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Posts tagged ‘travel’

The Breakneck Witch Project

"This is JUST LIKE the Blair Witch Project!"

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And In The Interest of Making Memories

Or making words. It's the same thing these days.

Our No Family Holidays With Family policy is breaking new ground this Thanksgiving. I need to take a trip for book research. To smell the scents. And haunt the haunted places. And tease out sounds from almost 200 years ago. Or millennia ago.

I'll take what I can get.

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To Live Forever Reader Question Eight

Apologies for the second post for today, but last night's updates fell into a cell-hole.

Keep those questions coming, and I'll keep answering them!

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Money Money Money Money

I got $700, Andra. 700 dollars. I can pay for stuff.

Dad and his money are not easily parted. Unless one is selling him a television or anything related to the Georgia Bulldogs.

At our first stop for lunch:

I can get this…..All I got is hundreds. Lots of places can’t break ‘em.

WE HAVE A DEBIT CARD JUST IN CASE, DAD!!

Okay. You can get it.

At dinner:

I still ain’t found no place to break a hundred.

Roy, I already gave them our debit card.

Huh?

HE SAID HE ALREADY PAID, DAD!!

Still, Dad was generous with his time at the reunion, regaling every table with Roy stories as only he can.

Them people thought I was funny, didn’t they?

YES, DAD.

Who said that?

EVERYBODY I TALKED TO.

Who? Any of them women say anything about me?

DAD!!!!!!!!!!!!! EWWWWW!!!!!!

No amount of money could buy a set of experiences that equal spending time with my dad.

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Limp Biscuit

MTM got up extra early this morning. It was our final breakfast of the trip to Tennessee, and he wanted the oatmeal to be super-special for Dad. He laced it with apples and maple syrup. A singular cup of coffee spangled Dad’s place.

Dad greeted all of the effort in his own unique way.

The Biscuit Box. We need to stop there on the way back.

Dad, that’s out of the way. OUT OF THE WAY!

Nu-uh. It ain’t. I been there before. The Biscuit Box. It’s good eatin’.

It doesn’t really matter to Dad that I cannot eat biscuits. I can’t eat much of anything he’s selected on this long weekend of stomach persecution. Cheeseburgers. Apple pie. French fries. Moon pies. I crunched my unsatisfying lettuce at every meal.

DAD!! THERE’S SOMEBODY YOU DON’T KNOW!!

Huh? Where at?

And, that’s how I stole many a french fry off his plate. I was performing a service, saving him from a diabetic coma.

We stood in line at The Biscuit Box in Chatsworth, Georgia. Miles out of the way. MTM ordered a bacon and egg biscuit and a jelly biscuit. I ordered a bacon biscuit, heartburn flaring before I even bit into it.

Dad ordered grits and eggs, sausage and toast. He didn’t even HAVE a dang biscuit.

 

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