Driving While an Idiot

An activity the ALGTS group regularly did together several times every summer was go horseback riding at Ranch Roy-L in High Hill, about 65 miles west of St. Louis on I-70. We would usually go on Friday or Saturday evenings for night rides or, on occasion if it wasn’t too hot, on early Saturday afternoon rides. Bob J. originally found the place and we adopted it as a really fun thing to do that wasn’t prohibitively expensive for part-time employed college students.

One particular Saturday afternoon we met, as usual, at Bob J’s house and everybody left at the same time for High Hill. Naturally, with the testosterone pumping, the drive turned into a macho race to see who would be the first car to arrive, and consequently, the most macho driver (meaning the stupidest) of the group. And as usual, it came down to a contest between Jerry O. and me. For some reason I either can’t recall or never knew in the first place, Jerry and I almost immediately became friendly rivals as soon as we met. Especially in anything remotely sports related. He was a good-looking guy, not overly bright for an electrical engineering major, and a better than average athlete. He also affected a smug, superior attitude, which as I think about it may have been the cause of my slightly negative feelings toward him.

On the drive to Ranch Roy-L, Jerry and I gradually outdistanced the saner members of the group who were driving at or near the speed limit of 70 MPH. We were neck and neck almost the whole distance, hitting speeds of close to and frequently above 100 MPH. But, just before the High Hill exit, I maneuvered around an eighteen wheeler and pulled off the Interstate in front of him. The race was still on, with over five miles plus of gravel road to our destination. With three passengers in each car we flew along the road, wild young men without a care in the world, going well over 50 MPH up and down fairly steep hills and valleys, churning up clouds of dust and laughing like the utter fools we were.

Without decreasing speed, I came to a slight dip in the road and then a sharp rise. As we crested the hill and headed downward my heart nearly stopped from instantaneous horror. Immediately in front of me, not more than seventy or eighty feet away, a pick-up truck was parked in my lane, facing my direction. An elderly woman, her eyes wide in fear as she watched our hell-for-leather approach, sat on the passenger side, while the old man, probably her husband, stood at the edge of the road opening his mail box. Just behind them, in its proper lane, another pick-up truck, driving at what I guessed was 30 MPH, was heading toward us. All that information hit in a nano-flash.

My only thought was there was no way to could avoid a horrific crash. Instinctively, choosing the only alternative available, I floored the gas pedal, swerving my old Ford into the on-coming lane, through the narrow opening between the two pick-up trucks, and then back into the correct lane. But I knew that Jerry, whose vehicle was probably less than four car lengths behind me, couldn’t possibly make the same maneuver.

As soon as we slid around the last pick-up, in a gut-wrenching panic I looked in the rear view mirror just in time to see Jerry O. jerk his wheel to the right, steering the car down the grassy embankment along the shoulder and past the startled farmer at the mail box. When he passed the parked pick-up he steered back onto the road and was behind me again. The look of death on his face certainly mirrored mine. Both of us slowed to a rational 25-30 MPH and drove at that speed the rest of the way to the Ranch.

After parking in the lot I tried to get out of the car but my legs were trembling so badly I was unable to stand. I sat there for five or ten minutes, fighting a terrible nausea that threatened to leap up my throat at any moment. We had all nearly been killed because I was driving like a total asshole, an irresponsible fool. Worse, we almost killed two or more innocent people who had been guilty of minding their own business. Yes, I was sick, emotionally and physically. It took many days, weeks even, for me to erase the sight of the horror on that poor woman’s face from my mind’s eye.

I never again drove like that. Never, never, never. Sure, I continued making my fair share of mistakes behind the wheel and on more than one occasion drove at speeds that exceeded the posted limit. But never again did I engage in macho craziness. It was a lesson I never forgot.

