Georgia USA 1982
I wanted to write about going to Georgia for a while. The killing of George Floyd in May and the following events gave me the focus. No political statement, just memories of a visit to a complex country.
10 Aug 1982. I went to the American Embassy, Grosvenor Square London, with a letter from Ridge Inc, Georgia. I left with a Lifetime Visa because I knew how to make microfocus X-Ray systems, something the Americans wanted. There were only four industrial systems in the world then, three in Germany, one in the UK, all made in Bletchley, England. I project managed that development. However, after a row with the parent company in Denmark, Jim Slasor, MD of Scanray(UK), and I resigned to start SBR Microscan and make the equipment ourselves. Now there was another system ready to go to the United States.
Microfocus are ubiquitous now, but their genesis in the 1980s is as intriguing as a Forsyth novel. That convoluted story is for another day.
Fri 10 Sept Jim and I arrived in Atlanta, Sam Yeager and Dan Daniells were there when we landed.
The first thing we did was stop to buy cans of cold beer, which the four of us drank while driving along the freeway. Welcome to America. We went to a condominium in Tucker, our home for the next five weeks. Sam gave us the keys to a Chevrolet 3.8 Ltr Impala Sedan and left saying he’d take us to the factory in the morning to unpack the equipment that had arrived from the UK. That evening I took a stroll. I noticed that once away from the condo, there weren’t many footpaths in Tucker.
The next morning Sam took us to the ‘Old Hickory House’ and introduced us to the American Breakfast, it was a place Jim, and I used most mornings after that. Now, I understood why so many Americans were overweight. I generally had bacon, scrambled eggs, hash browns and a plate of pancakes with whipped butter, and boysenberry or maple syrup topping, and as much coffee as I could drink. A recipe for cardiac arrest but bloody marvellous.
We spent our first weekend assembling and testing the microfocus ready for demonstration at Ridge Inc at the start of the week. On Monday, I was introduced to Greg McDaniel in charge of radiography. I have great respect for Greg, a six-foot-plus, ex-nuclear sub-marina, competent, straight-talking Texan who didn’t take shit from anyone. He and his wife Robin took great care of me while I was in the US, and I am still in contact with them to this day.
SI metric units weren’t used in the USA, so we spent time with a draftsman converting the design drawings to the US measurement system. One day I had to drive to the hardware store to get some screws. I was amazed that along with the other tools you could buy anything from a Colt 45 semi-automatic pistol to an AR-15 assault rifle. I can’t recall the prices, but they didn’t seem that expensive.
Another thing I found surprising was that electronic parts were up to two weeks delivery. I ended up regularly faxing RS Components in the UK for same-day posting, which was strange as most of the electronics were from America anyway. I worked with a guy called Lat Turner to modify the electrics to American standard. Lat always looked ill and would go into anaphylaxis shock if he came anywhere near an egg.
I got on really well with a guy called JC Brown. One night, JC and his girlfriend took us to a line dancing club. I’d never seen anything like it, everyone dancing in unison straight-backed looking directly ahead. I asked if I could try it, but was told without the proper training, I’d start a riot. Line dancing was a serious business.
A girl came up quite agitated and in a southern drawl asked. “JC, where’s yo brother cuz I have ay date with hyum?”.
JC replied, “Emmylou, you shouldn’t listen to that boy, he’s just a silver-tongued devil”.
She swirled her skirt and disappeared in disgust.
JC was a nice guy, but he was a real Southern Boy. One time during a coffee break, he said, and I can only relay it in the words used.
“My granpappy was sitting on his porch one day, and a niggra came by and that niggra he sassed my granpappy, so my granpappy he got his gun, and he shot that niggra”. To this day, I find it hard to comprehend that piece of casual conversation.
One Saturday the company organised a picnic in a park. Jim and I arrived with a case of beer, but as we were in the ‘bible belt’ and didn’t know what was acceptable, we left the beer in the car. A group we knew were sitting some way from the bosses. We explained our dilemma, they told us to get the cool-box and put it under the table with their beers. As I went to walk back to the car, JC said that if I saw any niggras to come back because they didn’t like us white folks, which I thought might be understandable. As I walked around some bushes, approaching me were three black men. I wasn’t sure what to do. Scuttling back to the picnic didn’t seem right, so I walked on, staying well to one side of the path and avoiding eye contact. Just as we passed each other, for some inexplicable reason, I looked to my left and said, “Good afternoon”. I just couldn’t help it.
The conversation stopped, three black faces turned in my direction, they nodded and replied “Good afternoon” and walked on chatting.
On a Friday evening Jim and I decided to take a drive out of Tucker and stopped off for a drink at a roadside bar. While discussing the cultural differences between us an the Americans, we were approached by a stranger who introduced himself thus. “I am a black beret, a Ranger, and I can kill you in three seconds” We inquired why he would do that, which he took as a slight. He raised his voice saying he was going to get a gun from his car. A man walked over and calmed the situation “Leroy, leave these guys alone, they just want a quiet drink”.
Leroy wandered away muttering. When they discovered we were English, three other men came over, bought us a beer and sat down. That year Britain had won the Falklands war, and we were something of a novelty. They explained Leroy had been an Army Ranger in Vietnam and had come back with PTSD. They assured us he was harmless, but I kept my eye on him for a while in case he went out to his car. We spent the rest of the night drinking and arm wrestling, which seemed to be the American equivalent of a darts night out. After midnight one of the men said: “Leroy’s not here”.
‘Shit, he’s gone to the car for his gun’ I thought, but the man continued.
“He’s taken his car and gone home”. Leroy was their driver!
I spent the rest of the night dropping off drunks around Georgia. We got back at the condo about four in the morning without a brush with the Highway Patrol.
By the fourth week, we were ready to demonstrate the equipment to the national sales team. We were roped into the shuttle service to collect them from Atlanta and drive them to Tucker. It was easy enough to spot the suits as they emerged from arrivals. That is until this one guy came out in a Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts, the only thing missing was the surfboard.
“There’s the salesman from California,” said Sam. We looked at him bewildered.
Sam shrugged “He’s from California, they’re different”.
It’s funny what sticks in your mind. I remember driving into the petrol (gas) station in the Impala, window down, arm resting on door and hearing Laura Branigan singing ‘Gloria’ for the first time. Whenever I hear that song, it sends me right back to a sunny day in Georgia.
After five weeks, our time in America came to an end. Sam dropped us off at Atlanta airport, and we made our way to departures. Just as we were booking our cases in at the desk, there was a blood curdling “YEE-HAW” rebel yell. We turned to see JC and his girlfriend.
“We couldn’t let you go without saying goodbye,” he said and stuck a Confederate flag in each of our hands. They stayed waving until we disappeared.
I often wonder if JC ever saw the light, I somehow think not, for some the Civil War has never ended. I also wonder why a country that has everything always seems to be at war with itself. But there is hope.