I think my love of the South is well documented. I have forsaken Las Ramblas of Barcelona, the Rocky Mountains, the urbane and tasteful moodiness of Portland, and wine-guzzling summers on Lake Ontario in favor of a year-round devotion to fire ants, Slash pines, sand spurs, and tea so sweet it makes your fillings sing.
Northeast Mississippi could change all that. The isolation. The heat. The poverty. We like to characterize all small towns as charming, but some of them are small because nobody wants to live there.
I just rolled into Jackson, and the diminutive skyline of DAYS INN, OUTBACK, and MARBLEDY SLAB CREAM CONERY, has the breathtaking appeal of Paris at night.
I am a road warrior, and therefore not inclined to whine and simper about the injustices of the road, although perhaps all of my time spent upon its gritty shimmering surface explains why I reel at the mention of riding bicycles on highways. Why don’t we just go play scrabble at your office?
Didn’t think so.
The road is for work, not play.