Teach
01-07-2016, 06:18 PM
My Aching Feet: A Trip to Florida in the fall of 1963
My feet were bleeding. My socks were soaked in blood. Yet, I was happy. As “happy as a clam,” as my father used to say. A faint smile crossed my face. I was -- after all -- where I wanted to be. A race track. South Florida. East Fourth Avenue. Hialeah. How I got there…and why? Well, that’s the rest of this story.
Turn the clock back. Early December, 1963. Tragically, a few weeks earlier, President John F. Kennedy had been assassinated in Dallas. I was in a bad way, not just because of the death of President Kennedy, but for other reasons, as well. I was then in college. I had just entered my senior year; yet, I had troubles. Oh, it wasn’t that I needed to “go on the lam”. Nobody had “a contract” out on me. No one needed “to go to the mattresses”. In reality, I was “short”. Financially embarrassed. I had handed my last dollar to the bursar to pay for my college tuition that fall. Now, I was in the hole. I had gambled too much. I was losing. A “Michigan Roll”. That’s what I had. A U.S. Grant on the outside with a bunch of G.W.’s on the inner. I could hardly afford to buy myself lunch. My studies suffered. I withdrew from college in late November. I needed to get away. But where?
Well, in an impulsive, headstrong move, I headed south. Boston’s Park Square bus terminal was my starting point. Trailways. 1,400 grueling miles. About 37 hours. Miami, Florida. Foolishly, I bought a one-way ticket. Not that I wasn’t planning on coming back. It’s just that I thought I could win my return-trip down there.
Well, I was on my way. A cold, frosty December afternoon. I had about $60 in my wallet. Let the journey south begin. New York City. Philadelphia. Washington D.C. The Carolinas. “South of the Border” (where former Fed chief, Ben Bernanke, had worked…complete with sombrero). Then Georgia. Jacksonville. Orlando. Miami.
I recall that I arrived in Miami around 5 a.m. I’m exhausted. I’m a walking zombie. There’s a hotel next door to the bus terminal. The hotel, as I remember, was called “The Ponce De Leon”. At that moment, I sure could have used “The Fountain of Youth” (not the Kentucky Derby Prep kind that’s held at Gulfstream in late-February).
Well, I walk in to the hotel. I register and then get a room. “What’s the check-out time?” “11 a.m.” Six hours. I’ll need every bit of it.
I wake up just before 11 a.m. I shower. Put on fresh clothing. I return my room key. Pay my bill. Head out the door. I want to go to Hollywood, FL, just north of Miami. There’s a dog track there. I decide on “the poor man’s taxi.” I thumb. I get a ride all the way to Hollywood (it’s just beyond Hallandale and Gulfstream Park). I check into this motel. $5 a night, plus a 3% surcharge. Sounds like peanuts today. Yet, well over fifty years ago it was serious cash for a down-and-out degenerate. I book a room for that night.
It’s a little after noon. I’m starved. Not eating breakfast will do that to you. Yet, I’m on a limited budget. I’ve got to save my funds for the important stuff – gambling.
Well, I walk across the street (it’s actually a busy highway). I go into a drugstore. I think it was called Breeding’s. I proceed to buy a couple cokes and a can of Planter’s peanuts. Gourmet! I also buy a copy Hollywood’s dog racing program for that night. As I munch on my sumptuous lunch, I study the greyhound form. After lunch, befitting the life of a well-heeled gentleman, I take a nap.
I wake up about 5 p.m. I wash up and head out the door to the dog track that about a 1/8 mile down the road on the opposite side. I continue to study the form when I reach the track’s grandstand.
Let the racing begin. I remember it like it were yesterday. I think they called the lure: “Hollywood”. “Now here comes Hollywood”. I got a deuce riding on the nose of the #5 dog. Wouldn’t you know it, the dog “beats the box”. He goes box-to-wire and pays $7.20. Now you’re talking! I take my new-found winnings and buy a soft drink, a burger and some fries. Now, if I can keep things going. Unfortunately, I don’t.
