style="font-size:15px;"> Black folks had their own taxi service, too. Our part-time nanny, Viola, would arrive at our house in a Walker cab to care of my little sister, Tootle, so that Mom could work as a bookkeeper at the local Ford dealer.
Viola was a great cook who dipped snuff and spit in a soup can while she watched soap operas, and she didn’t put up with any backtalk from little white kids. After a spanking she gave Moose, he shaped up. Sometimes he and Tootle would sit in her lap while she would hum them a melody.
I've always wondered why so many black people stayed in Waycross instead of moving to Atlanta, where they could get better jobs.
Waycross is 240 miles south of Atlanta, and 60 miles west of the coastline, with US 1 running right through it, only to jig 60 miles off to the east, through the swamp and on into Jacksonville.
Interstate highways might have been running through Eisenhower's mind, but only two-lane winding roads ran through South Georgia, and God help you if you got stuck on one behind a lumbering, overloaded pulpwood truck. Following them were long lines of cars with fins the size of surfboards, big battleships that got about five miles to the gallon.
We had gas stations on every corner, and one time they had an all-out price war. I don’t know who started it, but for a while there you could fill up for 10 cents a gallon, unless you had New York license plates, in which case you were charged the customary 25 cents per gallon.
Back in the '50's, it seemed that every resident of New York City thought it was mandatory that they drive down US 1 to Florida once each summer.
Noting that Waycross was the last Georgia town on their way south, carloads of Yankees would barrel on through it. What they didn't take into account was that a long stretch of the Okefenokee lay between there and Jacksonville.
Just out of town on US 1 stood a big sign saying, "JACKSONVILLE IS 93 MILES – NO GAS, NO MOTELS, NO KIDDING – TURN AROUND HERE TO RETURN TO WAYCROSS." For whatever reason, some Yankees went past it, and past a special turnaround lane, and drove on into the dark swamp. Maybe some of them made it all the way to Florida.
But even for those New Yorkers smart enough to stop and pay a quarter for a dime's worth of gasoline, the trip sometimes went south in more ways than one.
To fill their bellies as well as their tanks, they had to go to the Green Frog, the only restaurant in town. Bemused by the regional fare on the menu, the unsuspecting Yankees would order fried frog legs and, of course, fried peach pies.
The joke was on them the next day, though, when they would take off without knowing the next restroom was more than 90 miles away. After a while, with desperation setting in, some would have their pit stop delayed another 20 minutes or so while they hastily signed a speeding ticket and promised the trooper that they'd slow down.
Back then, cars lacked air-conditioning, and the Yankees found out that they couldn’t even lower their windows to make the ride more bearable. The odor of the surrounding swamp was worse than the smell inside.
I didn’t feel any pity for those Damn Yankees until, at age 7, I was informed that I was born on Long Island, New York. I was mortified! What if people that I knew found out I was really a Yankee? I knew that Wiz was born in Chicago, and that he got beat up all the time because he talked funny.
At least I didn’t talk like a Yankee, and both my parents were from the South, so no one ever suspected. But whenever the subject came up later on in life, I would point out that I was born on the southern part of Long Island.
Back in the sunny South, we'd spend winter days outside, playing baseball, war, or -- my favorite -- football. Like most Southern towns, Waycross was crazy about football.
Just like the University of Georgia, our high school had a bulldog mascot and wore red and black uniforms. One year, the Waycross Bulldogs won the state championship, defeating the Red Elephants of Gainesville, way up in North Georgia. We listened to the game on a transistor radio.
On my last visit to Waycross, I found it full of memories but much smaller than it used to be. The Green Frog was gone, the tallest building in town was boarded up, and the movie theater was closed. Since the interstate highway bypassed the town, no more Yankees were invading from up north.
After so many people had moved away, probably to Atlanta, Waycross had to consolidate the city and county high schools. Since they couldn’t keep the same mascot, some Yankee renamed them the Ware County Gators. How could it be? They'd copied the Florida Gators! And everybody in South Georgia knows that nothing good comes out of Florida except I-95, whether it's a Spaniard or a mascot.
Meet the Southern Fried Folks
If my life was a movie, the first song on its soundtrack would be sung by my fellow Georgians, the Allman boys. Lord, I was born a ramblin' man … It's my favorite of all time. You don't have to be a Southerner like me to know every word of it, but if you are, you do.
They call me Deuce, and I wasn't born in the back seat of a Greyhound bus, but I've been up and down old Dixie Highway 41, which runs from South Georgia to Atlanta, almost as many times as I've heard Gregg and Duane sing about it. I've lived a life on the move, tryin' to make a livin' and doin' the best I can.
I've seen good times and bad, and had some fun along the way, but through it all, my family was always there. And before I can share any more recollections, I have to talk about those Southern Fried Folks. As my Daddy said, “You may not like us but you will remember us.”
We only have one famous relative in show business. My Aunt Edith was the family fortuneteller. I reckon she foresaw a glamorous and prosperous future for her daughter, since she encouraged her to go into show business using her only God-given talent. And sure enough, my cousin, following her mom's advice, took the stage name Tee Tee and in 1955 became the highest-paid stripper in Atlanta.
One day, I got a look at her publicity pictures. No wonder she made so much money! My Mom was so proud of her, and our neighbors were impressed when we showed them the pictures.
While the rest of us are not famous, we're a typically dysfunctional bunch, and the one thing we have in common is that we're stubborn to the point of being called jackasses, or worse, by a lot of people, including ex-spouses, preachers, neighbors, distant relatives, onetime friends, and sometimes even one another.
Since so many of the stories I have to share include my immediate family, I'll introduce them:
I have two brothers and a sister, and like many other baby boomers, our generation was the first not to live on a farm.
My older brother was the smartest one of us, but he filled his brain with so much book-learning that not much room was left in it for any common sense. When we were growing up, he always knew everything. Every time I'd ask him a question, he'd answer it, and then tell me how stupid I was if I hadn't understood every word he'd said.
We called him Wiz, because he was a math genius. With an IQ of 120, he could do 12th grade math when he was 12 years old.
On his first day of high school, he came home with six textbooks for the year. The next Monday, I noticed he didn't have any of them with him when he left the house, and he told me he didn't need them because he'd read every one of them over the weekend.
Besides being the firstborn, Wiz was always the first
