Once it gets under your skin, New Orleans is a difficult place to leave. It is the perfect mix of small-town and cosmopolitan lifestyle. With world-class restaurants, culture and a tight-knit community, the experience of New Orleans is something to be both savored and splurged. The puke-fest that is upper Bourbon is easy to avoid. A smidgen over two months after my arrival, the triumvirate Gods, Circumstance, Serendipity and Synchronicity made clear it was now time for me to leave. For weeks I had been saying "This is my last week," every week something happened that caused me to renew the weekly lease where I was staying--not that I minded at all.

But the day came where my room was expiring and there were no further obligations, events or potential favors to be done that I could use as an excuse to stay another week. As if in confirmation of the fact, every place I drove to in the French Quarter on my last day had a parking spot open right in front of my destination. Three times during the day I found a legal parking spot in front of my hotel. This is a strange and rare coincidence indeed!

I reveled in my last day and night, spending a few hours photographing the show my friends at The Front Page bar stage on Mondays at 10pm (located at Burgundy and St Peters) and followed that by hitting a few of the after-hours haunts we would visit after closing up at Evelyn's Place where I had been helping out and bartending. The following morning I went to the Cafe Rose Nicaud on Frenchmen Street and grabbed a final latte for the road. Minutes later I was on interstate 10 heading east toward Slidell. My intention was to drive East along the Gulf Coast to see the areas where Hurricane Katrina made landfall. I crossed over the sound and then turned South off 10 toward Gulfport.

When I was in New Orleans I did a fair amount of driving about and looking at the hurricane damage. The extent of the damage I saw was disturbing. It is at this point I ask your permission to digress.

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There is a curious effect that happens when traveling without an itinerary, plans change constantly. My original thought when reaching Pascagoula Mississippi was the next morning I would be heading north into Mississippi and then curl back West so I could renew my car registration in Missouri before heading North again. I happened to turn on the Weather Channel while I was getting dressed and heard the central parts of Mississippi would be reaching temperatures in the triple digits during the day. That's hot. It's even hotter when you are in a little pickup truck that doesn't have air conditioning.

What? Driving through the South with no air conditioning? Am I crazy? Well, no, not crazy. I have had a number of vehicles without air conditioning, so it isn't something that I feel is essential. Heck, 60 years ago none of the cars had air-conditioning! At one point the truck I was driving for this trip had air conditioning. However, there was this one night... It was a beautiful night. The Moon was full and the fields bright with it's light. I was living in the boonies at the time and my driveway was a curvy, half-mile long. I thought: "Gosh, the moon is so bright, I'll bet I could go all of the way up my driveway with the headlights off." I was actually doing quite well and decided to see if I could go faster than 5 mph. I continued to do quite well when suddenly a tree jumped in front of me! Whack! It even set off my air bags! A stationary tree and a small truck at 10 mph is a surprisingly destructive event... for the truck. The tree struck the front bumper smack dab center and the bumper revealed that it was designed not to resist impact, but to fold up! 8 inches of intrusion bid farewell to the bumper, front grill, air conditioner and hood. I replaced the radiator and fixed everything else, but being November I thought "Gee, I don't need air conditioning during the winter, I'll fix that next Summer." Uh huh!

There are benefits to traveling without air conditioning. The best one being you get to smell the country you're traveling through and how those smells change through the drive. The feel of the air changes too and you get to experience that as well. Of course this is less romantic when passing a pig farm, but is still a lovely way to travel. The only precaution is to buy some ear plugs and use them. Having the air blowing in your left ear for hours subjects your ear to high sound-pressure levels--i.e. lots of loud noise. The high sound pressure will damage your hearing. It is a fact that most Americans have hearing loss in their left ear while most British people have hearing loss in their right ear. This is attributed to driving with the window open. With ear plugs in you can still hear sirens, the radio and even conversation, you are just lowering the over-all sound levels your ear is subjected to. Remember kids, hearing loss is irreversible and permanent. Bionic ears are still a long ways off. Protect those head-wings!