Candy Sex

Saturday night. It was After Eight. The Air Heads and Nerds were already snooring up a storm but I was ready to Rolo in the sack with a live Kit Kat. So I stopped at the Milky Way Lounge on 5^th Avenue. I was looking to Skor with little miss Cookies & Creme. Four or five Chiclets were hanging at the bar. They watched me come in and tried to hide their Snickers behind their hands when I hawked a couple juicy Goobers in the corner. They probably thought I was a Milk Dud ‘cause I was dressed like a Jolly Rancher. So I put my Charleston Chew in my back pocket, popped a Breath Saver and checked out the delectable Sweetarts that were strolling around. Couple of them was real Smoothies but most were plain old Mary Janes looking for a Big Hunk to make them feel like Cherry Mashes.

I was ready trot out the Charm by coming up with a couple sure fire Icebreakers when this gorgeous Caramello at the end of the bar turned to size me up. She was a Red Hot mama if I ever saw one. And when she stood up and showed me her Big Cup profile I liked her a whole lot better. She was sporting the biggest set of Bazookas you ever saw. She dumped her two Sidekicks like the Runts they were and made a Fast Break for me. I waved her over, feeling like a big-time Sugar Daddy and said, “Hey, Baby Ruth, why don’t we go outside and have a few Chuckles?

We both liked that idea even though up close I could see she was a little Chunky, sporting a Tootsie Roll around her waist. But it was late and my Twizzler wasn’t getting any younger. And anyway, what’s a little Jelly Belly when you’re ready to Crunch and Munch. She ran her hand Twix my legs real friendly-like and, Oh Henry, I knew it was time for a Slo Poke. I returned the favor by stroking her Whoppers and knew she was no Mirage. I was about to ask her if I could hit the Hershey trail but then she turned those Atomic Fire Ball eyes on me and all I could say was, “Babe, I’m Forever Yours.”

Soon as we got outside she grabbed my Whatchamacallit, looked down and complained, “Hey, you Pixy Stix. You been bragging about your 100 Grand Bar and all you’re showing me is a Zero. That miserable thing ain’t even a Bite-Size Butterfinger. It’s a Wonka Runt. And what are these damn things, Raisinettes? You had me expecting a couple hefty Zagnuts.”

Must admit she made me feel bad. So I told her, “Look here, Sugar Baby, I got a reputation as an All Day Sucker, not a lousy Blow Pop. Give me a Bit-O-Honey and let me play with your Almond Joy and then you’ll hit Payday.”

Sure enough, she laid a few heavy Kisses on me and Abba Zabba up popped Jumbo Butterfinger. We got down to making beautiful music. I mean it was a regular Symphony of Smores. When I slipped my hand down her pants and felt her Fuzzy Peach, she laid a lip lock on my Willy Wonka and Oh Henry it felt like I had fallen into a Pot of Gold. But just before Starburst time the Three Musketeers pulled up in a squad car with red lights flashing, looking for Mr. Goodbar. So we had to Take Five and Skittle out of there in a big hurry.

The moral of this story is simple. The next time you’re at the grocery store and your kids say they just want to check out the Good and Plenty at the candy counter, drag their asses into the john and wash their mouths out with soap. Wise up, the little bastards are interested in candy sex, not licorice.

Rat Racing

Rat Racing 01

Time for a few more car stories. The sad but simple truth is as a youth I drove like someone possessed. Fast or faster were the two gears I employed. On city streets I developed a style I called “Rat-Racing,” which involved weaving in and out of rush-hour traffic (the Rat Race) to gain the slightest advantage. It was dangerous and stupid to say the very least. And it was a driving style that got me into trouble on a number of occasions. The first time I ever ran from a cop was while hurrying to the University one morning, trying desperately to get Jack to school so he wouldn’t be late for an 8:00 class. I had overslept and he was really in a pissy mood, ragging on me about how irresponsible I was.

Naturally, I was speeding on Natural Bridge Road toward Grand Boulevard in heavy, rush hour traffic when, parked in the curb lane, I saw a St. Louis policeman in a marked patrol car armed with the type of radar unit that was fixed to the exterior of the car’s rear window. I even saw the gleeful expression on the cop’s face in my rearview mirror as I flew past his car.

