"OK - I have decided that we are going to stop at every brown sign across America. See there? The National Quilt Museum." (which actually sounded pretty cool).
"The world's largest - no second largest - ball of string," I counter.
We spent four days in Nashville with family and friends: a wonderful introduction, full of hope and myriad possibilities. But it was time to leave, and we decided to bust a move all the way to Vail - 1200 miles and 22 hours of putting shackles down and miles under our belt. I guess I should be making flowery commentary about the beauty and splendor of the American landscape, but at some point during this leg of the trip, it becomes rocks and trees, with mountains and rivers losing their monikers in a blur.
1:45 AM is the first time we are stopped by construction - good sign!
"OK - we are at hour 16 - it is time to ROCK," I proclaim. I have hit a stride and have nearly driven 3/4 of a tank, approaching hour 4. "Put on Zep or something with some dirty rhythm section, because this whiny-ass coffee house shite has to go." I was the one who perhaps put it on the first place.
"Bruce Springsteen?"
"That's what I'm talking about," I do my best homegirl impression. I might have thrown up an old school Air Z-Snap, like my alternative high school students taught me in Arkansas in the early 1990's. Anything you can do to stay awake and keep the wondrous momentum going.
And what does he choose?" THE GHOST OF TOM JOAD. If you are a Boss fan, you are in on the joke.
22 hours can get quite boring so there silly games you devise and stories you remember to amuse yourself and pass the time and distance.
"Lynard Skynard is actually the name of their high school gym teacher and coach. They hated him and started one of the best southern rock bands ever. I always wonder who got the last laugh on that one."
"You're making that up. How do you have all of this arcane, useless knowledge?"
"And the guy with the fake stutter in one of his songs? 'You Ain't Seen Nothing Yet.' Dang - and he sings with Ronnie Spector... WHAT IS HIS NAME? Well, he was an NYPD officer. So was Steve Buscmei. The guy on that show you like, 'Boardwalk Empire.' Except he was with the NYC fire department. And what's with the fake stutter thing? Roger Daltry, Mick..."
And of course: NAME THAT TUNE - but it has to be tuned to an oldies station (haha). Now that an overwhelming majority of radio stations are owned by three companies, we seem to be relegated to the same rotation of tunes from the 60's, 70's and 80's. The rules are simple: name the song within the first couple of bars or even when you pop in the middle of the tune. Bonus points to name the lead singer and/or guitarist, album or year it was relelased.
"My family's swing orchestra played 'Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown,' in Asheville back in the 60's and 70's," I tell him when the tune comes on. "My cousins made up half the horn section. Guess my uncle had to adapt with the times, so he threw in a couple of contemporary hits with all of the 30's and 40's stuff. But I wish you could have seen the pianist. She was in her mid 80's, and she would really pound the ivories on that one. You haven't lived until you seen little old couples shuffling to a boogie beat with a full orchestra at the Moose Lodge."
... and so the stories spin~
We finally roll into Vail. I just need to retrieve my computer and knockoff designer pocketbook disguised as a suitcase, except it is like a suitcase now: having accumulated junk across America over the past 22 hours. As I write this I am so tired from the hot springs that I can't figure what our arrival time was - 4 AM?
"I think this thing gained a pound or two during this trip."
"I think I thought I saw that pocket book moving," he quips.
As we are both awaking from a deep slumber many hours later, the first thing I say is "Eddie Money."
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