The Long March South
Alexander City, Alabama.
That’s where we landed fourteen hours after my alarm went off at seven this morning. Puck was still asleep. He walked out a little later hunched over like an old man, asking why I had gotten up “so early.”
We walked out the door at eight, Puck unnecessarily dressed in two coats, which prompted his opinion:
“I’m the weirdest kid in the history of life.”
“All kids are weird, Puck. It’s not a big deal.”
“I’m not weird. I love toilets.”
Anyway, El Oso and Francis played Tetris, packing the bags into the back of the Fit. And when we left 36 minutes late, Puck suddenly pulled tears out of the blue:
“WHY CAN’T I COME TOO, MOM?”
Fortunately, El Oso – who had taken a vacation day from work – already had plans to add another book shelf to his wall, an oil change, and some other fun boy things.
“Oh,” Carrie groaned, snagging shotgun beside me. “This is going to be a miserable ride.”
Mom slipped in behind her, “Oh, this is just fine! It’s going to be great!”
And so we were off. We all had our own little goals of the trip. One of them was learning how to speak in feminine voices, which, for a Snicketts girl, is not always so easy a thing. Carrie laid the ground rules:
“The first person to talk like a guy or a muppet gets punched in the face!”
Missouri: Strong wind. Rose and Irish scavenged the vending machines at the first rest stop: Pepsi and Rice Krispy Treats.
Arkansas: bumpy roads, watercolor skies, music, as chosen by the driver. Carrie: South American pan pipes, Farsi. Rose: Bing Crosby, Nelly. Mom: Pride & Prejudice audiobook. We all find our own flavors. Cheese sticks, peanuts.
Tennessee: Graceland. As run down and as packed as this little stretch of once Elvis-happy land was, we skipped town and drove on. A flash drive-by of the old white home on the hill itself.
Mississippi: Tupelo. Blooming crabapples. Johnny’s Drive-In, Elvis’ old stomping ground. Dough burgers for most of the girls. I had the fried ham sandwich and a Sierra Mist. Elvis’ tiny white birth home shaded by an old holly of some sort.
Alabama: rolling hills shaved back from the highway of trees, dipping with evergreens, contrasting the dead purple of branches not yet bloomed. Under the glow of cloud-brushed moon.
Two double beds and a sleeping bag. (Rose claims she’s going to sleep in the bathtub.) Phase One complete.