We give nod to Historic 8th Avenue; pirate lore, rum running; we pay homage to the wood and ice trade of Shell Key; bye bye Pass a Grille, home of the world's greatest grouper sandwich.
The hoopty jeep called back into service; Marissa sits silently as we make our way through the labyrinth of causeways. Men working and road construction signs appear and disappear nothing appears to be holding us back, this is it, we are truly going home.
Marissa breaks out the Ipod player, gives a glance "Marley or the "Dead?" ~ "The Dead", I hesitate, not. Music drowns out the whistle of a poorly fitting driver's door; cracks in the windshield refract light making rainbows across the dash.
Truckin' by the Dead offers lyric interpretation, we crest a hill and see the last of the gulf; we "sing-sing" our way to Georgia.
Nothing good happens to teenage girls after 1230am thinking to myself; nothing good happens to me in Georgia. My thoughts go to the speed traps of the 60's and Macon County, traffic jams of Atlanta; I have an uneasy feeling. Thoughts race to the 262,000+ miles on the hoopty jeep. Keep on Truckin' as the song is looped several times to test my resolve.
We are unscathed by Georgia, in fact it was wonderful, Atlanta a peach. I still thought I heard banjo music in Macon County though.
to be continued...
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