In the early sixties, when I was sneaking into my teens, there were only a few places to go for adventures beyond our little burg.
Fort Mill was crossed by two primary highways. Highway 160 led northwest toward the Charlotte Airport where a plane trip was still a luxury and Piedmont or Eastern Airlines would tr
eat you with dignity as you flew to far away places like Richmond or Nashville. Flying was still a great adventure and having been on an airplane was something to write home about. There was even a postcard tucked away in every seat pocket so that the intrepid traveler could let a friend know that he was off into the mystery of the skies. For a sixteen-year-old, flying to exotic destinations was not an option, so, nothing to do there.
Travel east on 160 and there was Indian Land, the little community strangers often assumed was a Native American reservation much as Fort Mill was confused for a military base. When 160 ended at 521, it had good reason. Along 521 there were miles and miles of nothing but miles and miles interspersed by a few farms, corn fields, an occasional lonely cow and a house here and there.
At the intersection was the civic hub of Indian Land, the Panhandle store, named because it sat at the tip of a curious thin strip of Lancaster County which stuck like a panhandle between York County South Carolina and the North Carolina line. The “Panhandle” was a little store/gas station where you could stop for a Coke and where all the local color was not in the Marlborough and Goody’s Powder advertisements on the walls. There was plenty of weather talk and a little “Now, who is your family?” aimed at newcomers. There were two choices on 521 and many drivers turned left toward the little town of Pineville, “Gateway to Charlotte”. My father often used the town in comparison as in “That wasn’t no bigger than Pineville”. Much later, both Indian Land and Pineville grew up and surprised us all.
A right turn at the Panhandle and the next stop was Lancaster. It was just a little too far to be a destination for my high school self although after a summer as a counsellor at Camp Springs, I did make a few visits to spend time with a very pretty counsellor. She even took me to a party at the Lancaster Armory. This was a time when Lancaster took great pride in its native son, Maurice Williams, leader of the Zodiacs. There were other records played but I remember hearing “Stay” more times than even I wanted to.
Doby’s Bridge Road also led to Indian Land and both roads saw the most traffic in the summer when folks were just passing through to get on Highway 9 in Lancaster and head toward North Myrtle Beach. There is a story or two there and I believe I told one of them in an episode called “Temptations, Gin and the Great Watermelon Heist”.
Highway 21 led to the cities. North on 21 led to the many wonders of Charlotte. Among them the Open Kitchen, the South 21 Drive-In and Shakey’s Pizza and movies…many many movies. There are stories there but they will have to wait.
A left turn at the bottom of Fort Mill Main Street and right at Culp Brothers onto Spratt Street would lead you to Highway 21 Business. Turn left and cross the scary, two lane, Thomas Spratt bridge. When my ’59 Chevy met an oncoming Buick, I could have poked him in the eye with my finger as we passed.
Just across the Catawba river bridge, Johnny Porter’s Grill was a tasty introduction to the culinary delights in store on Cherry Road. Johnny catered to an older crowd where grown folks sat inside and younger couples enjoyed the dimly lighted parking area. Many a hard-working car hop learned a little too much about love when delivering lemon cherry Sun Drops to a car with foggy windows.
In the sixties, right after Porter’s Grill was the Fort Rock Drive-In, a dating mecca which I have written about earlier and farther up the road, its competition, The Auto Drive-In. Between the two there was almost nothing before the fairly-bright lights of Cherry RoadRock Hill began near where Cherry Park is today.
About a half a mile on the right was Shoney’s Drive-In complete with call-in speakers and surly car hops. I think they were surly because we were just old enough to drive at night, just affluent enough to buy half a tank of gas and to order a twenty-five cent Coke but too broke to tip well. A cruise on up Cherry Road (and cruise we did) and The Park-In Grill sat on a hillside on the left. On a Friday night we would back into a parking slot and sit on the hood to watch other teenagers sit on the hood and watch other teenagers.
