The first thing Joe did was disobey the Garmin people again by driving and punching up "Livingston via I-20." The red line appeared to guide us, and after we had gone a little way, Joe said, "We don't wanna go by the interstate, do we?"
"No, let's go the back roads," I agreed.
The Garmin had other ideas. As we passed over I-20, it began to wiggle violently, but eventually righted itself and pointed in the direction we were going.
"It should figure out what we're doing," Joe said confidently, as it led us to some tiny little burg. I never saw a name. I do know, however, that the thing told us to go straight instead of turning left on Main Street. We were both kind of perplexed, but did what we were told. The road was suddenly surrounded by abandoned industrial and agricultural-type buildings, then took a sharp turn to the left. An old gas station was on the left, with a pump dented on the top but pristine otherwise.
The railroad tracks were immediately next to us on the right, and straight ahead was the Nu-Image Style Shop (Clarence Bell, owner). It was a tiny dilapidated pink building with a rusty steel roof, and immediately set off a flurry of images in my head.
We pulled over and shot everything around there. Just as we were fixing to leave, the train appeared in the far distance. We had to stay for that! It got to us much faster than it would appear, and when it zoomed by, created an unbelievable breeze. The car was so much warmer by comparison.
After punching "AGREE" and starting up, the Garmin told us to go straight ahead and take a left on Fleming Street. WTF?? THAT was going to take us to Livingston? We obeyed and followed it to its junction with Main Street, where the Garmin told us to take a left. LEFT?? That couldn't be right. So a right is what we took. The little icon shimmied a while, then started going straight ahead, following the steadfast red arrow. We were then instructed to turn left at the next road, which appeared to be a glorified driveway.
"It's taking us back to I-20!" Joe said in dismay.
"You dialed in Livingston via I-20, didn't you?"
"Well yeah, but I thought it would figure out what we were doing."
"You said I-20, Joe," I mock-chided.
"Well tough, I'm going this way. It'll HAVE to get us to Livingston because it's going parallel to the interstate."
"Yeah, I'm sure it will. But now that you've pissed off the Garmin, we're on our own. Don't expect any help from it." I wasn't actually hungry yet, but asked anyway, "So tell me about this Mennonite bakery in Livingston."
"It's supposed to be incredible. I'm gonna bring Ann some bread. Reportedly they have great lunches." I figured by the time we got there, I could force myself to eat. Joe started punching in the name of the bakery, which escapes me at the moment. It's "Loving Touch" or something like that, though that sounds like a massage parlor.
The Garmin gave a forgiving wiggle and started us on the path to this purportedly fantastic food. Smack in the middle of town, the checkered flag came up, but there was nothing that resembled the charming bakery that I envisioned: a gingerbread house inhabited by plump young apple-cheeked girls in bonnets and big dresses, making sure we menfolk had all the food we wanted.
We turned around a couple of times and watched the flag pop up impishly each time before I finally spotted it on the left.
"There it is." I pointed. It was a brick building that looked like a converted Hardee's and. . . .
"It's got a DRIVE IN!" Joe hollered. "What the hell?"
"And it's PACKED!" I joined in. It was wall-to-wall people inside, with a line at the drive-up and humanity being disgorged from the building in huge masses. I shuddered involuntarily. "Unhhh. I don't wanna go there."
"Well of course not," Joe agreed, as he sped up a little, giving the Garmin a tiny seizure. "I'll be able to say on the website that the place is very popular with students," he intoned.
"It's probably great. I just can't handle that kind of crowd," I said. "I'd just as soon eat at Ezell's, like you mentioned."
"Well that'll be a sure thing," Joe said. "But why don't we find the covered bridge while we're here?"
"Absolutely! Where is it?"
"Somewhere around here," he answered, as he started punching stuff in the Garmin, none of which was any help. He tried his iPhone, but only found out its name: the Alamulgee Covered bridge. "It's on the campus," he said, as we started driving through. "There oughta be signs. . ."
"There," I pointed. We followed it around a convoluted path through campus ending up right where I saw the first sign.
We figured it out on the second go-round, ending up at an apartment-style dorm with a covered bridge spanning a dry pond in its back yard. "There it is," he said, in a slightly deflated tone. "My Mom used to bring me here all the time when she was in graduate school and used the library. I'd play at the pond, and the bridge looked so huge and fantastic to me."
"Well, that's a nice Mustang," I said, as we pulled into the last parking place on the row. When I got out, I took a hugely backlit picture of it--the shiniest, bluest car I'd ever seen.
We tromped down to see the bridge and take a bunch of pictures of the inside and outside. Despite the conditions, it was still a very neat thing. We talked about the purpose for covered bridges, and decided they were to keep rain from rotting the wood. And probably for shelter from storms, too. Or maybe horses were scared of water and knew they were crossing it. So many possibilities.
Joe told me that it was originally several miles from here, but that they had moved it in the 70s to the campus of Livingston University (now University of West Alabama). "It used to be so nice here, with ducks and everything," Joe said wistfully. "Of course I was a lot younger then and the pond had water in it." We stared down at the cracked bottom, accented by a big dead fish and bits of detritus everywhere.
