Winsome Wisdom - Road of Remembrance by Steve Chappell
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Is there any place in the good old USA more beautiful in spring than Charleston, South Carolina? Recently, your humble correspondent made the trip to the South’s colonial seaport as a class representative for the Citadel Foundation for a fund raising luncheon. While there, I enjoyed the company of longtime friends and classmates.
On the return home, and following the suggestion of legendary poet Robert Frost, I opted for the road less traveled rather than I-26 to Columbia, then to I-20 to Atlanta. Instead I chose to follow US-78 out of Charleston to SC-278 through downtown Aiken, and then pick up I-20 just west of Augusta. It was 150 miles of 2 lane countryside I had traveled many times in the past, for it was the route I took as a Citadel cadet during the mid-60’s riding with John Fuller in his sporty red Triumph TR-3.
John and I always made a stop in Aiken where we would spend the night at Helen Gilkerson’s modest home. Helen, a childhood friend of my mother, was the perfect hostess. There was beer in the fridge and fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy on the stovetop. After an evening of Helen’s world travel adventure stories, we’d wake up early next morning, pile back into the TR-3 and make our way to Atlanta where John would drop me off at the Greyhound bus station for the ride back to Chattanooga.
As I made my way westward toward Aiken, my attention was captured by a long abandoned factory surrounded by a weatherworn chain link fence and pine trees long since outgrown the decorative state. Out front stood what was once a whitewashed concrete block sign the size of a train car identifying the name of the company. But the letters were missing, and all that was left was the dried glue that once held the letters in place.
In the town of Bamburg, I saw what was once an upscale filling station where the attendant dressed in uniformed coveralls would come out to your car, fill your gas tank, check your oil, and clean your windshield. Gasoline then was leaded and cost about 25 cents a gallon. But the filling station is long gone and the building now displays a large hand-painted sign which reads "Antiques."
Just one block up the street, I stopped at the Exxon station for gas. Predictably, no one came out and offered to pump the gas for me, clean my windshield, or check my oil. So I did it myself.
The whole experience reminded me of how much has changed, and yet how little. The small hamlets along US-78 look the same except
the old Chevys, Fords, and GMC’s no longer dominate the main drag, having been replaced by Nissans, Toyotas, and Hyundais. The few shops still open continue to display hand painted signs, and the locals still wear jeans, bib overalls, and baseball caps.
But most of all, it reminded me once again of my dear friend 2nd Lt. John L. Fuller, USMC, Class of 1966, and how he lost his life during a fire fight in Vietnam. He was my guitar and banjo picking buddy, confidant, and protector from the deranged upperclassmen whose sole purpose seemed to be making 4th class cadets (freshmen) miserable.
I doubt I shall ever take that route again. Not because of any painful memories, but because of all the happy ones I have missed because John Fuller is no longer around to share them with. John Fuller’s life was tragically and suddenly cut short as he made the ultimate sacrifice in service to his country.
As Memorial Day approaches, be mindful of those whose lives were given in support of liberty, justice, and freedom... the American way!
On the return home, and following the suggestion of legendary poet Robert Frost, I opted for the road less traveled rather than I-26 to Columbia, then to I-20 to Atlanta. Instead I chose to follow US-78 out of Charleston to SC-278 through downtown Aiken, and then pick up I-20 just west of Augusta. It was 150 miles of 2 lane countryside I had traveled many times in the past, for it was the route I took as a Citadel cadet during the mid-60’s riding with John Fuller in his sporty red Triumph TR-3.
John and I always made a stop in Aiken where we would spend the night at Helen Gilkerson’s modest home. Helen, a childhood friend of my mother, was the perfect hostess. There was beer in the fridge and fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy on the stovetop. After an evening of Helen’s world travel adventure stories, we’d wake up early next morning, pile back into the TR-3 and make our way to Atlanta where John would drop me off at the Greyhound bus station for the ride back to Chattanooga.
As I made my way westward toward Aiken, my attention was captured by a long abandoned factory surrounded by a weatherworn chain link fence and pine trees long since outgrown the decorative state. Out front stood what was once a whitewashed concrete block sign the size of a train car identifying the name of the company. But the letters were missing, and all that was left was the dried glue that once held the letters in place.
In the town of Bamburg, I saw what was once an upscale filling station where the attendant dressed in uniformed coveralls would come out to your car, fill your gas tank, check your oil, and clean your windshield. Gasoline then was leaded and cost about 25 cents a gallon. But the filling station is long gone and the building now displays a large hand-painted sign which reads "Antiques."
Just one block up the street, I stopped at the Exxon station for gas. Predictably, no one came out and offered to pump the gas for me, clean my windshield, or check my oil. So I did it myself.
The whole experience reminded me of how much has changed, and yet how little. The small hamlets along US-78 look the same except
the old Chevys, Fords, and GMC’s no longer dominate the main drag, having been replaced by Nissans, Toyotas, and Hyundais. The few shops still open continue to display hand painted signs, and the locals still wear jeans, bib overalls, and baseball caps.But most of all, it reminded me once again of my dear friend 2nd Lt. John L. Fuller, USMC, Class of 1966, and how he lost his life during a fire fight in Vietnam. He was my guitar and banjo picking buddy, confidant, and protector from the deranged upperclassmen whose sole purpose seemed to be making 4th class cadets (freshmen) miserable.
I doubt I shall ever take that route again. Not because of any painful memories, but because of all the happy ones I have missed because John Fuller is no longer around to share them with. John Fuller’s life was tragically and suddenly cut short as he made the ultimate sacrifice in service to his country.
As Memorial Day approaches, be mindful of those whose lives were given in support of liberty, justice, and freedom... the American way!
