Hurricane Nate is about to make landfall. I’m in a trailer which is about the size of a Skoal can. I'm camping.
A stinky coonhound is on my lap. I have limited cellphone reception in the woods. The trailer is rocking from gale-force winds.
This was supposed to be a fishing trip. Instead I'm going to wake up as SPAM.
It’s raining hard. Thunder.
Of course, I didn’t mean to die this way—alone in the woods, trapped in a Tuna can. I had dreams.
For example: I wanted to take a trip to Mexico with my wife.
A friend of mine once visited Oaxaca. He raved about his first night in the city. The locals prepared him chicken—battered and fried. And puré de papas—which is like mashed potatoes.
I asked where he found such exquisite fare. He said the KFC downtown was fantástico.
I want to pick wildflowers one more time before I go. A whole handful of daisies, yellow-eyed grass, Indian paintbrushes, and cahaba lilies. I'd pick them for my wife.
Corny. I know, but she prefers wildflowers to store-bought.
Before I got
sucked off the map, I wanted to see a few more NASCAR races. It’s been years since my last Talladega trip.
Once, at Talladega Campground, I saw a teenage girl—I’m not making this up—marinate possum meat in mustard, then cook it over a grill.
I want to see the sun go down over the Escambia River. I went canoeing on the river a few months ago. At sunset, I told myself, “If God’s in this world, he’s on the Escambia.”
And I want to be kissed by a litter of bloodhound puppies.
If there aren't bloodhounds in heaven, someone else can have my ticket.
I wanted to eat at Lambert’s, in Foley, Alabama, one last time. I’ve been there more than I can count.
I want the waiter to toss me a yeast roll. I want…