22 November 2003
Straight from the Georgia woods
Some thoughts while I wait for the assault of the next cold front:
What constitutes a beautiful day in Georgia?
Well, it starts by stepping out onto your front porch and sinking ankle-deep into a pile of multi-colored leaves. Next, you breathe in a breath of crisp air and detect not a trace of the odor usually emanating from the chickenhouses less than a mile away. Having fully enjoyed the jaunt to the driveway, you then proceed to your vehicle, and enjoy the ten or so miles to town with the sunroof open and the music of choice blaring. And, ya know, you don't even mind that it takes THIRTY MINUTES to get there because you got stuck behind a should-be-antique pick-up with a max speed of 30 mph. That's because it's just too darn difficult to get pissy once you see just HOW MUCH that mutt in the back of that pick-up is enjoying himself. Ears perked, tongue hangin' out, wind in his coat happiness should be so simple.
It might be at that. Of course, once up to 30 mph, you should be able to negotiate the ten miles into town in twenty minutes, but what the hell sometimes it doesn't pay to be in a rush.
(Muchas gracias: Key Monroe.)