The Wandering Foodie

I was running late that warm summer morning. I rushed through my shower, pulled on my clothes, packed the last items into my suitcase and made a beeline for Mansion Street.

As long as I’ve know him, Frank Hampton, Jr. has always been punctual. That morning, having been chosen as his designated driver to the camp meeting, I was nervous that I would get left. His wife saved me it would seem – she was running behind.

We settled into the car and headed out on the road. The sleek Toyota Avalon felt both foreign and fresh under my hands as I pressed the gas, moving through the rolling back country of the Midwest. Hamp kept nagging me about the GPS – an ancient system that came with the car and refused to work correctly.

“Suppose you have an interview and they ask you to figure the system out to get the job,” he said, grinning. I rolled my eyes and laughed in spite of myself.

It was the summer after I’d graduated from college. Tough times. So many things, career, grad school, the direction of my life, were up in the air. So much stress, worry, concern compounded me on a daily basis. But, for once, that day, that week, that trip, I could relax a little and enjoy the open road. One wouldn’t think a 20-something college grad would like riding with two 80-plus year-old people, but I loved it. Moving swiftly through the flow of freeway traffic, bouncing and singing along to the gospel greats – the Gaithers, Ernie Haase, Sam Cooke, The Soul Stirrers – Hamp loved all the old groups. Even when he made me pause the tunes to take a phone call, he wanted the jam right back on as soon as he hung up.

He was always pleasant, joyful and even when stern, knew how to be so gently. I don’t worship men and I didn’t always agree with him on everything. The reason why he meant so much to people was not his elite spiritual gifts per se or his soaring oratory. He was down-to-earth. A man of the people. The man who would pray in front of The United States Congress and also rib you about which girl you like sitting under the shade of a tree on the old campground. He was not lofty and earned the respect of his family, church, community and the nation he served in more ways than one.

I sometimes drift back to that trip, my last with Hamp, and remember the return journey back to Jackson. Late at night, the rain splattering against the windshield as I gripped the wheel, the GPS system (fixed now thanks to me ha!) though now oddly giving directions in the Metric System. Hamp reaches over to turn off the A/C ( he hated cold air) and leans back into his seat, pulling his jacket up over his head. Neither one of us knew what would lie ahead in our lives. Neither one of us knew that our paths would turn sharply and we would not see much of each other in the future. This never mattered to him. He treated me the same the few times I saw him since then, even recalling our last road trip fondly.

But, none of that mattered at that moment. It was just us. I plant my hands on the wheel, look straight ahead and Hamp leans back, closes his eyes…and drifts off to sleep.