Here’s a picture of an impromptu Saturday night hoe-down in Alabama, complete with kidlets. The most important event today would be my motorcycle breaking down ten miles west of Demopolis, Alabama. That’s how far I got on the Honda, 864 miles from home. Then, the engine stopped firing. Later, we checked the fuel lines, the fuses, and for water in the tank. The diagnosis is a magneto.
Now this might have been a disaster except for good people. Demopolis is what America used to be. The first motorcycle past stopped and called a local tow truck. The security lady from the chip mill made sure I had water and was okay. Then Jeff, the tow guy and his son showed up and took me to town. We then drove around in the tow truck, then his SUV until we found a mechanic. That, folks, is southern hospitality.Then, Jeff took me into town to find a motel and when prices were too high, called over to Dell & Joe, his neighbors, who put me up in their vintage Winnebago. That is where today’s blog is being created. A shady lane off I-80, an hour or so east of the Mississippi state line.
I left Troy this morning in a misty overcast and would have stopped in Montgomery, except I could not find the place. Being a few hundred miles behind schedule, I though to take the Interstate over to Shreveport. I hold the same speed, but make good time bypassing the towns. Montgomery got passed because it is not visible from any of the roads I took and there is not a single sign indicating where downtown, or historic sites, or even a museum might be. Too bad.
Southern Alabama is a pretty stretch of country. Miles of green forest and small towns that look like movie sets. If I didn’t have to make Colorado, I just might stay a while in Demopolis. I’d be playing in a band instantly and the gals are sure good-looking, I know I’d find one for myself. This is country living where good values are encouraged and doing right is right by itself.
I brought along the eBike, a wise move. Town is three miles up the road, and I was able to find a coffee shop to make all the necessary phone calls. Like to the bakery and Marion, those whom I promised to contact while traveling. The big employer in Demopolis is a chip mill near where I broke down. The rest is a peaceful setting of country lanes and plenty of shade trees. There is no rush hour and something I haven’t heard for too long—millions of frogs at night. I slept like the proverbial log, ten hours.
ADDENDUM
Here are some extra photos of the folks and events in Demopolis. Seen here are the Honda on the back of the tow truck, courtesy of Jeff & Son Towing. You’ll spot the country guitar picker doing the “Kitchen Table Blues”. We had a younger guitarist, but talented as he was, it is hard to beat the old hands who never had a lesson. The problem with lessons is they teach you how to play an instrument, they don’t teach you how to play music. Thus, we could only jam since we didn’t know many songs in common.
See the tractor? Don’t laugh, I used to drive one like that. (It later turned out there was nothing serious wrong with the Honda, so I’m wondering if fate played a hand in all this. Why did the motorcycle stop working at just the right time and place? Then start working the very next day? If I met the right gal, I could see myself living in Demopolis.)Return Home
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