Where was I? Ah yes, with mid-state temps reaching triple-digits and high-humidity I thought it might be better to stick to the gulf coast where it was cooler and continue East. I moseyed through Mobile, Alabama and found an old Miniature Golf Course. I formulated a plan of action. I would continue to doodle along the coast until I came across a fishing village with one of those seafood places right next to the docks. You know the type. They have incredibly fresh fish and diffferent species as well, fish that never makes it into the commercial markets. Mmmmmm, now that is something worth doodling!

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Known as the First City, St Augustine, Florida is a tourist haunt. I arrived there on a stifling day of the full moon and somehow managed to find my way to the Historic District simply by following the signs. Gosh those things are helpful and goodness what a lovely little down town they have! The architecture is fantastic. Old Spanish-flavored stuff with terra cotta flourishes.

The history of the town is quite interesting. It is called the "First City" because it is. It was founded in 1565 by Don Pedro Menendez de Aviles. Actually, some French folk founded a settlement before Don Pedro showed up but his job was to stop their trespass. The two factions battled for a while and when the French finally surrendered, Don Pedro took them to the river and massacred them. This, of course was before the Geneva Conventions of War so he could get away with it... besides, this was nothing compared to what the Spanish were doing to the natives in Hispaniola. Anyhow, the garrison that Don Pedro established on that day of St Augustine survived and continues to do quite well

St. Augustine has had its ups and downs over the years. Sir Frances Drake stopped by one day to loot and burn the town, but the Spanish rebuilt it. They had some equally welcome visits by privateers over the years. But live and learn, after another unsuccessful onslaught in 1740 by the British and having gone without their Royal subsidy for a few years, then-governor Manuel de Montiano decided it might not be a bad idea to sponsor a privateer of his own to help fill the towns coffers. What the heck, with the British unwilling to trade for food, they might as well take it. In the last three months of 1740 Montiano's privateers sailing aboard the good ship Campeche captured over 40 British ships whose cargoes helped sustain the Spanish town.

The privateering went on through the end of the Seven Year War (1763) but all good things must come to an end. Because Spain had sided with the French against the British, they had to forfeit Florida in exchange for Cuba which Britain had captured. The Spanish residents were forced to evacuate and the Brits moved in.

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St Augustine is a nice town, but it is always time to move on. I have the deadline in Missouri to think about. I had now come all of the way East, now I could begin heading West again. So I jumped in my truck and headed North. North? I thought I was going to go west ! After much thought I came up with a couple of good rationalizations. One was I had just landed in St Augustine, from the West, to head directly west again would be to back track over territory I had already been over. What fun is there in that? I think, however the more honest reason was that I enjoy the ocean, I have just spent the previous decade in Missouri and I missed being on the edge of a continent. I wanted to have more incredibly fresh seafood before heading inland again.

So North it was. I started my drive and 20 minutes later I realized I had ended up on the wrong road and had to go back into St Augustine and start over… but they have a nice airport in St Augustine with airplanes and everything!

I made my way back to the ocean route (road A1A) and toodled my way up the coast. There are lovely, white sand beaches along there with very little development. Patches of houses string along the shoreline. I discovered the difficulty of driving along a stretch of road where every five minutes you are tempted to pull over and go swimming. But I managed to maintain my discipline and continue driving. I skirted past Jacksonville, determined to stay as close to the ocean as possible. Once again I was driving semi-blind for lack of an excellent map. I made my way to Mayport, FL and was rewarded with one of my favored dining experiences. A small restaurant by a fishing dock, Singleton's Seafood Shack.

There are many good things to be said about fine dining in excellent, expensive restaurants. Then again there are equally good things to be said about the experience of a dockside eatery. The fish there is absolutely fresh and not traveled. You will often find species that are unavailable in the nicer restaurants simply because the harvest is smaller, less predictable, or the fish doesn't travel well. While you might not have all of the sauces and other subtle delights of a fancy restaurant you will often have two or three choices on how your fish is prepared: fried, grilled or blackened. It may not come with a salad or baked potato, but it will always be good, fresh fish.

