MTO: Ed Grisamore: In praise of backroads; long may they wave

OK, how can someone justify sitting in the warm sun, watching baseball and calling it work?

John Coley, a former Telegraph photographer, was recruited to travel with me across the Grapefruit League circuit in Florida. We scheduled stops in Tampa, St. Petersburg, Bradenton, Lakeland and West Palm Beach.

On the morning we threw our gear into his Civic and headed down Interstate 75, our stomachs were howling. We took the exit in Cordele and stopped by a hole-in-the-wall cafe that was legendary for its fried chicken.

After lunch, I was surprised when John avoided the entrance ramp to I-75 South. At first, I thought he had missed it.

"Oh, we're finished with the interstate," he said. "We're taking backroads the rest of the way."

I had no choice. He was driving. We rolled toward Tampa the old-fashioned way - when you actually could see something before you arrived. In the old days, the main routes to Florida were U.S. 41 and U.S. 1. And there was U.S. 19, which veered into the panhandle. These were fascinating drives past farm houses, pecan groves and river bottoms, where you paused to orbit courthouse squares and stopped to admire kudzu castles.

As a photographer, John loathed the monotony of the green-signed interstate, where the scenery rarely changed. He complained that sameness made it difficult to distinguish geography and topography.

I had traveled backroads before, but never like this. I opened my eyes for the first time.

"The interstate highway system is wonderful," the late Charles Kuralt once said. "It makes it possible to go from coast to coast without seeing anything or meeting anybody. If the U.S. interests you, stay off the interstate."

As we turn our wheels toward summer vacation destinations, our Rand-McNallys usually seek the superhighways. We lock in our cruise controls.

On the backroads, you can see folks fishing on lazy afternoons, kids playing "kick the can" in driveways at dusk and clothes hanging out to dry on wash day.

You just might happen upon a yard sale or someone selling fresh vegetables at a roadside stand. There are very few tourist traps. Almost every small town still has a Dairy Queen, and the larger ones have Wal-Marts.

Out on the numbness of the interstate, it is impossible to feel a sense of community. You don't pass churches advertising an upcoming revival or schools reminding folks about a PTA meeting. When the big-city radio stations fade, you usually can catch the three-county farm report on the local station.

There are no "rest stops." You must be creative and lucky - like the Huddle House or a gas station. In times of extreme emergency, a remote strip of bushes may be the alternative to a rest room. The backroads also are adorned with a greater variety of roadkill for your kids to identify.

People will wave to you along stretches of a country road. It really doesn't matter who you are, where you are going or what kind of car you drive. Decent, friendly folk will wave for no special reason. When is the last time that happened to you on the interstate?

Ed Grisamore's column appears Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Sunday in the Telegraph. He may be contacted at 744-4275. His e-mail address is egrisamore@macontel.com. His fax number is 744-4385.