BackTalk

© All Rights Reserved Republication by Permission Only David Shields has been a Waycross-Ware County, GA resident since 1962. Born in Danville, VA, he grew up in Alderson, WV. He graduated from Alderson High School in 1958. He attended the University of Tennessee, Knoxville, via a football scholarship and played there from 1958 to 1962. He graduated from UT with honors in 1962. He has postgraduate degrees from the University of Georgia (1970) and Valdosta State University (1996). He taught school and coached football at Ware County High School until 1967. He then worked with the State of Georgia as a vocational rehabilitation counselor until he retired in 1995. He has also worked as a self-employed vocational expert & consultant. He presently runs Ware Op-Ed & News, a news and commentary web site. He and wife, Diane, have three children and five grandchildren. CONTACT INFORMATION David B. Shields P. O. Box 34 Waycross, GA 31502 Tele: 912-590-4802 E-Mail Shields hits	THE PLYMOUTH DAYS When I’m sitting around with nothing much to do I’m apt to be besieged with random thoughts. Many people write these thoughts down. I should do more of that. I could maybe use them later in a short story or as a basis for conversation. Or maybe they would be helpful to my analyst if I ever find one with enough courage to take me on. Anyways, as "NYPD Blue's" Andy Sipowicz said at the beginning of almost every sentence, I’m sitting around today with nothing much to do and I find myself being pelted with random thoughts. For example, I’m wondering what kind of person would buy and drive a Plymouth. I keep thinking there is probably a correlation between vehicles and personalities. Although I’m not privy to it, I bet the automobile manufacturers have spent a handsome sum of money researching this subject. I don’t know how it would help them sell vehicles though without also knowing what kinds of personalities are out there and how many. And how in the world would you gather accurate data on that? I mean everybody is different, right? But there’s a lot I don’t know about marketing statistics, so I’m probably wrong. Wouldn’t be the first time. I made a mistake back in ’72 and now that I’m older it wouldn’t surprise me to be making another one pretty soon. Anyways, I drove a Plymouth one time, but it was a discard and I didn’t buy it. My wife’s uncle up in West Virginia owned and operated a taxi service. Both vehicles in his fleet of cabs were Plymouths. Shortly after Huddle House and I were married – I was still in college and Huddle was working in Knoxville bringing home the bacon – Uncle Ed gave us a Plymouth he had taken out of service. It was finished as a cab mind you, but Ed’s thinking was the old clunker might meet our needs in Knoxville. And it did, with some memorable limitations. First off, Plymouths are bad about not starting, especially once you leave your driveway and get on the road. Any road! But it's all good. If memory serves, it didn’t take us more than three days to get that old taxi the 300 miles back to Tennessee. And once there, I had to be careful to park it on a hill, especially in the winter time, so I could coast down and kick start it. But once I got it started I was one pride-swollen Volunteer. Of course, Huddle House wouldn’t drive it. Not only had she not learned how to drive a stick shift, she was convinced that driving that thing to the uptown insurance office where she worked would somehow be an intolerable contrast to her great beauty and style. She was right, of course, for she was quite beautiful, not to mention the fact that she was at that time in a heated contest with this other girl who worked downtown to be the most striking visage on Gay Street during lunch hour. Had she been seen driving the Plymouth, or even riding in it, Huddle House would have never had a chance against Dolly Parton. Or so she thought. So I would have to drop her off a few blocks away from her building so she could walk the rest of the way, lighting up Gay Street without being associated with the Plymouth. And, frankly, Huddle wound up doing quite well against Dolly’s visage if not her eventual success at the Grand Ole Opry. Anyways, the Plymouth in no way detracted from my on-campus status. In fact, my stock went up considerably, especially on the University of Tennessee football team. A great many of the guys who played football not only had no discarded Plymouth taxi cab, they had no automobile at all. So when I reported for fall practice that year driving the cab I immediately became a more integral part of the Volunteer football team. Even the fact that the Plymouth would often stall on the steeper hills in Knoxville when more than two tackles were squeezed in among the running backs and wide receivers didn’t diminish my standing. Being somewhat dumber than oxen, the tackles were always happy to get out and push the Plymouth over the top and we would make our rounds to the various beer gardens in high style with never a disparaging word about our ride. And back home at night, Huddle House and I would get naked and eat Smokey Mountain Market hot dogs, eternally grateful to Uncle Ed for the wheels that permitted me to make those runs to the market. Needless to say, I’ve bought a number of cars and trucks since those days in Knoxville, but none have been Plymouths. I’ve bought a couple of Dodges, the Plymouth’s first cousin, but never a Plymouth. I don’t know why. Looking back I’m thinking I should have. I bet if we had access to the automaker’s secret files we’d find that I have the perfect personality for it.

