The Straight Stretch
The Straight Stretch - © Kent Fletcher
January 16, 2007
When I wrote and published my story yesterday about goings-on around Tunica, MS, I casually mentioned the infamous straight stretch of US Highway 61 from just south of Tunica to Clarksdale, MS. I said it was a true and inherently dangerous run of road especially at night. Truth is, it was a true and inherently dangerous run of road any time of the day, just more so at night.
But not all the trips I've made on this road were really all that bad. For instance, back when the speed limits were 60 or 65 on two-lane highways in Mississippi - long before the 1973 Arab oil embargo and the congressional lowering of speed limits around this great nation, first-most to save fuel, secondly to cut down the traffic accidents, thirdly most likely for political reasons - I drove to Memphis on many occasion at speeds way in excess of 60 to 65, more around 80 to 100. I had good reason, too, for my family owned a funeral home and operated a private ambulance service. The hearses could be converted to ambulances at a moment's notice, and more than likely were parked that way in the garages, only being returned to hearse status when a funeral was being conducted. Those same vehicles had some of the loudest sirens imaginable, way more so than the electronic wimps of today. Ear-piercing. Wake-you-up-out-of-your-daydreams stuff. Get-your-immediate-attention stuff.
One time, my brother was bringing a lady home from one of the hospitals in Memphis. The speedometer in the vehicle had gone out, was broken, whatever, and he really couldn't determine his speed, other than he knew he was under the limit because other cars were passing him. This lady - I just asked him about it and he could not recall her name - was suffering from lupus and was extremely sore. Highway 61 was a well-traveled road, in fact so traveled by heavy vehicles like farm equipment and 18-wheelers that the road was in constant disrepair, i.e., lots of broken concrete and potholes. So as he was driving down the highway, if he saw a bad section of road coming up, he would simply veer over to the other side of the road until he passed the offensive section, as long as there were no cars or trucks approaching from the other direction.. While doing so, he passed a highway patrolman on the side of the road. Nothing happened, so Jack continued on his way, dodging the potholes and damaged roadbed as much as he could.
He continued on for a few miles, veering back and forth, still under the speed limit. Shortly there was another highway patrolman standing in the middle of the highway, flagging him down. Jack said he pulled up, stopping in the middle of the road - hardly any traffic evidently - and rolled down his window. The highway patrolman walked up to the ambulance, sticking his head in the window a little and sniffing. Obviously the patrolman was doing his own alcohol check. Jack asked him if there was a problem, and the patrolman voiced his concern about Jack's weaving along the highway. Jack then explained to him about the woman's condition in the back of the ambulance and explained his veering to the other side of the road when he saw a road bump coming on, as long as there was no oncoming traffic. The patrolman just stood there, his head still inside the window, and finally said, simply, "Oh."
Several seconds passed, and Jack asked if there was anything else the patrolman needed to know. After a moment, the patrolman told him no, but to continue on his way, and to be careful, very, very careful about the weaving.
On one occasion, I had the opportunity to ride in the back with a patient, one Wilson Sledge, who had been hit by a car riding his bicycle. Wilson was in a very, very bad way. I don't remember if it was Jack or Mr. Whit who was driving, but I was given the task of riding in the back with Wilson and shooting him up with morphine on a mad, mad dash to Baptist Hospital in Memphis. This was long before the advent of air ambulances - helicopters - and the only way to save his life was to cover some 110 miles in about an hour. The nurses had given me three syringes to give Wilson in the event he needed them, saying the amount they gave him right before we left Bolivar County Hospital in Cleveland should last at least half way to Memphis. Wrong. I shot him three times before we reached even Clarksdale, only one-third of the way. Needless to say, I don't remember the ride very well as the ambulance was flying over all the bumps in the road, weaving around cars, running about 100 mph for those 110 miles. As luck would have it, the police department in Cleveland had radioed up the road to all the small towns and larger cities we would be coming through, requesting their assistance to block the intersections, insuring our safe passage. What a ride. Oh, Wilson Sledge pulled through his crises very well. But it was a harrowing trip, nonetheless!
One last short story about the infamous straight stretch: I was tooling up to Memphis on another occasion in my trusty 52 Chevrolet 2-door sedan on a warm summer day. I came up behind another car that was weaving all over the road, and I thought about Jack in his episode I wrote about above. But the road was really in pretty good shape at the time, so the weaving could only have meant one thing: drunk driver. Thankfully this occurred in the middle of the day, not at night. This was also during the heyday of citizens' band radio, and of course, dear reader, I was in the thick of it. I got on the radio, on Channel 9 which was a kinda-sorta declared 'emergency' channel at the time, calling out to anyone who could hear me about this guy. No answers at all came my way, and the weaving got worse and worse.
At the turnoff to Helena, Arkansas, about half-way through the straight stretch, the driver finally turned off Highway 61 onto Highway 49, heading toward Helena. I tried the radio one more time, and finally got an answer from a fellow who was sitting in a service station at that particular turnoff. I gave him a description of the car, even the tag number, asking him to call the Po-Lice, get this clown off the road. I found out later the Arkansas Highway Patrol met him on the Arkansas side of the bridge, and had passed along their thanks for the report.
I understand that Highway 61 is now a four-lane highway from Leland, MS, all the way to Memphis, TN. I'm sure the Straight Stretch is still there, but surely not anywhere as treacherous and dangerous as in the "old days." Just another drive I'll have to make for myself, one of these days.