"Maybe they've drained it for cleaning," I offered as we left, passing a pair of muddy boots and socks sitting next to the sidewalk.
"Yeah, maybe," he said.
It was getting time to think about peeing again. There was certainly nowhere around there, so I made myself known to Joe casually. He gave the standard reaction--none--as we got in the car and headed out of town.
"What if we go through York real quick on the way to Ezell's," he suggested. It sounded fine to me.
"I've got a couple of fraternity brothers from York," I said. "They're hilarious people. And my next door neighbor growing up, Ruth McGowen, she's from Bellamy. She was a Curry." I don't know why I was telling him all this. It was as if I expected him to know all the people I was talking about.
On the way into York, we passed a pretty white house insanely adorned with white ironwork. "Let's stop," I suggested. We both got lots of great pictures of the place. "I'll bet Sims and Elrod know who lives here," I said, more to myself than to Joe.
We passed through a downtown that had more life than Eutaw, but was smaller. We rounded a corner and Joe pulled over in the parking area next to an old renovated brick building. "This is the arts center for West Alabama," he said. "Coleman Culture Center, (or something like that)."
There was a huge rooster made from iron parts standing right outside. The area was nicely landscaped, and inside you could see an exhibit of large colorful cutout figures. But the place was closed until 1:00.
Next to the culture center was another historic building that seemed to have been repurposed temporarily as the "Justice for Joe" Headquarters. We had seen signs saying such on the way in, and had wondered, "Who is this Joe? What happened that he needs justice? Is he a good guy being screwed or a bad guy being supported by other bad guys?" These days you can't tell.
Across the street was a nicely repainted red caboose, and on the other wall of the Cultural Center was a restored ad for WocoPep gas painted on the side. The woman was wearing a flapper type hat and had weird, staring eyes. Her face had a strange shape to it as well. Was she painted like that to begin with, or was this just a sub-par restoration? Nevertheless, she was fascinating, and I took a bunch of great shots of her and the caboose.
"You still have to pee?" Joe asked. "It's almost 1:00, and we can go in here."
"Unh uh," I said. "I've seen what's in there mostly, and I'm ready to get on to Ezell's." I also didn't want to get stuck talking to somebody for a long time despite their surely having a bathroom. It certainly didn't matter to me that Joe's project could have possibly benefited from going inside.
I took one last look around the parking area to make sure there wasn't a bush or something I could dart behind, but there was nothing. We got in the car and I automatically hit "AGREE."
"This is a nice little town," I said, as we headed out.
"It is," Joe agreed.
"No, let's go the back roads," I agreed.
The Garmin had other ideas. As we passed over I-20, it began to wiggle violently, but eventually righted itself and pointed in the direction we were going.
"It should figure out what we're doing," Joe said confidently, as it led us to some tiny little burg. I never saw a name. I do know, however, that the thing told us to go straight instead of turning left on Main Street. We were both kind of perplexed, but did what we were told. The road was suddenly surrounded by abandoned industrial and agricultural-type buildings, then took a sharp turn to the left. An old gas station was on the left, with a pump dented on the top but pristine otherwise.
The railroad tracks were immediately next to us on the right, and straight ahead was the Nu-Image Style Shop (Clarence Bell, owner). It was a tiny dilapidated pink building with a rusty steel roof, and immediately set off a flurry of images in my head.We pulled over and shot everything around there. Just as we were fixing to leave, the train appeared in the far distance. We had to stay for that! It got to us much faster than it would appear, and when it zoomed by, created an unbelievable breeze. The car was so much warmer by comparison.After punching "AGREE" and starting up, the Garmin told us to go straight ahead and take a left on Fleming Street. WTF?? THAT was going to take us to Livingston? We obeyed and followed it to its junction with Main Street, where the Garmin told us to take a left. LEFT?? That couldn't be right. So a right is what we took. The little icon shimmied a while, then started going straight ahead, following the steadfast red arrow. We were then instructed to turn left at the next road, which appeared to be a glorified driveway."It's taking us back to I-20!" Joe said in dismay.
"You dialed in Livingston via I-20, didn't you?"
"Well yeah, but I thought it would figure out what we were doing."
"You said I-20, Joe," I mock-chided.
"Well tough, I'm going this way. It'll HAVE to get us to Livingston because it's going parallel to the interstate."
"Yeah, I'm sure it will. But now that you've pissed off the Garmin, we're on our own. Don't expect any help from it." I wasn't actually hungry yet, but asked anyway, "So tell me about this Mennonite bakery in Livingston."
"It's supposed to be incredible. I'm gonna bring Ann some bread. Reportedly they have great lunches." I figured by the time we got there, I could force myself to eat. Joe started punching in the name of the bakery, which escapes me at the moment. It's "Loving Touch" or something like that, though that sounds like a massage parlor.
