Mr. Write's Page

During my first year in college, Winter Quarter 1961, I went to Macon for the weekend with three friends from my dorm.

All four of us were freshmen. Buddy and Hugh were from Macon, and Warren was from Baxley. As for me, my friends considered Suwanee to be within Atlanta’s Event Horizon, so I was deemed to be from the detested big city.

It was Friday after dark. Our destination was Hugh’s house, which would be our base of operations. On Saturday night, we had tickets to a James Brown concert. It was to be my first concert experience.

Traditionally, two kinds of students attend the University of Georgia: ordinary kids and small-town rich kids. UGA is the place well-to-do families send Johnny and Betty for a college experience before they come home, settle down, and take over the family business.

Buddy, Hugh, and I were ordinary kids. Warren was a small-town rich kid.

Warren had money because his father was a moonshiner. Well, maybe that was a sideline job, but by whatever means, Daddy was a successful man. Consequently, Warren had everything a college student could desire, including a supply of the smoothest, most delicious homebrew that ever touched my lips.

My experience with moonshine is limited, but I know the good stuff, and this was it.

Warren always had a Mason jar or two stashed in his room. He was happy to share, but he never overdid it, and we were careful about mooching. Maybe that’s why we remained friends.

Warren, of course, had a car. And what a car it was: a baby blue 1958 Ford Thunderbird convertible.

A car and free alcohol. Two good reasons to be friends with Warren.

That Friday night, we were happily cruising down U.S. 129, the highway from Athens to Macon. Because of the cold, the convertible top was up. No one was drinking; Hugh’s parents would have gone bananas. Warren was observing the speed limit and driving sensibly. Everything was strictly on the up-and-up.

Then, on a long straightaway, we hit an ice patch.

Instantly, the sound the T-bird made as it rolled down the highway changed. The roar of the tires became an eerie hiss.

After a brief moment, still traveling at 55, the car eased into a slow-motion spin. All four of us, including Warren, sat stock still as the Thunderbird slowly slid in a complete circle.

Milliseconds after we completed our 360, the tires barked as we came to the end of the ice patch and were back on dry pavement. The Thunderbird continued hurtling through the night as if nothing had happened.

Nobody said a word. Then we all began babbling at the same time.

“Holy shit!”

“I can’t believe it!”

“Thank you, God!”

“I turned loose of the wheel! Didn’t even try to steer!”

“Holy shit!”

“What if we had been sideways when that ice patch ended?”

“Our ass woulda been grass, man!”

“Holy shit!”

But, our hearts were young and healthy, and no damage was done. We went on the Hugh’s house, spared his parents the distress of knowing about the incident, and had a great weekend.

James Brown was awesome.

Taking a spin is a 1958 T-bird.

James Brown in the 60s, sayin' it loud.