When all is said and done, I had dropped close to $20. It’s an amount I can ill-afford to lose. So much for my promising start. I leave the track and head back to my motel room.
The next day, I head back across the street to the drugstore. I have a coffee and a doughnut. I find out that a bus that’s headed for Miami stops in front of the drugstore about every hour. About 20 minutes later I catch the bus. I tell the bus driver I want to go to Hialeah Park. He tells me the bus doesn’t go directly to Hialeah, but that I’ll have to get off about two miles to the east. My choice is to either walk, or hail a cab to go the rest of the way. I opt for the walking. It’s at that time that I notice that I have serious foot problems. My shoes – I bought them just before I left Boston – are just too narrow for my wide feet. As I walk toward the track, my tight shoes are causing me excruciating pain.
Well, I want to say it took me about 40 to 45 minutes to arrive at Hialeah Race Course. After I enter, I notice this huge pond (more like a lake in the infield). I proceed to buy the form and look over the races. In those days, no simulcasting. I recall that I got off to a decent start, but then, just as occurred at the dog track the previous evening, I started losing. Ticket after ticket hits the floor. All I remember is that I was making straight win bets, usually $2, sometimes I’d bet $5. I remember betting a horse named Cooperstown. He lost. Oh, one other thing I remembered. Something called “The Flight of the Flamingoes”. These big orange birds with long legs start, as if on command, to fly around the infield. Oh, I like animals, but frankly, I coulda cared less.
After the races, I catch a bus that’s taking “punters” to Hollywood Dog Track. I get on the bus. Several minutes later we arrive at the dog track. This is my last hurrah. I’m down to about $20. I remember getting a burger and a Coke. I skip the fries. I can’t do anything right. I take one last shot at a quinella but get beat in a photo. Dejection. I got maybe one picture of Abe Lincoln and some pocket change. I walk across the street to my motel.
Well, after I arrive, I’ve got a decision to make. Do I wait until morning and get a good night’s sleep, or do I head out the door? It’s now well after midnight. I decide to start thumbing north.
Just after I start thumbing, I get a short ride to Delray Beach. From there, a Delray Beach cop picks me up. He asks my name. He checks back on the two-way to see if there’s an APB out for me. There isn’t. The cop tells me he’s originally from Providence, RI. He takes me the length of Delray Beach. He leaves me off at the end the city limits. I’m back thumbing. I’m now in Boynton Beach, FL. It’s now well after 1 a.m. I’m thumbing for about ten or fifteen minutes when a late-model Caddie stops about a furlong ahead of me. I run toward the car. The guy inside – I’d put him in his 40s – asks where I’m headed. I say Boston. He tells me he not going that far but he’ll take me to Jacksonville. I remember saying “That’ll do”. It’s about 300 miles from Boynton Beach to Jacksonville. We’re on the road for close to six hours. I guess it’s strange what you remember after over fifty years ago, but I do recall that the guy who gave me the ride was into boxing. I got the feeling he might have been a boxer himself. We’re talking about Willie Pep. I tell the guy that a fellow who lived in my neighborhood once fought Willie Pep. I told him I couldn’t recall the guy’s name, but that he was nicknamed “The Boston Stringbean”. Oh, we also talked about Joe Louis, Billy Conn, Max Bear, Jack Sharkey (I would later teach his grandchildren). Actually, the whole thing was quite interesting and entertaining. It made the ride go by that much more quickly.
Well, it’s now morning, we’re about an hour or so south of Jacksonville. As we continue to head north – we had just passed St. Augustine – I’m beginning to think what am I going to do once I get to Jacksonville?
When we finally arrive. I thank the guy for the ride and wish him the very best. I enter the Jacksonville bus terminal. A temperature reading on a neaby bank says 32 degrees. At least I dressed for the weather with my winter coat. I go into the terminal and break my $5 bill for a cup of coffee and a piece of pastry.
As I sip on my coffee, I’m thinking I can’t thumb for close to 1,000 miles. Then, it dawns on me. My father – my parents divorced when I was just becoming a teen-ager – had re-married. The womanhe married had a sister who lived in the Jacksonville area.
