When I left off Wednesday, we had just crossed the river
and entered what I like to refer to as hillbilly heaven.
There is something about that little trip across the river that changes everything. The atmosphere becomes somewhat otherworldly, with an almost mystical quality, and it feels like being transported back in time.
Maybe it has something to do with the old Indian mounds that are there.
Maybe it is the old houses (is there a face at that side window?)
left to withstand the ravages of time. I love to think of the stories they could tell. Of the lives that passed through their doors.
Many years ago, when I was living in California, my brother in law would call my youngest daughter and tell her he had a message for her. He said it was from the old man on the other side of the river. He wanted her to know that he was waiting for her. Scared the pants off my daughter.
There are also meandering creeks lined with wildflowers,
fields of daisies,
little country churches,
and swinging bridges that people use to get to their homes.
While I would stop and jump out of the car every two seconds to take pictures, Sister sat and waited patiently for me.
One time when I came back from hanging over a rusty old bridge to take some pictures of a stream (risking life and limb, I might add)
I noticed that Sister had the doors locked and the windows down.
Me: Um, why are the doors locked and the windows down out here in the country.
Sister: I was afraid someone might get me.
Me: Then why are the windows down?
Sister: I figured it would be easier to get the windows up then lock the doors quickly.
Me: Yep, you're probably right. I've been reading stories about marauding bands of old hillbillies just waiting to steal the Coach shoes right off the feet of some unsuspecting city woman. I guess I'm safe, because they don't want these dirty old tennis shoes.
Maybe if we're lucky, the good Lord's willing, and the creek don't rise, we can hightail it out of here and make it safely back to civilization.