Shallow breaths, shallow sighs,
Molten passions, someone dies.
Shallow paths, shallow seas,
Earthen creature no one frees.
Shallow music, shallow days,
Caustic words and evil ways.
Shallow rivers, shallow streams,
Broken hearts and broken dreams.
Shallow chances, shallow skies,
Blinded paths and blinded eyes.
Shallow winds, shallow flowers,
Endless days, endless hours.
Shallow leaves, shallow trees,
Solitary soul that no one sees.
Shallow moments, shallow glances
Would Peace, pierced by lances.
Shallow breaths, shallow sighs,
Deception, greed, someone dies.
Shall grave...someone dies.
Thursday, October 6, 2016
Saturday, October 1, 2016
Ghosts of Highway 18
There is a very peculiar stretch of Highway 18. Although, its northernmost start is in a very urban city, it is the dead center of the highway that is haunted. Perhaps, "dead" center is a bad choice of words. The central part of Highway 18 was a two lane dirt road until a small bridge was built over another highway, Highway 9, that lay beneath the bridge. That highway was the only east to west route for people who traveled to New York City. Unlike Highway 9, Highway 18 was far less traveled in the central portion.
For the length of about 8 miles, Highway 18 was unpaved and had a very deep drop with several dangerous curves. There were long stretches of woods on either side, made up mostly of scrub pines and wild brush. Here and there, a few homes built in the late 1940s dotted the landscape.
Once in a while, a tractor trailer made its way down the two lane highway at the central portion. Many times in late summer, a fog would roll in and settle in the deepest part of Highway 18's incline. Lone truckers would literally pull off the road until the fog lifted.
Highway 18's central portion was dangerous for another reason. The shift from the drop in the road to a slightly higher grading came unexpectedly for drivers. There were no traffic signals for the entire 8 mile stretch.
The small town in which the central portion of Highway 18 was located allowed pedestrians to cross the highway through a small designated opening just beyond an old underpass bridge. This was the only way pedestrians could get to the large church on the opposite side of the highway and to the small smattering of stores located on Old Duke Road. This road ran through the town east to west and was the reason for the underpass bridge over Highway 18.
For a long time, Highway 18 had its fair share of accidents, mostly due to bad weather and none resulting in more than a stiff neck or a few bruises. Until 1966. The Tomlin family, headed by Jerry Tomlin, owned a trucking company and lived off Highway 18 on Mill Mount Road. It was a regular sight to see Jerry on his way home in his large tractor trailer cab.
Jerry, a six foot four inch tall, lanky man of fifty-two had three children, Betsy, Olivia and Cubbie. Cubbie was born Gerald Simon Tomlin. But, the family always called him "Cubbie" because he was roundish like a small bear cub.
Jerry and his wife, Claire, worked hard to keep home and family. Claire was an excellent bookkeeper for Jerry's trucking business. She also helped take on new customers. Jerry dreamed of the day when he could buy a second tractor trailer and hoped Cubbie would become a trucker like him.
Claire took care of their small ranch style home, saw to the needs of the children and Jerry's business all while he was away for a few days at a time hauling whichever load his customers required. The Tomlin household seemed to hum like a comforting tune.
The weather in August 1966 was unusually hot for New Jersey. Then, on an August Wednesday, Claire woke up to fog so thick she could barely see. She worried about Jerry. She knew his three day hauling stint was over and he was on his way home for much needed rest.
Jerry's haul had taken him to South Carolina this time. After dropping the load, he decided to drive straight through to his home. He told himself it was only a five hour drive even if there was traffic congestion to contend with. The customer had some problems with offloading. Jerry wasn't the kind to lose a good customer over a slight inconvenient delay. That was part of the blessing of owning his own trucking business. If there were delays, he wasn't under the gun to meet an employer's dictates.
By the time Jerry left Maryland, it was already evening. He decided to drive straight through so he could be back home in time in the morning to see the kids before they left for school.
"If I get sleepy, I'll pull over," he told himself.
It was four in the morning when he finally reached the central portion of Highway 18. The fog was just abominable. It was so thick Jerry worried if he would accidentally hit a deer crossing the road or another vehicle coming from the opposite direction. He managed to maneuver the huge vehicle past the dangerous curve.
Just as he was heading up the higher grading, something went horribly wrong. He heard a bang and then the truck began to swerve. The trailer swing around hard and hit the cab. Jerry struggled to get control again. But, the impact of the trailer hitting the cab forced the cab to uncouple. The cab swung around and the next thing Jerry remembered seeing was the trailer in front of the now uncoupled cab.
