The Pittsburgh Press (January 9, 1942)
Rambling Reporter
By Ernie Pyle
ALBUQUERQUE – One reason I like to be in New Mexico is that you get some attention paid to you out here.
Why, I can go in and see the governor any time I want to. If I lived in New York, I’d have to make an appointment a month ahead of time to see the governor. And I wouldn’t do that, because I wouldn’t have anything to see him about anyhow.
Out here things aren’t so congested. In a country where you can see for 80 miles, a fellow like me can get somewhere. What I’m trying to lead up to is that I’ve been made a New Mexico colonel again.
Four years ago Gov. Clyde Tingley, in some kind of a civic convulsion, appointed me a colonel on his staff. And now the present governor, John E. Miles, has lost his head and made me a colonel again. Twice a colonel but never a bridesmaid.
There are three of us fellows here in Albuquerque who have lunch together occasionally. One is Lt. Col. C. R. Smith, of the Army air base. One is Earl Mount, my contractor friend. And one is me. Mr. Mount is a New Mexico colonel too.
Well, we meet for lunch and there we are – three colonels. But we stand on all the formalities. Our friend Smith is only a lieutenant-colonel, so he goes to the foot of the line. Mr. Mount is a straight colonel, so he takes his place next.
But I rank both of them, for I am twice a colonel, you see. They must defer to me in all things. They dare not start eating till I have taken the first bite. When they address me, I insist on being called “Double-Colonel.” At the end of each sentence, they not only have to say “sir” to me, they have to say “sir-sir,” in recognition of my double rank. And of course it would be akin to treason if they ever let me pay the bill.
It’s wonderful to live in New Mexico.
Reader pays fine
Some of you may have read a few weeks ago about my getting a ticket for overtime parking and being fined $1.
Well, shortly after that, there came a letter about it from a reader in Cincinnati, and in the letter was a dollar bill, to reimburse me for the fine.
The reason I tell this incident is that I thought you might be interested in knowing what I did with this magnanimous Cincinnatian’s dollar bill.
I kept it.
When this column suddenly stopped last fall, the last one was from Cleveland.
Well, at that time I was just starting a trip which was never finished. (I start more unfinished journeys than anybody in America). Last fall’s jaunt was to be a flying trip up through Canada to Alaska.
I put the car in storage in Cleveland, went to Ottawa for three days, then flew across Canada one night. I expected to do Alaska and be back in Cleveland to pick up the car in about six weeks.
But I never got to Alaska, and I’ve never been back to Cleveland. During these idle months out here, I rented a second-hand car to run errands in.
And then suddenly came Pearl Harbor, and our newly planned trip to the Orient vanished in thin air. It became apparent that my travels would be mostly within our own borders for awhile. So I got an awful yen for that little car sitting there so dead in Cleveland.
I wired the editor of The Cleveland Press, with faint hope, asking if anybody on the staff would like to take a vacation and drive my car to California. The editor put the telegram on the bulletin board. He had three volunteers in 15 minutes.
Volunteers draw for trip
Then he tore up three small strips of paper. Two he left blank; on the third he wrote the word “Go.” And then he had the three volunteers draw the slips from his hand.
The first had nothing on it. The second had nothing on it. The third was drawn by a young man named Clarence Judd. He girded his startled wits about him, kissed his family goodbye, and left that very night.
He took the southern route, through Oklahoma and New Mexico. He honored my own top speed limit of 60 miles an hour, but he drove terrifically long days – one day he drove 20 hours.
He went right through Albuquerque, and completely forgot That Girl was here, or he would have driven out and let her look at the car a minute.
He arrived in San Francisco at 11 one night, just four days and 3000 miles after leaving Cleveland. He said he wasn’t even tired. He said he was so crazy about the car he could hardly bear to give it up.
He stayed 36 hours, rode on San Francisco’s famous cable cars, went to the Top o’ the Mark and looked down upon the city, hoped we’ll pull a blackout for him but was disappointed, and then hopped a train.
So that’s how I’ve got my little automobile again. The first time I drove it, after the long separation, I actually felt embarrassed. But now we’ve got the hang of each other once more, and we motor with a flip and a flair.