West Virginia

I crossed the Ohio River and entered West Virginia on I-70 East, then took the Moundsville/South 250 exit.  I’d been on Interstate highways since I turned onto I-80 in Ottawa.  It was April 20, 2022.     

The road to Moundsville takes you down the Ohio River Valley and West Virginia Route 250 takes you up into the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains.  When I took the South 250 exit and the Buick began the steep climb up, I breezed past the very spot where, in April 2016, a squad car with flashing lights and a barricade stopped me from going farther.  They said it was due to icy road conditions and assured me it was for my own good.  I generally don’t like people making those decisions for me.

On that day in 2016, the skies were dark, and I was in the middle of a terrible snowstorm.  In 2022, it was clear sailing.  I’m still not sure the pandemic is over, but at that moment it felt like it.  I was alone on a road I’d never traveled and was free to go wherever I chose.  I’d waited a long time for that feeling.  During my life, I’ve had no luck duplicating it.

Route 250 is a two-lane road that will take you clear across the state and into eastern Virginia.  Slowly. On that initial climb up a steep grade the pavement was rough and patchy.  At the top of the climb, the road followed a high ridge for only a moment and then turned sharply downward.  A speed limit sign advised me not to exceed 15 miles an hour. At the bottom of the descent, the road turned quickly back up.

That was the first of many kiss-ass turns I’d been told about years ago at Amy’s Candlelight Fine Dining and Sports Bar in New Martinsville.  That same pattern of climb and descend, with a slowed-down switchback turn at each transition was repeated over and over.  I couldn’t imagine driving that road when it was icy.  I give grudging thanks to the cops that stopped me that day in 2016.

The trees had not greened up for the most part, but redbud trees just blooming added faint purple blotches on the hillsides.  I wished I could have gazed at the scenery more, but my eyes were locked onto the road.

The pavement could have been better, but the task of maintaining that winding track of two-lane asphalt must be huge.  Road shoulders were narrow, and I believe every bit of flat land large enough for a foundation contains a building of some kind.  Homes and farm buildings are few and far between.  The few pastures cleared of trees looked impossibly steep, yet cows and sheep clung to them.  Slope has the upper hand over human habitation in those hills. 

It was slow going.  I had considered the mileage but not the speed.  From Illinois, I imagined myself being in eastern Virginia by Wednesday night.  At this slow rate of travel that might not work.  But no matter.  It was a goal rather than a deadline. My overall hope was to be in Tampa Florida by Saturday night.  But if I wasn’t there, it was OK.  Lack of deadlines makes living easier.

I had researched the towns along South 250 on Wikipedia before I left.  Most are unincorporated, but I didn’t know they were practically unrecognizable.  Limestone is for the most part a road sign, a Presbyterian church, and a general store.  

Littleton is listed in Wikipedia as a CDP or Census Designated Place.  It was formerly incorporated but dissolved in 2004.  196 people lived there in 2000 according to that year’s census.  I turned off the road but saw little activity.  I didn’t look long, but mostly saw abandoned commercial buildings.  lllinois has small towns, but their buildings are grouped together.  I suspect Littleton’s 196 people are spread in houses spread up and down the hills rather than grouped along the main road.  There are precious few places to pull off and turn around on 250 South.  I kept on driving.

 

Burton in comparison looks to be doing all right.  It lost its post office in 2011 but still has a gas station and Discount Center store that sells everything from bread to motor oil plus hot food you can eat in a small dining area if you choose.   Core Oil is a full-service gas station that sells tires and does minor car repairs. Burton even has a body shop/car repair business that doubles as a West Virginia Vehicle Inspection Center.  Here’s an aerial view of Burton.

The bad news is the town of Burton is not included in any cell phone company’s current advertised service area.  You can get a landline in Burton, and “high speed” DSL internet service through Frontier Communications.  And while there is outpatient health care available at “The Burton Clinic” housed in the now-closed Burton Grade School, hospital care is an hour away by ambulance.

All these towns are far ahead of Glover Gap which has a dot named after it in the Rand McNally 2022 Road Atlas but is listed in Wikipedia purely in hopes one of its readers can help them locate its coordinates and discover things like cemeteries or razed building sites to verify its existence.  This goes under the category of “we’ve heard of Glover Gap, but we can’t find it.”  Research in the region leads the Wiki people to believe it was once a community and not just a place name.  So, if you know anything about Glover Gap, let them know.

Hundred, a town of 262 people on 250 south, has a colorful history.  It is named after a man named Henry Church, a citizen of the town who lived to be a hundred (109 in fact, or perhaps fiction) and died in 1860.  Henry fought for the British in the Revolutionary War and was taken prisoner by Lafayette’s forces before being released and returning to his home in the hills.  I forget when I travel in Eastern America how much farther the history of white settlers on the continent extends beyond that of the Midwest.

Here’s a photo of Cleveland Street in Hundred.

Hundred also boasts the birthplace of Edward King who played Major League Baseball for seven years and drove in the final run in the 1922 World Series while playing for the victorious New York Giants.  You learn something every day.

Before I left home, I learned some West Virginia history in preparation for the trip.  In the run-up to the Civil War, a portion of the state of Virginia broke away and formed a new state, West Virginia.  I never knew the story.  Retirement is handy for filling in the gaps.

The land that is now West Virginia was taken from indigenous people in 1607 when Britain claimed to own both it and present-day Virginia.  That action formed the Virginia colony.  In 1776 when thirteen such colonies declared their independence from Britain, the hills and mountains of Appalachia stayed part of the state of Virginia and remained so until the state sharply divided over the question of slavery.  

I think we ignore the significance of slavery not only to our country's history but to its identity.  How Americans living in the land I was driving through felt about the moral question of slavery and wished to define their community created West Virginia.  

In 1861, at a convention in Wheeling (then Virginia) a convention of Northwestern Southern Unionists voiced support for repealing Virginia's ordinance of secession passed in April of 1861. Secession ordinances were boilerplate resolutions circulated among southern states who wished to retain the legal right to enslave black people brought from Africa and keep their status as chattel property of white owners.

After Abe Lincoln's election as President of the United States, secession began with South Carolina and was quickly followed by ten other states and one territory (Arizona).

Two states, Kentucky and Missouri, failed to formally secede but were considered by the Confederacy as southern states anyway.  Two states previously considered southern, Delaware and Maryland, rejected secession and remained in the Union.  No other states acted n the question of secession until, following the Wheeling Convention, a Unionist government formed from50 counties in western Virginia.

That state, West Virginia, was admitted to the Union as a U.S.state on June 20, 1863, in the middle of the Civil War.  Its borders reshaped the demarcation line those famous surveyors, Charles Mason and Jeremiah Dixon, laid down to separate North from South and divide our country on the question of slavery.  

