 
Travels With Leslie 2 
 
August 8, 1993 
 
     SMITHSONIA, GEORGIA -- In just about every little 
roadside diner across America sits an older, talkative guy.   
They sit on stools at the counter -- never at tables or 
booths.  They have plenty to say to those who are willing to 
listen, but they never speak unless spoken to first. 
 
     Those first words are usually a stranger's last. 
 
     They told me later that "Pops" was a nice enough guy 
with many good things to say.  The locals knew all of his 
stories and confirmed that they were pretty much the way it 
was, although the facts changed a little on each retelling. 
 
     "A young lady has got to be careful traveling," he 
said.  "Things are different today." 
 
     I estimated him to be in his 70s.  He avoided my eyes, 
studying instead the coffee cup in front of me. 
 
     "Kids today don't know where they're going, so it's 
hard to know when to stop.  They don't know if they got to 
where they're headed when they're there." 
 
     The waitress didn't need to be asked for a refill.  The 
cup was automatically kept brim full.  It was a service of 
the house . . . the least she could do for a stranger 
willing to listen.   Maybe she considered it unwise to 
interrupt the conversation by asking. 
 
     "It's dangerous out there," Pops continued.  "You could 
end up hookin' up with the wrong fella'.  Man's gotta have a 
purpose and a direction.  He's gotta have something himself 
so he don't want what someone else has got." 
 
     I tried out one of my best forced smiles.  I am 
twenty-five years old.  When I was 18 I used to fool people 
into thinking I was twenty-one.  Now, to many, I'm just a 
"kid."  His assumption that I was on the road to find any 
man -- good, bad or indifferent -- was even more bothersome.  
It took me out of my story. 
 
     "Take my daughter now, she was different.  That girl 
had judgement, she did.  She took out of here more than ten 
years ago with a guy who was going places.  She's up in New 
York now livin' it up with the yankees." 
 
     I have done a lot of traveling.  Enough to know that 
Pops had detected my midwest accent and that he was not 
talking about the baseball team.  I wondered if it was 
obvious to him as well that this was my first trip alone. 
 
     "She didn't know what she wanted but she knew how to 
spot someone who did, that's for sure.  Don't hear from her 
but I know she's got money." 
 
     Pops went on and described his daughter.  Apparently, 
she has hair the same length and shade as mine.  She was a 
little taller and not as shy.  She, too, had pretty eyes but 
hers "wondered more."  He did a poor job of hiding the pain 
he felt when he explained that his daughter was not much of 
a listener and that she had her own ideas about life.  His 
forehead formed wrinkles when he hurt. 
 
     "She's where she wants to be, that's a fact.  She knew 
how to pick 'em.  I hope you have the same luck.  Girl like 
you doesn't need to start running around with a horse 
thief." 
 
     I asked for directions for where I was headed.  I 
wanted to get off Interstate 16 and take the side roads.  A 
lonely highway seemed the perfect place for me.  He was 
happy to comply. 
 
     "Lots of hard working people down around there," he 
said.  "You'll see their farms from the highway.  Work 'em 
day and night.  Some good men on that land.  Lot of them 
need a wife around." 
 
     Abruptly he got up to leave.  "Good luck to you, young 
lady.  Just keep your eyes open, you'll find a fella' knows 
where he belongs." 
 
     I watched him walk out to a beat-up pickup truck and 
drive off.  I finished my coffee and left the money on the 
counter. 
 
     "Hope he didn't bother you much," the waitress said, 
raking the bills toward her. 
 
     "Not at all," I smiled again.  "Interesting man.  He 
left kinda' fast." 
 
     "Takes off at the same time everyday.  Lives up near 
Wheeler Heights.  Lonely little place on about ten acres or 
so." 
 
     "Yeah, he seemed kinda' sad." 
 
     The waitress started to walk toward the cash register, 
then paused in her tracks.  "Sad story.  Lost his wife a 
while back.  She was pretty as a picture.  Big part of his 
life." 
 
     I paused, trying to think of how to ask about what 
happened.  The waitress understood. 
 
     "She was much younger.  Left him for another man." 
 
     I sighed and shook my head.  It did seem strange that 
he did not mention his wife during our conversation. 
 
     "Like I said, sad story," the waitress said.  People up 
in Wheeler still talk about that couple.  Say it would have 
turned out different if they ever had children." 
           
      
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                         Copyright (c) 1993, by Leslie Meek 
                                   All rights reserved 
        
        