Well I pick up the phone and call my father. I recall placing a “collect” call. The operator cuts in and asks my father if he will accept a call from “Walter”. My father, on the other end, says yes. “Walter, where are you? You sound distant,” my father asks. “Yes Dad, I’m in Jacksonville Florida. It’s a long story, but the problem is I’m out of money. Doesn’t Susan (my father’s new wife) have a sister who lives in the Jacksonville area.” My father checks with Susan. I can hear his conversation in the background. My father’s back on the phone. “Yes, Susan has a sister named ‘Bunny’ who lives in one of the Jacksonville suburbs.” My father proceeds to give me her number. Before I hang up, I tell my father to have Susan call her sister to alert her that I’ll be calling her in few minutes. It shouldn’t be a complete surprise.
Well, About five minutes later, I call my father’s wife’s sister. I tell her I’m at the Jacksonville bus terminal and that I’m wearing a heavy winter coat. I added that it’s green. She tells me to look for a white station wagon. That she’ll be at the terminal in about fifteen minutes.
Well, like clockwork, Susan’s sister arrives at the bus terminal to pick me up. After exchanging greetings, we ride back to her house. It’s a modest ranch in one of Jacksonville’s suburbs. “Bunny” then proceeds to give me lunch. I then ask her I could excuse myself to take a nap. At this point I hadn’t slept for many hours, too many to count. It also gives me a chance to take off my shoes and look at my feet. There’s blood all over my socks. It’s gross. Disgusting. I go into the bathroom and wash off my feet with soap and water. I pat them down with a towel. It stings.
In any event, I nod off very several hours. When I wake up, “Bunny’s” husband has arrived home from work and their daughter has arrived home from school.
During supper we have an enjoyable chat. I do my Southern drawl imitation:”Piggly Wiggly.” And oh those Stuckey’s Pecans. The signs were everywhere. We chat for a while after supper. “Bunny” calls the bus terminal for me. She learns that a bus bound for Boston is arriving at a little after 10 a.m., tomorrow. The fare is a little over $40.
The next day, “Bunny” takes me the Jax terminal and hands me a little over $40. I buy a ticket. I thank her for the loan (I would send her a money order for the amount she lent me a few days after I arrived in Boston).
Well, I again thank “Bunny” for her kindness and board the bus. I’m on my way home. The trip back is pretty much uneventful, oh, save for the fact that this guy who got on somewhere in the Carolinas proceeds to sit down next to me. He spends the next several hours telling me his life story. I know I can be understanding, but this was too much. It was beyond the call of duty. I remember going to the lav at the back of the bus and then taking another seat. Well the guy finds me. He then continues with his family stories. Mercifully, he got off at town south of Richmond called Petersburg, VA. I knew it from the Civil War.
The only other thing that caught my attention was that somewhere in Maryland (we stopped to change drivers), there were slot machines. It would be the first time I would actually see “The One-Armed Bandits”. I so much wanted to play, but I was so short on cash I only had enough for maybe one more coffee and a snack and, oh yes, bus-fare back to my home once we reached Boston. And reach Boston we did. I was never more happy to reach “The Hub”. About an hour later, I arrived at our apartment building, third-floor, suite #10.
When I arrived back, my younger brother wanted to know all the details. My mother, well, she was just happy to have me home. “Any regrets?” she asked. I said, “Sure.” I then added that the biggest regret was that I wearing shoes that didn’t fit me,.
As a postscript, I re-enrolled in college. I started by taking evening courses that spring. I worked during the day. That summer, more courses. In the fall of ’64, I took more classes and completed my student-teaching. I officially graduated in early January, 1965. Yet I didn’t actually receive my diploma until the commencement exercises in May, 1965.
Oh, one last thing, since that trip to Florida in December, 1963 I have never taken a bus ride that has lasted more than two hours. I’m pretty sure I never will.
I'll have my Hialeah "quarters" picks either later tonight or tomorrow morning. Until then, enjoy your conch salad and key lime pie.