But those events are over and done.  I was looking to be in the moment with people in West Virginia, to learn about their present reality and maybe ponder their future.  That started in Cameron.

Zanesville Ohio

 I don’t have anything against Indiana.  It’s “The Gateway to the Midwest” according to their marketing campaign.  At least it’s a descriptive phrase.

Going fast with the trucks on I-70 I found when I crossed into Ohio their tagline is an imperative sentence. “Find it here.”  Find what here?  And what if I don’t care to find anything?  I think states should go with the inviting sentence “Welcome to _______” and skip the rest.  Let the traveler define the territory they enter in their own words.

I made it all the way to Zanesville, Ohio on the first day of the road trip.  I planned to stop in Columbus, but when I reached the home of OSU and Ohio’s state capitol, I felt good, so I went on.  The Buick was running great, aside from an odd growling noise coming from the front end.  I first heard it at a gas station just past Yellow Springs, Ohio when I was pulling up to the pump.  My brother Darwin would know exactly what that noise meant, but not me. 

Zanesville is a town of 25,000 people located at the confluence of the Licking and Muskingum rivers.  My town, Ottawa, stands at the confluence of the Fox and Illinois.  I like how the word confluence sounds when spoken and its meaning.  Merging together, making one.  Zanesville has a famous bridge in the shape of a Y that spans both rivers.  Amelia Earhart said Zanesville, viewed from above, was the most recognizable city in the America because of that distinctive bridge. 

I stayed in a hotel on a high bluff above those rivers looking down on the town.  After the flatness of Indiana and western Ohio it was nice to be in rolling hills.  I was close to West Virginia.

I resisted the steak burger and chocolate shake calling my name from the Steak N’ Shake next to the hotel and made my way to the old downtown.  It was full of well-built brick buildings.  I passed a towering but aging brick church that reminded me of Open Table, my church back in downtown Ottawa.  From 1840 to the breakout of the Civil War Zanesville was also a stop on the Underground Railroad, history we’re just learning about in my town of Ottawa. 

When I saw this building, I figured Zanesville had to be a county capitol.

And it is.  Just as Ottawa is the capitol of LaSalle County, Illinois Zanesville is the capitol of Muskingum County, Ohio.  The similarities kept piling up.  Drive 500 miles and end up in a town that makes you feel you’re still at home?  Eerie.

Near that fine old courthouse was an independent Italian restaurant I’d read about online, the Old Market House Inn.  The hostess put me at a small table by a huge unlit fireplace and a waitress brought me a roll and butter.  When I picked up the knife to butter my bread it was heavy.  I have this unproven theory that the weight of a restaurant’s silverware correlates to the price of the food.  When I checked the menu, my supposition was again confirmed.  No data to support it though, only anecdotes.

I had chicken marsala over pasta and a glass of wine, pondered the next day’s route, and headed back to the Buick.  Before I started the Buick to go back up to the hotel, I rolled the car windows to listen.  It growled when I turned the wheels but not when I drove straight down the street.  What the hell?  I slept well.  Crazy dreams.

The buzz at the free breakfast the next morning was the breakdown of the pancake machine.  It was a fully enclosed unit that promised to spit out beautifully browned pancakes in a minute.  It was locked up.  Pushing any or all the buttons produced no response.  I knew that because the woman in charge of breakfast pushed them over and over.  A man in line suggested she unplug it and plug it in again.  My thoughts exactly.  But it was hard wired into a wall panel. 

As issues go in the world of hotel breakfasts, the broken pancake machine was major.  The breakfast lady took her job seriously, slowly laying down slices of French toast so the tops and bottoms made perfectly straight lines clear across the silver chafing dish.  When they didn’t, she nudged them into place with her tongs.

She was not at all happy about the pancake machine, or the maintenance guy who, after a quick once over, told her there was nothing he could do about it.  I thought pancakes plus French toast was overkill anyway, but she obviously considered pancakes irreplaceable.  I had the fake eggs, a tasteless turkey sausage patty, and a couple of cartons of milk.  I kept thinking about the Buick.

Before leaving my parking place at the hotel I turned on the Buick’s engine and turned the steering wheel back and forth.  It growled most when it was far right or left, and not at all when the wheels were straight.  Then it hit me.  Power steering fluid.  Darwin would be proud.  I headed down the hill and over that famous Y bridge looking for help.

I found it at an Advance Auto Parts store.  Before going in, I popped the hood on the Buick and looked for the power steering fluid reservoir.  Dipsticks for the oil and transmission.  Reservoir for brake fluid. But the deal for power steering was nowhere to be found.   How could that be?  You couldn’t use brake fluid for both.  The store was just opening up.  I approached the guy behind the counter.

“I’m getting a growl from my front end that I think is low power steering fluid, but I can’t find the reservoir.”

“What are you driving?”

“2006 Buick Lucerne.”

“That one is hard to find.  Let’s make sure you need fluid before you buy it.  I’ll show you where it goes.”

He went right to it. 

“See where it is?”

I took my sunglasses off and bent closer.  It was under the alternator near the fire well.  Painted black, lid and all.  Blended in like it was camouflaged. 

“Who would think to look there.?”

“Yeah.  Right?  That’s why it gets so neglected.  Whoever is changing your oil should be checking this level, but they usually don’t.  I like Buicks, but the engineer that designed this deal should be fired.”

He took off the cap, wiped it and put it back, took it out again.

“There’s your problem.  Dry or damned near it.”

“Does that do damage to the steering mechanism?”

“Not usually.  Tells you it may have a slow leak, but we sell a product that usually seals those up pretty well. Let’s get you fixed up.”

I went with him to the shelves and bought two.  Best to have one in reserve in case I needed it.

As he rang me up, he made a general announcement to both me and the young guy just coming in the door to start work. 

“Killian here is going to get that skinny funnel we have and fill up that reservoir for you.”

Killian looked at his boss.  If his facial expression was a poster, it would have said in big letters

”Oh yeah?  Why not you?”

“It’s an old Buick Killian.  Under the alternator.  Make sure it gets filled.  Let it settle and check it a couple times.”

Killian grabbed an odd shaped skinny funnel and headed back out the door.  I trailed behind with my two bottles of power steering fluid.  He took off the cap to the reservoir and tried several ways to get the funnel situated.

I said, “Could they have made it any harder you think?”

“I don’t think so.  The guy who thought this up wasn’t a mechanic I can tell you that.  I’ll take that fluid now.”

He opened one bottle and took off the foil seal.

“I need you to get in the car, start it, and let it idle.  We need to make sure this fluid gets down in the lines and fills up.”

I got in the driver’s side and turned the key.  I couldn’t see him because the hood blocked my view.  He spoke loudly over the engine noise.

“OK sir, now turn the wheels all the way to the left, and again all the way to the right.”

“Good. Do it a couple more times.”

