50 Stories in 50 States: Tales Inspired by a Motorcycle Journey Across the USA Vol 3, the South

By Kevin B Parsons

The third issue of the five book series, ’50 Stories in 50 States: Tales inspired by a Motorcycle Ride Across the USA’ continues with ten short stories written by Kevin Parsons during his adventure. Written in similar fashion to books one and two, this volume covers the South. Y'all.
The stories look at the American culture in every state. Places include a haunted house, a wrecking yard and a basilica.
Some stories take place in historical settings, with the Revolutionary and Civil Wars a backdrop, both a huge impact to each state’s culture. The reader also gets a behind the scenes look at the Fountain of Youth.
Enjoy a look at the American culture, but also the lifestyles of each state, along with the myriad views of geography and landscapes.
Approximately 36,000 words, a third the size of a full length novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kevin B Parsons
• Release date: May 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311578754

Kevin B Parsons

Kevin wrote and self-published Ken Johnson and Roxi the Rocker, a children's book available on Amazon.com. He's also been published in Honda Red Rider magazine, Racer X magazine, Southwest Airlines' Spirit magazine, the Las Vegas Review Journal and Cycle News magazine. He also contributed to Seeking God First, an anthology of devotions, and a number of Writers Bloc anthologies. American Motorcyclist magazine published a feature article of his in April of 2012, with a cover shot and six page spread, including photos. Kevin is a member of the Henderson Writers Group and American Christian Fiction Writers. He has also been a member of Toastmasters International since 2006. He blogs twice a week on www.kevinbparsons.blogspot.com, posts on Author Culture (www.authorculture.blogspot.com) and Geezer Guys and Gals (www.geezerguysandgals.blogspot.com), and is a contributing writer to Choices eMagazine. Kevin has owned numerous businesses in the construction, motorcycle, and real estate industries, in Nevada, California, Washington, Oregon and Arizona. He currently lives in Henderson, Nevada with his patient wife Sherri.

Book preview

50 Stories in 50 States: Tales inspired by a motorcycle journey across the USA

Volume III - The South

By Kevin B Parsons

Copyright 2013 Kevin B Parsons

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to others. If you would like to share this ebook, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return it to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Contents

Introduction

Alabama

Florida

Georgia

Tennessee

South Carolina

Mississippi

Louisiana

Texas

New Mexico

Arizona

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Introduction

My wife (Quilter Girl) and I embarked on a ’50 States in 50 Weeks’ motorcycle tour of America, a once-in-a-lifetime dream. We rode across the country on a Honda Gold Wing, towing a pop top tent trailer. During the more mundane sections of the trip (like Louisiana, the land of swamps, with New Orleans completely unavailable, due to spring break), we would talk on the intercoms and came up with short story ideas. Inspired, I wrote a story for every state, which morphed into this five books series, compiled by regions, with ten states in each volume.

The stories take place in each state, some based on our experiences, some on history, and some probably from indigestion. Warning; these are not necessarily motorcycle stories, nor are they travel stories (although some are), but a look at Americana with each state a background.

We traveled one year straight through, regardless of weather. When we hit snow in Arizona, the east side of the state got a quick ride through. And good luck with Texas; we missed the entire center, west and south sections.

Yet excellent weather in states like Tennessee and New Mexico provided ample opportunity to explore.

Enjoy this volume of ‘50 Stories.’

~Kevin B Parsons

Brian Head, Utah

Alabama

I struggled with people flying the Confederate flag, and Alabama flew it most. We enjoyed a great evening of barbeque with friends, and when I said we’d be heading south in their fine state, they gave me the warning. And if you ever get to Tuscaloosa, be sure to find Dreamland. It’s off the beaten track.

RICE BURNER

And now a toast. Meghan stood and held up her glass. To good old friends who can pick up right where we left off. We sure do love y’all.

Hear-hear. I held up mine and the four of us clicked glasses together and swigged, the cool refreshment a nice break from the heat of the day. We didn’t disturb anyone at Dreamland, as no one could hear us over the din of talk and loud country music. The decor leaned toward license plates nailed on the walls, along with signed photographs of famous people who had visited in the past. The tables—plastic with red and white checks—sat jammed close to one another, accommodating the number of faithful patrons who assembled on Friday night. Fortunately, we got there at 4:30 and got a seat. Now hopeful customers packed the foyer and doorway clear to the out-of-doors. Two waitresses and a waiter ran to tables, laden with barbecue, cole slaw, baked beans, and bread.

