He came around for three passes, low enough to fertilize, but not spreading anything. You’re just glad he seemed sane enough and competent enough to negotiate tree lines, fallow fields, rivers and interstates simultaneously.
When I think of the South — the second-half of the 20th Century South, that is, what might unartfully be called the Dukes of Hazard period — I think of kudzu, gravel, quiet creeks, rusted signs and places not unlike this. They still exist. They are everywhere if you get out of the cities.
I forgot to note where this particular scene was. Indeed, I just “drove” the entire route on Google Maps twice and was ready to say it doesn’t exist on a map, but on the third bird’s eye view of the map I found it.
It is just outside of Maplesville, a town of under 700 people (at the 2000 Census) had boomed to more than 2,500 before the end of the decade. They are commuters. The town is named after a store owner. Maplesville has a Main Street, but you can’t see it on Google’s Street View.
You can see, on other roads, they’ve got everything you need: post office, bank, closed storefronts, plenty of churches and a pool and spa supply store. I believe I’ve been lost there before. (If you haven’t been lost in every town in your state you haven’t been driving enough, really. If you don’t stop the car and meet some of the people there you really haven’t been lost yet.)
It is not far from where my college roommate was raised. He’d playfully sneer when he said the town’s name, but it seems a delightful enough place.
The thought hadn’t entered into my mind. But how many people felt the urge before the dump truck people had to take action. I’ve been on some boring stretches of highway, and I’ve spent my time behind some unfortunate drivers who were working for a living, but I’ve never thought “Maybe if I just nudge him.”
Then again, this might be a good bumper sticker for the NASCAR set.