I wasn’t going to stop for a ticket. No fucking way. Not with Jack in the passenger seat bitching about how I better not get him to class late, especially since I was the one who had been hard to get out of bed that morning. So I floored the accelerator, flying past and around motorists who doing the speed limit of 35 MPH. In my rear view mirror, I saw the cop car pull out, red lights flashing. A block down Natural Bridge I cut in front of a large delivery truck in the curb lane and quickly turned right on Spring Avenue, confident the cop’s view of my car was limited by the distance between us, traffic, and the truck body. At the next street I turned right again, drove to Vandeventer, turned left and headed south for SLU at only slightly over the speed limit. Sure enough, I lost the cop.

I’m positive he figured Jack and I were college students on the way to class so he drove to Grand, thinking I’d turn there. But we were gone with the wind. Despite all the extra maneuvers, we weren’t even a minute late for class, to Jack’s amazement.

Not too long after that, on a Sunday afternoon following a soccer match, I told Dad that I needed his car to drive to 5:00 Mass. To my surprise he told me that he and Mom were going to Pete Mosbacher’s for dinner and had to leave by 6:00 at the latest. [Author’s Note: Pete was Vice-President of Financial Affairs and CFO and my father’s direct boss] No problem, I said, confident I could make it in plenty of time even though the closest church offering a Mass at 5:00 was Blessed Sacrament, on Kingshighway, which was a fair distance from the house.

Once in the pew at Mass I relaxed, feeling totally pooped from the physical exertion at the earlier soccer game. Before I knew it I was asleep. And didn’t wake up until the sermon was over. I yawned, leaned over and casually glanced at a nearby watch and nearly fell out of the pew. It was 5:45. The priest had talked for over 30 minutes. Holy Shit! More worried about my father grounding me than God striking me dead for not staying for the entire Mass I tip-toed out of the church and ran like a mad fool to the car. Sticking my foot all the way to the floor, I flew down Kingshighway, made an illegal left on Natural Bridge Road and drove like the devil himself was behind me, hitting 50-55 MPH on the city streets. Turning at Goodfellow Boulevard, I realized if I really hit it I would only be a few minutes late. After looking all around and seeing no cops, I poured the coals to the green Chevy monster. After that I didn’t look down at the speedometer once, but if I don’t admit to exceeding 60 MPH I’d be a shameless liar.

Just before turning left on Henner Avenue, I down shifted, rather than braked, and heard the unmistakable screech of a car in a high-speed, four-wheel slide. Thinking the absolute worst, meaning the police were on my ass, my heart leapt into my throat. My eyes jumped to the rear view mirror. No police car there. Even more puzzled, I tapped my brakes to make certain the sound wasn’t coming from my car. No. Then, an instant before turning left on Henner, out of the corner of my eye I detected movement. Turning slightly to my right I saw a police car passing me in a tire-smoking, four-wheel sideways slide. In absolute amazement, as the policeman slid past I stared directly into his eyes. Almost in slow motion I realized he was a young guy about my age. His eyes were as wide as saucers and as disbelieving as mine. My guess is that we were both thinking the same thing: HOLY SHIT!

Remember, all that happened in a split second. But in the next nanosecond I knew that the situation was tilted in my favor. Goodfellow Boulevard was six-lane roadway, with three lanes in each direction divided by a concrete median. The cop car had already slid past the median opening for Henner Avenue and the traffic behind us would prevent him from coming to a full stop, backing up, and making the turn. In addition, a heavy stream of traffic was heading south on Goodfellow toward us in the opposite lanes. To pursue me, the cop would have to continue a block north on Goodfellow, wait for traffic to clear, make a U-turn, drive back a block south and then turn right on Henner. By that time I should be safe in my father’s driveway. Makes sense, right?

All that zipped through my head in a flash. Without hesitation I completed the turn onto Henner and blasted down the street toward my house, my heart in my throat, my eyes glued to the rear view mirror to see if the cop was behind me. When I reached our house I realized almost too late that Dad was standing on the sidewalk, partially blocking the driveway, as impatient and pissed off as only he could be. In desperation, I jumped the curb, nearly wiping him out in the process. I ignored his shouts to park the car on the street. He must have realized something was amiss when he saw my white face as I told him, running up the steps as fast as my legs could go, that he had to come in the house for a minute before he and Mom left for Pete’s. Just before entering the house a quick glance at the street told me that the cop still hadn’t turned down Henner. Once inside, Mom demanded to know what was wrong. She had been watching out the window and had seen me nearly run Dad’s ass over.