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Sunrise over the ocean is a lovely sight. Unfortunately, my room was facing the west and I missed it. But with daylight showing I had to head out again. I needed to start my way back to Missouri to renew my truck registration. I packed up, started my engine and headed North. Yes, I know, Missouri is to the west, but Georgia is to the North and I was on a Seacoast. I might run across another wonderful seafood place like Singleton's. I was a seafood junkie rationalizing like a gambler who has just hit it big. I was on a roll... another big hit was right around the corner. North. North along the coastline. Another fishing village. Another fish shack. Then I would be set for good. Then I could go to Missouri, register my truck and head North into... well... that direction, North. Not to any place in particular but away from Missouri; to the future; the next thing, what/wherever it might be. But for now the plan was to stick to the coast and to stay where the fish might be.

If you are going to drive along the coast of Georgia, you will have to cross some bridges. Georgia has some beautiful suspension bridges on it's coastline--if you're into that kind of thing. I like bridges and I think it is worthwhile to drive a little bit out of your way to drive over a lovely bridge. OK, that sounds weird. Nevertheless, give it a try. Drive across a bridge and NOTICE it as you cross. Notice it's features and look for the thing that make it unique from all of the other bridges you have seen. Before you know it you might find yourself driving a bit out of your way to cross a lovely bridge. Bridges are just one more wonderful thing to enjoy in life.

It is interesting driving up the Georgian Atlantic coast. There are no beaches. It is all marsh. It's also very flat. I guess that is one of the prerequisites of marshes: flatness. There are no marshes in the Rockies. Or the Sierras for that matter. The Georgian marshes are filled with reeds and marsh-grasses. You can almost sense the billions of oysters and shrimp that are spawning out there. Sex everywhere. Egad. As you drive North, you will run through a few quaint towns and pass by some old wrecked houses… all of those things that make random drives so much fun.

I made it all the way up to Savannah, Georgia. I figured it might be fun to have lunch there and see what it is all about. Savannah has some lovely boulevards, lined and enclosed by oak trees bearded by Spanish Moss. The town is also graced by some wonderful piles of bricks. In the historic district, the layout of the streets on either side of the main drag is most unfriendly to auto traffic which makes it even better! A walking town with a public square every two blocks. What a wonderful area to live, beautiful old buildings, a slow pace, a comfortable human layout to the streets. The Art and Design Institute had two or three buildings scattered around the area. There were three nice old movie theaters with a film festival about to begin. What could be more perfect?

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Byewfert, (Beaufort) South Carolina. I woke up there on August 13, 2006. I knew from my attempted shower the night before that a hot water shower was not on the menu that morning. I woke up and, in spite of the cold shower, needed caffeine. There is a coffee shop hidden away in Beaufort, SC. I spied it the night before so I knew where to go for my fix. Once again, I was struck by the contrast between where I was (Beaufort, South Carolina) and where I was not (New Orleans, Louisiana... specifically Cafe Nicaud on Frenchmen Street ) I was overhearing conversations about "my baby, this" and "my baby, that" versus conversations about how to fund a music program for the children of the community or how they can engage the remaining residents in a neighborhood to be more involved in community activities. Ah, boomers, late bloomers. I suppose they always were the Pepsi Generation. It's all about me, after all.

Anyhow, I hit the road again. When I was driving in the previous day, I noticed a sign at a fruit stand. They were offering "Hot Boiled Peanuts." I saw it again on the way out. A few miles later, I saw another produce stand with "Fresh Boiled Peanuts." Again I passed it by. There was a third one. People learn off of each other. This is how regional things become regional. Somebody has a great idea and it works... Their neighbor down the road tries the same thing and it works for both. No one is hurt. I passed the third one and my curiosity was so piqued that I vowed to stop at the next place that offered boiled peanuts and buy some.