When I turned the wheel the first time the groan could be heard, but as I continued it faded away to nothing.

“OK, you’re full now.  Took almost the whole bottle.”

Thanks Killian.  I really appreciate your help.  Can I pay you something?”

“No.  That’s what we’re here for.”

My young mechanic back in Ottawa tells me the same thing.

I’ve been with this 2006 Buick Lucerne for a long time.  It was the last car Jerry Trost ever sold me.  It needs some care, but I like extending its life.  It’s a great ride.

With the Buick back in shape, I got on Interstate 70 and headed for Wheeling, West Virginia. 

Going for the Rare Do Over

Long life creates both obstacles and opportunities.  If you happen to be old, the obstacles become increasingly apparent.  Gradual loss of the senses, especially hearing and vision, even taste and feel, are hard to swallow.  Even worse, newly discovered concepts replace old fears.  That process of evolving fears that started when I dreaded the “boogie man” as a kid has never stopped. 

Now, at the age of 70, I consider the idea of “cognitive decline” even more terrifying than “cancer” which I believed not long ago was the scariest word in the English language.  But after having a minor brush with cancer some time ago, I’ve changed my mind. 

Losing the sense of who I was or am becoming, discovering blank pages in my private unwritten journal of what I’ve done and strive to do, that’s the fear that paralyzes me now.  And that set of fears based around the medical reality known as “Alzheimer’s disease?”  I don’t want to talk about it.

Instead, I prefer to look at the opportunities long life offers.  Like do-overs.  Consider this excerpt (edited a little because I can’t help it) from an old blog post six years ago, January 25, 2016, to be exact.

 I abandoned my plan to travel south down Route 250 beginning in Wheeling West Virginia.  It was a decision made instantly at the feel of the Buick’s four skidding tires and the sight of a deep ditch on a downhill turn.  Instead, I chose to follow Route 2 south down the Ohio River Valley.  Like all decisions it had implications. It implied I was giving in to the dangers of a snow and ice storm and turning my back on the communities of Limestone, Pleasant Valley, Cameron, Littleton, Hundred, Glover Gap, Metz, Mannington, Pruntytown, Phillipi, and Belington plus all the twists, turns, dips, valleys, hills, and vistas in between.  All true.

 On the other hand, choosing Route 2 implied I was opening myself up to the towns and the sights along flatter, safer, and more navigable roads running down the Ohio River Valley.  Equally true.  I’d been on neither route nor visited none of those towns.  Does it also imply I’ll never make it down Route 250?  Probably.  But not necessarily.  These are implications and not facts.  Life is long (hopefully).  And in the immortal words of Fats Waller “one never really knows, do one?”

There I was, 64 years old in 2016, hoping for more years and now, 70 years old in 2022, I’ve received that gift.  I have the chance to put myself back on Route 250 and complete the trip I once imagined.  I plan to take it.  Who said you can’t have your cake and eat it too?  Was that Marie Antoinette?  No.  She said, “let them eat cake” shortly before losing her head in the French Revolution.  I can still remember.  Life is good.  And that bit of advice from Fats Waller always holds true.

I’m tuning up and cleaning the Buick, buying an up-to-date road atlas, and planning a solo road trip to Florida including West Virginia’s Route 250.  I’ll spend four or five nights between Illinois and Tampa Florida, and when I arrive there, I’ll meet my wife who is flying down.  We’ll spend time with relatives and then take a slow route home. 

We used to do this often before the pandemic hit, four years out of the last seven to be exact.  Our last trip Florida trip was 2019.  It’s been too long.  What’s the lesson in this?  Travel when you can.  It will always be there, but you won’t.  Time’s a wasting.

That does mean though that I’ll miss an opportunity to revisit one of my favorite places in West Virginia’s Ohio River Valley,  Amy’s Candlelight Fine Dining and Sports Bar. Here’s more of that blog post from that rerouted trip in 2016.  You don’t find local color like this everywhere.  

I pulled under a canopy covering the gas pumps of a Marathon station in New Martinsville thinking I would get out of the snow.  I didn’t.  The wind blew it sideways.  The Buick was a mess.  Brownish frozen slush covered the headlights and streaked down the side panels.  I kicked big chunks of ice off from behind the tires.  I promised the Buick out loud that as soon as I get out of this weather, I’ll take you to a car wash.  I filled the tank and the windshield washer reservoir with blue stuff.  It was almost empty.  I had never gone through it that fast.

Inside the station refugees from the storm were wandering the aisles envying the candy bars, ogling the beef jerky, and coveting the doughnuts.  I approached a guy at the coolers trying to decide which kind of water to buy (remember when water was just water?) to seek a recommendation on food.  He looked like he missed very few meals.  Those are the best guys to ask.

“Is there was a good place to eat in town that isn’t a chain restaurant?”

“Hardly.  But there is a place back up the road called the Blue Sidecar that used to have good barbeque.  Mostly a drinkin’ place, but the food can be good, dependin on who’s cookin’ and how sober they are.”

“Blue Sidecar?   I musta missed it.”

“It’s on the river side of the road.  Just a cinder block place.  It’s blue.”

Made sense.  I headed back the way I came and couldn’t find it.  I pulled over.  As much as I hated to, I resorted to my phone.  Yelp.  It said the Blue Sidecar was 400 feet down the road.  There was a big sign down there but I couldn’t read it.  Too much snow.  I drove closer.  The sign said ‘Amy’s Candlelight Fine Dining and Sports Bar.’  Under the sign was a blue building, a concrete box.  I pulled in.

The place had a little foyer with doors on the right and left.  I tried the left door.  Inside were maybe a dozen folding banquet tables, each set for six, with plastic burgundy tablecloths.  On each table was a candle.  Three people were talking quietly at one table.  They looked up.  I smiled and tried the right door.

Inside was a long Formica bar, three big-screen TVs, some booths, and the smell of stale beer.  It was empty.  Standing behind the bar was a smiling bartender with a lot of makeup and a ridiculously thick scarf roped around her neck.  She had plucked her eyebrows completely out, looked like, and replaced them with a brown arc of eyebrow pencil.  She was short and had a full face. 

“Is this the Blue Sidecar?”

“It was till two weeks ago.  Now it’s Amy’s Candlelight Fine Dining and Sports Bar.  You’re in the sports bar honey.”

“What happened to the Blue Sidecar?”

“The owner drank too much.”

“I see.  Are you Amy?”

“No.”

“You serving lunch?”

“Sure am.  Want a menu?”

“Yeah.”

“How about a drink.”

“You got any craft beer?”

“No.  But when I get you craft beer types in here, I give them a draft Yuengling Dark.  You’ll like it.”

“OK.”

She smiled.  When she did her cheeks moved up and made her eyes smaller.  They had a twinkle though.  She had big teeth.

