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Columns / Short Stories
Shep was always writing. . .

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July 1971

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Goodland, Florida



"Hell, I wouldn't go near there if I was you. Specially on Saturday night when they have that dance." "How come?" I asked in my most innocent Candide manner, which has been often called plain knuckleheaded dumb by those who are not my fans. "Well my God a'mighty, you ain't carryin' guns, are you?" He squinted down at my Shell credit card as if suspecting hanky-panky. "What do you mean, 'carrying guns?' " "Well, they all pack guns in Copeland, and on Saturday they all come to town lookin' for action. I wouldn't go near there if I was you. How 'bout it, Luke? How 'bout Copeland on a Saturday night?" Luke, a red-faced, beefy bowling team captain peered out from under the grease rack and hee-hawed meaningfully. "There's not much to do out in the Glades, 'cept shoot and fight. That's about all they do in Copeland." After years of travel, I've learned one thing: You better listen to the natives or you damn near every time wind up with your backside in a sling. I crossed Copeland off my list. . .


Copyright: 1971 Car and Driver