Claire heard the wail of sirens at five AM that morning. She rolled over to try and fall back to sleep. She always set the alarm for six AM so she could have breakfast ready for Jerry and the kids.
At 5:45 AM, she heard a knock on the door. She pushed the plaid living room drapes aside to see who is was and immediately saw the red, white and blue flashing lights of a police car. Every wife of a trucker never wants a police car at the front door so early in the morning because they know what it means: a trucking accident.
"Officers? Is anything wrong?" Claire asked, opening the door.
"M'am, is your husband Jerry Tomlin?"
"Yes sir, why?"
"M'am, I'm sorry to tell you this but about forty-five minutes ago, your husband was in a fatal accident."
"Oh my God! Where?"
"Not far from here. He must have skidded or something. The trailer dislodged from the cab. It looks as if he was caught..."
"Please, officer. No more. When can I see him?"
"The local first aiders tried to save him. You have to appreciate that."
"Where is my husband? Please. I must go to him."
"He's in the town morgue. It's at the rear of the hospital on Highway 9 in Belleridge."
The two police officers returned to their vehicles. Claire hurried to phone her mother to stay with the children.
"Mama. Something awful. Jerry had a terrible accident," Claire said.
"Is he alright?"
"No, Mama. He is...he.." Claire dissolved into tears.
Jerry Tomlin was the first ghost to be seen on Highway 18. Perhaps, it wasn't so much that people believed they saw his ghost as much as they felt his overwhelming presence. As the town began to become more populated, Highway 18 was finally paved and still drivers claimed they saw a dark shadow crossing the high grading on the highway. The naysayers claim it was "imagination."
One of those emphatic naysayers was John Farlow. He lived off Highway 18 in one of the newer homes built near the church. As the now paved Highway 18 began to increase, so did the highway noise. One gloomy, grey Saturday morning in September, John was busy preparing his garden for winter.
The Farlow house was located about 1800 feet from Highway 18 and clearly visible from their backyard. John plunked down the rake and began to form a small pile of leaves and dead grass. He heard a sharp cry. He ran into his house.
"Harriet, you alright, m'dear?" he called.
"John, I'm in the kitchen."
Sure enough, there was his wife Harriet in the kitchen.
"Did you just call out for me?"
"No, dear. Why?"
"I know I heard a shrill cry."
"Probably just one of those rabbits getting last rites from a fox in the woods."
John went back to his gardening. He felt as if someone walked over his grave. He couldn't for the life of him shake the feeling someone or something was watching him. He wiped his brow and looked around. He saw a four door sedan heading past the curve and up the high grading. It was as if it all happened in slow motion.
The sedan, for no real reason, seemed to hit the cement barrier with such force as if someone tossed it toward the median. He hurried to call the police and report it. In 1969, no one had access to cell phones and rotary dial phones were still the most innovative device to use in an emergency.
John watched as an ambulance and emergency workers tried to remove the body of a woman from the car.
When the police stopped to speak to him about what he saw, he knew they didn't believe him.
"You say you heard the scream before the accident occurred? You mean you heard it before the point of impact?
"No, I am saying it was at least six minutes before the accident occurred that I heard a loud shrill scream. It wasn't a woman's voice. It was a man's."
"That's not possible. There is only a female victim who was driving that car."
"Harriet. Tell them. I came inside to see if you had called out to me. Didn't I?"
"Yes, officer. John was out in the garden and thought he heard me scream. He came inside and found me standing at the kitchen sink," Harriet concurred.
The police officers were miffed. There was no fog, a chronic complaint they received frequently about this portion of Highway 18. When the officers returned to the station house, they reported what John and Harriet told them.
Chief Harmon was naturally wary.
"Sounds way like townspeople imagining things," the Chief said.
"I don't know, Chief. John Farlow, the witness to the accident swears he heard a scream minutes before the vehicle entered that high grade."
This accident remained under investigation for several months before the next one occurred on Highway 18. This time it was the old barmaid, Cora Grimsby, who worked for nearly three decades in the neighborhood bar on Old Duke Road. The victim lived at the end of the street where the Farlow's home was located.
The woman was sixty-four years old and had just finished her shift at six that October evening. She planned to walk across Highway 18 to stop in to her friend, Adeline's home on the opposite side of the road. It was twilight but there was still a patch of light in the southern sky overhead. It had been a beautiful autumn day and workers were just starting to head home. One of those was Anthony Buzzino, a local hauler of produce.
