Message from the South

ALONG the backroads and in the small towns of south Florida, Dartmouth College is not exactly a household word. Georgia Tech? Of course. Ole Miss? Sure. Even far away schools like the University of Virginia and Duke draw gleams of recognition. But Dartmouth? In New Hampshire? Oh, yes. The state up north that comes out from under the snow a couple of weeks a year, then disappears again.

To modify this sectional view, we decided our oldest son should attend college outside the South. We settled on New England. We knew, of course, that matriculating there would be a hardship on him. Southerners recognize that New Englanders are taciturn, unfeeling, unneighborly and suspicious of aliens - i.e., anybody outside of New England. Also, they speak an odd dialect difficult to understand. Despite these drawbacks, we felt the experience would be beneficial to our son, similar to studying in a foreign country.

Off he went, our admonitions not to trust the natives ringing in his ears. He visited several ivy-covered campuses, then followed the Connecticut River to Dartmouth, where he fell in love. This was the place for him, he decided. And so it was, even though we felt that every time he left home for New Hampshire, he was leaving for the end of the world.

His final year drew to a close and the day of graduation approached. Our excitement mounted, for we planned that our whole family - my mother-in-law, my husband, our three other children, and myself — would attend Commencement festivities. Maps were consulted, New Hampshire was located, itineraries designed. On June 11, from diverse points in the South, we all converged on Hanover. We had traveled an aggregate of 10,000 miles to get there.

Our children were housed in one of the Dartmouth dorms. My husband, my mother-in-law, and I stayed with friends at their camp on Squam Lake, an hour and a half from the campus. The morning of June 13th dawned sparkling and clear. We ate a leisurely breakfast with our hosts, then piled into the car we'd rented at the Boston airport, and set out for the graduation ceremonies. Through Center Harbor, the first leg of our journey, on to Bristol, Elmwood, and East Grafton. The countryside was idyllic on this early summer day, and our talk was animated.

Suddenly, the car engine gurgled, hiccupped, burped discreetly, and died. We coasted onto the shoulder of the highway.

"How could it do this to us now!" I demanded. "It's had plenty of chances before. We've driven from Boston to Squam and from Squam to Hanover so many times."

"One time too many," my husband interrupted "We're out of gas!"

Even small economy cars need filling up occasionally. In the excitement of the weekend's events, we had forgotten that minor fact. We sat benumbed. Was it possible we had traveled those gargantuan distances to sit out the graduation ceremonies on a New Hampshire highway?

My husband switched off the ignition. "I'll walk back to East Grafton, though I doubt there'll be a service station open this early on Sunday morning." He shook his head. "Guess we'd better mark off graduation."

It never occurred to us to try and flag down a passing motorist.

My husband had barely opened his door when a pick-up truck came to a halt beside us. The driver, a lean, spare gentleman in a cotton shirt and peaked cap, leaned across the seat.

"Havin' trouble, friend?" he asked in the now-familiar New Hampshire twang.

My husband gave an embarrassed laugh. "A little. Seems like we've run out of gas."

"That happens," the stranger answered. He reached over and unlatched the door. "I know a service station that might be open. Hop in."

We looked at each other. Did he mean it? Tentatively, my husband slid onto the seat next to the driver. The truck made a U-turn on the highway, and we watched it disappear in the direction of East Grafton.

"What a neighborly thing to do!" my mother-in-law exclaimed.

"Just like down home," I agreed.

We settled ourselves to await the truck's return. In rapid succession, a state highway patrolman, a gentleman in a car traveling in the opposite direction, and two motorcyclists stopped to inquire if we were in trouble and could they help. All the vehicles bore New Hampshire license plates testifying that the drivers were bonafide New Englanders. Why, then, had they not passed by on the other side - cold, uncaring, indifferent?

While we puzzled over this question, the pick-up wheeled to a stop behind us. The driver and my husband got out. From the back of the truck, the stranger took a can, and soon we heard the welcome gurgle of gasoline filling our tank. After my husband replaced the cap, he drew out his wallet and proffered our benefactor a large bill. The stranger shook his head.

"Glad I could help," he said with Calvin Coolidge brevity.

He bid us good-day, and disappeared over the New Hampshire hills. Our ignition caught, the engine whirred. Just then, the highway patrolman returned to check on our well-being. He waved us on.

We made it to the ceremony just in time. Our son graduated in fine style. Our day was complete. We have spread the word back home that hospitality is not the province only of the South. We were strangers far from home, and expected to be treated as such. Instead, we found kindness dispensed by Good Samaritans. We hope that when New Englanders travel down our way, they can say the same.

Mrs. Morgan lives way down south in Vero Beach, Florida.