Alabama into the Appalachians

The Summer 2010 Journey Continues...

We left New Orleans, allowing it to simmer in its heated mugginess all unto itself, like a big ol' pot of gumbo that never quite empties and is never quite done. As we skimmed over Lake Pontchartrain to the North Shore, sea breezes proffered relief, and then suddenly we were upon the tall, cool piney woods that welcome wanderers into the deep soul of Mississippi. Mississippi to me is a Faulkner novel through and through; there is no separating the two (nor would I want to).  The present is steeped in the past, full of complications and simplicities. 

We chanced finding a picnic table in Picayune to eat our lunch. Graced with southernly manners, Picayune obliged with a narrow strip of green along the railroad tracks near the center of town, where an historic train engine was on display next to a lovely gazebo, all surrounded by a newly landscaped walkway embedded with the good townspeople's names who must have reached into their pockets to bestow the town this honor.  Our picnic lunch was quite delicious, thank you very much, the potato and squash salads not yet swimming in the ice chest's mucky melted ice-water and we ourselves not yet sick to death of it.  The highlight of the meal was the blaring of an actual working train whistle and very loud and long roar past us, not more than about 35 yards away, where presumably the on-display train once carried goods from the Port of New Orleans northward. Keaton stayed tucked under our legs till the terrible danger passed.

Long leaf pine (photo borrowed from NRCS)

The next several hours were spent in a peaceful green panorama. I must hand it to Mississippi and its sister Alabama: they are lovely ladies and do not try to improve upon their natural beauty with the wanton charms of billboards, as Texas and Louisiana have done. At least not on the stretch of hilly highway we traversed, anyway.  Our only trouble was not allowing enough time to make it to the campsite before dinner and dark, a problem my capable daughter immediately solved by finding us a nice motel that welcomes doggies.  (If you have read previous posts, you may recall that my daughter has doubted my capacities since I first fed her green beans at six months; this last blunder did not help my reputation.)

As dusk descended, we drove into the southeast side of Birmingham, through the winding roads of the quaint suburban towns of Meadowbrook, Vestavia and Homewood, all snugly nestled into rolling hills.  Warm light filled many a picture window in houses reigning over expansive green lawns and sheltered under tall pines, and I imagine southern moms calling their families to supper in languid drawls. I'm hungry myself and, why yes please, I could eat a plate of pork chops, turnip greens and cornbread, with sweet tea, thank you, ma'am.

Caitlin at work

We find Caitlin's house, which she has just moved into a few weeks before, and as I am opening the back door to let Keaton out, I see she has emerged into the yard and is walking toward me with a warm smile that melts me completely, as it always has and always will. 

(What is the matter with me? Tears have sprung into my eyes as I write this and I am a mess even thinking about it.  The depth of love I have for that child is beyond my own comprehension, and even my own awareness, it seems. And as further evidence of my own foolishness, I have neglected to take any pictures whatsoever of this leg of the journey.)

She takes us to a cute litte restaurant where we sit outside and chat, as she dotes on Keaty. I do not get the southern meal I imagined, but instead a healthy, hip little salad and quiche.  I suppose the South had to grow up, too.  Caitlin is happy.  Her eyes shine. Even as she tells about an aggravating day, it's clear she is happy happy, down in her bones. She says she's in love, she thinks. She is full of surprises. She is joining a flag football team with her female colleagues, not letting her pint-sized stature daunt her in the least.  She has tales of her job and her boyfriend and life, all relayed with a dash of dark humor and charm. Just laying my eyes on her for two hours' time is worth every nanosecond of the 13 hours' drive it took to get there.

We get up the next day and head toward Tennessee, my heart still singing, though beginning to ache just a tad. I shove that aside and let myself fall into a trance of rolling green scenery.  At Chattanooga we again go for the downtown park picnic lunch, and Chattanooga is up for the challenge, making the most of its natural attractions by devoting greenspace along the riverfront, just a block from cute shops that I'm sure could sell me some lovely goods if only I had the car space.  We haul out the ice chest and picnic baskets, our mouths watering for hardboiled eggs with mustard and cheese and chips and fruit and nuts.  Just as all these items are spread out across my red checkered table cloth, a storm arrives out of absolutely no where.  (When I see this happen in movies, I am exceedingly dubious that it ever happens in real life. Well, folks, it does!)

Thunder roars and the rain begins pelting, the weather dispensing entirely with its manners. We dash under the old bridge that is now for pedestrians only, since it is made of wood.  Here is a little tip for you: wood  bridges leak.    We sat with our wet goods under that wooden bridge getting mighty moist, but not as drenched as we figured we'd get in the open race to the car. After about 15 minutes, we realized the storm was not bluffing, we were already drenched, and so we made a mad dash to the car anyway.

With the delightful smell of wet dog emanating from the rear of the car, we sat in our steamy mobile sauna and headed for the hills...the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.

Another "borrowed" photo from the web. The road part of the bridge on the left is wooden.
Isn't Chattanooga lovely in the sunshine? Not so much in a downpour.

Join me next time, when we meet Tennessee Boss Hogg and his Red-headed Minions.