I am sitting in the chilly pre-dawn rain in Tupelo, Mississippi.  I’m nestled in the sleeping area of the Phantom Rambler where I am warm and safe and dry. The rain thrums against the tin shell of my quarters as my computer softly plays The King – “The Wonder of You” and I think about a girl back in Maryland.

My thoughts of her are punctuated with flashes of scenes from my life this past week – quite a week it was.

It began with the touring of a moonshine distillery in South Carolina, and ended, unofficially, with quiet reflection. The next will begin with the prospect of new sunrises and ever changing horizons. She will be the only constant in my vagabond existence.

Earlier this week I made my triumphant return to Ft. Benning, Ga.

A lot has changed in the 30 or so years since my discharge from the army. For one, Reagan is no longer president. Terrorism has been invented.  It is no longer an open post. They would not let me in.

Undeterred I made haste for somewhere west. Alabama and that haunted chicken house.

I made for Albertville (well out of my way,except I don’t really have a “way” exactly) to visit a nickel-plated fire hydrant  (pic related)

Did you know that Albertville, Alabama is the Fire Hydrant Capital of the World?

Of course not. No one did. Except in 1976, when they painted them to look like Minutemen, no one notices fire plugs.

I saw a space shuttle and a Saturn rocket (pic related)

I went to Cathedral Caverns and saw this thing (pic related)

I have no idea what it is, but I took my pic with it anyway.

The Caverns wanted $17 for admission plus another $1 for the ticket – I shit you not. Plus, even though they claim the floor is as smooth as the Mines of Moria before the revolution  (that was a LOTR reference btw) we had to wait 30 minutes for a tour guide. I said “Fuck it” took my pic with the rusty thing and left.

I drove to Muscle Shoals, you know, cuzza Skynyrd. There’s nothing interesting there. But, I did hear of a saloon that was a “must see”. It was off the beaten path, but then, so is all of Alabama. This one is called Rattlesnake Saloon and it isn’t really in a town, per se. It is just in the northwestern part of the state.

Well, it is Sunday. I could watch some of that American Football and drink a beer I guess. Off I went.

The roads became increasingly “country” the nearer I got to the destination set on my GPS. “This can’t be right.” I thought as I pulled into a horse ranch camp thing (pic related)

There were no cars to speak of. Just two ol’ fellas that were working. Their work involved one of them holding a bucket under the rear end of a horse to catch his poop (how he knew the horse was going to poop, I have no idea, but poop it did) while the other stood nearby watching and making helpful comments.

I approach.

Guy 1: Gaaaah!

Guy 2: He gitcha?

Guy 1 laughing good naturedly: Almost!

Me: Excuse me.

Guy 2: Well, hey there! What can we do you for?

Me (trying to copy the local dialect): I was told there was a saloon around these here parts.

Guy 1: Yeah. Yeah there is. Your standing on it! Of course it’s closed. What with it being Sunday and all.

Me: Standing on it?

Guy 2: Don’t pay no attention to him. He’s just funning.

Me: Whew. So it is open?

Guy 2: No. It is closed on account of today being Sunday and all.

Me (looking around): Oh. Well, where is it?

Guy 2: Well, he was right about that too. You are standing on it. It’s in the cave right beneath us. You can go on down and take a look around if you want. You gotta walk tho. Just take that trail and follow it down. (Gallery related)

Too bad it wasnt open. Maybe I will return.

I visited some haunted houses and several cemeteries. Perhaps the most impressive was this one (gallery related)

Deep in the backwoods, well off hwy 431, in a remote area is this one-of-a-kind cemetery.  Established in 1937, it is exclusively for Coondogs. One must apply for approval for burial. And, one must have been a coondog in this life to qualify for consideration.

The markers range from expensive and fancy to crude and homemade.

Almost all of the graves had loose coins set on them. I assume to pay the ferryman’s dog. I dunno. I looked. If any didn’t have coins, I placed one.

I guess the folks of Alabama take coon hunting pretty serious. This got me to thinking about what exactly is the deal with coonhunting. I decided without doing any actual research that its roots lie in another sport. Coon hunting has got to be the down home american version of the English fox hunt. The similarities are obvious.

Though each is engaged in by diametrically opposite classes on the socioeconomic scale, both involve large groups of men with funny accents who frequently marry within their families using dogs to chase a small frightened animal, that they don’t eat, across the countryside just for the “sport” of it. Even though all they really do is let the dog do all the work and then they try to find the dog.

Before leaving, I signed Trixie’s name in the guest registry (pic related)

Some wise guy before me signed a fake name (pic related)

I wish I had thought of that first.

Thusly, inspired, I made for Mississippi – birthplace of The King.

The drive back out from the Coondog  Cemetery was peppered with the sound of shotgun blasts in the not too distant distance. The road was in such disrepair as to be nonexistent in many places.

I passed this house (pic related)

It was in the middle of nowhere and had no power or communication lines running to it that I could see.

No big deal, I guess, except the lawn seemed fairly well maintained.

I drove along the wonderfully serene and scenic Natchez Trace Parkway. I stopped at this Indian Mound (pic related)

While stopped, I checked my provisions. It wasn’t easy because my view was blocked by my dirty laundry bag, which was roughly the size and shape of me – it even dressed like me. It was like looking in a smelly mirror.

I checked my calendar.  I meet Trixie in Memphis on November 26. I have 1 and a half pairs of clean socks and no underwear to speak of. Hmm. Could I make it until Thanksgiving?

It would be close. But, I decided not to risk it. There is a coin-op laundromat on Main St in Tupelo. Laundromats are notorious for being in bad neighborhoods and this one was no exception.

But,  I made it out none the worse for wear and ready to face the coming week.