It never happened. This is a lesson: when you are driving around the country and see something that interests you, investigate. Don't worry about where else you might end up at the close of the day. The choice is basic: end your day, wherever it may turn out, following the scent of something that interests you, something that you love... or end your day following a predetermined script, knowing in advance where you will be, knowing every element of how you will spend your evening. Practice randomness now and then. You don't have to wander the country as I am right now. You might be set off by something you read in the newspaper, or an overheard conversation. Maybe you might follow up on the urge to compliment someone, or do a favor with nothing expected in return. The adventure is not necessarily a physical one, it is an adventure of experience. Within your life, where you are right now. You can read a different book, listen to an different CD, ask a different question of a loved one. There is a risk and a prize. The prize is a simple one and its value is whatever you assess it to be. It is the prize of a new moment found. Singular and unique it is a moment in time of your own creation. Add a bit of brightness to someone else's life and you will be adding the same to your own.

But I missed out on the peanuts. It was a regional thing of maybe 20 miles. Perhaps if I had a better map and could traverse that gossamer web of country roads with confidence I might have found hot boiled peanuts all over South Carolina. Ah, for want of a good map....

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Georgetown, Steel Mills and up to the Beach

It is still August 13. Leaving the basket weaver outside of Charleston South Carolina, I continue North on Highway 17. A long, straight drive between the managed pine plantations that seem to make up so much of the southland that I have driven through.

Of course there is another bridge and on the other side of the bridge there are a duo of delightful manufacturing plants. One is a paper mill all grey, smoky and smelly. The other is a steel mill. This is the first steel mill I have seen. My first view from the height of the bridge is one of black mystery. Buildings and gigantic ducting all black licorice in the distant haze. So much a contrast to every kind of manufactory or milling plant I've seen I can't look away. At the moment, I didn't know it was a steel mill. I had no idea. When my truck was passing the mill I found I could not drive beyond, I had to get a close up look. I turned immediately and circled the streets that encompassed the mill. Fences, frustrating fences that I couldn’t' see through. Then I turn the last street down to the river. Ah, a six-foot cyclone fence topped with barbed wire. This I can handle. I'm an old hand at standing on my truck to get a better picture. Up close the colors of the structures clarified.

It was Iron Oxide. Yeah, that's right, rust. One of my favorite things. This is the place where they make it. Sure, they think they are making steel beams and other ferrous items that are integral to every thing we know and see about us. But ultimately they are making rust. Everything shipped is bright and strong. But, given time unlimited, it all eventually returns to iron oxide... Rust, lovely rust. In the manufacturing of the beams and whatnot a fine ferrous flour is raised and dusts everything around and about the factory. Probably the lungs of the workers as well. This fine dust quickly oxidizes resulting in buildings that have the appearance of being made of chocolate. Dark and creamy, waiting for someone to take that first bite.

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From Ocean Isle Beach, North Carolina I knew I was to be heading inland and leaving the ocean's side. So I spent and extra day there to swim in the ocean some more. Swimming in the ocean is so different from swimming in a lake or a pool, the water is alive and moves with and against you. You certainly get more exercise swimming in the ocean for an hour than swimming in still water. I also learned to look for any along-shore current and start by swimming against it. I didn't learn that by doing it, but by doing the opposite! I swam an easy half-mile down shore and discovered that fifteen minutes after turning around and heading back, I was still facing the house where I had turned. Obviously I hadn't been trying hard enough. Fifteen minutes later I left the Ocean and walked back up shore to where I had parked. It had been a good workout, that's for sure. I slept good that night too. The next day I took the opposite tact but it didn't seem to make any difference because the waves were coming in from a different direction which changed the direction of the current. Ah, there is always something more to learn.

The morning came where I had to head West into the midlands again. It was time. The night before I had followed a local's advice to eat at one of the seafood joints in Calabash. He said it was the "Seafood Capital of the World." I didn't notice any signs proclaiming that, but for a tiny burgh it had a whole lot of seafood restaurants. I was quite disappointed, everything was deep-fried, overcooked and clearly made me less mournful to be leaving the ocean. Perhaps I was getting a taste of things to come for my trip inland.

