ROAD Dave

My mother often repeated an old saw, “The most pleasant word a person hears is his own name.”  Repetition only dulled its meaning to me, and it didn’t really become clear until many years later while I was traveling through Georgia.

I was on my way south, to Florida, and opted for US 441 instead of the interstate highways. The interstate truckers outclassed my open Jeep and when they passed me going over 80 MPH, I was almost blown off the road. I was more relaxed on this southern road less traveled - no monster tailgaters.

In rural Georgia, about where General William Tecumseh Sherman had marched almost 150 years earlier, I entered a small town liberally laced with SPEED MEASURED BY RADAR signs and an abrupt reduction in the posted speed limit. I put the Jeep in third gear to limit my tendency to keep up to the 55 MPH speed limit out of town.  The change of pace to 35 MPH seemed like a crawl as I inched through the sprawling town. The town didn’t have many surviving businesses and I imagined that if they did have a phone book, there was only one yellow page.

About the time that I began to realize that I had missed a turn of the US 441 highway, I saw a flashing blue light in my mirror. The vehicle that overtook me, a 1980’s Ford Bronco, was identified as the belonging to the town police.  SPEED TRAP flashed through my brain as I waited for the officer to come up to my Jeep.

“I need to see your license and registration, son. You’re in a heap of trouble!.”  offered the uniformed officer – a Constable according to his badge. “You were going 35 MPH in a 20 MPH residential zone.”

“Well, I must have missed a turn and the speed sign. I am looking for the court house.” I weaseled.

He looked at me suspiciously as though he thought I might be a lawyer or some liberal  Yankee troublemaker from out of town. “Should have turned, back by the train track … got business at he court house?”

“Yes I do. I am doing a genealogy thing.  My great- great …maybe more greats …uncle from this area  was a hero in the Confederate States Army during the War of Northern Aggression. He was killed in the  Battle of Sharpsburg.  He stopped the Yankee advance at Burnside’s  Bridge“.   (Normally I think of that war as the Civil War or the Rebellion. In this part of Georgia, where General  Sherman had his way during his successful March to the Sea, using Yankee terminology wasn’t prudent.) 

“My many-greats uncle was named Beauford  Pickens and he was conscripted in this county. I would like to search the court house records for names of his parents and any kin folks”,  I improvised.

The constable became very alert. I could see his eyes widen behind his mirrored sunshades. I could also see the name tag on his pocket flap, a tag he probably forgot he wore. The tag very plainly read,  SGT. BEAUFORD PICKENS.

The Constable pondered a while, speechless.  He thought to himself,” This Dude doesn’t sound southern but he sure has been taught about the War properly.  Yankees call it different and they name the battle by the nearest river or creek.  They call it The Battle of Antietam Creek!  After Gen’l Robert E Lee went home, Lincoln started that emancipation bull shit!”

“Well!” said the constable, “your probably more than a hunnert -fifty years too late.  Our Courthouse was burnt in the fall of 1864. Any paper in there is gone for sure.  But, I’m a Pickens . I had twelve head of kinfolks from around here that fought in that war and none of ‘em named Beauford.  There’s Pickenses in the next county – no relation – I suggest you try their courthouse and all. It was never burnt.”

“I’ll let you off with a warning about our speed limits.  Just go back to the tracks and turn left. US 441 will take you to the next county seat .. . and  good luck about finding your Uncle Beauford.”  the constable said.

I turned the Jeep back toward the tracks. Now I stayed in second gear to make it harder to stray over the 20 MPH barrier. 

I got to the tracks, and when I looked down the road, I  discovered why I had missed both the turn and the 20 MPH speed limit.  A big BOILED P-NUTS stand shielded both the route sign and the speed limit sign from view. I wondered if the operator of that stand was named  Pickens.

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