There was a single menu for both the fine dining and sports bar sides.  I wouldn’t put the menu items in the category of fine dining but then again, the sports bar had no candles. 

“What’s good here Amy?”

“I told ya I’m not Amy.”  She pointed to a badge pinned to that big scarf.  “I’m Katelyn.”

“Sorry.  I forgot.  So what’s good here Katelyn?”

“I wouldn’t have nothin’ but the brisket sandwich myself.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s all made up from the smoker.  The cook can’t mess with it.”

“OK, I think I’ll have the brisket sandwich.”

“You want fries, sweet potato fries, onion rings, or slaw with that?”

“Slaw.  Can you give me extra?”

“I’ll take care of you honey.”

I’d brought my road atlas in to figure out where I was going.  Another road, Route 20, would take me over towards Fairmount and then Elkins.  That was my preferred destination, if the weather would let me get there.

Another woman came in and sat on a barstool at the end of the bar.  She had a portable phone and a notebook in her hand.  She quickly punched in a number and began talking.  She was loud and all business.  I couldn’t help but overhear. 

“I need to place a liquor order.  These are all 1.75’s all right?  Handles.  You ready?”

She paused, not looking pleased. 

“Now you ready?”

“OK, I want 7 Jack Daniels, 3 Crown Royal, 2 Southern Comfort, and a Wild Turkey.  8 Captain Morgan.  Oh, and 2 Fireball.  That price gone down on Fireball yet? “

 Pause. 

“Salesman said the price was going down.  What’s up with that?”

Pause. 

“Yeah, I still want it.”

Katelyn was changing the stations on the TVs.

“Anything you want to watch honey?”

“No.”

The liquor order turned to clear spirits.

“OK, I need 8 Smirnoff, 4 Apple Smirnoff, a Grey Goose, 4 Bacardi white, a Malibu Rum, 3 McCormick Gins, and a Tangueray.”

Pause.

“I think that’s all.  How soon can you get it here?”

Pause.

“Yeah, I know it’s snowin’.” 

Pause.

“Ok, well we need this stuff damn soon.”

Pause. 

“OK Bye.”

Katelyn brought my sandwich.  It was huge.  She drew me another Yuengling and went to stand by the woman who placed the liquor order.  She was showing her something on her cell phone and they were laughing.

The brisket was delicious.  The bun could have been better but not the meat.  It had a sweet smoky flavor and a soft texture.  The slaw was homemade and chunky.  I put some on top of the brisket. 

“Sorry to eavesdrop,” I said to the woman sitting at the bar “but that was a whopping order of booze.  Sounds like you’re doing quite a business.”

“Yeah, well it is winter in West Virginia with not a lot else to do.”

“Do you mind me asking what you’re doing with all that apple vodka?”

“Appletinis.  We got a bunch of old women can’t get enough of ‘em.”

 “You must be Amy.”

She pointed to her nameplate too.

“Nope, I’m Kathy.  Jesus Katelyn, why do we even wear these name tags anyway?”

“Who’s Amy then?”

“Amy is the owner’s six-year-old daughter.”

They laughed.  Standing beside each other, the two women look alike, right down to their teeth and eyebrows.

“Are you sisters?”

“Cousins.  We get that all the time.”

“I see you got a map book there.  Where you headed?”  Kathy said.

“I’m taking the long way to Florida.”

“I’ll say.  Where you going today?”

“I’m trying to get to Elkins.  I was going to drive on 250 but decided against it.  There’s another road that would take me there, Route 20.  How’s that road?”

They looked at each other and laughed big, their eyes nearly disappearing into their faces.  Katelyn finally answered.

“It’s no better than 250 honey.  I used to both them roads to Fairmount when I was takin’ classes down there.  Even in good weather, they’re hard to drive.”

Kathy chimed in.  “Them roads is just one kiss ass turn after another.”

“Kiss ass turns?”

Katelyn, standing behind the bar, grabbed an imaginary steering wheel in front of her.  She twisted the wheel far-right, threw her butt and head in the same direction, and gave a little air kiss.  She repeated the same move on her left, then flashed a big smile and said:

“That honey is a kiss ass turn.” 

The cousins cackled with laughter.  I laughed too.  Three of us in a bar in a snowstorm storm enjoying the naming of a new American concept.  New to me at least.   Kiss ass turns.  You learn something every day.

“That Route 20 is awful.  For starters, you lose cell phone service as soon as you get on it.  And they don’t plow it.  Don’t take care of it hardly at all.” 

“Doesn’t anybody live out there?”

“Oh, hell yeah.  But they aren’t going anywhere.  They come into town as little as possible.  They like it out there.  And if you go in the ditch and get help from one of ‘em you might get more than you bargained for, if you know what I mean.”

The door opened and a man covered with snow walked in.  He took off his WVU Volunteers stocking hat, his grey hair wild and sticking up, and slapped it on his knee.  Snow flew. 

“Damn girls, it's winter out there.”

 Katelyn mixed him a Captain and coke without him asking.  He ignored me.

“What happened after I left last night?”

His eyes twinkled.  It must have been quite a night.  Kathy answered.

“Well, we wouldn’t let Darryl drive home.  Had to call him a cab.  He was pissed off but oh well.  Place finally cleared out but not till almost three.”

“Jesus Christ, was Darryl was on a bender or what?” the man said.

“He’d been up for 72 hours,” Kathy added.

Katelyn came down and took my empty plate.

“So, it sounds like it would be smarter going down to Parkersburg on 2 and take 50 West to Clarksburg,” I said.

"Yeah, that’s the smart way to go today.  There’s a good road to Weston too.  You can get to Elkins easy from there.”

I paid my bill and said goodbye to Katelyn, Kathy, and Amy’s Candlelight Fine Dining and Sports Bar.  When Katelyn handed me my change, she winked at me.  I was half tempted to see if I could find a room in New Martinsville and experience the sports bar at night but then thought better of it.  I’d been down that road too, a long, long time ago.  Better to stay off that one as well.    

A Trip to the City

My wife and I try to get to Chicago once a month to be with our kids and our new Granddaughter June.  We’re doing that by booking Air B&B’s in neighborhoods close to them.  We used to find deals on hotel rooms downtown but somehow the pandemic has changed that vibe. 

We drive to Joliet, take the Metra to LaSalle Street station, then an Uber to where we are staying.  We’ve decided it’s not the accommodations but the location that matters, the neighborhood around us.  Last week, we ended up in an old brick two-flat in the 2000 block of West Wabansia.  It felt like we were living in the city instead of staying as tourists.

We were in Wicker Park close to where Milwaukee, Damen, and North Avenue intersect.  There’s a Blue Line station close.  If we learn just a little more, we can figure out how to navigate from there to anywhere in the city.  But for this stay, we were anxious to walk outside.  It had been a long winter and the weather promised to be warm. 