He turned on his lights as he headed south on Highway 18 toward the higher grade of the road. The next thing he remembered was a terrible, loud thump. He quickly turned on his flashing emergency lights and pulled his truck to the side of the road. When he walked toward the median, he was horrified! He'd hit an old woman who had crossed the highway!
"Oh my God!" was all Anthony Buzzino could say.
He tried to find a pulse. There was none.
John Farlow came running to ask if Anthony needed help. By this time, traffic began to slow to see what had happened.
John Farlow shook his head. He didn't need to know the old woman was dead. When police came, why Anthony didn't see the woman crossing.
"It was odd. There was a funny dark shadow ahead. I thought maybe some kind of smoke or something. I didn't expect her to be crossing here. I know there is a pedestrian inlet where she is supposed to cross. She just came out of no where," Anthony said.
The detectives investigating didn't charge the driver because in truth, they knew that the woman should have crossed the highway at the inlet. In their report, they recommended that a light and sign be posted on the overpass bridge to warn drivers of pedestrian crossings and that perhaps some type of signal light might prevent another accident.
As always, state governments approved the signal light but they were not clear on "when" it would be installed.
With the over-development going on in the town and to the south of Highway 18, traffic was getting to where there were accidents, mainly fender benders nearly every month for much of the late 1980s. State officials took their time before finally installing an enclosed crosswalk to avoid more pedestrian accidents and the inlet to cross to the other side of Highway 18 was finally, permanently closed. The state also opened the highway to two additional lanes on either side of the roadway.
There are many towns in the state where two lane highways exist in heavily residential and business areas. For some peculiar reason, the state felt that Highway 18 was better served as a four lane roadway. This is when the accidents began to increase. Now, large dump trucks en route to construction sites and huge 74 foot long semis were tearing up and down Highway 18 always exceeding the posted 50 mph speed limit. Yet, nothing was done about the approach to the incline or newly created exits out of housing developments. Accidents were waiting to happen.
The worst one did. Timmy Meyers was riding his brand new bicycle along the narrow strip of road adjacent to the paved highway just a few yards past the Farlow home. Timmy had done this many times in his fourteen years. He paid strict attention to his parents' warning to make sure he rode with traffic and not against it.
He hopped on his bicycle one July afternoon in 1999 to get to the enclosed overpass and the other side of the highway. He huffed and puffed a little as the road began its climb upward. He stopped for just one moment to get his "wind" back when a huge dump truck in the far right lane sent Timmy flying 20 feet into the air. The boy was dead on impact.
It was the habit of the locals to place flowers at the point of death on Highway 18 for those who had lost their lives. Timmy's flowers remained for almost ten years. It was always assumed one of his parents placed them there even after they sold their home next door to the Farlow's and moved away rather than constantly be reminded of their son's gruesome death each time they looked out at Highway 18.
In truth, no one saw where the flowers came from. Sometimes, they were poinsettias or a Christmas wreath. Other times, they were wild flowers that grew along the highway. When a new family moved into the Meyers house, the flowers placed at the site where Timmy died became a local rumor. The rumor was that Highway 18 was haunted by ghosts of the truck driver, Jerry Tomlin and Cora Grimsby.
There were times when for no reason, not fog, snow or rain, drivers claimed they saw shadows moving slowly across the high grade on Route 18.
Johnnie O'Malley, a tall, red haired Irishman with a still detectable brogue knew not to go walking anywhere near that section of the highway.
"It's cursed, I tell you. Cursed. Highway's taken too many lives. They canna' stop the deaths. "18 snakes upward like one of those cobras...ready to spring on anyone," Johnnie said, between sips of his ale.
Johnnie O'Malley was a regular patron at Charlie's Pub, the very bar where Cora Grimsby once worked as a barmaid.
"Johnnie, do you remember Cora Grimsby?" Todd Axley asked.
"Course I do. I been living near that infernal road since the decided to push it through to the other side of Mainsley," Johnnie replied.
"Why do you think it's cursed?"
"The danged state took land that didn't belong to them! Tha's why," Johnnie said, now slightly slurring his words.
"What do you mean?" Todd asked.
"See? It's like this. All that land was a farm owned by old Teddy March. They forced him to hand it over so's they could build Highway 18. He fought hard like a man does when someone tries to take their land. But, Teddy knew he couldn't fight the state. We all went ta' bat for him but we are little people. We could only do so much. We did na' want the highway there either but what you gonna do when the state is bigger than you?" Johnnie said.
