The inquisitive traveler headed east from Columbus to Tuscaloosa, Birmingham or points beyond will find it rewarding in unexpected ways to take the slow road out of town — Highway 182, which in Alabama becomes (Pickens) County Road 30.
Life along this route — it goes as far as McShan — is unhurried, and the motorist with a taste for painted tire planters, exuberant yard ornamentation and faded Americana will find much to admire.
After passing Lee-Stokes Road, the scenery begins to change and the traveler may feel as though he or she is slipping back through time. Vestiges of once flourishing businesses stand as reminders of an earlier era.
KluB82, formerly the Playmore Club, the venerable state-line watering hole, has a “for sale” sign out front. The Ann Lee Motel looks like it’s been years since it’s provided lodging for a traveling man or a trysting couple.
Across the line, things seem more prosperous. Mrs. Lamarr, Psychic Reader, open from 8 a.m. to 9 p.m., looks to be faring better. I’m not sure how common it is for a psychic to have her mailbox inside a plastic largemouth bass, but there she is.
Handmade signs advertise alterations (by a woman who also is a beekeeper and raises German shepherds), a beauty salon beside a dirt driveway and the availability of fresh eggs. There are vendors of tombstones and fireplaces.
The most curious of these enterprises, however, is a roadside produce market about midway between S & S Sod Farm and the Ethelsville city limits, about four miles into Alabama. It’s called Bo’s Place.
There in a stand of sweet gum under a shed with a metal roof, you will find Marvin “Bo” Jones sitting in a chair behind tables of watermelon, tomatoes, new potatoes, locally brewed pepper sauce and canned goods of uncertain provenance. Sacks of Vidalia onions hang from the rafters. As often as not, Bo has company, an old friend from one of the nearby communities who had come for the conversation and quiet.
By quiet, I am referring to the traffic count, which I’d put at six to 10 cars per hour. For years I’ve been passing “Bo’s Place,” smiling at the implausibility of this enterprise. Yet, each year, like the orange day lilies growing along roadside ditches, he’s back.
On Tuesday, the first day of summer, Jones, 68, had as a companion, William Latham of Reform. When I pulled up mid-afternoon, Latham, 82, was extracting with a penknife the last bits of sweetness from the half of a yellow-meat watermelon balanced in his lap.
“I’ve already had my cup for the day,” Jones said, referring to the amount of watermelon his diabetic diet allows.
Jones is no Johnny-come-lately to the side-of-the-road produce business. Growing up in Millport, he made early-morning runs with his father to the Birmingham Farmers’ Market for peaches they sold door-to-door. For four or five years, he sold produce at the fairgrounds in Columbus. He’s been at this location for about 10 years.
“I enjoy the heck out of this,” Jones said. “My sister says I enjoy it because I get to run my mouth all the time.”
Despite his seemingly remote location, Jones says he does all right. “There’s more local traffic on this road than on the new one. … Most people on that new road, they’re traveling and they’re not going to stop.”
Jones, who lives in a small trailer behind his stand, is open 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. every day. He makes one or two trips a week to the Birmingham Farmers’ Market (“I’m not going to lie about where this comes from,” he said) in a Ford Ranger with more than 300,000 miles.
As I sat with Jones and Latham, I began to see the allure of observing life from the side of the road. I wondered how or if the outside world ever intruded.
“I got cussed out by a man who wanted to know who I was gonna vote for,” Jones said. “He called me stuff that can’t go into the paper.”
“An election brings on a lot of stuff,” Latham said. He should know; Latham was a Pickens County supervisor for 20 years. “If you can’t tell the truth, don’t say nothing.”
Jones says he prays about terrorism every night. “I wish God would wipe terrorism off the face of the earth.”
After Latham leaves, I buy a watermelon and a sack of onions, then take some pictures. Jones picks out three tomatoes, puts them in a bag and gives them to me.
“They say God give everybody a gift,” Jones said. “I can’t sing; I can’t preach. I guess mine is selling tomatoes.”
He likes his vocation so much, he’s made plans to continue it in the afterlife. Jones, who is unmarried and has no children, is counting on his sister to help him realize his last wishes.
“I told her that every year I want a tomato plant at the head of my grave,” he said. “That way the public can come by and get a tomato.”
The Dispatch Editorial Board is made up of publisher Peter Imes, columnist Slim Smith, managing editor Zack Plair and senior newsroom staff.
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