Uncle Jim and I were sitting on his fence one sultry summer day, late in the morning. The day had already started to heat up dramatically and the humidity was stifling. His fence was a white-washed, four-plank type that ran along the front of his property just outside the roadway property line.
As was usual, Jim was quaffing an RC Cola and had just finished a Moon Pie and stuffed the wrapper in his overall’s pocket. My choice of drinks that day was a Nehi Grape and the cool dark liquid took some of the edge off the sun beating down of the two of us.
Conversation had never been a strong suit with Uncle Jim and after our initial brief repartee, we sat mostly silent, watching the heat radiate off the road pavement.
To pass the time we played a game of who can spot a car approaching first and yelling out the number.
“One!” he shouted, being the first to spot a farm truck topping the hill some distance away.
Twenty minutes later, I countered with “Two!” It was a slow day for traffic.
After a while, we both simultaneously saw a small car approaching and shouted “Three!” in unison.
As the car neared, it slowed and pulled to the side of the road directly in front of us. It was an Austin Healey Sprite convertible — a very small sports car. Not sure where the name “Sprite” came from. That car had about as much sprite as a tortoise on Benadryl.
The young man driving was gathering a road map as he stopped and, looking up at the two of us, inquired, “Do you know where I can find the Hastings residence? My instructions said it was somewhere on this road, but I can’t make heads or tails out of this map and I’ve been driving back and forth without any luck finding them.”
“Well,” began Uncle Jim, “I’m not sure . . .”
Before he could finish his sentence, the young man interrupted. “Is this highway 433?”
“Don’t know about that,” replied Uncle Jim. “We call it Milltown Road.”
“Okay,” chimed in the young man again, not waiting to see if Uncle had anything else to say. “Does this road connect to highway 330?”
“Don’t know about that,” repeated Jim, “but it does dead end at Hill-Burris Road.”
“Well,” said the young man, “my map doesn’t list the roadways that way but I was told the Hastings lived on Highway 433.”
“Don’t know ‘bout that,” said Jim.
“You haven’t been much help, old man. You sure don’t know much, do you?”
“Well, I know one thing,” replied Uncle.
“Yeah? What’s that?’
“I know I ain’t lost.”
With that, the young man put his map in the passenger seat, put the car in gear and threw gravel getting back onto the road surface as he headed who-knew-where.
Uncle Jim watched the little car disappear down the road and into the shimmering heat and took a final draw from his RC.
“I know something else,” said Jim, not even looking at me.
“What’s that, Uncle Jim,” I asked.
“I know that if that youngin had looked across the road, he’d seen the Hastings’ name on that mailbox over there.”
