Once he got started driving every day, Terrence’s Challenger stories were, each one of them, like the verse of an anthem. He wrote not just of the MIA and NAACP leaders, of council meetings and the like, but of maids and porters, pastors, mechanics, bartenders and barbers and waiters, of the Montgomery people he ferried in the Ford, people whose indomitable unity gave them courage that was strengthening rather than diminishing with each passing day.

THEIR SHOES ARE WEARING OUT BUT NOT THEIR SPIRIT

That was the headline plastered across the Challenger’s front page announcing a Shoe Drive, to collect shoes for the people in Montgomery who were walking back and forth to work. Black churches picked it up, and radio stations too, though not the predominately white stations, nor the television networks. But in the pages of the Challenger, you heard the call, and all over Southern California people emptied out their closets to send shoes to Montgomery. Restaurants and shops and businesses set up pickup bins and started collection jars, Send Montgomery Shoes, to pay the postage.

I emptied out my closet. Thelma emptied out her closet. I called Susan Strassman, and asked her to call her sister. I did not dare contact Marian, but I wrote a note to Kathleen Bachman, assuming they had some kind of shoe drive in Arizona. I called Reg. I called Jonathan. Thelma cautioned me against asking any of the Clara Bow Drive neighbors, drawing attention to ourselves, but I did call Irene.

“I don’t want to be involved,” she replied, “but I saw that the Times did an article about your friend’s reporting. ‘Negro Reporter Brings Montgomery Bus Boycott Home to LA.’ He’s made quite a name for himself. You must be quite proud of him.”

“I’m always proud of him. If he were white, he’d be nominated for the Pulitzer Prize.”

“If he were white,” she replied, “he wouldn’t care who is or isn’t riding the Alabama buses.”

I personally delivered two big boxes full of shoes (as much as I could fit in the MG) to the Challenger offices. The receptionist thanked me and said that their circulation had doubled since their reporter, Mr. Dexter, went down to Montgomery. “Would you like a free copy of the paper, miss?” she asked.

“I subscribe. Thanks.”

I went to Ruby’s and sat at the counter. It was late afternoon, and on the jukebox, the Platters crooned their plaintive “The Great Pretender.” The place was empty except for a group of high school students and two old men playing checkers. Coralee ambled out and asked what I wanted. “A root beer float,” I replied. “I just delivered boxes of shoes to the Challenger for the shoe drive.”

“Lah-di-dah. You want the Nobel Prize?” She made the root beer float and plunked it down in front of me. “What do you hear from Terrence?”