Giving Sherman A Ride

At exactly that point where afternoon ends and evening begins the parson began his trek across North Georgia. He steered the hybrid along the winding secondary highways that no doubt had begun as Indian hunting paths through the mountains. About fifteen miles east of the Amicolala Falls, the highest east of the Mississippi River, he saw him.

He was walking westward along the highway. The parson came upon him from the back as he was walking along the left side of the highway facing the oncoming traffic. His attire first caught attention. It was almost like a Civil War officers frock coat, if but a little shorter. Dark green in color, the coat flapped at the bottom in rhythm with the walker cadence. Just as the parson drew near, he turned and in a half-hearted gesture held up his hand in the traditional hitchhiker's thumb up pose. The parson thought to himself: Not this time. I don't have time.

The parson looked at the man's face as he passed him by. Fifty yards down the road the parson slowed his car. Did he look like him, really? The parson stopped. He looked in the rear view mirror, but the momentum of the car had carried him out of sight. He stopped on the shoulder. He thought.

No one the parson's age, whose great grandmother, as a child, had seen her farm burned during what she called the War of Northern Aggression, would fail to recognize the likeness of William Tecumseh Sherman. The parson realized he's just passed him. He contemplated what he thought he'd just seen for a moment. The parson, then, made a U-turn.

Approaching the hitchhiker, the parson slowed again. He squinted. Sure enough, the man looked like Sherman returned, frock coat and all. Pulling alongside the man, the parson asked, “Where you headed.”

“A. J.'s” said the man.

“A. J.'s?” the parson repeated. “How far is it?”

“Don't rightly know. Them folks back there said it was up this highway a piece. They said I might be able to get a ride to Chattanooga there.”

“Hop in,” said the parson. “I'll take you.”

The likeness of Sherman seated himself in the passenger seat, buckled himself in, and patted his frock coat pocket. “This here's my water jug,” he said. “I don't carry no weapons.” He then pulled a plastic bottle complete with straw from the pocket. “Want a sip?”

“Thanks, but I'm fine.”

“So, I don't remember a store along this road called A. J.'s.”

“Ain't no store,” he said. “It's a town.”

The parson thought a moment. “Ah, Elijah. You want to get to Elijah.”

“That's what I said, 'A. J.”

“You live around here?” asked the parson.

“I'm from Texas.”

“How'd you get into the mountains?”

“I walked.”

“You walked from where.”

“Some place called Gainesville.”

The parson used to live in Gainesville. He knew all the possible routes. “How long have you been walking?”

“Don't know. Left the Salvation Army there this morning.”

The parson did some calculations. The man must have been walking for a minimum of nine hours.

“What got you to the Salvation Army?”

“Just stopped there on my journey.” He looked toward the parson. “Hey, yesterday this lady let me rake some leaves. I got money. I got nine dollars. I can help you with the gas.”

The parson looked back at him carefully. He was. He was the spitting image of Sherman as he appeared in those Civil War pictures.

“Where's your journey going?” the parson asked.

“Don't know. When I got out of jail in Texas two years ago I decided to take a journey until I figured out what to do with myself.”

There wasn't any conversation between the two for a while. That didn't mean there was no conversation. Sherman talked to himself. Lots of curves on this road. Pause a few minutes. My feet are hot. Pause a few more minutes. This ride will help a bit.

The two approached a convenience store.

“I got nine dollars. If you want to stop I'll but you a cup of coffee.”

“You want to stop for something?” asked the parson.

“Nope. I'm happy riding around these mountain roads. Just wanted you to know I can buy you that coffee.”

“I'm fine,” said the parson. “Tell me your name.”

“Terry,” he said. “My name is Terry.”

The parson breathed a sigh of relief. If he'd said Bill, or William, it would have been too much.

“Why do you want to get to Elijah?” asked the parson.

“Somebody told me I could catch the bus there to get to Chattanooga. You know I can buy my ticked. I've got nine dollars.”

“Terry, I'm not sure the bus runs through Elijah.”

There was silence for a long while as the car twisted and turned through the mountain roads.

“You know where the seventy-five road is?”

“You mean Interstate Seventy-five?”

“Oh, no, it's interstate. That's bad. Can't walk on the interstate. They'll put you in jail.”

It got quiet again. It was quiet a long time. Finally the parson pulled his cellphone out and called a church member. “You know where the closest bus station is for someone to catch a bus to Chattanooga?”

“I'll call you back,” said the member. And he did shortly. He gave the parson the street address of where to catch the bus in a town twenty miles north of where the parson lived. The parson thanked him, pulled over to the shoulder of the road and programmed his Garmin to take him there. The parson pulled out and informed Terry of their destination.

It got quiet again, quiet as regards conversation. But Terry mumbled. Catch the bus. Long pause. My feet are hot. Pause. Legs sore. Pause. Maybe get there tomorrow.

The parson broke in. “Terry, why are you going to Chattanooga?”

“Well, my brother lives there. I think he lives there. I haven't talked to him since I was ten. But that's where we used to live. He could still live there. I've got this nine dollars to help out.”

“Don't worry about it, Terry.”

They rode on in silence. Eventually the Garmin announced, “Arriving at destination.” The parson pulled into the parking area.

Terry got out of the car and pointed toward a truck stop next door. “Look, I've got nine dollars. I could buy you something to eat.”

The parson smiled. He held out his hand and said, “Tell you what, Terry, if you'll keep that nine dollars for yourself, I'll give you this twenty.”

Terry scratched his head. He looked at the parson. “That's a good deal, ain't it.”

“It is a good deal, Terry. You should take it.”

Terry reached for the bill. He stepped back from the car, walked in front and waved to the parson. As he passed near the parson's side he was mumbling. “I've got twenty-nine dollars.”

The parson pulled out and headed home, back in the direction he'd come. As he did he said to himself, “If my great-grandmother knew I'd just driven Sherman's look-alike back through the Atlanta campaign she'd kill me.”

Comments

[wondering aloud]

Thank you....thank you for writing...thank you for carrying on writing...and thank you for sharing your writing with us

i really truely apreciate it

[Don]

Thanks for yout stories. They feed my soul. When you say you lived in Gainesville, do you mean Texas, Florida, or somewhere else? I am a UM pastor in Gainesville, TX.

[Don]

Sorry, just noticed he said he had walked it in one day -- couldn't be Texas! Must be Tenn. Must read more carefully next time. But if you're ever in Gainesville, TX, stop by and say hello.

[Questing Parson]

Don - It's Gainesville, Georgia. So we both have UMC pastor in Gainesville on our record. We'll have to debate which one of our bishops gave the best deal.