January 16, 2007
When I wrote and published my story yesterday about goings-on around Tunica, MS, I casually mentioned the infamous straight stretch of US Highway 61 from just south of Tunica to Clarksdale, MS. I said it was a true and inherently dangerous run of road especially at night. Truth is, it was a true and inherently dangerous run of road any time of the day, just more so at night.
But not all the trips I've made on this road were really all that bad. For instance, back when the speed limits were 60 or 65 on two-lane highways in Mississippi - long before the 1973 Arab oil embargo and the congressional lowering of speed limits around this great nation, first-most to save fuel, secondly to cut down the traffic accidents, thirdly most likely for political reasons - I drove to Memphis on many occasion at speeds way in excess of 60 to 65, more around 80 to 100. I had good reason, too, for my family owned a funeral home and operated a private ambulance service. The hearses could be converted to ambulances at a moment's notice, and more than likely were parked that way in the garages, only being returned to hearse status when a funeral was being conducted. Those same vehicles had some of the loudest sirens imaginable, way more so than the electronic wimps of today. Ear-piercing. Wake-you-up-out-of-your-daydreams stuff. Get-your-immediate-attention stuff.
One time, my brother was bringing a lady home from one of the hospitals in Memphis. The speedometer in the vehicle had gone out, was broken, whatever, and he really couldn't determine his speed, other than he knew he was under the limit because other cars were passing him. This lady - I just asked him about it and he could not recall her name - was suffering from lupus and was extremely sore. Highway 61 was a well-traveled road, in fact so traveled by heavy vehicles like farm equipment and 18-wheelers that the road was in constant disrepair, i.e., lots of broken concrete and potholes. So as he was driving down the highway, if he saw a bad section of road coming up, he would simply veer over to the other side of the road until he passed the offensive section, as long as there were no cars or trucks approaching from the other direction.. While doing so, he passed a highway patrolman on the side of the road. Nothing happened, so Jack continued on his way, dodging the potholes and damaged roadbed as much as he could.
He continued on for a few miles, veering back and forth, still under the speed limit. Shortly there was another highway patrolman standing in the middle of the highway, flagging him down. Jack said he pulled up, stopping in the middle of the road - hardly any traffic evidently - and rolled down his window. The highway patrolman walked up to the ambulance, sticking his head in the window a little and sniffing. Obviously the patrolman was doing his own alcohol check. Jack asked him if there was a problem, and the patrolman voiced his concern about Jack's weaving along the highway. Jack then explained to him about the woman's condition in the back of the ambulance and explained his veering to the other side of the road when he saw a road bump coming on, as long as there was no oncoming traffic. The patrolman just stood there, his head still inside the window, and finally said, simply, "Oh."
Several seconds passed, and Jack asked if there was anything else the patrolman needed to know. After a moment, the patrolman told him no, but to continue on his way, and to be careful, very, very careful about the weaving.
On one occasion, I had the opportunity to ride in the back with a patient, one Wilson Sledge, who had been hit by a car riding his bicycle. Wilson was in a very, very bad way. I don't remember if it was Jack or Mr. Whit who was driving, but I was given the task of riding in the back with Wilson and shooting him up with morphine on a mad, mad dash to Baptist Hospital in Memphis. This was long before the advent of air ambulances - helicopters - and the only way to save his life was to cover some 110 miles in about an hour. The nurses had given me three syringes to give Wilson in the event he needed them, saying the amount they gave him right before we left Bolivar County Hospital in Cleveland should last at least half way to Memphis. Wrong. I shot him three times before we reached even Clarksdale, only one-third of the way. Needless to say, I don't remember the ride very well as the ambulance was flying over all the bumps in the road, weaving around cars, running about 100 mph for those 110 miles. As luck would have it, the police department in Cleveland had radioed up the road to all the small towns and larger cities we would be coming through, requesting their assistance to block the intersections, insuring our safe passage. What a ride. Oh, Wilson Sledge pulled through his crises very well. But it was a harrowing trip, nonetheless!
One last short story about the infamous straight stretch: I was tooling up to Memphis on another occasion in my trusty 52 Chevrolet 2-door sedan on a warm summer day. I came up behind another car that was weaving all over the road, and I thought about Jack in his episode I wrote about above. But the road was really in pretty good shape at the time, so the weaving could only have meant one thing: drunk driver. Thankfully this occurred in the middle of the day, not at night. This was also during the heyday of citizens' band radio, and of course, dear reader, I was in the thick of it. I got on the radio, on Channel 9 which was a kinda-sorta declared 'emergency' channel at the time, calling out to anyone who could hear me about this guy. No answers at all came my way, and the weaving got worse and worse.
At the turnoff to Helena, Arkansas, about half-way through the straight stretch, the driver finally turned off Highway 61 onto Highway 49, heading toward Helena. I tried the radio one more time, and finally got an answer from a fellow who was sitting in a service station at that particular turnoff. I gave him a description of the car, even the tag number, asking him to call the Po-Lice, get this clown off the road. I found out later the Arkansas Highway Patrol met him on the Arkansas side of the bridge, and had passed along their thanks for the report.
I understand that Highway 61 is now a four-lane highway from Leland, MS, all the way to Memphis, TN. I'm sure the Straight Stretch is still there, but surely not anywhere as treacherous and dangerous as in the "old days." Just another drive I'll have to make for myself, one of these days.
posted by Fletch @ 2:41 PM
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