David Shields has been a Waycross-Ware County, GA resident since 1962. Born in Danville, VA, he grew up in Alderson, WV. He graduated from Alderson High School in 1958. He attended the University of Tennessee, Knoxville, via a football scholarship and played there from 1958 to 1962. He graduated from UT with honors in 1962. He has postgraduate degrees from the University of Georgia (1970) and Valdosta State University (1996). He taught school and coached football at Ware County High School until 1967. He then worked with the State of Georgia as a vocational rehabilitation counselor until he retired in 1995. He has also worked as a self-employed vocational expert & consultant. He presently runs Ware Op-Ed & News, a news and commentary web site. He and wife, Diane, have three children and five grandchildren.

THE PLYMOUTH DAYS

When I’m sitting around with nothing much to do I’m apt to be besieged with random thoughts. Many people write these thoughts down. I should do more of that. I could maybe use them later in a short story or as a basis for conversation. Or maybe they would be helpful to my analyst if I ever find one with enough courage to take me on.

Anyways, as "NYPD Blue's" Andy Sipowicz said at the beginning of almost every sentence, I’m sitting around today with nothing much to do and I find myself being pelted with random thoughts.

For example, I’m wondering what kind of person would buy and drive a Plymouth. I keep thinking there is probably a correlation between vehicles and personalities. Although I’m not privy to it, I bet the automobile manufacturers have spent a handsome sum of money researching this subject. I don’t know how it would help them sell vehicles though without also knowing what kinds of personalities are out there and how many. And how in the world would you gather accurate data on that? I mean everybody is different, right? But there’s a lot I don’t know about marketing statistics, so I’m probably wrong. Wouldn’t be the first time. I made a mistake back in ’72 and now that I’m older it wouldn’t surprise me to be making another one pretty soon.

Anyways, I drove a Plymouth one time, but it was a discard and I didn’t buy it. My wife’s uncle up in West Virginia owned and operated a taxi service. Both vehicles in his fleet of cabs were Plymouths. Shortly after Huddle House and I were married – I was still in college and Huddle was working in Knoxville bringing home the bacon – Uncle Ed gave us a Plymouth he had taken out of service. It was finished as a cab mind you, but Ed’s thinking was the old clunker might meet our needs in Knoxville. And it did, with some memorable limitations.

First off, Plymouths are bad about not starting, especially once you leave your driveway and get on the road. Any road! But it's all good.

If memory serves, it didn’t take us more than three days to get that old taxi the 300 miles back to Tennessee. And once there, I had to be careful to park it on a hill, especially in the winter time, so I could coast down and kick start it. But once I got it started I was one pride-swollen Volunteer.

Of course, Huddle House wouldn’t drive it. Not only had she not learned how to drive a stick shift, she was convinced that driving that thing to the uptown insurance office where she worked would somehow be an intolerable contrast to her great beauty and style.

She was right, of course, for she was quite beautiful, not to mention the fact that she was at that time in a heated contest with this other girl who worked downtown to be the most striking visage on Gay Street during lunch hour. Had she been seen driving the Plymouth, or even riding in it, Huddle House would have never had a chance against Dolly Parton. Or so she thought. So I would have to drop her off a few blocks away from her building so she could walk the rest of the way, lighting up Gay Street without being associated with the Plymouth. And, frankly, Huddle wound up doing quite well against Dolly’s visage if not her eventual success at the Grand Ole Opry.

Anyways, the Plymouth in no way detracted from my on-campus status. In fact, my stock went up considerably, especially on the University of Tennessee football team. A great many of the guys who played football not only had no discarded Plymouth taxi cab, they had no automobile at all. So when I reported for fall practice that year driving the cab I immediately became a more integral part of the Volunteer football team.

Even the fact that the Plymouth would often stall on the steeper hills in Knoxville when more than two tackles were squeezed in among the running backs and wide receivers didn’t diminish my standing. Being somewhat dumber than oxen, the tackles were always happy to get out and push the Plymouth over the top and we would make our rounds to the various beer gardens in high style with never a disparaging word about our ride. And back home at night, Huddle House and I would get naked and eat Smokey Mountain Market hot dogs, eternally grateful to Uncle Ed for the wheels that permitted me to make those runs to the market.

Needless to say, I’ve bought a number of cars and trucks since those days in Knoxville, but none have been Plymouths. I’ve bought a couple of Dodges, the Plymouth’s first cousin, but never a Plymouth. I don’t know why. Looking back I’m thinking I should have. I bet if we had access to the automaker’s secret files we’d find that I have the perfect personality for it.