Usually the Park-In was where the action wasn’t and we would drive farther up Cherry Road to Hardee’s. If we were really looking for food, we could eat our fill of 15 cent hamburgers. Families and guys like us would stop in front and walk up to the window. There was no drive through…those would come later. Hardee’s was a little more wild and wooly than the Park-In or Shoney’s. The dimly lit back lot was the kingdom of the guys who rolled their cigarette packs in the sleeve of their white t-shirts and were constantly opening the hood of their cars to show off the triple carburetors. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and engine rumble and there was always a fight to be had for interlopers. We were of no interest to them. There was no glory in fighting a goofy sixteen-year-old.
My friends and I would cruise from one spot to another always waiting for the perfect girl to park near us. All the perfect, or near perfect or even average girls already had dates and so our search was, far too often, unproductive. Even with our button-down collar Madras shirts and our pre-Beatle Butch waxed crew cuts, we seldom scored more than an occasional wave. Maybe it was my very dented metallic avocado Chevy.
The chase for girls was more symbolic than real anyway. John had a steady girl and I had a fair few unsteady relationships. Chuck was, like me, occasionally attached. As a poster boy for imposter syndrome, I was usually at a complete loss for words around any girl I found attractive and was convinced she would soon see through my poorly constructed suave demeanor and move on. I was seldom wrong.
After many a half-hearted search, we would face the inevitable failure and head for the solace of the miniature golf course next to a driving range behind where the Shrimp Boat is today. Unlucky in love…lucky at Putt Putt. We were masters of the extremely short golf game. This was early days for miniature golf and the course was not luxurious. Green painted two by fours and some kind of pool table felt created the putting surfaces. There was the requisite windmill and the loop-de-loop but other than those exotics, success was all about knowing the angles and the speed. Bank the ball (mine was always blue) off the worn spot on the board with just the right speed and in it went for an Ace.
For teens, a couple of years bring an eternity of growth.
As we grew up and a little bolder, darker interests would draw us toward the dimly lit Dutch Mill. Let me set the scene. About halfway up Cherry Road sat a windmill shaped building complete with ten-foot blades. I don’t know if the blades ever rotated. The windmill was a slightly shabby relic from the early 1950’s and we were the just barely space-age pre- Sergeant Pepper children of the 1960’s.
At the back of an intentionally dark parking lot was a movie screen the size of a double bed sheet. I have no idea where the projector was but there was a constant showing of cartoons. The Dutch Mill had a dark but not so secret side. The guy who came out to take orders was age blind. To him, everybody was of drinking age. At the time we had a choice…a real drive-in with real movies or the Dutch Mill with silent cartoons and beer.
On Christmas Day in 1965 I turned eighteen, the magic age to legally buy beer,. My friends and I made a search for a place to openly purchase my ceremonial first legal beer. Alas and alack, the only place open was the Dutch Mill and I had already been buying beer there for over year.
There are lessons to be learned…I am big, you know, on lessons. As teens we set our compasses and we often follow them without thinking why. We find the people we want to waste time with and, if we’re lucky, we get to hang out with them through life. Looking back to those days I realize how much time was spent riding around looking for life to find us.
We tried, as do many young people, to substitute mileage for experience, considering our destination as little as possible and drifting into whatever the future would give us. I envy those friends who, early in life, realized a direction and stuck true to their course. I wish I could say I learned my lesson and buckled down and became the captain of my fate but I didn’t. For too many years I was…wow! There are so many nautical terms…adrift comes to mind, up creeks without a paddle, not having both oars in the water and occasionally three sheets in the wind…take your pick, any or all might apply depending upon when you knew me.
After all these years of making good and bad decisions, of postponing life, I have begun to learn some of what life had to teach me. I believe we are meant to hold good friends and good times in our hearts and to return our thoughts to them often. I believe that we are given the strength to overcome disappointments, large or small, and to learn from them. I know that we should discover where our true home is and yet not forget other homes and other times and get to know ourselves for who we are and not who others think we are.
And I believe from time to time, we should play a little golf…even if it is just miniature golf with plastic putters and windmills.
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