We had Tuesday all to ourselves and would stay the next two days with June.  I started Tuesday early by making coffee and walking a half block to Sylvia’s Market on the corner to buy a Tribune.  My wife shopped there the day we arrived, buying some basics.  I looked for a snack to put in my bag for later.

Finding no candy bars, I spotted a small package labeled CASHEW FIG CARROT.  It was described as Plant Based Paleo containing dates, figs, cashews, carrots, vanilla extract, nutmeg, and Himalayan pink salt.  $4.95 for less than two ounces.  I bought it.  That along with a Trib for $3.00 and tax meant I got a buck and some change back from a ten.  What are you gonna do?

My wife plans these trips.  She figured we were close to something called the 606 or the Bloomingdale Trail.  Our kids talk about it as a raised walkway/bike path.  Turns out it was two blocks north of Sylvia’s Market.  We went there straight away after breakfast.  The sun was out, and it was warming up quickly.

The Bloomingdale trail was a rail line built in the 1800s, elevated 16 feet above street level in 1914, and finally abandoned in 1969.  In 2015, Chicago opened it as a linear park, a ribbon of cycling, jogging, walking trails along with other areas for gathering and relaxing.  It runs for 2.7 miles through Bucktown, Logan Square, Wicker Park, and Humboldt Park.  It’s often connected to park areas below.  The 606 has also become a magnet for newly created apartments and condos which have raised rents and increased property values, likely pricing others out.  That’s gentrification for you.

The 606 is lovely.  You are in the city but looking down on it as well, removed from the cars and busses and bustle of the street.  They built a soft path for walkers and joggers running both ways that is easy on your feet.  Occasional ramps bring you up and take you down to the street at various locations.  It was just what my wife was looking for.  I don’t walk as far as her, so I found a bench in the sun overlooking a dog park at the corner of Bloomingdale and Winchester.  My wife continued walking east determined to make it to the end of the trail.  I worked on the Trib crossword puzzle.  The 606 was getting busier.  So was the dog park.

Whereas humans on the trail engage in sitting, walking, jogging, biking, rollerblading, skateboarding, and riding scooters separately; the dogs in the park had a whole communal thing going on.  They were sniffing, panting, running, jumping (some more than others), barking surprisingly little, growling almost not at all, but doing it all as a group.  They were a big active pack.

I didn’t count them, but there were a lot of dogs within that fenced area representing many breeds.  Most all looked to be purebred: a Weimaraner, a Flat-Coated Retriever, all the Labradors-yellow, black, chocolate.  A Bernese Mountain Dog came trotting in through the gate, a double gate like a salle port you find in prisons where one door locks behind you before the one in front of you is opened.  All the other dogs came up to sniff him, which he seemed to patiently endure before moving away slowly, looking shy and overweight.  If I were to name him, I’d call him Wally.  Just a big nice guy.

There were not one but two big Standard Poodles.  You could easily tell them apart because one had the whole deal, tricked out, frou-frou haircut.  Big ball of fluffy hair on the end of his tail and on his forehead.  Shaggy patches of hair on his hindquarters and front feet and shaved down everywhere else.  I feel sort of sorry for such dogs.  They must feel silly looking like that.  The more casually trimmed Standard Poodle appeared to be much more chill. 

I was looking for an Irish Setter.  I knew one named Casey in the ’70s that was a beauty and hoped to see another.  Maybe next time.  There was a skinny and sad-looking Whippet or Italian Greyhound walking around slowly.  Dogs like that make me want to feed them. 

There was a Bedlington Terrier in there.  They always look out of place to me, more like a lamb than a dog.  But he (or she) was frisky and having a good time.  A very happy-looking Golden Retriever was always in the middle of things.  A dark-colored French Bulldog was one of the smaller but more active dogs. 

Mixed in were dogs I didn’t know.  A couple of short stocky dogs had kinky tails curled up over their backs.  They must have been the same breed, but I have no idea what it was.  Completing the group was a few obvious crossbreeds.  They carried themselves well among the purebreds.  Perhaps only on the corner of Bloomingdale and Winchester could mutts exude such an air of privilege.   

The canine activity dominating the park was sniffing, both the ground and each other.   And the human-directed sport that rose above all others was ball fetching.  Lots and lots of sniffing and dogs fetching balls tossed by humans.  I was surprised there was not more competition over the balls.  By watching the fetching, I could quickly match owners with dogs.  Balls thrown by owners were nearly always retrieved and returned by their own dog.  I think it was the scent.  One sniff and the dogs knew if the ball belonged to them. 

It was constant canine motion, a mob of interacting dogs, whereas the humans accompanying their dogs in the park were fairly stationary and aloof from each other.  The ball throwers stood, and the others mainly sat on benches.  Some watched their dogs intently while others were lost in the screens on their phones. 

At noon it seemed as if the whole dog neighborhood had arrived. One of the last to enter the salle port entrance was a beautiful German Shepherd.  It was a distinguished-looking dog with that little slouch to its hind end that distinguishes the breed.  Its owner was a quiet middle-aged man, wearing a tweed sports coat and a flat wool cap covering gray hair.  

As they do, the dogs all came over to greet and smell the German Shepherd latecomer.  Typically, after an initial smell, the pack goes on about their business of being dogs, and most did, save for the French Bulldog, who was apparently enthralled by something he smelled on the German Shepherd.  Couldn’t get enough of it.  Wherever the German Shepherd went, the French Bulldog followed.    

The well-dressed owner of the German Shepherd fished a tennis ball out of his jacket pocket and began lobbing it in the air not far from his dog. It was immediately obvious that this was a routine often repeated.  As the German Shepherd went for the ball you could see by the way it moved it was old.  When the dog went to grab the ball in its mouth, on the bounce, it gave a feeble jump.  Only its front paws left the ground. After it caught the ball, it continued a few steps to gather itself, stopped, then turned to trot slowly back to its human.

Watching this game between man and dog play out in the present I could imagine their past.  The then young man threw the tennis ball far across the dog park.  The young Shepherd ran towards it furiously, leaped completely off the ground, launching its body recklessly toward the ball before landing softly and spinning around to dash back to his dark-haired owner.  Time had caught up to them both. 

As I sat on the bench above the dog park the procession of bikers, joggers, and walkers flowed both ways behind me, but very quietly.  When things got slow in the dog park, I’d turn my attention to them.  I soon realized the quiet was caused by the earbuds they wore.  Their day wasn’t absent sound or music, but rather personalized and confined to their own ears. Their songs and podcasts couldn’t be heard by others, with one refreshing exception. 

A guy in his forties strolled by with a sound machine of some kind in a backpack blaring “Be My Baby” by the Ronettes from 1963.  Nothing like a little Motown blasting away in the neighborhood to pick up the mood.  He was walking slowly so I heard the whole song before it faded away.  I whistled along with the tune.

