Description: Our life in Ireland.
A second post in an unintentional series on road trips
On a sunny Thursday in October 2019, I was in a car with two octogenarians driving toward Memphis, Tennessee. We were on Interstate 40 having just passed through Little Rock, Arkansas. I was at the wheel of a Chrysler 300. The octogenarians were my parents. The Chrysler, theirs. We were road trippin’ to Huntsville, Alabama to meet up with my husband. Our one niece was getting married on Saturday. I had flown over a week earlier to visit my parents and brother; Bill was flying into Huntsville. There is no
Our route would cross the Mississippi river, the iconic American waterway which nourished commerce, urban development, and literary rafting in the 19th century. My dad once drove us to the edge of that river so we could get out of the car and touch the water. So we could say we’d connected to that liquid highway, Old Man River. I’m sure we sang the song too, the parts of it we knew, about being tired of living and scared of dying. The Mississippi is wide. It takes an appreciable minute to cross even now