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“I want my beach ball!”
In July 1957 our family of six set out in our 1956 Pontiac to visit relatives in Plant City, Fla. As the sun came up we left with our food and drinks packed. We drove south on Hwy. 301, a two-lane road that was the main route from North Carolina to Florida at that time. Our windows were rolled down since air conditioning was quite a luxury back then. About an hour into the trip my little brother, Wayne, discovered that he had left his beach ball at home. “I want my beach ball!” he cried. We explained what wonderful things we could see and do in Florida, but he still wanted his beach ball. We counted cows, sang songs and told stories to pacify him. We passed him from the back to the front seat many times. (This was before seat belts and child seats.) Every time the conversation lagged even a little bit Wayne would start again, “I want my beach ball!” Daddy was not one to stop when he set out on a trip, so we only made stops for gas and necessities as the day got hotter and Wayne’s cries of “I want my beach ball!” intensified. Daddy finally promised Wayne that he would buy him a beach ball as soon as we got to Florida. That hot July trip seemed to go on forever, but by 10 p.m. we were greeting Uncle Dan and Aunt Eva. The next morning the whole family went with Wayne to pick out his new beach ball. We were all totally dismayed when he decided to get a dump truck instead. Gay C. Creech |
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