"What happened to Teddy March?" Todd asked.
Now, most of the patrons sitting at the bar and some of those sitting at tables around the perimeter of the bar were listening intently.
"Teddy March still had at least another 20 good years ahead of him when he lost his land. Was the state taking it that killed him. They said it was a stroke. But, Teddy aluz' said he was going to live and "die" on that property. Tha's where they found 'im too. Right there were that high ridge in Highway 18 is. Teddy's last words were, "I curse this place where I lay!"
For the length of about 8 miles, Highway 18 was unpaved and had a very deep drop with several dangerous curves. There were long stretches of woods on either side, made up mostly of scrub pines and wild brush. Here and there, a few homes built in the late 1940s dotted the landscape.
Once in a while, a tractor trailer made its way down the two lane highway at the central portion. Many times in late summer, a fog would roll in and settle in the deepest part of Highway 18's incline. Lone truckers would literally pull off the road until the fog lifted.
Highway 18's central portion was dangerous for another reason. The shift from the drop in the road to a slightly higher grading came unexpectedly for drivers. There were no traffic signals for the entire 8 mile stretch.
The small town in which the central portion of Highway 18 was located allowed pedestrians to cross the highway through a small designated opening just beyond an old underpass bridge. This was the only way pedestrians could get to the large church on the opposite side of the highway and to the small smattering of stores located on Old Duke Road. This road ran through the town east to west and was the reason for the underpass bridge over Highway 18.
For a long time, Highway 18 had its fair share of accidents, mostly due to bad weather and none resulting in more than a stiff neck or a few bruises. Until 1966. The Tomlin family, headed by Jerry Tomlin, owned a trucking company and lived off Highway 18 on Mill Mount Road. It was a regular sight to see Jerry on his way home in his large tractor trailer cab.
Jerry, a six foot four inch tall, lanky man of fifty-two had three children, Betsy, Olivia and Cubbie. Cubbie was born Gerald Simon Tomlin. But, the family always called him "Cubbie" because he was roundish like a small bear cub.
Jerry and his wife, Claire, worked hard to keep home and family. Claire was an excellent bookkeeper for Jerry's trucking business. She also helped take on new customers. Jerry dreamed of the day when he could buy a second tractor trailer and hoped Cubbie would become a trucker like him.
Claire took care of their small ranch style home, saw to the needs of the children and Jerry's business all while he was away for a few days at a time hauling whichever load his customers required. The Tomlin household seemed to hum like a comforting tune.
The weather in August 1966 was unusually hot for New Jersey. Then, on an August Wednesday, Claire woke up to fog so thick she could barely see. She worried about Jerry. She knew his three day hauling stint was over and he was on his way home for much needed rest.
Jerry's haul had taken him to South Carolina this time. After dropping the load, he decided to drive straight through to his home. He told himself it was only a five hour drive even if there was traffic congestion to contend with. The customer had some problems with offloading. Jerry wasn't the kind to lose a good customer over a slight inconvenient delay. That was part of the blessing of owning his own trucking business. If there were delays, he wasn't under the gun to meet an employer's dictates.
By the time Jerry left Maryland, it was already evening. He decided to drive straight through so he could be back home in time in the morning to see the kids before they left for school.
"If I get sleepy, I'll pull over," he told himself.
It was four in the morning when he finally reached the central portion of Highway 18. The fog was just abominable. It was so thick Jerry worried if he would accidentally hit a deer crossing the road or another vehicle coming from the opposite direction. He managed to maneuver the huge vehicle past the dangerous curve.
Just as he was heading up the higher grading, something went horribly wrong. He heard a bang and then the truck began to swerve. The trailer swing around hard and hit the cab. Jerry struggled to get control again. But, the impact of the trailer hitting the cab forced the cab to uncouple. The cab swung around and the next thing Jerry remembered seeing was the trailer in front of the now uncoupled cab.
Claire heard the wail of sirens at five AM that morning. She rolled over to try and fall back to sleep. She always set the alarm for six AM so she could have breakfast ready for Jerry and the kids.
At 5:45 AM, she heard a knock on the door. She pushed the plaid living room drapes aside to see who is was and immediately saw the red, white and blue flashing lights of a police car. Every wife of a trucker never wants a police car at the front door so early in the morning because they know what it means: a trucking accident.
"Officers? Is anything wrong?" Claire asked, opening the door.
