Oren Mccallister. I've heard this name a thousand times in my life. My parents, my aunts and uncles, my sister, my grandparents, cousins all talked about Oren Mccallister. Despite the fact I never knew him, he had an unusual influence on my life.
Oren Mccallister was Aunt Betty's son. She was Grandpa Marshall's sister. A short red head who, from what I can gather, had a wild and rough life. I didn't know her that well mainly because she had moved to Florida when I was a baby. One early memory I have of her and Uncle Ben was seeing them in hospital beds in their one-story blue cinder block house. They had been in a horrific train wreck near their home in Lutz, Florida.
Anyway, Oren Mccallister was living in Florida. It seems to me that it was the mid-1960s. After exiting a bar, he was jumped and stabbed by some fellow he had words with inside. The knife pierced his heart. He recovered, but what the doctors didn't know was the blade had gone all the way through a punctured the back side of his heart. An oversight that would kill him.
Aunt Betty and her other son moved to Florida to seek out the man that killed him. I hope I have this correct. If not, I know I will hear about it. Won't I, JD?
This incident changed my Father's side of the family more than I will ever know since I wasn't around when it happened. I only know how it influenced my life.
From then on, I would have to travel to Florida to visit my Grandma and Grandpa Marshall and Aunt Betty. They had visited her one time and really like it there. They bought a trailer, called it their winter home, and eventually moved there year-round. They were followed by Aunt Carolyn, Uncle Ron, and their families. On one hand, my circle of family here heavily decreased.
However, on the other hand, we traveled to Florida. It became an annual ritual. Leaving early one October morning (the best time of year to go), heading south. Watching for the important markers along the way -- state lines, Rock City, Lookout Mountain, Jasper in Tennessee, Macon in Georgia, and then finally the Welcome Center in Florida. Ahhh... That red dirt and salty-sea smell. The hanging moss. The highway billboards. Gulls flying overhead.
After a welcoming of a small paper cup of Florida orange juice, you knew you had another three hours to go until Highway 56/54. When we exited, our next guidepost would be a radio tower with a flashing red-light on top, then onto Carson Drive.
Grandma and Grandpa Marshall were there to greet us. A few years later, we would also be greeted by Aunt Carolyn and Uncle Dick, Uncle Ron and Aunt Pam, and the cousins. I can still hear Jeff say "There's my cousin." Always glad to see you.
Oren Mccallister and I never meet, but he paved a road for me. One that led to a love of travel, my appreciation for family in far off places, Florida and its sites and sounds.
I'm amazed at how one incident can pave the road of one person's life. Thank you, Oren Mccallister. Wished we'd have meet, but the fates/God/Allah/Buddha/whatever had different ideas. Hopefully, I'll get to meet you some day and I can thank you in person.
CSM
Oren Mccallister was Aunt Betty's son. She was Grandpa Marshall's sister. A short red head who, from what I can gather, had a wild and rough life. I didn't know her that well mainly because she had moved to Florida when I was a baby. One early memory I have of her and Uncle Ben was seeing them in hospital beds in their one-story blue cinder block house. They had been in a horrific train wreck near their home in Lutz, Florida.
Anyway, Oren Mccallister was living in Florida. It seems to me that it was the mid-1960s. After exiting a bar, he was jumped and stabbed by some fellow he had words with inside. The knife pierced his heart. He recovered, but what the doctors didn't know was the blade had gone all the way through a punctured the back side of his heart. An oversight that would kill him.
Aunt Betty and her other son moved to Florida to seek out the man that killed him. I hope I have this correct. If not, I know I will hear about it. Won't I, JD?
This incident changed my Father's side of the family more than I will ever know since I wasn't around when it happened. I only know how it influenced my life.
From then on, I would have to travel to Florida to visit my Grandma and Grandpa Marshall and Aunt Betty. They had visited her one time and really like it there. They bought a trailer, called it their winter home, and eventually moved there year-round. They were followed by Aunt Carolyn, Uncle Ron, and their families. On one hand, my circle of family here heavily decreased.
However, on the other hand, we traveled to Florida. It became an annual ritual. Leaving early one October morning (the best time of year to go), heading south. Watching for the important markers along the way -- state lines, Rock City, Lookout Mountain, Jasper in Tennessee, Macon in Georgia, and then finally the Welcome Center in Florida. Ahhh... That red dirt and salty-sea smell. The hanging moss. The highway billboards. Gulls flying overhead.
After a welcoming of a small paper cup of Florida orange juice, you knew you had another three hours to go until Highway 56/54. When we exited, our next guidepost would be a radio tower with a flashing red-light on top, then onto Carson Drive.
Grandma and Grandpa Marshall were there to greet us. A few years later, we would also be greeted by Aunt Carolyn and Uncle Dick, Uncle Ron and Aunt Pam, and the cousins. I can still hear Jeff say "There's my cousin." Always glad to see you.
Oren Mccallister and I never meet, but he paved a road for me. One that led to a love of travel, my appreciation for family in far off places, Florida and its sites and sounds.
I'm amazed at how one incident can pave the road of one person's life. Thank you, Oren Mccallister. Wished we'd have meet, but the fates/God/Allah/Buddha/whatever had different ideas. Hopefully, I'll get to meet you some day and I can thank you in person.
CSM
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