My feet were bleeding. My socks were soaked in blood. Yet, I was happy. As “happy as a clam,” as my father used to say. A faint smile crossed my face. I was -- after all -- where I wanted to be. A race track. South Florida. East Fourth Avenue. Hialeah. How I got there…and why? Well, that’s the rest of this story.
Turn the clock back. Early December, 1963. Tragically, a few weeks earlier, President John F. Kennedy had been assassinated in Dallas. I was in a bad way, not just because of the death of President Kennedy, but for other reasons, as well. I was then in college. I had just entered my senior year; yet, I had troubles. Oh, it wasn’t that I needed to “go on the lam”. Nobody had “a contract” out on me. No one needed “to go to the mattresses”. In reality, I was “short”. Financially embarrassed. I had handed my last dollar to the bursar to pay for my college tuition that fall. Now, I was in the hole. I had gambled too much. I was losing. A “Michigan Roll”. That’s what I had. A U.S. Grant on the outside with a bunch of G.W.’s on the inner. I could hardly afford to buy myself lunch. My studies suffered. I withdrew from college in late November. I needed to get away. But where?
Well, in an impulsive, headstrong move, I headed south. Boston’s Park Square bus terminal was my starting point. Trailways. 1,400 grueling miles. About 37 hours. Miami, Florida. Foolishly, I bought a one-way ticket. Not that I wasn’t planning on coming back. It’s just that I thought I could win my return-trip down there.
Well, I was on my way. A cold, frosty December afternoon. I had about $60 in my wallet. Let the journey south begin. New York City. Philadelphia. Washington D.C. The Carolinas. “South of the Border” (where former Fed chief, Ben Bernanke, had worked…complete with sombrero). Then Georgia. Jacksonville. Orlando. Miami.
I recall that I arrived in Miami around 5 a.m. I’m exhausted. I’m a walking zombie. There’s a hotel next door to the bus terminal. The hotel, as I remember, was called “The Ponce De Leon”. At that moment, I sure could have used “The Fountain of Youth” (not the Kentucky Derby Prep kind that’s held at Gulfstream in late-February).
Well, I walk in to the hotel. I register and then get a room. “What’s the check-out time?” “11 a.m.” Six hours. I’ll need every bit of it.
I wake up just before 11 a.m. I shower. Put on fresh clothing. I return my room key. Pay my bill. Head out the door. I want to go to Hollywood, FL, just north of Miami. There’s a dog track there. I decide on “the poor man’s taxi.” I thumb. I get a ride all the way to Hollywood (it’s just beyond Hallandale and Gulfstream Park). I check into this motel. $5 a night, plus a 3% surcharge. Sounds like peanuts today. Yet, well over fifty years ago it was serious cash for a down-and-out degenerate. I book a room for that night.
It’s a little after noon. I’m starved. Not eating breakfast will do that to you. Yet, I’m on a limited budget. I’ve got to save my funds for the important stuff – gambling.
Well, I walk across the street (it’s actually a busy highway). I go into a drugstore. I think it was called Breeding’s. I proceed to buy a couple cokes and a can of Planter’s peanuts. Gourmet! I also buy a copy Hollywood’s dog racing program for that night. As I munch on my sumptuous lunch, I study the greyhound form. After lunch, befitting the life of a well-heeled gentleman, I take a nap.
I wake up about 5 p.m. I wash up and head out the door to the dog track that about a 1/8 mile down the road on the opposite side. I continue to study the form when I reach the track’s grandstand.
Let the racing begin. I remember it like it were yesterday. I think they called the lure: “Hollywood”. “Now here comes Hollywood”. I got a deuce riding on the nose of the #5 dog. Wouldn’t you know it, the dog “beats the box”. He goes box-to-wire and pays $7.20. Now you’re talking! I take my new-found winnings and buy a soft drink, a burger and some fries. Now, if I can keep things going. Unfortunately, I don’t.