"M'am, is your husband Jerry Tomlin?"
"Yes sir, why?"
"M'am, I'm sorry to tell you this but about forty-five minutes ago, your husband was in a fatal accident."
"Oh my God! Where?"
"Not far from here. He must have skidded or something. The trailer dislodged from the cab. It looks as if he was caught..."
"Please, officer. No more. When can I see him?"
"The local first aiders tried to save him. You have to appreciate that."
"Where is my husband? Please. I must go to him."
"He's in the town morgue. It's at the rear of the hospital on Highway 9 in Belleridge."
The two police officers returned to their vehicles. Claire hurried to phone her mother to stay with the children.
"Mama. Something awful. Jerry had a terrible accident," Claire said.
"Is he alright?"
"No, Mama. He is...he.." Claire dissolved into tears.
Jerry Tomlin was the first ghost to be seen on Highway 18. Perhaps, it wasn't so much that people believed they saw his ghost as much as they felt his overwhelming presence. As the town began to become more populated, Highway 18 was finally paved and still drivers claimed they saw a dark shadow crossing the high grading on the highway. The naysayers claim it was "imagination."
One of those emphatic naysayers was John Farlow. He lived off Highway 18 in one of the newer homes built near the church. As the now paved Highway 18 began to increase, so did the highway noise. One gloomy, grey Saturday morning in September, John was busy preparing his garden for winter.
The Farlow house was located about 1800 feet from Highway 18 and clearly visible from their backyard. John plunked down the rake and began to form a small pile of leaves and dead grass. He heard a sharp cry. He ran into his house.
"Harriet, you alright, m'dear?" he called.
"John, I'm in the kitchen."
Sure enough, there was his wife Harriet in the kitchen.
"Did you just call out for me?"
"No, dear. Why?"
"I know I heard a shrill cry."
"Probably just one of those rabbits getting last rites from a fox in the woods."
John went back to his gardening. He felt as if someone walked over his grave. He couldn't for the life of him shake the feeling someone or something was watching him. He wiped his brow and looked around. He saw a four door sedan heading past the curve and up the high grading. It was as if it all happened in slow motion.
The sedan, for no real reason, seemed to hit the cement barrier with such force as if someone tossed it toward the median. He hurried to call the police and report it. In 1969, no one had access to cell phones and rotary dial phones were still the most innovative device to use in an emergency.
John watched as an ambulance and emergency workers tried to remove the body of a woman from the car.
When the police stopped to speak to him about what he saw, he knew they didn't believe him.
"You say you heard the scream before the accident occurred? You mean you heard it before the point of impact?
"No, I am saying it was at least six minutes before the accident occurred that I heard a loud shrill scream. It wasn't a woman's voice. It was a man's."
"That's not possible. There is only a female victim who was driving that car."
"Harriet. Tell them. I came inside to see if you had called out to me. Didn't I?"
"Yes, officer. John was out in the garden and thought he heard me scream. He came inside and found me standing at the kitchen sink," Harriet concurred.
The police officers were miffed. There was no fog, a chronic complaint they received frequently about this portion of Highway 18. When the officers returned to the station house, they reported what John and Harriet told them.
Chief Harmon was naturally wary.
"Sounds way like townspeople imagining things," the Chief said.
"I don't know, Chief. John Farlow, the witness to the accident swears he heard a scream minutes before the vehicle entered that high grade."
This accident remained under investigation for several months before the next one occurred on Highway 18. This time it was the old barmaid, Cora Grimsby, who worked for nearly three decades in the neighborhood bar on Old Duke Road. The victim lived at the end of the street where the Farlow's home was located.
The woman was sixty-four years old and had just finished her shift at six that October evening. She planned to walk across Highway 18 to stop in to her friend, Adeline's home on the opposite side of the road. It was twilight but there was still a patch of light in the southern sky overhead. It had been a beautiful autumn day and workers were just starting to head home. One of those was Anthony Buzzino, a local hauler of produce.
He turned on his lights as he headed south on Highway 18 toward the higher grade of the road. The next thing he remembered was a terrible, loud thump. He quickly turned on his flashing emergency lights and pulled his truck to the side of the road. When he walked toward the median, he was horrified! He'd hit an old woman who had crossed the highway!
"Oh my God!" was all Anthony Buzzino could say.
He tried to find a pulse. There was none.
John Farlow came running to ask if Anthony needed help. By this time, traffic began to slow to see what had happened.
