This was 1970, when there was a huge culture divide in America, not seen since…until now. But it was “Hippie Summer” in Jackson that year and the clash between the newcomers and the locals got pretty intense. Even Walt’s five boys called me “Hippie Jim,” though without any hint of malice. The boys stopped by regularly to see their dad and I often got to kid around with them too. But we all liked each other, regardless of hair length. That wasn’t always the case. There were numerous skirmishes between the “hard hats & the hippies,” and sometimes it got a tad ugly.
I worked the noon to 10 PM shift at Harold’s and Most of the locals waited until evening to gas up. During the day, the tourists were regular customers who also complained bitterly about the price of gas— 44.9 cents a gallon and believe it or not, that was one of the highest gas prices in the country. Still I always preferred the evening business when the ranchers and other working men stopped by.
One local was a particular favorite. His name was Tom Fortune. He was about 6 feet tall and might have weighed 130 pounds after a hard rain. His waist could not have been more than 28 inches. Tom had an agreement with Harold that he could use the bays after hours and he was a frequent visitor. Like so many ranchers, he got by on a wing and a prayer and baling wire. He had more patches than rubber on much of his farm equipment and still owned a lot of tires with split rims, which are a real pain to change. But Tom was not one to give up on a wheel or a piece of machinery if he could jury-rig it and keep it alive for a bit longer.
Tom was a man who never complained and never bragged. In fact, he just didn’t like to waste time on unnecessary conversation. One evening he came in with another flat and as he climbed out of his old truck, he was clearly injured and in pain. Tom Fortune might have only been in his late 30s but he was moving like a man twice that. I was concerned…
“Are you okay, Tom? I asked.