I’ve run out of gas more than once, but the only time I clearly recall was in 1974. I had graduated from Valdosta State College and was living in a Tallahassee apartment working with Burroughs Corporation. Jane was staying with her parents in Thomasville and doing her student teaching in Whigham.

Each Friday after work I made the scenic 35 mile trip from Florida’s capital to Georgia’s City of Roses. That was my weekend routine during the four months before our December wedding. Following our honeymoon in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, we began the new year at 2600 Miccosukee Road. Gas was cheaper in Thomasville than Tallahassee, so I’d buy it there when possible. That’s why my cream-colored Malibu coupe was running on fumes.

I made it to the city limits but not to the Fox Sing Oil station. Someone let me use a landline phone to call Horne Candy Company for roadside assistance. My future father-in-law’s green Ford pickup was a welcome site. “Don’t you know cars won’t run without gas?” Mr. Horne asked good naturedly.  

Another time is fixed in my mind of almost running out of fuel. In 1989 Jane and our ten-year-old triplets flew to California to visit her brother and his family. I was driving a rental van on the winding and windy Pacific Coast Highway with my wife and our three children aboard. “I’m not going to pay $1.72 for gas!” I announced, although the fuel-gauge hand was bumping the red line. Despite concerns expressed by fellow travelers, I drove on by.

Twenty miles later we coasted into the graveled lot of a small store with old-style petrol pumps. I thanked them for letting me fill the tank at $2.05 a gallon and hugged the matronly lady tending the cash register. It was a memorable lesson to be more careful about saying what I won’t do.

Running on fumes is the point I’ve reached in writing weekly columns. March will be seven years and that seems like a good place to change the pace. Seven is one of those numbers that’s significant in the Bible, beginning with the creation story in Genesis. I can’t claim God has given me any revelations about that timeframe, but somehow it feels complete.

There’s no way to thank everyone who has helped me along the way, so I apologize for oversights and worthy omissions. My mother is who I’ll begin with. She has encouraged my literary efforts since childhood. 

One of the earliest things I remember writing was a poem about a rattlesnake. Our collie-mix dog, Trixie, alerted us to the invader. Mama is brave in many ways but has a dreadful fear of snakes. Mrs. Bonnie Quattlebaum, an older friend and neighbor, was visiting us that day and sent the slithering scoundrel to its final destination. 

Mama kept those scribbled verses and gave it to me a few years ago. It was obvious that my juvenile rhyme had been rewarded with undeserved praise. The final lines summarize the story: “Trixie found the rattler and Mama found the hoe, but it was Miss Bonnie who dealt the fatal blow.”

My patient and loving wife deserves a choice spot on the helper’s list. She’s been a source of great encouragement, and has spent hours proofreading and making gentle suggestions. “It’s probably fine,” she’ll sometimes say, “but I had to read that sentence a couple of times for it to be clear.” 

During our college days in the 1970s I considered transferring from Valdosta State to the University of Georgia to pursue a journalism degree. Jane supported whatever I wanted to do and was willing to change schools too. But we loved Valdosta and the friends we’d made. Fifty years later I’m glad we stayed.  

Twice during the early years of our marriage I considered changing careers and had job offers from papers in Valdosta and Thomasville. Although the pay would have been substantially lower, Jane wanted me to do what I thought was best. So that’s what I did, and eventually stumbled into a satisfying career in banking.

There are a lot of folks who deserve to be thanked. I’ll cover some more next week, but the list will still be incomplete. Hopefully there’s enough fuel in the tank to keep writing an occasional column. If not, please know that I’ll be fine, just out of gas one more time.