Back at the dog park, several things became apparent about both dogs and humans.  Dogs play joyfully without direction.  Ball fetching aside, being in the company of one another is joy enough for dogs.  I also concluded that dogs don’t care about appearances.  Even the frou-frou Standard Poodle and the skinny Italian Greyhound held their heads high.  We apply our own values to animals when they could care less.  It was obvious that small dogs felt equal to big ones, pedigree means nothing at all to dogs, and the French Bulldog was NEVER going to keep his nose out of the German Shepherd’s ass.

That last fact created the only real crisis of the day at the Bloomingdale/Winchester Dog park, and it was not a crisis among the dogs.  The owner of the French Bulldog, a young woman very absorbed in her smartphone, happened to look up at the very moment her bulldog went from sniffing the rear end of the old German Shepherd to locking his front legs around the Shepherd’s back leg and humping it for all he was worth.

The young bulldog owner was immediately off the bench yelling at her dog, who could not have ignored her more completely if he tried.  Never looked once in his owner’s direction, and never missed a beat.  As the German Shepherd moved away, the bulldog danced along with it, dragged in the direction of a just thrown tennis ball, still clutching the larger dog’s leg.

By this time the young woman who owned the French Bulldog, clearly suffering genuine shame and embarrassment (as if it were her fault, or anyone's, or even a problem) had her leash in hand and was walking quickly towards her dog who managed to stay just out of her reach yet still within a nose thrust of the German Shepherd’s rear end.

Oddly enough neither the German Shepherd nor its owner was alarmed by the French Bulldog's behavior.  The bulldog’s owner beseeched the German Shepherd’s owner with words.  I was far enough away that I couldn’t hear them, but her body language screamed apology and a clear plea that her dog (and her) be forgiven, to which the Shepherd’s owner responded with palms out, a shrug, a smile.

Being human rather than canine I can’t read dogs as well I can people, but the German Shepherd didn’t seem phased in the slightest either.  It would occasionally look back as if to see if it was still the little bulldog poking its hindquarters with that cold nose, but not once did it growl or show its teeth.  The Shepherd continued to mosey after the ball slowly and give a little jump when it caught it.

My wife came back about the time the crisis, clearly human, was concluded by the young woman leashing her dog and frantically dragging it through the gates and down the sidewalk.

My wife ignored the dogs.  She was pumped from having made it to the end of the trail and back.  She had stories to tell.

“What did you do?” she asked.

“Mostly I’ve been watching these dogs.”

“Woo Hoo.  Sounds exciting.”

“Actually, it was pretty good.  There’s a lot goes on in a dog park I’ve found.”

“Yeah, well it’s almost 1:00. Did you bring anything to eat?”

“As a matter of fact, I did.”

I pulled out the $4.95 CASHEW FIG CARROT paleo bar and unwrapped it.

“You want half?”

“Sure.”

When I tore the gooey dark bar in half, my remaining bit looked about the same size as the filling in one, two if you stretched it, fig newtons.  And it tasted about the same, minus the cookie wrapping.  My wife ate her half in two bites.

“Not bad.”

I can buy a whole bag of Fig Newtons at Kroger for about $3.00.  That’s life in the big city, I guess.

That night, old friends from Rogers Park came down.  We had wine and appetizers at the two-flat and walked to an Indian restaurant named Cumin.  Great food.  On the way back we tried to stop for a drink at a bar called Absinthe, but it was closed.  I think it was closed the last time I tried to go there years ago.  No absinthe for us.

As Mr. Rogers would say, it was a beautiful day in the neighborhood, March 15, 2022.   The next two days we spent with June.  And on Friday we went home.  Good trip.

Breakfast at the Hi-Way with MLK

 I hadn’t gone out for breakfast after swimming laps in a long time.  Pandemic you know.  But the numbers were going down, and I threw caution to the wind.  Who would have thought eating out was daring two years ago?  I slid into the Hi-Way Restaurant and took a stool at the counter.

I had imagined my order while swimming, and where I would sit.  I love to be close to the kitchen, watching the waitresses pick up the orders, gab with the cooks, talk to the regulars.  And I like the Hi- Way’s omelets.  Not a love affair mind you.  Their omelets are done on the griddle and not in a pan, but they’re big and loaded with good ingredients.  A generous slab of hash browns too.  I get mine with coffee, a cold glass of milk, and buttered rye toast.  It’s not the best omelet you’ll ever eat, but it's damned good.

I was so taken with the prospect of my breakfast I ignored the quiet well- dressed man sitting next to me.  How I overlooked him I don’t know.  He had close-cropped hair and a pencil mustache.  He was wearing a shiny expensive suit.  He was black and looked oddly familiar, though I only saw the side of his face.

“Morning.  How you doing today?” I said.

“Just fine. You?”

He continued to face forward so I couldn’t see his face fully.  He was having coffee, poached eggs, and wheat toast.  I kept looking at him.  He must have sensed my gaze.  He looked at me sideways.

“Sorry to stare sir.  I’m pretty sure I haven’t met you before, but you look familiar.”

He had intense eyes and prominent cheeks.  He smiled.

“I take it you don’t see a lot of negroes here.”

“No.  Ottawa is a pretty white town.  Not very diverse.  You picked a good place for breakfast though.  Good lunches too.  Giant menu.  Busy as hell so the food is always fresh.  You passing through?”

“You could say that.  Yes.”

I stuck out my hand.

“Dave McClure.”

He took his hand in mine.  Big strong hand.

He hesitated before speaking.

“Marty.  Marty King.  Nice to meet you.”

He had a smooth deep voice.  I swear to God I’d heard that voice somewhere too. I couldn’t shake the familiarity. 

“So, where you from Marty?”

“Atlanta, Georgia.  I do a lot of traveling.”

“Where you headed?”

“Hard to say.  I’m traveling solo.  On something of an adventure.”

“I’ve done some of that myself.  Best way to travel, I think.  Are you enjoying our area?”

“I just got here.  I’ve never taken a trip like this.  It’s hard getting used to actually.”

The waitress slid my omelet in front of me.  Hot and beautiful.  It had been so long since someone else made me an omelet.

“Can I get you anything else honey?”

“My milk.”

They always forget the milk seems like.

My fellow diner had finished his eggs. 

“How about you honey?  Ready for your check?”

“Ah….no, ma’am.  Do you have any grapefruit?”

“Sure.  Half a grapefruit?”

“Yeah.  And a fill up on my coffee.”

“Coming right up.“ 

The man turned to me once again.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk further about your community.  Would you care to continue this conversation a bit more privately?  Say in one of the booths?”

He sounded so formal, but I was anxious to talk with him more myself.  Our waitress was walking by.

“Excuse me, ma’am, we’re going to grab a booth if that’s OK.”

“Sure thing.   Sit wherever you want.”

