From my journal, dated Sunday, 12.6.15 ~2100 EST
Every morning I climbed north on AL-21 out of Atmore on my way to Monroeville, driving through harvested cotton fields, past a prison (where the speed limit dropped to 35 miles per hour), and a lumber yard that sat near a bumpy set of railroad tracks. I saw bits of cotton sticking to the nubby grass along the roadside, like dryer lint that refused to budge. I saw scrubby evergreen trees and a low sky, yet not as expansive as it is in Kansas or Colorado. The lumber yard had an intoxicating cut-wood smell that lingered for a few miles. Atmore did not offer much more than a casino and a few restaurants, but it did have a YMCA.
I visited restaurants with food that soaked lazily in butter baths, with fat oozing off of chicken, and mounds of cheesy macaroni sitting in large metal containers under heat lamps. I felt my cholesterol rise by 30 points as I ate food that shocked my normally-vegan system and caused me to feel more sluggish than usual.
I met with people who are extremely courteous, almost in an anachronistic way, where people are prefaced with a “Ms.” or “Mr.”, and the word “Ma’am?” comes in place of “Excuse me?” The homes I visited for my work … people were glad to see me, although I was a stranger to them. I represented a local business that they seemed to respect, and counted me as one of their own, even though my “northern” accent clearly indicated that I was not. Courtesy won, and I was treated with respect any way.
When I left there late Friday afternoon, the temperature had returned to the mid-60s (after having been in the 40s during my stay). I felt like I should be nostalgic somehow, but I wasn’t. I plopped into my seat on the Canadair Jet, fastened my seatbelt, and proceeded to read from my book “Writers on Writing” as we awaited our departure from the airport in Mobile. This literally will be my one and only time in Alabama for work.
And this was the only postcard I brought back with me.