North Carolina is a lovely state. The flat-lowlands slowly broke into rolling hills, sometimes wooded, sometimes cropped with corn, tobacco, peanuts or soybeans. The shape of the barns were different, tall and narrow. I suppose this is to aid in the drying and curing of the tobacco that is grown in the area. Some of the tall, narrow barns had awnings built all of the way around, creating dry areas to store their equipment when it wasn't in use.

I saw a sign pointing the way to Tarheel, North Carolina. I couldn't resist the name so I turned North. I figured I would end my day in or about Charleston, North Carolina, No doubt the state had enough roads so that even with my detour, I could still wend my way to Charleston. Tarheel was an amazing detour. There was absolutely nothing that made it special in any way other than there was a "Tarheel High School." But, I am glad I took the detour, the roads that took me there had some interesting barns.

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When I woke I was still in the Smokey Mountains. This was no surprise, I was expecting it. The night before I walked by an espresso cafe in the downtown area. I figured this would be a good place to swing by and grab a cup on my way out of town. Ha! The folk can be so wild and crazy in these little towns, they just make up their own rules. The espresso place didn't open until 10am. Goodness what a time to start drinking espresso! It turned out to be a blessing in disguise, instead of coffee and driving into the hills right away I found a local joint for breakfast.

It was one of those places that has been there forever. A institution of the town founded on the success formula that states endless coffee and a breakfast for one that will serve three for about six bucks will keep the bubs coming back. There were two waitresses riding herd on the customers that morning, one who had been working there for forty years, the other starting her career. They whispered gossip at the end of the counter between rounds with the coffee pot as I worked my way around a plate-sized pancake. Forty years from now, I'll swing through Waynesville, NC. This restaurant will still be there. Today's trainee will have changed roles with her mentor and will be whispering gossip with a youth she is training. A life goes round but a single cycle, but the wheel of life spins endlessly. The roles we get to portray in our turn are parts written ages ago, hand-me-downs we update, polish and make our own while we play in the sun. Play your part well before you pass it along.

I figured the days drive would be short. Just to Hot Springs, North Carolina, perhaps sixty miles away. It was a lovely morning. The Smokey Mountains were still in a mist living up to the poetry of their name. The road caressed the curves of the hillsides as I drove amid woods of oak, hickory and walnut. The Adirondacks are tectonic mountains, sheaves of the Earth's crust folded up exposing the strata of time. The shapes and size of the mountains reminded me of the California coastal range. The difference being instead of being covered with redwoods and other conifers, they are wooded with broadleaf trees. Oh, they must be beautiful in the motley of autumn. Have I said that already? Oh, they must be beautiful. Oh yeah, and California doesn't have kudzu. Instead, California has Scotch Broom which shares some qualities of the kudzu; virulent, it covers hillsides, and smells sweet when it is blooming.

After a bit of winding the mountains opened up into some rounded hilly country. Some brave farmer had planted corn on the hills. I'm sure the farmers decision wasn't for the esthetics of the crop, but a hillside covered by a field of 6-foot corn is lovely. I am used to corn on flat fields, all you see is the side of the crop as you pass. When it is growing on a hill it is such a different look. Green and glossy, the hills shimmer as the satiny leaves rustle in the breeze.

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I didn't really sleep that night. Perhaps something I ate. I understand that I will be predictably served mediocre food at a Franchise but the gamble that I might be unpredictably sick makes the venture even more exciting. OK, so it is likely something I ate. Anyhow I was still exhausted in the morning and the huge amount of coffee I drank at the franchise breakfast place didn't help much, neither did the greasy eggs.

Sleep deprivation is not fun. I dutifully hit the road and churned my way out of Charleston, puddling along on Highway 62 It was overcast and drizzly, perfect for the mood I was in. I glowered along the river the road paralleled. I passed the nuclear power plant, wondering how many degrees it raised the water downstream. One? Two? There is a nuke off the Californian coast. After many years of operation it had raised the temperature of the ocean in the surrounding area enough to change the ecosystem in the vicinity. Nukes need a source of water to use for cooling. In California they used the ocean, in West Virginia, they used the river.

