My two companions got an extra half-hour of sleep on the morning of Saturday April 20, 2024. When Tom’s alarm rang at 6:30am, we still had well over two hours before launch. Yes, I said launch, because our first and only scheduled site of the day was the U.S. Space & Rocket Center located just two miles from our hotel in Huntsville, Alabama.
With some extra time to kill, Tom went to work on his computer as he scoured the internet for antique malls located between Huntsville and their final destination of the day, which was the Best Western hotel just east of Birmingham. During that time, as Vicki was getting prepared for the day, my photographer also discovered the weather report had changed slightly for Sunday’s race at Talladega Superspeedway. Instead of an all-day washout and postponement of the Geico 500, the forecasters were now predicting early morning showers, ending around 9am, and with plenty of time for the track to dry before the two o’clock race.
Suddenly, and out of the blue, I heard Tom yell out loud from his seat behind the room’s desk, “You’ve got to be kidding me right now. My computer was just hacked with a virus. A damned Russian virus.” Sure enough, just as he clicked onto the website of the Highway Pickers Antique Mall & Flea Market in Cullman, Alabama, red warning boxes began popping up on his monitor which stated he had been infected by a Russian virus and he needs to take action immediately. Every 15 seconds, a new warning would appear, even after he closed the website down. Not wanting to be hacked, whacked, or taken further advantage of by any Russians, my photographer shut down his PC with the hopes the situation would cure itself. When he fired his computer back up, however, the warnings reared their ugly heads once again. “There’s been an alien invasion that’s infected my computer. When we get to that antique shop, I’m going to let those hillbillies know what their site did to my PC. They’ll get a piece of my mind.” I laughed and thought to myself, “I hope it’s not a big piece. You don’t have a lot to spare.”
Tom had his bags packed pre-flight – it was zero hour, nine am. Less than ten minutes after we left the surly bonds of the hotel, we touched down near the shadow of a full-sized Saturn V rocket on display at the U.S. Space & Rocket Center. I thought to myself when we arrived, “Tranquility base here – the bobble head has landed.”
During our timeless flight to the center, I overheard my photographer mention the handful of artifacts and displays he wanted to see during our visit. Tom said his list included the Apollo 16 Command Module, a Moon rock, the Apollo 12 Mobile Quarantine Facility, the Saturn V rocket, and the grave of Miss Baker. “Anything else we find of interest will be a bonus.”
For nearly three hours, my companions and I explored two buildings filled with displays and artifacts. The three of us also spent time hiking the grounds between the buildings where I posed on the lunar surface; or at least it seemed like a crater on the Moon. While I knew Mars ain’t the kind of place to raise your kids, because it’s cold as hell, my biggest concern was being struck by lightning from the fast-approaching storm on Earth.
Since I think it might take a long, long time to describe in detail all the artifacts we saw, I’m going to let Major Tom’s photographs tell the story of my visit. Now take your protein pills and put your helmet on. We’re commencing countdown, engines on. Check ignition – and may the force be with you as you follow in the footsteps of a Rocket Man. Or should I say, a Rocket Bobble head!
At roughly 12 noon when the three of us headed from the Visitor Center back to the Jeep, our final stop was at the gravesite of Miss Baker, the brave one-pound squirrel monkey who was one of the first two animals to fly into space and return alive in an American spacecraft. After her historic 16-minute flight on May 28, 1959, Miss Baker, a native of Puru, had become an American celebrity. She married Big George, a male squirrel monkey, in 1962 at her caretaker’s facility in Pensacola, Florida. When the U.S. Space & Rocket Center opened in 1970, Miss Baker and Big George moved into that new facility a year later.
When Big George passed away on January 8, 1979, Miss Baker married Norman three months later in a ceremony presided over by Alabama District Court judge Dan McCoy. That wedding ceremony didn’t go as planned, as Miss Baker refused to wear her white wedding train, tearing it off after only a few seconds. On November 29, 1984, Miss Baker passed away from kidney failure in a clinic at Auburn University. At 27 years old, she had attained the record as the longest-living squirrel monkey.
My photographer and I enjoyed our three-hour visit at the space museum, and so did Vicki – at least until she heard the story about Miss Baker. When Tom’s wife saw the nose cone and tiny harness used to restrain the small squirrel monkey, and then she read about the historic flight, Vicki became instantly peeved. As a matter of fact, I heard her say to my photographer, “Humans volunteer to fly into space and they understand there’s always a chance for disaster. But that little monkey never had a choice. She must’ve been scared to death riding in that rocket as it shook and rumbled into space. Nothing makes me madder than when people mistreat animals – even when it’s in the name of science.”
Are you wondering what ever happened to Miss Able, the seven-pound rhesus monkey who flew to space with Miss Baker? The innocent creature died four days after the flight from a highly unusual cardiac fibrillation in reaction to anesthesia during the procedure to remove electrodes.
Our next stop was one of the two antique stores Tom had found on his computer that morning, at least before the Russian invasion. Firehouse Antiques and Collectibles was located just over ten miles from the space center, which gave Vicki just enough time to stop complaining about the animal cruelty she had been exposed to. Ironically, as we were enroute to the store, we heard a song on the Sirius XM 60s station that rubbed salt into her fresh wounds. Then, to make matters worse, I laughed when my photographer changed the words to the Monkees’ hit song ‘Last Train to Clarksville’. Vicki didn’t find a ton of humor in his creativity, especially when he added something about the tiny squirrel monkey to the lyrics. “Take the last Jeep to Huntsville, antiquing’s where I’ll take her. We can be there by 12:30, you can buy a stuffed Miss Baker. Just don’t say no. Oh no, no, no.”
