle aged lady was holding down two jobs to put food on the table and keep a roof over her family's head.
Someone came up with an idea; put a large sign on the 'Lame Ducks' back window.
John Smith. Doctor of Proctology, is behind on his child support payments.
Please give him a call. Collect or otherwise, Jackson, Mississippi. Dial 1-367-455-3437.
Honk if you want more information.
We also printed handbills to pass out when we stopped for food, gas, or restrooms. On the handbills we had written:
"Old toilet bowl plungers, steel wool scrubbers, or cans of Clorox spray cleaner would fit the doctor's specialty. If you have a full pooper scooper, or a lumpy box of kitty litter, his grandiose talk could always use more fertilizer. If you have cigarette butts, chewed gum, molded orange peelings, wadded up Kleenex, beer caps, apple peelings, broken golf tees or used toothpicks in your ash tray—any garbage will do.
If you happen to be going through Jackson, Mississippi, dump it on his front doorstep. Dr. Smith's address is #9 Back Road Alley.
The Chamber of Commerce and Mrs. Smith's church, Hillview of Madison, requests help for this family. This wife and their four hungry children appreciate your thoughtfulness."
Everywhere we went, people seemed anxious to help this Slope Dope. One biker spit on his hands and wiped them down the sides of his slightly shredded black windbreaker. "Not to worry ladies. I'll get the Hell's Angels on it. We'll take care of that lowlife."
Four days after the Slope Dopes left Jackson, Dr. You-Know-Who had to quit seeing patients because of an emergency admission to the psychiatric ward of a local hospital. Diagnosis: "Extreme nervous condition."
Barking, then scratching noises broke into my reverie. Lettie Lou was done with her business; my doggie lady was ready to come back inside and be with her person.
I rubbed my temples, then closed the scrapbook. How things have changed, I thought. With what we had done back then, nowadays it might well be us, not in a psychiatric ward, but grasping iron bars in a jail cell, hoping for Christmas cards from a few friends, (if we had any left) or praying for visits from family while we await our sentencing.
"With those thoughts, that's enough reminiscing," I told myself.
I folded the scrapbook, stood, let the Lettie Lou in and turned on the telly.
