Sunrise in middle Tennessee. It was four in the morning. I left my hotel early to get on the road.
I had a long way to go. There was a light dusting of frost on the Smoky Mountains. I could see my breath.
I turned on the radio and found a station playing Hank Williams’ “Alabama Waltz.”
It was a candid recording from a radio show in the 40s. Hank gave an introduction to the tune. He says, “This is a song about my home state.”
I cranked up the volume, since Hank Senior was the soundtrack of my boyhood. Every male in my life idolized Hiram King Williams. For years, as a child, I thought Hank Williams was a Bible character who played guitar.
I found the hidden backroads and headed southward toward my home in Birmingham, Alabama.
If you ask me, the modest two-lane highways that lead through the Yellowhammer State are among the most scenic corridors in the nation.
I’m not saying this because I am biased. I’m saying this because I’ve driven
backroads in 42 different American states. Alabama is up there with the best.
The scenes were arresting.
North central Alabama’s swelling Appalachian foothills were blanketed in the palettes of autumn. The whole world was golden and red. The rivers were polished chrome. It was enough to stop your pulse.
I’ve been having a love affair with this state since my youth. I grew up forty-odd miles from the state line. They called our Florida region L.A. “Lower Alabama.”
I had my first Pabst near the Coosa River. I had my first kiss in Saraland. I caught my first crappie in Houston County. I met my wife near Burnt Corn Creek.
There is something unamable about the soul of this state. Whenever I enter its borders, I feel something deep within the pit of my stomach. I can’t explain it in words. My sentences would…