The pines are flying past my truck window. Tall pines. Port Saint Joe pines. The sky above them is wide. And high.
They say Texas has nice skies. I’ve been to Texas. I got so lost in Texarkana I had to spend the night in a police station.
I prefer Port Saint Joe.
The woman in my passenger seat is sleeping. We’ve been together a long time. Long ago, on our first unofficial date we drove this highway, under this same Port Saint Joe sky.
That night, I hadn't meant to drive so far, but we couldn't stop talking long enough to figure out what else to do.
Before we married, the girl and I came here on vacation. A beach cottage. Her family made me one of their own. Her brother took me fishing. Her daddy cooked.
The girl’s mother made me sleep upstairs in a locked bedroom. She made the girl sleep downstairs, fully clothed, wrapped in chains, King James Bible strapped around her heart.
After suppers, we took beach walks. We held hands. Kids were catching
hermit crabs with flashlights. The stars did their thing. We talked. And talked.
And talked.
We talked on this same beach after our wedding. On birthdays. Holidays.
After my back surgery, too. My backside bore an eight-inch scar and bandages which she changed every few hours.
We came here after her father died. She did more crying than talking.
And after I graduated college as an adult. We stayed in an economy room that smelled like expired Gorgonzola and cat poop.
We talked until sunup.
I wrote my first novel here. I wrote my second novel here, too. They aren’t good novels, but they're mine.
I worked on them from morning until dark. I survived on Conecuh sausage, Bunny Bread, and Budweiser. I had the time of my life.
Me. A man who laid tile, hung sheetrock, threw sod, and played…