We took our food to a booth near the back and sat across from each other.  I decided to tell him what I was thinking. 

“I know it’s impossible, but you look exactly like Reverend Martin Luther King.”

He leaned forward and spoke in a low voice.

“Sir, I know you will think what I’m about to tell you is highly unlikely. And if I were you, I would also be extremely skeptical.  But the fact is, I am the Reverend Martin Luther King.”

How do I get mixed up with crazy people? was the first thought that entered my mind.  It started when I was a kid and continued throughout my life.  Being a social worker didn’t help.  I get sucked in every time.

“Is that so?”

He nodded.

“You’re crazy.” 

I turned my attention to my omelet.  I had a cheesy forkful of egg, peppers, and onions followed by a chunk of hash browns dipped in ketchup.  I washed it down with a swallow of milk and looked at him blankly.

“Please sir, bear with me.  I assure you I am not mentally ill.  If you will only listen…”

“Is Emmet Till joining us?  That would be just as likely.  Look, you’ve done a remarkable job of making yourself look like Martin Luther King, but today is February 28, 2022, and you cannot be Martin Luther King.”

He sat back in the booth.

“Would you at least listen while I try to explain?”

“Have at it.  If you don’t mind, I’ll finish my breakfast while you talk.”

It wouldn’t be the first time I’d listened to a fantastic story and pretended to believe it. 

“Thank you, Mr. McClure.  I came here from Albany, Georgia.  Albany is possibly the most backward and segregated city in the whole state.  Ralph Abernathy joined me there.  This was all happening after the Freedom Riders were assaulted in Montgomery, Alabama in the summer of 1961.   It was so difficult for our followers to maintain a nonviolent stance, but they did, even after they firebombed our busses.”

I looked at him as I chewed on the last of my hash browns.  Pretty detailed story.

“I arrived in Albany in mid-December, and we immediately organized a protest march of over 700 protesters.  Biggest negro march that had ever taken place in Albany.  Ralph and I were arrested that day.  It looks like we’re going to trial.  I don’t care who defends him or how well known he may be, if a black man goes to trial and is convicted in Dougherty County, Georgia he’s going to get considerable jail time.”

 He paused. 

“But that’s an improvement over the days of Reconstruction in the South, when we would have simply been lynched.”

I looked at him closely.

“So, you’ve obviously learned a lot about Martin Luther King and the movement.  And you’ve managed to copy his looks.  Let’s see if you know anything about him personally.”

I took my phone out of my pocket and turned it on.  I pressed the Google icon and searched for Martin Luther King timeline.

“In 1961 how many children did you have?”

“Three.”

“Who was your last child and when was that child born?”

“Dexter.  Dexter Scott.  Coretta brought him into the world on January 30, 1961.”

“Who was he named after?”

“He wasn’t named after a person.  We named him after the Dexter Avenue Church in Montgomery where I served as pastor before we moved to Atlanta.  His middle name is Coretta’s maiden name.”

“What day of the week was January 30, 1961.”

“It was a Monday.  I’d preached that Sunday at Ebenezer Baptist, my new church home in Atlanta.”

 “Who did you follow as pastor at Ebenezer Baptist?”

“No one.  I became co-pastor with my father.  They have come to call him Daddy King, which I think is disrespectful.  He is Martin Luther King Sr., and a great man in his own right.”

His story followed the facts.  We looked at each other with questions.  He started.

“Where are you getting these questions, Mr. McClure?  And what is that gadget you hold in your hand and punch with your thumbs?”

“It’s a phone.  A smartphone.”

“You’re saying that thing is a telephone?”

“Yes.”

His eyes widened and he sat back.

“Now who’s mentally ill Mr. McClure?  You expect me to believe that little flat box is a telephone when it doesn’t have a cord or a dial, and you don’t speak into it?  How dumb do you think I am?”

“It’s more than a phone.  It’s also a computer.  It’s connected wirelessly, as radio or television would be.  Sort of.  It allows us to connect to the internet.”

“A computer in your hand?  That’s impossible.  And this internet?  Is that an oracle of some kind?”

“Well, the internet is very hard to explain.  But trust me, these little gadgets have profoundly changed the world.”

“Why should I trust you when you don’t believe anything I say?”

“Because technically, and it’s a big technicality…how should I say this?  In 2022 you are no longer living.  I know that to be a fact.”

“That’s no surprise.  I’d be 93 after all.  Born in 1929.”

“Exactly.  Look at me.  I’m 70.  My hair is gray.  I have brown spots on the backs of my hands.  My face is wrinkled.  Now, look at yourself.”

I turned on the camera in my phone, reversed the lens, and put it in front of him so he could see himself.

“What is this?”

“It's you right now.  Does that look like a 93-year-old man to you?" 

My breakfast companion was silent.  We both sipped our coffee.

“Marty, if you are Reverend King, explain how you got here.”

He took a big breath.

“This is the hardest to believe, even for me.  But it started with meeting Mr. Vonnegut.”

“Kurt Vonnegut?  The author?”

“Yes.  We were both delayed on a flight out of Chicago.  He was on a book tour for his latest novel, Mother Night, which I had read and enjoyed very much.  We were caught in a snowstorm and had lots of time on our hands. While I discussed the challenge of how to best lead the fight for civil rights, Mr. Vonnegut had such fanciful thoughts.  It was so refreshing.  I began to share my feelings with him.”

“Go on.”

“I’ve been stuck in my work.  Very discouraged.  Doubting my leadership.  I explained to Vonnegut my thoughts about Albany.  I think the mistake I made there was to protest segregation generally rather than against a single and distinct facet of it.  Our protest was so vague we got nothing, and the people in that community were left very depressed and in despair.  I feel as if I failed them.”

“And how did Mr. Vonnegut respond?”

“He said I needed to talk to Billy Pilgrim.”

“Billy Pilgrim?  Wait.  I was an English major.  I read nearly all of Vonnegut’s books.  Billy Pilgrim is a character in Slaughterhouse-Five.  He doesn’t show up in Vonnegut’s writing till 1969.”

“Well, he showed up at O’Hare airport yesterday, which for me was February 27, 1962.”

“How could that be?” 

“I have no idea, Mr. McClure.  Just because I have achieved some level of notoriety in my life does not mean I am all-knowing.  Vonnegut wrote Billy Pilgrim’s name on a piece of paper and gave it to me.  I looked up and saw a peculiar little man walking my way.  He sat down beside us.  Mr. Vonnegut introduced me to Billy and told him I needed a lesson in time travel.  Wait.”

He dug around in his coat pocket, fished out a piece of paper, and handed it to me.

“OK,“ I said.  “Billy was a science fiction writer.  Learned about time travel on the planet Tralfamador.  At least that Vonnegut’s story.  Billy Pilgrim had the ability to become ‘unstuck in time.’  He ends up in both the future and the past, and because of that, he looks at the world very differently.  We are trapped in time while Billy is freed of time.  What happened next?”

