With Easter coming up, I'm already thinking about going to Oak Island.

I've finally reconciled myself to the fact that my father gave up his car last September. And I'm over the shock of not seeing it in the carport when I went down for Thanksgiving. I don't know why it bothered me so much.

When World War II broke out, Daddy didn't have a car -- nor did any of his relatives who lived on 13th Street in West Durham. They walked everywhere -- to Erwin Mills No. 2 Plant, to Taylor's Grocery on Hillsborough Road, to Brewer's Drug Store on 9th Street and to Blacknall Memorial Presbyterian Church on Perry, a good 30-minute trek from our front door.

All of this was at the same time striking union workers lost hope and went back to the looms for a day's pay that was less than today's average hourly wage. That's when Daddy's baby sister dropped her muslin apron on the mill floor and turned in her notice.

Ed Leonard and his wife had already left. Jesse mailed a postcard saying that Ed had found a good-paying job in the shipyards in Chicago and was learning to weld. She was waiting tables. Aunt Lena and Uncle Boyd were headed north within a month and soon wrote back with the same good news. The next thing my mother knew, Daddy had his toolbox in hand and was boarding a train.

In those days, people who upped and left could be expected to send back for something, usually their clothes or money. But Daddy was different. He sent for us. Mother soon found herself at the Durham depot with me in hand, a small brown suitcase, a thermos of milk and a shoebox with a couple of pimento cheese sandwiches and two apples in it.

By the time we reached Norfolk, Va., her freshly ironed frock had wilted. But the sight of the Norfolk and Western Railway's Train No. 4, the Pocahontas, put starch in her backbone. It was a crack passenger train, and its engine was the pride of the N&W. It was classified as a "J," and one test proved that it could pull 15 cars at 100 mph along a section of flat, straight track in eastern Virginia. It was true. And when she pulled into Cincinnati, the screech of her brakes testified to the legend she would become.

It was the debut of the diesel engine. The New York Central Railroad had introduced the James Whitcomb Riley in April 1941. Named for the popular Hoosier poet, it was celebrated for its comfortably appointed day coaches and handsome dining car and club car. It was a sleek and streamlined showpiece. And we arrived at the Chicago terminal in fine fashion.

Daddy didn't stay at the shipyards. He still talks about how they were losing a man a day. Welding on the side of those ships was getting them electrocuted. So, shortly after Marvin Bass called from Baltimore, we were settled next door in Armistead Gardens, a hop, skip and jump to Glenn L. Martin Airplane Company.

My mother was never happy being away from Durham, and we regularly traveled back and forth, taking an overloaded Greyhound bus out of the Monument Street station. The only rule was that the driver had to be able to get on and close the door.

I haven't been on a train or bus in years. But last May, I was on Interstate 95 heading north when a long and lean Greyhound eased by me just south of Santee, S.C. I could still see her when I was sitting in Clark's Restaurant having their famous clam chowder.

Those were the times when the American public was being told to "Leave the Driving to Us."

And they were the days when, in spite of wartime and rations, people believed this country was going to come out on top.

It's something we might consider now.

Contact Southern Pines writer Lois Holt at lholt79@nc.rr.com.