The Garmin gave a forgiving wiggle and started us on the path to this purportedly fantastic food. Smack in the middle of town, the checkered flag came up, but there was nothing that resembled the charming bakery that I envisioned: a gingerbread house inhabited by plump young apple-cheeked girls in bonnets and big dresses, making sure we menfolk had all the food we wanted.
We turned around a couple of times and watched the flag pop up impishly each time before I finally spotted it on the left.
"There it is." I pointed. It was a brick building that looked like a converted Hardee's and. . . .
"It's got a DRIVE IN!" Joe hollered. "What the hell?"
"And it's PACKED!" I joined in. It was wall-to-wall people inside, with a line at the drive-up and humanity being disgorged from the building in huge masses. I shuddered involuntarily. "Unhhh. I don't wanna go there."
"Well of course not," Joe agreed, as he sped up a little, giving the Garmin a tiny seizure. "I'll be able to say on the website that the place is very popular with students," he intoned.
"It's probably great. I just can't handle that kind of crowd," I said. "I'd just as soon eat at Ezell's, like you mentioned."
"Well that'll be a sure thing," Joe said. "But why don't we find the covered bridge while we're here?"
"Absolutely! Where is it?"
"Somewhere around here," he answered, as he started punching stuff in the Garmin, none of which was any help. He tried his iPhone, but only found out its name: the Alamulgee Covered bridge. "It's on the campus," he said, as we started driving through. "There oughta be signs. . ."
"There," I pointed. We followed it around a convoluted path through campus ending up right where I saw the first sign.
We figured it out on the second go-round, ending up at an apartment-style dorm with a covered bridge spanning a dry pond in its back yard. "There it is," he said, in a slightly deflated tone. "My Mom used to bring me here all the time when she was in graduate school and used the library. I'd play at the pond, and the bridge looked so huge and fantastic to me."
"Well, that's a nice Mustang," I said, as we pulled into the last parking place on the row. When I got out, I took a hugely backlit picture of it--the shiniest, bluest car I'd ever seen.
We tromped down to see the bridge and take a bunch of pictures of the inside and outside. Despite the conditions, it was still a very neat thing. We talked about the purpose for covered bridges, and decided they were to keep rain from rotting the wood. And probably for shelter from storms, too. Or maybe horses were scared of water and knew they were crossing it. So many possibilities.Joe told me that it was originally several miles from here, but that they had moved it in the 70s to the campus of Livingston University (now University of West Alabama). "It used to be so nice here, with ducks and everything," Joe said wistfully. "Of course I was a lot younger then and the pond had water in it." We stared down at the cracked bottom, accented by a big dead fish and bits of detritus everywhere."Maybe they've drained it for cleaning," I offered as we left, passing a pair of muddy boots and socks sitting next to the sidewalk."Yeah, maybe," he said.
It was getting time to think about peeing again. There was certainly nowhere around there, so I made myself known to Joe casually. He gave the standard reaction--none--as we got in the car and headed out of town."What if we go through York real quick on the way to Ezell's," he suggested. It sounded fine to me.
"I've got a couple of fraternity brothers from York," I said. "They're hilarious people. And my next door neighbor growing up, Ruth McGowen, she's from Bellamy. She was a Curry." I don't know why I was telling him all this. It was as if I expected him to know all the people I was talking about.
On the way into York, we passed a pretty white house insanely adorned with white ironwork. "Let's stop," I suggested. We both got lots of great pictures of the place. "I'll bet Sims and Elrod know who lives here," I said, more to myself than to Joe.We passed through a downtown that had more life than Eutaw, but was smaller. We rounded a corner and Joe pulled over in the parking area next to an old renovated brick building. "This is the arts center for West Alabama," he said. "Coleman Culture Center, (or something like that)."
There was a huge rooster made from iron parts standing right outside. The area was nicely landscaped, and inside you could see an exhibit of large colorful cutout figures. But the place was closed until 1:00. Next to the culture center was another historic building that seemed to have been repurposed temporarily as the "Justice for Joe" Headquarters. We had seen signs saying such on the way in, and had wondered, "Who is this Joe? What happened that he needs justice? Is he a good guy being screwed or a bad guy being supported by other bad guys?" These days you can't tell.
Across the street was a nicely repainted red caboose, and on the other wall of the Cultural Center was a restored ad for WocoPep gas painted on the side. The woman was wearing a flapper type hat and had weird, staring eyes. Her face had a strange shape to it as well. Was she painted like that to begin with, or was this just a sub-par restoration? Nevertheless, she was fascinating, and I took a bunch of great shots of her and the caboose."You still have to pee?" Joe asked. "It's almost 1:00, and we can go in here.""Unh uh," I said. "I've seen what's in there mostly, and I'm ready to get on to Ezell's." I also didn't want to get stuck talking to somebody for a long time despite their surely having a bathroom. It certainly didn't matter to me that Joe's project could have possibly benefited from going inside.
I took one last look around the parking area to make sure there wasn't a bush or something I could dart behind, but there was nothing. We got in the car and I automatically hit "AGREE."
"This is a nice little town," I said, as we headed out.
"It is," Joe agreed.