I took a deep breath and started to explain that a cop was chasing me when we all heard the sound of a car being driven down our short residential street at high speed. I hurried to the window in time to see the police car fly past the house and turn left on Irving Street and shoot out of sight. It was a miracle that the cop had not seen the green Chevy parked in the driveway [Author’s Note: My parents had no garage, only a driveway along the side of the house].

Breathless and nervous as a canary being stalked by a hungry cat, I asked Mom if there was any way they could delay their departure for at least a few minutes. No chance. With a thunderously disapproving frown on his face and a few choice words about driving responsibly, Dad stalked out of the house, followed by Mom, who gave me a very disapproving, disappointed look I had seen many times before. In fear and trembling, I looked out the front window to see if the cop was in evidence. He wasn’t. The Rat Racing gods were with me.

About five minutes later, my heart still pounding, Bill and I went for a walk to see if the cop was hanging around. Sure enough, there he was, parked two blocks away on Stratford Avenue, eyeing cars suspiciously as they drove by. I was too nervous to stick around so we immediately turned and headed back home. Once safely inside the house, I was finally able to believe I had gotten away with it. Bill and I celebrated by having a few beers and laughing ourselves absolutely silly.

Rat Racing 02

That wasn’t the end of my escapades contra the police. On a beautiful, warm Sunday afternoon in late spring of 1966, feeling more than a little antsy and not able study one additional minute for finals, I offered to take Mom out for an ice cream cone. A suggestion to which she immediately agreed. Once in the car she suggested we drive toward the airport and enjoy the sun and warm air. On the way out Interstate 70, as usual I forgot there was such a thing as a speed limit and soon was doing 70 in a 55 MPH zone. Just as I passed the New Florissant Road access ramp, I spotted a Missouri Highway Patrol car parked on the side of the ramp. It looked like a shark equipped with radar. As soon as I passed the entrance ramp the patrolman donned the famous Smoky the Bear hat and turned on the red bubble gum machine light on top of his roof. He was coming after me, no doubt about it.

At that point I was heading west at about 75 MPH, with an open field in front of me. Behind me was a solid slug of traffic, three lanes full and several hundred yards thick. And the on-ramp where the cop had been parked was jammed with vehicles crawling slowly as they tried to enter the Interstate. My first and only impulse was to floor it, which I did immediately and went speeding toward the airport, with Mom in the passenger seat next to me, oblivious to the world, basking in the warm sunlight. After negotiating one broad curve, much of the rest of the drive to the Airport was a long straightaway. I poured the coals to the engine and we literally flew along, again my eyes were glued to the rear-view mirror, watching for the Highway Patrol car. At the end of that straight section, the interstate curved uphill to the left, peaked, and then descended so anyone exiting at the old Brown Road ramp could not be seen by cars behind to the east. So I got off at Brown Road and proceeded slowly across the overpass, watching as the trooper stayed on the Interstate below, his lights flashing merrily as he chased a wild but wily goose.

Just as I was sighing to myself in silent congratulation, Mom surprised the living shit out of me with her dry comment: “There he goes, you naughty boy.” And shook her finger sternly at me.

Knock me over with a feather. I couldn’t believe she knew all along what I was doing. I believe the next time I mentioned it to her was in the 1980s and we had a hearty laugh about the two of us criminals running from the State Police. Well, one criminal.