After wandering around the Firehouse for about an hour, my two companions left that antique mall emptyhanded – although my photographer nearly bought a George W. Bush toy Jack-in-the-Box. When he tried to get the ‘George-in-the-Box’ to operate properly before he bought it, Tom discovered the 2001 toy was broken – it didn’t play ‘Hail to the Chief’ and the figure of Bush wouldn’t stay inside the latched box. I think I would’ve peed my breeches had George popped up and said, “Fool me once, shame on – shame on you. Fool me…. you can’t get fooled again”.
Although my photographer had cooled down from his computer episode at the hotel that morning, his anger began to fester once again during the one-hour trip from Huntsville to Cullman, Alabama. And when we arrived at the Highway Pickers Antique Mall, located just a few miles west of Cullman, Tom walked into the store with a chip on his shoulder. I was worried, because you never know how hillbillies might react when they’re confronted by an angry, loud-mouthed Yankee – like my camera guy.
But as soon as the three of us headed down the first aisle, Tom was forced to rethink his strategy because we had entered an entire section filled with dead animals. My photographer and I came face to face with several moose, an elk, a huge dead buffalo, and a squirrel drinking a can of beer. We even saw the head of a Sasquatch mounted on the wall. There were skulls, antlers, and a countless number of mounted critters displayed in every nook and cranny. The only animal missing was Miss Baker – and when Tom mentioned that fact to his wife, Vicki wasn’t very amused. And neither was I – it seemed as though we had accidentally stumbled into a killing zone, and if Tom raised a ruckus about his computer, he might be next.
While the building looked like a completely disheveled, hillbilly paradise from the outside, I had to admit it was one of the better antique malls I had ever visited – even though Tom didn’t find anything to add to his vast collection. My photographer found a JFK campaign poster he liked, but the price tag was too high, and his arms were too short to reach his wallet. After the two of us browsed the store for over an hour, the moment of truth came when Tom and I were about to leave the building. My photographer walked up to the front counter and said to the young man behind the cash register, “I don’t know if anyone else has complained, but this morning I clicked on your website link and my computer was infected by a Russian virus. You might want to check your site so no one else gets hacked like I did.”
I was impressed. My camera guy was calm, cool, and maintained a professional demeanor during the conversation – and that may have been because of all the dead animals he saw earlier. But everything went out the window when the cashier replied in a southern drawl, “Your computer caught a virus from our website? That’s funny.” Then he chuckled.
Tom was instantly angered and fired back in a loud tone, “You think that’s funny? I don’t think that’s one goddam bit funny. Thanks to your website, I can’t use my computer now and I’ll have to get the damned thing fixed when I get home. The least you could do is pretend you give a shit just a little bit!” When his rant caught the attention of a few other bearded bumpkins behind the counter, my photographer stormed out of the store with me in tow. To be honest, I thought for sure I’d hear the sound of gunfire or someone playing ‘Dueling Banjos’ as we headed across the parking lot.
Back in the Jeep, we waited for Vicki to finish shopping. She had no idea a volatile verbal exchange had occurred between her husband and the cashier. However, when my photographer’s wife returned to our vehicle with a framed print in hand, I heard her say to Tom, “Those people running that place were extremely rude. Something must’ve set their ass hairs on fire.” And with that, I laughed to myself as we headed south for the one-hour drive to our hotel.
At roughly 4:45pm, Vicki navigated the Jeep into the parking lot of the Best Western hotel located between the towns of Moody and Leeds, Alabama. While his wife registered, Tom once again unloaded their belongings onto a luggage cart. Once they were unpacked in the room, I heard Vicki mention there was a Logan’s Roadhouse, as well as a Cracker Barrel, located across the parking lot from where we were staying. I laughed when I heard my photographer say, “With our luck, Jeremy from Nashville has found a new job at this Cracker Barrel. Let’s grab a steak at Logan’s.”
Thankfully, Jeremy was nowhere to be seen at Logan’s Roadhouse. However, the young woman who served my two companions must’ve been Jeremy’s sister. When Tom’s steak dinner finally arrived after a lengthy wait, he mentioned to Emma that he didn’t have his salad yet. When she brought it a few minutes later, my photographer said, “I have a question – I’m from Michigan, and in the North, the salad of a dinner is usually served before the rest of the meal. Is it customary in the South for the salad to be served after the dinner?” She politely answered in her southern accent, “No, the salad usually comes out with the meal, not after.” That gaffe turned out to be just the first of a series of small mistakes she made, which caused my companions to think they were snakebit by the inept service in Southern restaurants.
As soon as the three of us returned to our room, Tom spent the remainder of the evening working with Best Buy’s on-line ‘Geek Squad’ in an attempt to resolve his computer’s virus. Two hours and three technicians later, my frustrated photographer gave up hope. At that moment, Tom knew for the remainder of the trip he’d be forced to do all of his on-line work from his I-phone instead of his computer.
“Ground Control to Major Tom, your circuit’s dead, there’s something wrong. Can you hear me Major Tom? Can you hear me Major Tom?”
The lights in our room were extinguished at 9:50pm and my photographer was soon fast asleep. We were a thousand miles from home; I was standing next to a TV set in Alabama; and there’s nothing I could do except hope the NASCAR race wouldn’t be postponed on Sunday.