I didn't drive too far. I crossed the Ohio River into Ohio and a thunderstorm burst forth. The rain was so heavy I had to pull over until I could see again. When the rain let up I looked around and discovered I was in Gallipolis, Ohio.

Gallipolis, Ohio was a city "Founded by the Gauls." I am supposing they left, I found no local restaurants in which to delight--just one Bar-B-Que place and I don't think BBQ is very French. What Gallipolis certainly has is a lovely set of large brick buildings in the downtown that are well maintained and just waiting for a set of innovative entrepreneurs and City Council members that could stir the place up and bring in some tourist dollars. It is a lovely section of the Ohio River and a pretty town. All they need is a few more things to do and places to eat for the visitors.

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Gallipolis, Ohio is one of those places without a local breakfast joint... or at least one that I could find, so I did the next best thing, I went into a Bob Evens Franchise. Gallipolis is the home town of Bob Evans, the founder of the Franchise, so perhaps I can cut myself a little slack for eating there.

I was tired. On a roll of sleeplessness. I went a little south of town and turned away from the river onto a small highway and into the hills that comprise the southern tip of Ohio. It was a lovely day, but overcast and dark all day. Bad day for taking pictures. (The picture here was taken the next day.) I wound through the hills and eventually crossed over into Kentucky. I ended up driving a long way that day. I wanted to get into Missouri and register my car and get the other stuff taken care of that I needed to attend to. I got onto the express way and drove all of the way to Elizabethtown, KY exhausted after the long drive.

Elizabethtown, Kentucky turns out to be right by the Birthplace of Abraham Lincoln. I saw the signs as I was driving around and took an inadvertent tour of the two locations. When I arrived in town I first got a room. Boy what a room. It was a $20 hotel at the southeast end of town. There was a price war going on in some of the seamier hotels and I took advantage of the one that advertised a $19.95 room. I started the registration process and the Indian woman said: "That will be $39.95."

"$39.95!? The sign outside says $19.95!"

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I bailed Elizabethtown early another night of little sleep. On my drive the night before I saw they had a Panera Bread place in the direction I had to go. I know Panera has wireless so I jumped in there for a cup and to get some work done. When finished, I hit the road again. After about 15 minutes something didn't feel right. I think I was tipped off by the highway number, I was expecting a different one. I consulted my map and realized I was heading Northwesterly when I wanted to be headed Southwesterly. Sigh. I managed eventually to hit the expressway. Yes I was starting out the day on an interstate. Kentucky is big, I wanted to get to Cairo and had 250 miles to go. Cairo is in Illinois at the juncture of the Mississippi and the Ohio River. Mark Twain's Huck Finn and Jim were trying to get to Cairo early in their adventure. For some reason I just had to go there.

Oh what a drive. Lack of sleep had taken the brightness out of my mind. The coffee at Panera hadn't done the trick. At least I had gotten an early start. I blazed down the expressway at 70 mph and made good time. I got off at Paducah and started on the side roads on the way to Cairo. The lack of sleep made me feel numb and stupid. Strangely, it gave me an affinity for these sluggish little towns I was passing through. "Gee," I thought, "this would be a nice place to stop and watch the lichen grow on my shoes until I die."

I was saved. One of the sleepy little towns had a cafe, a tiny local place that I hadn't seen the like of since North Carolina. This one was even better, it wasn't as polished. It was in a low building that had porch-like additions put on two sides which gave it the appearance of an afterthought. It was called the "Bluegrass Cafe." Their Menu had more than just the standart breakfast of egg,s hash , pancakes and meat. I had a delicious breakfast and their coffee was so good! I left that place a happy boy indeed! It was an opportune meal. Soon enough I crossed the Ohio River and was in Cairo.

Cairo. What it is about Cairo that drew me so strongly? In the age of Steam Cairo was a crossroad os steamboat and railroads. In 1886 the combined shipments from river and rail that passed through Cairo was evaluated at $60,000,000, that was a heap o' money back then. It gave Cairo the highest per-capita commercial valuation in the United States. Yes, my friends, Cairo was flush back then. They built mansions, grand hotels and beautiful buildings down town. With its location in the far Southern tip of a Northern state, Cairo was a strategic location during the Civil War.