“I told Billy how discouraged I was.  I told him that perhaps if I could see what my work would accomplish in the future, find out if or when the struggles and prayers of America’s negroes would result in equality, I might be able to continue to lead the fight.”

“And?  Marty, get the point please.”

“He asked me where I wanted to go and to pick a date.  So, I said 60 years into the future.  I thought that might be enough time.”

“Enough time for what?”

“To see if my people have made the progress in America we so hope for.”

“And why Ottawa?”

“I didn’t want to end up in the South if everything had gone to hell in America.  Plus, I once heard a story of a negro from Louisiana who found refuge in a stop on the Underground Railroad in this town during the days of the Runaway Slave Act.  Before the civil war.  Good core of abolitionists in the area.  Some guy in Princeton named Lovejoy.  Plus, Lincoln first debated Douglas here.  That’s where I entered 2022, in your Washington Park."

"I woke up on a park bench facing the Lincoln and Douglas statues.  Then I walked up here. Look, all I need is to read newspaper and magazine accounts of the movement.  I need to learn about the America that has evolved since our struggles in 1962.  Then I have to go back.”

“It’s an unbelievable story.”

“How about this Mr. McClure? Let’s stop talking about how this happened and start talking about America.  Where are we now, as white people and black people living in the same country?  Just tell me what you know.  You seem fairly well informed.”

I took a deep breath.  Where do you start?

“A black man was elected president of the United States in 2008.  And he was re-elected in 2012.”

He was dumbstruck. 

“Was he from a prominent black family?”

“No one you would know.  He came out of nowhere.  His mother was from Kansas and his father was from Kenya.  He served with dignity and class.  He and his wife and two daughters were wonderful representatives of the black community.  You would have been very proud.”

He began to tear up. 

“A group of young black men and women opened the National Museum for Peace and Justice in downtown Montgomery, Alabama.  It’s known as the lynching museum.  It documents and memorializes more than 4,000 lynching victims, lists names and ages of black men and women murdered at the hands of white vigilantes throughout America by state.  I visited there in 2019.  It took my breath away.  The cat is out of the bag on that bit of black history.  And by the way, today is the last day of February, which is National Black History Month.”

“I didn’t think those lynching stories would ever be recorded, let alone told publicly.  You know, don’t you, that black history is American history.  The history of lynching is white history too.  Our ancestors, yours and mine, both endured it.  We all have to come to terms with our pasts.”

“Yeah, well that’s not proving to be easy.”

“What about the justice system?  Life for negroes generally?”

“There are still far too many black people in prisons and jails.  A huge disparity in maternal and infant deaths for black people, low rates of homeownership, big income gap.   It's very disproportionate.'

“And police brutality remains a big problem.  Although it came to a head recently.  A black man, George Floyd, was arrested in 2020 for passing a counterfeit bill in Minneapolis, and when he resisted being placed in a squad car, a white policeman kneeled on his neck until he died of asphyxiation.  That white policeman was convicted on three charges, one being second-degree murder.  He was sentenced to 22 and a half years.”

That’s in the North.  What about the South?”

“A young black man named Ahmad Arbery was jogging through a white neighborhood in 2020 near Brunswick, down in Glynn County, Georgia when he was murdered by three white men in pickup trucks.  Killed him with a shotgun.  They claimed he was stealing from a construction site in the neighborhood, but no evidence was ever brought forth."

Local police claimed the district attorney advised them to make no arrests though the DA later denied that.  The shit hit the fan so to speak when one of the perpetrators insisted video of the shooting be made public.  It was shared across the country.  72 days after the murder the Georgia Bureau of Investigation was brought in, a special grand jury named, and murder charges filed.  All three were convicted of murder and sentenced to life.”

“It was filmed?  Why on earth would one of the suspects want a film of a murder made public?”

“He thought it would exonerate him.”

“Who filmed it?”

“One of the perpetrators on his cell phone.”

I held up my phone.

“It's also a movie camera.  These phones are changing the world.  The same thing happened in Minneapolis with the man who was choked to death, George Floyd.  A pedestrian near the scene filmed the whole crime, nine minutes of it, and put it out on social media.”

“You can control your own press?”

“In a fashion, yes.”

“Let’s go back to Georgia.  How in God’s name were white men convicted of murdering of a black man by a jury of Georgia citizens in Glynn County of all places?”  

“It was transferred to Cobb County.  A jury of eleven white people and one black man came back with the verdicts.  And just this past week a black woman was nominated to the Supreme Court.  If she’s confirmed she will be the third black person to serve on the court.”

“I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

“Well, Rev. King, actually you didn’t.”

He looked at me and smiled. 

“You’re not telling me much about my own life going forward.”

“You’re not asking much.  Did Billy Pilgrim tell you it’s possible to change the course of history while you travel through time?”

“No, he did not.”

“Even if you could, I don’t think you want to.  You did a magnificent job leading the movement.  You may not have accomplished what you wished, but your life going forward from 1962 is a triumph.  They will be the most productive years of your life, and of the black community in America.”

“Do you have any advice for me?”

“Use the media, especially TV, to let white people see and feel the reality that black people have always known.  Think visually.  Pay attention to Reverend Fred Shuttlesworth and his feud with Bull Connor in Birmingham.  Don’t be discouraged.  And don’t stop fighting for justice.  Every day after you go back will be precious.”

“Anything else?”

“Well.  You should stay out of Memphis.”

“Stay out of Memphis?  No national black leader can ignore Memphis.  It's one of our most important communities.”

“Well, if you must go, stay away from the Lorraine Motel.”

” But that’s where we always stay in Memphis.”

“OK.  Do what you have to do Dr. King.  God speed and God bless.”

“Could you drop me off at the local library Mr. McClure?  I have a lot of reading to do.  And when it closes, I plan to go back to the park bench I woke up on this morning and pray to God that when I go to sleep, I wake up back in Georgia in 1962.  I can’t stay here.  It’s obviously not my time.  Apparently, I have important work to do.”

I drove around town and showed Dr. King our murals, our old downtown courthouse, and the confluence of the Fox and the Illinois rivers.  Then I dropped him off at Reddick library.

Before he got out of the Buick he shook my hand, thanked me, and stepped out.  As he was shutting the door, he asked me one last question.

“I don’t know how I will ever be able to communicate the things I have learned today from the future.  How can I account for this new knowledge?”

“Look to the bible Reverend.  You remember what worked for the prophets right? They’d go up on a mountain and come down claiming to have had a vision.  Sometimes they told their followers God spoke to them in a dream.  You can make something like that work for you too.”

“I’ll consider that.  Thank you, Mr. McClure.  It was a pleasure meeting you.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Dr. King.  You are a hero to millions of people, and that includes me.”