There's no way I'd go on a road trip with 51-year-old Deborah Lacks, but there is also no way in a zillion years that she ever would have invited me. It took intrepid science student and (now) published writer, Rebecca Skloot over a year of patience and sympathy to win Deborah's trust. Why was that worth doing? Well, read Rebecca Skloot's excellent book of science journalism,
The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks and the question will be answered.
Meanwhile, back on those road trips: the starting point was Baltimore and the year was 2000/2001 :-
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For each trip, Deborah filled her jeep floor to ceiling with every kind of shoes and clothes she might need. She brought pillows and blankets in case we got stranded somewhere, an oscillating fan in case she got hot, plus all her manicure equipment from beauty school, boxes of videotapes, music CDs, office supplies, and every document she had related to Henrietta [her mom]. We always took two cars because Deborah didn't trust me enough to ride with me. I'd follow behind, watching her black driving cap bop up and down to her music. Sometimes, when we rounded curves or stopped at lights, I could here her belting out "Born To Be Wild" or her favorite William Bell song, "I Forgot To Be Your Lover".
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My Verdict: I was very surprised to hear an opening line that Van Morrison copied complete and used to make a song of his own. But after that spark of surprise, my interest in this song dwindled pretty fast, as it usually does with soul music. William Bell has a sincere-sounding, reassurring voice, but the song sounds like so many other ballads, helped along by strings and sax, in which a man sings about needing love, caring, holding on girl, etc, etc. It's a song clearly designed to win over a woman, which is perhaps why Deborah liked it and I don't. Still, in the context of a road trip, I can see this song fitting in very well: in a movie, it'll be that part where the initial excitement has passed and the people are just putting in the miles, no need for conversation, as the landscape is washed in beautiful afternoon sunlight, which slowly fades into the sadness of evening. I wonder if that was how it was for Deborah and Rebecca? Now only Rebecca knows, because Deborah died eight years after those road trips, aged 60.
R.I.P. Deborah Lacks, who, more than most people, was clearly in need of rest and peace during her lifetime.