Desertification

                Complex human-induced process that results in the transformation of arid and semi-arid non-desert areas into desert or harsh desert-like environments. That process involves the progressive destruction or degradation of vegetative cover especially in what previously were transitional, semiarid regions bordering existing deserts. Other elements that are an integral part of the desertification process are accelerated erosion, salinization, loss of soil fertility, soil compaction, and the formation of duricrusts or soil crusts. Natural processes such as intensive and persistent drought can and do slowly cause these transformations, at least in part. But over the past several hundred years human intervention in the form of large-scale landscape alterations has rapidly turned dry but habitable regions like the Sahel in central Africa into non-productive arid wastelands. These human-cultural landscape alteration practices include the removal of natural vegetation for agriculture, overgrazing of rangelands that destroys plant cover, widespread introduction of non-native plant and animal species that dry down already stressed water tables, large-scale harvesting of forests and woodlands, and burning of extensive areas with subsequent water and wind erosion of the fragile dryland soils. The climatic impacts of that destruction include increased albedo leading to decreased precipitation, which in turn leads to decreased vegetation cover; increased atmospheric dust loading could lead to decreased monsoonal rainfall and greater wind erosion and atmospheric pollution with particulates.

A common misconception is that drought causes desertification. By definition, drought or, more accurately, drought cycles are directly associated with arid and semiarid landscapes. However, arid landscapes that are well-managed can and do recover when the rains that are normal for the area return. The single most important factor that increases land degradation in arid and semi-arid regions is the continued abuse of dryland habitats during drought conditions through human agency, specifically poor land management practices. In 1992 the well-known Henri Le Houérou (French botanist, former FAO research scientist, and international consultant on rangeland and arid land development) reworked his definition of ‘desertization’ to state that it is “. . . the irreversible growth of new desert landscapes in arid regions which, not long before, presented no such features.”

Author’s Note: The human suffering that has resulted from those landscape alteration practices is almost incalculable as millions of acres are lost each year, with little realistic hope for reclamation and rehabilitation in the span of human lifetimes. And by suffering I mean hunger, malnutrition, disease, starvation, and increased mortality rates especially in the young and old who are least able to fend for themselves.

Real World Problems: Although no continent except Antarctica is free from the problems of desertification the worst illustrations that can be found are from central Africa in the region known as the Sahel, stretching from Mauritania on the western coast through Mali, Niger, northern Nigeria, Chad, Sudan, Ethiopia, Somalia, and northeastern Kenya. What has happened is something like the following scenario. Typically, long-term drought conditions result in the die-off of already stressed vegetation. Cattle and, much worse, goats begin a desperate search for food and eat anything and everything in sight, effectively killing whatever is left of the vegetative cover as their human owners scrounge the landscape for the few remaining pieces of wood or woody shrubs that are immediately used for fuel. Vast areas become desert or desert-like almost overnight, with up to 30 miles of marginal grasslands being converted to desert year after year in the Sahel. That measurement involved many hundreds and even thousands of square miles since the 30-mile range mentioned above is in essence those 30 miles south of the previous boundary marking the separation of desert from drylands and typically runs from east to west across the entire Sahel.

Once the vegetation is removed by humans and beasts, the denuded landscape has no roots to anchor the weakly consolidated soil, which then blows away with the first sizeable gust of wind. For example, in the U.S., intense lobbying by off-road vehicle enthusiasts in the arid Southwest have succeeded in opening large tracts of federally-owned arid land to a variety of off-road vehicles, which when operated with recklessness break up the surface of fragile soils, opening them to water and wind erosion, and increasing soil loss in the delicate desert environment. In a matter of seconds, soils that took hundreds of years to develop can be destroyed by a motorcycle or ATV racing across what the drivers think of as sterile landscape suitable only for their gratification and amusement.

Once the fragile ecosystem balance has been disrupted, powerful storms commonly associated with arid regions pick up much of the remaining soil and silt, forming enormous dust storms that extend thousands of feet into the atmosphere. In Africa, that trail of human suffering and environmental devastation extends for well more than a thousand miles from the Atlantic to the Indian Oceans and has forced hundreds of thousands of people to leave their ancestral homes and migrate south, to already stressed and marginalized drylands that will likely experience the same fate as the lands they left. The only likely solution is to put in place population controls and training in better agricultural and soil conservation practices that have the potential to turn the situation around in the lifetimes of the indigenous peoples.

