Monday evening, Stephanie and I got all itchy for a roadtrip so we headed east and slightly north and ended up on the sleepy streets of Brownsville, which, for all we could tell, had been emptied out by the zombie apocalypse. Oh, except for RJ’s Hibachi, a greasy spoon that gleefully abuses the “hibachi” part of its name by completely ignoring it. It was hoppin’. We had some time to kill before the sun sat…
So, despite my attempts to get actual rest on Friday night, I ended up accumulating perhaps three hours of real sleep, at which point the tent became uninhabitable, so I hunkered down and ate strawberries and blueberries in a tiny triangle of shade created by a nearby truck parked close to our tent. Once Amber got up and going, we headed into Centeroo to meet up with Maggi, who was craving a tofu scramble. I…
This is the kind of sight that will enrich my nightmares for years to come. In other news, I did not buy a dang thing while thrifting. I saw a sweet pitcher and glass set that matches exactly the green glass/white polka-dot glass in this photo. I didn’t snap it up for some idiot reason. Buuuuut I might have to go back and get it because, uh, duh. [Project 365]
I had a little time to spare on the trip back to Memphis today, so I took a detour up to Brownsville to check out Billy Tripp’s Mindfield, which I’d heard about from FearlessVK first, and then subsequently from other people saying how cool it was. And indeed, it’s a pretty bizarre, quirky, amazing thing to behold. It’s a little like looking at a three-dimensional version of one of those surreal drawings in the Scrutineyes…
Not too long after this picture was taken, Bones — the puppy who loves to be manhandled — got in a little love tussle and traipsed right through the blue paint and left a sweet little paw-print track on the hardwood floor, and was all like, “What? It’s art.” [Project 365]
There’s this abandoned homestead on Highway 100 between the 64 junction and Chickasaw that I pass every time I drive to my parents’ house in Saltillo. Every time I speed by, my mind goes into overdrive thinking about what used to be there. What kind of house, what kind of people, what kind of stories. Where did the house go? Where are the people now? All that’s left are these two little brick walls framing…
When I was growing up, there was this book floating around our house called Speaking Southern Like It Should Be Spoke, and it was more or less a dictionary of Southernisms. What I can’t say for sure is whether or not it was mean or nice. Like, was it playful self-parody, or mean razzing from the outside? I’m not sure, and it’s even harder to tell since I can’t really find much out about that…
It rained on my grandmother’s parade. “Story of my life,” she said as we huddled under the church awning Saturday afternoon, watching the rain thin the already light crowd. River Day isn’t like it used to be. I have these (probably embellished) memories of huge crowds of people in sweatshirts and jackets (they used to have it in October when it was cooler) set against a backdrop of autumn leaves and damp blacktopped streets, milling…
Wow, time got away from me last week and I find myself at home, back in cat hair-covered pajamas, just as god herself intended it. My trip across the state and back was amazing, as I fully expected it to be. And exhausting, like any good roadtrip vacation. Aside from the insomnia Tuesday night that knocked me out of doing the Jack Daniel’s tour Wednesday morning, everything else was smooth sailing. Let’s see if I…
Well, y’all, this is more or less what I’ve looked at all day long. It’s just been me and Fay, or maybe Fay’s bitchy little sister, not sure which, flirting for hours and hours along Highway 64. Sunshine, rain, sunshine, rain. Then mostly rain. And while I would have perhaps preferred a blue afternoon sky filled with nothing but those overweight clouds we enjoyed in abundance back in June, I can’t really complain about the…
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