Bet you think this post is going to have a musical reference but au contraire my dears, I am referring to the various groups of people that roam through out many countries. Gypsies are defined as "persons of nomadic habit of life, whatever their race or origin". I'm proud to say that for a brief time, I became a honorary gypsy.
In my much younger days while I was toodling around in my spiffy Metropolitan convertible, I made a trip from Florida to Ohio to visit family. The trip going and while there was pleasant and uneventful. Returning was another story.
On the way back to Florida, my cute car became ill. It started in West Virginia where a mechanic in a small town said my points and plugs needed adjusting. He performed the deed and sent me on my way running somewhat better. That got me maybe 100 miles when I again started chugging and spurting down the road again, very slowly.
I crawled into Virginia and again met a head scratching mechanic. My car was cute but not one most mechanics were familiar with. He said I needed new spark plug wires but had no idea where to get them. It would takes weeks to order them. He cleaned the plugs and points and again, I sputtered down the road.
Thus I lurched through the states one at a time heading south.I guess it was the ignorance of extreme youth but I was more annoyed than concerned. I was spending a lot of money on motels being fearful of driving at night.
Then on a lonely stretch of highway in Georgia, I was reduced to cruising along at about 25 miles an hour. I was beginning to get concerned. Every mechanic I saw just patched me up and sent me on. They did not have the parts needed. It was too far to turn back and I still had a long way to go to West Palm Beach.
It was early morning when I finally chugged into a rest stop on the side of the highway. In those days rest stops were merely wide spots on the side of the road with a picnic table and a trash can. Each time before I had at least made it to a town of sorts. Now I was worried for there was no town in sight. This was also way before cell phones.
A really funny looking van pulled around me and stopped in front of my car. It was actually a strange looking pick up that had wooden panels for sides and a wooden roof. Probably a homemade RV. A man sporting a head band, beard, and a loop ear ring got out and came back to my car. In those days only pirates wore ear rings. He said he had been following me and realized I was in trouble. He asked what the problem was and I told him.
We popped my hood and he took a look. About 6 vehicles of pretty strange description pulled off the road behind me. The cars and trucks were each pieced together with fenders and hoods of a variety of makes, models and colors. They were packed with people and belongings. There was little doubt as I surveyed the scene that I was surrounded by a band of gypsies. There was a brief moment of alarm as I was hemmed in but that did not linger. I sensed no threat.
Other men got out to help the fellow under my hood. When I explained the problem, they determined that there was a discharge between my plug wires and the engine. The leader showed me the spark as it jumped. He then rolled up a newspaper and shoved it between the wire and the engine. Not high tech but functional. I worried about fire but he assured me there was little danger.
When I started the car and with my newspaper buffer, it ran smooth as glass. By now my car and I were surrounded by men, women, and curious children. They said they were going to Miami and that I was welcome to travel with them in case I got in trouble again. Now I am normally an independent wench but was delighted with the company and oddly, trusted them completely.
As we continued, they nestled my little car in the middle of the caravan. I felt totally safe and comfortable for the first time since I had left Ohio. They maintained a rather slow speed and would periodically pull off the road to make sure my car was running OK. Since I had an uncle in Jacksonville, they said they would take me there. I am sure we created quite a stir toodling along as a colorful road hogging caravan.
We stopped at a rest area outside of Jacksonville for lunch. They invited me to join them for lunch which I gratefully did. They shared their food and I emptied my cooler of soft drinks. I told them I had spied a billboard for a Nash dealer and thought I could get the proper parts there. It was supposed to be on the same road we were traveling.
My gypsy band led me there with my little convertible still nestled in the middle of the pack. We all pulled into the parking lot as a mass. It was funny to see that the salesmen all stayed inside, noses glued to the windows gawking at the strange sight.
When I found out the service dept had the spark plug wires on hand, I went to my little band of friends to thank them profusely and to say goodbye. I stuck out my hand but was pulled into a smothering hug. Group hugs were shared and each in turn patted my head like a pet and made me promise I would be all right before they got in their odd vehicles and disappeared into the traffic.
Every year bands of gypsies come to Florida. Some to read palms, some to do odd jobs and some allegedly swindle people by contracting to do work but not coming through. You will never hear me bad mouth them as a group. The ones I met were a gentle, caring bunch that went way out of their way for a young woman in trouble. They asked nor expected anything in return.
I never saw them again but have never forgotten them nor their kindness.
3 years ago