John Farlow shook his head. He didn't need to know the old woman was dead. When police came, why Anthony didn't see the woman crossing.
"It was odd. There was a funny dark shadow ahead. I thought maybe some kind of smoke or something. I didn't expect her to be crossing here. I know there is a pedestrian inlet where she is supposed to cross. She just came out of no where," Anthony said.
The detectives investigating didn't charge the driver because in truth, they knew that the woman should have crossed the highway at the inlet. In their report, they recommended that a light and sign be posted on the overpass bridge to warn drivers of pedestrian crossings and that perhaps some type of signal light might prevent another accident.
As always, state governments approved the signal light but they were not clear on "when" it would be installed.
With the over-development going on in the town and to the south of Highway 18, traffic was getting to where there were accidents, mainly fender benders nearly every month for much of the late 1980s. State officials took their time before finally installing an enclosed crosswalk to avoid more pedestrian accidents and the inlet to cross to the other side of Highway 18 was finally, permanently closed. The state also opened the highway to two additional lanes on either side of the roadway.
There are many towns in the state where two lane highways exist in heavily residential and business areas. For some peculiar reason, the state felt that Highway 18 was better served as a four lane roadway. This is when the accidents began to increase. Now, large dump trucks en route to construction sites and huge 74 foot long semis were tearing up and down Highway 18 always exceeding the posted 50 mph speed limit. Yet, nothing was done about the approach to the incline or newly created exits out of housing developments. Accidents were waiting to happen.
The worst one did. Timmy Meyers was riding his brand new bicycle along the narrow strip of road adjacent to the paved highway just a few yards past the Farlow home. Timmy had done this many times in his fourteen years. He paid strict attention to his parents' warning to make sure he rode with traffic and not against it.
He hopped on his bicycle one July afternoon in 1999 to get to the enclosed overpass and the other side of the highway. He huffed and puffed a little as the road began its climb upward. He stopped for just one moment to get his "wind" back when a huge dump truck in the far right lane sent Timmy flying 20 feet into the air. The boy was dead on impact.
It was the habit of the locals to place flowers at the point of death on Highway 18 for those who had lost their lives. Timmy's flowers remained for almost ten years. It was always assumed one of his parents placed them there even after they sold their home next door to the Farlow's and moved away rather than constantly be reminded of their son's gruesome death each time they looked out at Highway 18.
In truth, no one saw where the flowers came from. Sometimes, they were poinsettias or a Christmas wreath. Other times, they were wild flowers that grew along the highway. When a new family moved into the Meyers house, the flowers placed at the site where Timmy died became a local rumor. The rumor was that Highway 18 was haunted by ghosts of the truck driver, Jerry Tomlin and Cora Grimsby.
There were times when for no reason, not fog, snow or rain, drivers claimed they saw shadows moving slowly across the high grade on Route 18.
Johnnie O'Malley, a tall, red haired Irishman with a still detectable brogue knew not to go walking anywhere near that section of the highway.
"It's cursed, I tell you. Cursed. Highway's taken too many lives. They canna' stop the deaths. "18 snakes upward like one of those cobras...ready to spring on anyone," Johnnie said, between sips of his ale.
Johnnie O'Malley was a regular patron at Charlie's Pub, the very bar where Cora Grimsby once worked as a barmaid.
"Johnnie, do you remember Cora Grimsby?" Todd Axley asked.
"Course I do. I been living near that infernal road since the decided to push it through to the other side of Mainsley," Johnnie replied.
"Why do you think it's cursed?"
"The danged state took land that didn't belong to them! Tha's why," Johnnie said, now slightly slurring his words.
"What do you mean?" Todd asked.
"See? It's like this. All that land was a farm owned by old Teddy March. They forced him to hand it over so's they could build Highway 18. He fought hard like a man does when someone tries to take their land. But, Teddy knew he couldn't fight the state. We all went ta' bat for him but we are little people. We could only do so much. We did na' want the highway there either but what you gonna do when the state is bigger than you?" Johnnie said.
"What happened to Teddy March?" Todd asked.
Now, most of the patrons sitting at the bar and some of those sitting at tables around the perimeter of the bar were listening intently.
"Teddy March still had at least another 20 good years ahead of him when he lost his land. Was the state taking it that killed him. They said it was a stroke. But, Teddy aluz' said he was going to live and "die" on that property. Tha's where they found 'im too. Right there were that high ridge in Highway 18 is. Teddy's last words were, "I curse this place where I lay!"
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