My uncle called my dad and asked what he wanted in the kitchen when we arrived. Cereal? I’m a Cheerios man, my dad said. What Kind? Plain Cheerios like Jesus used to eat, he said.
In Franklin, Indiana I was served a smoked sausage skillet by a woman who used to work at a retirement home and take care of both the world’s oldest woman and the world’s tallest woman.
At a Cracker Barrel in Lexington, a cop was changed in the bathroom into an outfit from a small piece of luggage. His boot was on the floor with a sock stuffed in its neck, his gun belt hung from the open stall door’s hook. The busser was a pretty girl with one arm. A man ordered for his whole family. My dad couldn’t figure out how a waitress got her hair to behave the way it did.
Pineville’s a town between mountains in Kentucky. It has a ten foot high cement wall around it and there are big swinging vault doors on either end of the main road. They must have had a bad flood sometime. The houses are close together down there like in a city, but it doesn’t spread far. It’s like a Warner Brothers back lot.
We lost a Snickers in Kentucky but we hope it turns up in Tennessee.
In Damascus, in the rain, we searched in the grass for my uncle’s temporary crown and our clothes got so wet we went to the thrift store across the street for new shirts.
We went to a collection of Hollywood memorabilia in Abingdon. One of the best comic and book artists in the world lives here and I might see his studio tomorrow. There’s more culture in rural Virginia than in rural Wisconsin. It’s been here longer and people live closer together. Other than that, I can’t think of a good reason.
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