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Decisions, decisions so many things to decide upon. I soaked up my coffee and stared at my map. I needed to be heading West again. Digressions are all well and good, but this was beginning to get ridiculous. Here I was, just past three months into my trip and I was still fooling about on the east coast. Eventually I will end up in California, I originally figured I could hit Canada, the Rockies, doodle about in the Sierras and be in California sometime mid-June. The thing to do was to head West again. Aim my truck at Missouri. I would drive across the Western tip of Virginia into Kentucky and be responsible.

Virginia, oboy another state, another notch in my steering wheel. I jumped into my truck, best intentions in mind and headed Northwest. At Gate City, just inside the state I would turn onto highway 23 to 421 and get up into Kentucky. I arrived at Gate City, my honor intact, double-checked my maps to make sure I had the highway number correct. The roads on the map were interesting. At the West end of Virginia the Adirondacks slant up to the Northeast. A lot of the highways run along the direction of the hills. It looked really interesting. But no. Where would I go? What would my destination be? I looked back at the highways to Kentucky. They would be crossing the ridges of the long mountains. The roads would be winding all over the place. The long, even roads would be heading Northeast into West Virginia, the wrong direction. West Virginia! That would be yet another new state, two notches in one day! The long valleys would probably be beautiful. So I turned Northeast on highway 71 to drive in the long valleys of the Western point of Virginia.

And the valleys were beautiful. Lots of open spaces and farmland. Rolling hills with barns tucked into nooks and crannies. Another lovely drive in the country. I decided I would end the day in Charleston, West Virginia. There is some bit of winding around on the long, slanting roads

It turned out to be a long route. When I Reached West Virginia I started out on the wiggly road to Charleston. It was a really wiggly road. An hour later I had traveled, perhaps, 30 miles and crossed the toll road that zooms straight to Charleston. I have an aversion to toll roads. Maybe it is because I don't understand the principle. Most toll roads are designated as Interstates. It is my understanding that a road in the National Interstate System is built with federal money. No matter what state you are in and no matter what state the section of interstate is in, you helped build that road. So how do they justify filling local coffers with something that was constructed with federal money? I suppose "because they can" works in the politician's mind. I can understand the concept with a bridge, they cost a whole lot more per mile, but I just don't see it with an interstate so I try to avoid toll roads whenever possible. But now I was looking at 80 miles to go, a 30 mile per hour average and 2:00 in the afternoon. On the toll road I could be there in something over an hour. I bit my lip, asked forgiveness of the Gods of the Wigglies and pulled onto the toll road. Not much to report on that section of the drive. Big ol' freeway, hardly any curves and no turns.

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Today was to be my last stretch of driving before laying over for a week in Springfield. Sikeston is in the Bootheel of Missouri, Flatland. I headed out on the little highway that passed Paul Eakins' place. Sixty miles further bumps began forming and before I knew it, I was in the Missouri Ozarks again. Though I lived on the other side of the Ozarks, this was instantly familiar. The same rocky soil, the same woods, the same bunnies.

Even though I was anxious to get back and start on the chores waiting for me, I still took a twisty road. I was driving through a section of the Ozarks I had never been in. I should notice it.

My route took me through Niangua, MO to pick up my mail. It was odd coming back after only three months. Still the same little town but different somehow. I no longer had a reason for being there. I never had a sense of belonging there, but I owned property nearby so at least I had a reason for being there. I did my mail stuff and talked with the postmaster lady. I realize as I write this, I didn't inquire after any of the local gossip. I didn't ask about my neighbors or what any of the local news was. It was too soon to be nostalgic and not close enough to feel important.

From Niangua I went to Marshfield. It is amazing how quickly you can whip through bureaucratic stuff. I under two hours I went to the assessor's office and got copies of two old tax receipts, I had a safety inspection done on my car and replaced some shocks, I went to the license bureau and registered my car and completed the banking I needed done. Yow, I was expecting half a day at least.

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