When all is said and done, I had dropped close to $20. It’s an amount I can ill-afford to lose. So much for my promising start. I leave the track and head back to my motel room.
The next day, I head back across the street to the drugstore. I have a coffee and a doughnut. I find out that a bus that’s headed for Miami stops in front of the drugstore about every hour. About 20 minutes later I catch the bus. I tell the bus driver I want to go to Hialeah Park. He tells me the bus doesn’t go directly to Hialeah, but that I’ll have to get off about two miles to the east. My choice is to either walk, or hail a cab to go the rest of the way. I opt for the walking. It’s at that time that I notice that I have serious foot problems. My shoes – I bought them just before I left Boston – are just too narrow for my wide feet. As I walk toward the track, my tight shoes are causing me excruciating pain.
Well, I want to say it took me about 40 to 45 minutes to arrive at Hialeah Race Course. After I enter, I notice this huge pond (more like a lake in the infield). I proceed to buy the form and look over the races. In those days, no simulcasting. I recall that I got off to a decent start, but then, just as occurred at the dog track the previous evening, I started losing. Ticket after ticket hits the floor. All I remember is that I was making straight win bets, usually $2, sometimes I’d bet $5. I remember betting a horse named Cooperstown. He lost. Oh, one other thing I remembered. Something called “The Flight of the Flamingoes”. These big orange birds with long legs start, as if on command, to fly around the infield. Oh, I like animals, but frankly, I coulda cared less.
After the races, I catch a bus that’s taking “punters” to Hollywood Dog Track. I get on the bus. Several minutes later we arrive at the dog track. This is my last hurrah. I’m down to about $20. I remember getting a burger and a Coke. I skip the fries. I can’t do anything right. I take one last shot at a quinella but get beat in a photo. Dejection. I got maybe one picture of Abe Lincoln and some pocket change. I walk across the street to my motel.
Well, after I arrive, I’ve got a decision to make. Do I wait until morning and get a good night’s sleep, or do I head out the door? It’s now well after midnight. I decide to start thumbing north.
Just after I start thumbing, I get a short ride to Delray Beach. From there, a Delray Beach cop picks me up. He asks my name. He checks back on the two-way to see if there’s an APB out for me. There isn’t. The cop tells me he’s originally from Providence, RI. He takes me the length of Delray Beach. He leaves me off at the end the city limits. I’m back thumbing. I’m now in Boynton Beach, FL. It’s now well after 1 a.m. I’m thumbing for about ten or fifteen minutes when a late-model Caddie stops about a furlong ahead of me. I run toward the car. The guy inside – I’d put him in his 40s – asks where I’m headed. I say Boston. He tells me he not going that far but he’ll take me to Jacksonville. I remember saying “That’ll do”. It’s about 300 miles from Boynton Beach to Jacksonville. We’re on the road for close to six hours. I guess it’s strange what you remember after over fifty years ago, but I do recall that the guy who gave me the ride was into boxing. I got the feeling he might have been a boxer himself. We’re talking about Willie Pep. I tell the guy that a fellow who lived in my neighborhood once fought Willie Pep. I told him I couldn’t recall the guy’s name, but that he was nicknamed “The Boston Stringbean”. Oh, we also talked about Joe Louis, Billy Conn, Max Bear, Jack Sharkey (I would later teach his grandchildren). Actually, the whole thing was quite interesting and entertaining. It made the ride go by that much more quickly.
Well, it’s now morning, we’re about an hour or so south of Jacksonville. As we continue to head north – we had just passed St. Augustine – I’m beginning to think what am I going to do once I get to Jacksonville?
When we finally arrive. I thank the guy for the ride and wish him the very best. I enter the Jacksonville bus terminal. A temperature reading on a neaby bank says 32 degrees. At least I dressed for the weather with my winter coat. I go into the terminal and break my $5 bill for a cup of coffee and a piece of pastry.
As I sip on my coffee, I’m thinking I can’t thumb for close to 1,000 miles. Then, it dawns on me. My father – my parents divorced when I was just becoming a teen-ager – had re-married. The womanhe married had a sister who lived in the Jacksonville area.
