Some time in 1985, Stacy, Brandon and I were Atlanta-bound from Savannah after a great few days visit. I loved the city and drove down a few times whenever we could to engage in some much needed good-for-the-soul R&R. We weren’t disappointed this time either; it was a perfect mini vacation.
We were packed and ready to leave, but we just HAD to peek-a-view the Atlantic Ocean one last time before officially heading North.
Enjoying watching the kids kicking in the salty tide and chasing tiny mollusks before they disappeared under the beach, I scooped up some sand and seashells to take back for a memento/reminder of what a wonderful time we’d had. Then, time to hit the road home.
A few miles outside the city limits, I saw a large group of protesters carring banners and signs on the side of the road. When I got a little closer, they all stepped out into the street obviously trying to block me from driving through.
My kids were in the car, and I was not looking for trouble. I had no idea what these people wanted or who they were, and frankly, I didn’t care. I had a split second decision to make in response to this situation. I put my car in low gear and slammed the gas pedal to the floor.
They looked like bowling pins🎳 that had just been hit with a guaranteed strike. I don’t know what would have happened had they not scattered, but I can tell you one thing: I would NOT have stopped!
I’ve never forgotten that day and how grateful I was that the people scattered.
