SOMEWHERE IN GEORGIA—We are driving two-lane highways that are draped in scenery from the Old South. My wife rolls the window down. It’s perfect morning weather in Georgia.
I’m having a good hair day. This doesn’t happen often, so let us pause and give thanks. I was born with curly hair. I haven’t had a good hair day since the mid 1980s.
We enter a small town. There isn’t much going on here. I wish I knew which town, but I didn’t see the town sign coming in.
You know the sign I’m talking about. The Welcome To Our Little Town sign with all the service-club shields—Rotary Club, Lions Club, Kiwanis, Freemasons.
And don’t forget the church signs. We pass a million of those. They litter the old highways, just in case any degenerate sinners are looking for a Freewill Baptist church.
There are a lot of denominations to choose from today. We pass a hundred Baptist churches (those who believe in full-immersion baptism), a few hundred Methodist churches (wet-your-hair baptism), a few Presbyterian churches (former Baptists
who drink beer), one Church of Christ (we don’t need no stinkin’ piano), Episcopal churches (former Presbyterians who drink Crown Royal), and a Church of God (hairspray).
We ride through tiny towns with churches on each street corner. In one place, I count nine steeples peppering the skyline above the trees. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think Norman Rockwell was mayor.
The towns keep coming. I see a small downtown area that looks frozen in time. There is even a deputy walking the sidewalk—and I am not kidding about this—twirling a long keychain around his fingers.
In another town, I see children playing hopscotch in a driveway. I pass a few kids riding bikes that have baseball cards attached to their spokes.
We finally pull over at a cafe. My wife and I are overdue for a stop. We have been…