Real World Examples: Rather than ranging too far afield, an example in the Southwest seems appropriate, since the last thing I want to do is give the impression that desertification only happens in developing nations. Overgrazing and poor range/land management practices have made the Rio Puerco Basin of central New Mexico one of the most heavily eroded river basins of the American West and have increased the River’s high sediment load. Better also be thinking deforestation and accelerated erosion. If interested readers want a larger scale example, how about nearly the entire countries of Niger and Chad, which since suffering the devastating droughts of the 1970s have basically stopped growing high-value crops. Readers who are interested in a popular but perceptive analysis of desertification and politics in the American Southwest may want to see: Marc Reisner, Cadillac Desert : The American West and Its Disappearing Water, Revised Edition; New York: Penguin, 1993.

St. Louis University 02 and 03

Sometime in my junior year, the University started construction on the then proposed August A. Busch Student Center, at the intersection of Grand Boulevard and Laclede Avenue. Like many college students, I tried to save money by not purchasing the University’s expensive parking stickers and parked on public streets or in any space available. Which forced Jack and me to park in various spots teetering at the edge of legality. The very best parking place for all the ALGTS guys was right across Grand Boulevard from DuBourg Hall in a vacant lot owned by the University. It was that lot on which the Busch Center was to be located.

Construction of the Busch Center signaled the beginning of the end of our easily accessible free parking. But, like optimists and poor students everywhere, we were determined to park there until the bitter end. Naturally, we weren’t alone in using what unpaved lot. Dozens of other students whose pockets were as threadbare as ours had the same intentions. Consequently, you had to arrive well prior to 8:00 AM to have a ghost of a chance at a spot. Not that there was anything as formal as designated parking spaces. As I related above, the lot was unpaved, with poorly delimited access and egress lanes.

One afternoon, slightly after 3:30, Jack and I left DuBourg Hall to drive to our jobs at the Dairy. As soon as we arrived at the lot we realized we were faced with a big problem. Construction material stockpiling had even further reduced parking availability and cut the access lanes to one. And there, parked smack in the middle of the only access/egress to and from the lot was a new yellow Volkswagen Beetle, blocking the departure of at least six frustrated and very angry drivers who had been sitting in their cars fuming impatiently for quite a few minutes. Since Jack and I had to be at work at 4:00 and had no intention of showing up late and getting chewed out by our angry boss and having a full hour docked from our salaries, we immediately decided to remedy the situation.

While Jack waited by the car, I returned to the Arts Lounge and persuaded seven or eight ALGTS guys to help us. We charged across Grand Boulevard and, filled with righteous indignation and the strength of the pure of heart, positioned ourselves around the Bug, picked it up, carried it a few feet away, and placed the car so it straddled length-wise a recently poured concrete median.

The beauty was that median featured steel stanchions at either end that would prevent the car from being driven away. Poetic justice, indeed. Then we removed the valve stems from the tires and pitched them as far as we could. And left a nasty note on the windshield warning the inconsiderate owner what would happen to the car if we ever found it parked in a similar position again. Need I say we received a standing ovation from the people whose cars had been blocked by the Beetle and had been waiting most impatiently for the driver to return.

Mineralogy Field Trip

Several of my geology professors were first-class teachers with remarkable intellectual abilities. Easily the best of the lot was Dr. Kenneth Brill, with a PhD in Geology from Yale, who taught me geomorphology and paleontology. Brill was a man of obvious erudition who delighted in teaching students in the classroom and out in the field. From him I learned to love the discipline of geology. He was about average height, balding, with the wiry build of a man accustomed to vigorous outdoor activity. When I took his courses he had to be in his late 50s, but you would never know it from the way he out-hustled his students on field excursions. Brill forced me into a learning mode perhaps more than any other professor, with the exception of Bert McCarthy. He demanded that his students put in the work necessary to understand the materials. And he was the first professor who placed his discipline in both historical and personal contexts. He told us who his teachers had been, who their teachers were, and where they all stood in the intellectual tradition that was geology. It truly fascinated me.

