Mr. Write's Page

A memoir of Christmas 1966.

Chapter 7 – Go, Dogs!

Early the next morning, December 31st, I took a photograph of the view of the brick wall out my window and departed the Hotel Maurice with great relief. Although it was cold and foggy, I proceeded to stroll around Dallas and spent an hour contemplating Dealey Plaza, where President Kennedy was shot.

The Young Democrats of Georgia had placed a wreath on the grassy knoll, I noted, probably as an insult to Dallas and SMU. With a glance back over my shoulder at the Texas School Book Depository, I took a cab to the train station and stashed my bags in a locker.

My game ticket was for a seat on the 30-yard line, in the Georgia section, which certainly made the game more fun, even though I didn’t know anyone out of all those raucous Bulldog fans.

The contest itself was no contest. Coach Dooley put the reserves in early. Georgia beat SMU 24-9, and the next day Sports Illustrated picked it as the dullest of the bowl games.

Maybe so, but I loved it. Which was a good thing, because the party, as they say, was over. I was about to celebrate the New Year while hurtling across Texas on a train, my vacation having declined to a whimper.

Chapter 8 – Night Train to Clovis

The final leg of my journey began in the Dallas train station at 8 p.m. New Year’s Eve. It ended in New Mexico 14 hours later. That particular train route offered no Pullman service, no club car, and no dining car service until 7 a.m., so I was obliged simply to sit there and endure the night.

I read, watched the terrain swoosh by, and sipped from a pint of Wild Turkey, which I had the foresight to purchase in Dallas before we pulled out.

That pint was my companion for the evening and my solace when the new year came at midnight. The seven or eight passengers in my car were not convivial. We staked out separate areas of the coach and stayed put. My guess is that most, like me, were quietly thinking about the holiday – and avoiding thoughts of its end.

Just after 3 a.m., we made a stop in Littlefield, Texas. I stumbled off the train in search of food, but was out of luck. The station was padlocked for the night, except for the restrooms.

I went into the men’s room, washed my face, and peered into the mirror. My image was rumpled and raccoon-eyed, with a lapel button that read, “SGOD OG.” My ears were ringing. I had a ferocious headache.

Back outside at the end of the deserted platform was a lone drink machine. I sipped on a Coke. I was a vortex of unhappiness.

Several hours later in the dining car, breakfast was a welcome balm for my body, if not my spirit. At 10 a.m. we reached Clovis, whereupon I took a taxi to my apartment and crashed on the couch.

A few hours later, a small dog rousted me awake. It was a dachshund puppy. The day after Christmas, John and Ted had driven to Lubbock and bought her. We named her Garbo.

So ended my vacation. So ends my story.