Well I pick up the phone and call my father. I recall placing a “collect” call. The operator cuts in and asks my father if he will accept a call from “Walter”. My father, on the other end, says yes. “Walter, where are you? You sound distant,” my father asks. “Yes Dad, I’m in Jacksonville Florida. It’s a long story, but the problem is I’m out of money. Doesn’t Susan (my father’s new wife) have a sister who lives in the Jacksonville area.” My father checks with Susan. I can hear his conversation in the background. My father’s back on the phone. “Yes, Susan has a sister named ‘Bunny’ who lives in one of the Jacksonville suburbs.” My father proceeds to give me her number. Before I hang up, I tell my father to have Susan call her sister to alert her that I’ll be calling her in few minutes. It shouldn’t be a complete surprise.
Well, About five minutes later, I call my father’s wife’s sister. I tell her I’m at the Jacksonville bus terminal and that I’m wearing a heavy winter coat. I added that it’s green. She tells me to look for a white station wagon. That she’ll be at the terminal in about fifteen minutes.
Well, like clockwork, Susan’s sister arrives at the bus terminal to pick me up. After exchanging greetings, we ride back to her house. It’s a modest ranch in one of Jacksonville’s suburbs. “Bunny” then proceeds to give me lunch. I then ask her I could excuse myself to take a nap. At this point I hadn’t slept for many hours, too many to count. It also gives me a chance to take off my shoes and look at my feet. There’s blood all over my socks. It’s gross. Disgusting. I go into the bathroom and wash off my feet with soap and water. I pat them down with a towel. It stings.
In any event, I nod off very several hours. When I wake up, “Bunny’s” husband has arrived home from work and their daughter has arrived home from school.
During supper we have an enjoyable chat. I do my Southern drawl imitation:”Piggly Wiggly.” And oh those Stuckey’s Pecans. The signs were everywhere. We chat for a while after supper. “Bunny” calls the bus terminal for me. She learns that a bus bound for Boston is arriving at a little after 10 a.m., tomorrow. The fare is a little over $40.
The next day, “Bunny” takes me the Jax terminal and hands me a little over $40. I buy a ticket. I thank her for the loan (I would send her a money order for the amount she lent me a few days after I arrived in Boston).
Well, I again thank “Bunny” for her kindness and board the bus. I’m on my way home. The trip back is pretty much uneventful, oh, save for the fact that this guy who got on somewhere in the Carolinas proceeds to sit down next to me. He spends the next several hours telling me his life story. I know I can be understanding, but this was too much. It was beyond the call of duty. I remember going to the lav at the back of the bus and then taking another seat. Well the guy finds me. He then continues with his family stories. Mercifully, he got off at town south of Richmond called Petersburg, VA. I knew it from the Civil War.
The only other thing that caught my attention was that somewhere in Maryland (we stopped to change drivers), there were slot machines. It would be the first time I would actually see “The One-Armed Bandits”. I so much wanted to play, but I was so short on cash I only had enough for maybe one more coffee and a snack and, oh yes, bus-fare back to my home once we reached Boston. And reach Boston we did. I was never more happy to reach “The Hub”. About an hour later, I arrived at our apartment building, third-floor, suite #10.
When I arrived back, my younger brother wanted to know all the details. My mother, well, she was just happy to have me home. “Any regrets?” she asked. I said, “Sure.” I then added that the biggest regret was that I wearing shoes that didn’t fit me,.
As a postscript, I re-enrolled in college. I started by taking evening courses that spring. I worked during the day. That summer, more courses. In the fall of ’64, I took more classes and completed my student-teaching. I officially graduated in early January, 1965. Yet I didn’t actually receive my diploma until the commencement exercises in May, 1965.
Oh, one last thing, since that trip to Florida in December, 1963 I have never taken a bus ride that has lasted more than two hours. I’m pretty sure I never will.
I'll have my Hialeah "quarters" picks either later tonight or tomorrow morning. Until then, enjoy your conch salad and key lime pie.