Then there was Dr. Albert Frank, an exceedingly strange but very bright guy with a BS in Geology, MS in Mineralogy, and PhD in Geophysics. Frank taught the department’s grueling eight-hour course in Rocks and Minerals that lasted two full semesters and was mandatory for all majors and minors. Frank was a certified “Character” on campus. A rotund 5’7”, he exhibited a striking physical presence, partly because of his limping, nearly crippled, rolling “seaman’s” gait but largely because his right eye was sharply angled with respect to the left. In other words, Dr. Frank always appeared to be looking in two different directions simultaneously, like a chameleon. Imagine having a mineralogy professor who seemed able to watch both the front and the back of a room simultaneously during a rock and mineral identification exam. Disconcerting, to say the least, if you were contemplating cheating.

Frank was a master of his field. His standing bet with his mineralogy students was, at 5:1 odds, that he could identify any rock native to the State of Missouri and the formation it came from using only his hands. And those hands would be positioned behind his back. I personally lost $1 each in two separate bets. A couple other guys lost a lot more. Frank was incredible. He knew every rock and mineral in the State by touch. No joke. It was an uncanny demonstration of erudition.

In late April of 1964, Frank took five of us mineralogy students on a week-end field trip to the diamond mine in Murfreesboro, Arkansas. We left right after noon on Friday and were scheduled to return in the early evening on Sunday. Frank drove his car, a huge, fairly new Ford Victoria with an enormous interior that resembled the inside of a garbage truck. The man was not a paragon of cleanliness. The first leg of the trip was to Hot Springs. And the second to Murfreesboro. It was on that trip that I was first exposed to the reality of being in deadly fear of losing your life.

Frank drove like someone who was either demented, possessed by an uncontrollable desire to commit suicide, or half-blind. We assumed the latter case was operative. How many times he wandered across the double yellow lines, heading straight for an on-rushing vehicle, I can not recall. But it was in the dozens. Soon after we hit the single-lane highways south of St. Louis (no Interstates then in that part of the country and dual lane, divided highways were few and very far between), the other four students delegated me as quasi-official co-pilot since I was sitting in the middle of the front seat right next to Frank, ready at any moment to grab the wheel to avoid a collision. Which I actually did on at least three or four occasions.

By the time we stopped for dinner in northern Arkansas, I was so sick to my stomach from palpable fear I was unable to eat a bite. And quickly retired to the men’s room where I threw up violently. I was so nauseated I could scarcely walk. When I returned to our table in the restaurant, I saw a glass containing a whiskey sour in front of Frank and thought the worst. If his best driving was sober, what would he be like half-plastered? No way was I going to find out. I immediately ordered another drink for him, a double, paying for it myself. My fellow class-mates stared at me as if I were absolutely mad. Until I explained my plan when Frank went to the toilet. By the time he returned someone else had ordered another double for him. Which he initially turned down, on the grounds that he had to drive another four or five hours. That’s when I said it was only fair that we share in the driving duties. My turn was next. He could relax in the back seat until we got to Hot Springs.

At first he refused, saying as our professor he was responsible for us. Several of the guys at the table blanched at the terrifying thought that our attempt to get him loaded might just backfire and get us all killed. But when we walked back to the car I simply stood by the driver’s side and wordlessly held my hand out for the keys. Which, to our immense relief, he readily gave up. And promptly fell asleep in the back seat five minutes after we hit the road. We all relaxed and chatted like crazed magpies for hours, which was probably an indication of the enormous tension we had been under.

The visit to the diamond mine was anti-climactic; no one found anything remotely resembling a precious stone, despite grubbing in the dirt for most of Saturday. But the scenery on the journey back, on State Route 7, through the Ouachita Mountains and southern Ozarks, was truly spectacular, breathtakingly beautiful at every turn. It made the trip more than worthwhile. Route 7 is a winding, twisting devil of a road. Frank started driving on Sunday morning but we very quickly persuaded him to relinquish the wheel. And then we refused to give it up until we were safely back at the University. Whew! Were we overjoyed to be back in one piece. None of us got into a car that Frank was driving ever again. We might have been young and immature but we weren’t stupid.