Clinton, South Carolina, Friday, August 30, 2019, 12:02 p.m.

Thursday evening was a matter of logistics. The Clinton High School cross country team left Wilder Stadium with the “game ball” for Friday’s rivalry at Laurens. They passed it to the Laurens harriers about halfway up U.S. 76; then they boarded the bus that had been following them and joined to celebrate in the Laurens square. I was running late, putting together the GoLaurens/GoClinton daily arrest report, and picked up the runners with my trusty Canon as they left Clinton Middle School and trotted down North Adair Street. Then I boarded my trusty Chevy Colorado and snaked through side streets to pick up the runners again on West Carolina Avenue and a straight shot to Laurens.

Logistics kept me in Clinton, there to take more photos of the city’s Welcome Back, PC, Beach Party in the public square here.

I stopped at Steamers for supper, a Red’s old-fashioned cheeseburger plate, which is as indigenous to Clinton as a penguin to Antarctica. By the way, a slice of lemon pound cake at Steamers is a bigger thing than sliced bread ever was.

My mind is not faultless, although I act like it is, and the Presbyterian College municipal welcome got cranked up at 7 p.m., not 6, so I had some unexpected time to kill. By coincidence, my Little Martin was behind the truck seat. I went and got it and sat down on a bench at one of the world’s smallest parks, the one named for J.A. Orr on Musgrove Street, and sang my heart out for an audience of one. Several people, including the president of PC and his wife, smiled as they walked past, and I had the attention of several small children for a few minutes before their parents enticed them to move along in the interest of a homemade ice cream cone.

I’ve wanted to do that for a long time. Mr. Orr ran the Western Auto across the street when I was a lad. He was a kind, gentle, and patient man, and one of the cool things about my hometown is that a small patch of uptown is named after him. I can see him now, squinting at the chains of my Western Flyer and figuring out how to make the rear tire stop rubbing the fender. His wife was my kindergarten teacher.

A man I didn’t know was sitting on the other “park” bench and I asked if he minded me joining him. I still don’t know his name. He said he was from Newberry and liked to listen to music. He probably was a beach music fan. The music on the “depot” stage was the Carolina Rhythm Band of faraway Fort Mill, south of Charlotte. They performed the Eagles’ “Witchy Woman” in the sound check, and I think that was the most contemporary tune they played, being circa 1972.

Oh, give me just a little more time, and our love will surely grow …

I sang a couple of my songs – I’d like to think the fellow didn’t know that – along with Hank Williams, Marty Robbins, and Charley Pride. The fellow from Newberry expressed an affinity for Tom T. Hall, which was a fastball right down the middle of the plate for me, and I quickly cranked out “I Flew Over Our House Last Night,” “Homecoming,” and, of course, “The Year Clayton Delaney Died.”

“Tom T. Hall,” the man said. “He could sure tell a story.”

I get amused every year when Clinton entertains the college kids with songs written 30 years before they were born. I’d like to think it’s a quaint slice of Americana for the freshmen, though it may well be a chance to think, what in the world have I got myself into?

A freight train rolled by. Word arrived via social media that the football was safely in Laurens. I went home to crop photos and write short, whimsical pieces about the runners and the beach music with college football on the TV because the Red Sox were idle. A Red Devil running back had a Mookie Betts jersey on at the JV game Wednesday night.

We’ve got good kids in Clinton. It may not win a football game. Laurens has good kids, too, but it warms the old heart to know they’ll still talk to me even if all the music I know is 30 years old, too.

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