Randy chose the place, a locals’ dive on a dark side street with one choice of entrée: ribs. They’re a one-trick dog, but it’s a really good trick. Only with his accent he said dawg. Randy’s accent was true south, but Meghan’s was like honey on a warm biscuit—warm and smooth. She could talk about the stupid people she treated in the ER—her favorite subject—and I’d listen all night, just enjoying her deep southern dialect, the words a bit longer than any Yankee’s, with her voice lifting at the end of a sentence, almost making it a question. Y’all. Somehow the women’s accents came out more sophisticated, the men’s a bit more like they just came out of the woods. The ladies smoothed theirs out, like their makeup, applied even if they needed to walk to the mailbox.

Meghan finished her ER stories. Randy started on his job, truck brokering. He sent trucks all over the south and midwest, delivering mostly car parts.

You know what’s stupid? he asked, a rhetorical question. We deliver American made parts to the Mercedes and Hyundai factories here in Alabama, but deliver Mexican components to the Detroit manufacturers. Made in America. He held up his fingers in quotes. They’re only assembled in America. The Mercedes and Hyundais are more American."

That may be, I countered, but the money goes to Korea and Germany.

True, but they provide more jobs than Detroit. Pretty ironic, right? We all nodded.

Randy set his glass on the table. Y’all leaving tomorrow? First thing? Thang.

I’m afraid so, I said. We need to get to Mobile and see the gulf.

Denise put her hand on my bicep. But we could maybe stop by on the way back? Pretty please?

If we have time.

We hadn’t seen them for two years. We had bounced around the country as my employer, a motel chain, bought up distressed properties, refurbished them, and operated them. I negotiated the purchases, but when they wanted us to move to Bismarck, North Dakota, Denise put her foot down and I found a job back home in Seattle. Randy and I met at a conference there and began one of those friendships that blossomed like plants on steroids. We went to dinner with him and Meghan and everyone just clicked. But their Alabama roots ran deep, and they left the rainy city after knowing them only a few short months, to our dismay.

He grabbed a rib. Have another.

Oh, I’m stuffed.

Come on. Don’t be silly.

Why not? We wouldn’t get barbecue like this again.

The evening passed entirely too quickly. Before we knew it, Randy looked at Meghan and said, Baby, we gotta go. The sitter’s supposed to be home at midnight.

Oh, I suppose you’re right, she touched her napkin to the corners of her mouth. We’re gonna miss y’all. Again.

We stood and hugged all around We’ll miss you, too.

Randy punched me in the arm. Y’all ride safe, hear? Which way are you going, anyway?

Down Highway forty-three. The road less travelled, you know.

He glanced left and right, lowering his voice. Watch out along there. Seventh generation married cousins. Some o’ them people don’t believe the war’s over yet.

I laughed. I saw a rebel flag flying earlier today.

~

We got a late start, dragging ourselves out of bed a bit groggy. Because we’d loaded up so many times before, we worked independently and efficiently and soon got the bike ready to roll. We sauntered to the motel’s continental breakfast, a pathetic display of cellophane-wrapped sweet rolls and cold cereal. We choked it down, checked out, and headed back to the parking lot. The Yamaha Venture fired right up… old faithful. The black paint, chrome, and leather still looked good, as I had babied it all these years.

I already miss those guys, Denise said through the intercom.

Me, too. Hopefully they’ll come up like they promised.

Maybe they’ll move to Seattle.

I doubt that, I said as I clicked it into gear. These southern people have pretty deep roots.

We rode the highway, away from the trucks and six lanes, sound walls, and concrete. Blue sky, green trees, and a ribbon of black asphalt made for a perfect day of riding. A few hours later a light appeared on the gauge. Oh-oh. I rolled to a stop and dropped the kickstand.

What’s the matter?

I dunno. Warning light. I checked the oil… fine. Then I spotted a few drops of antifreeze on the pavement. Oh, jeez.

What?

The shop advised me two services ago to replace the hoses. Looks like the upper coolant hose is cracked. My fault. I wiggled it a bit and coolant leaked out like blood. I started to open the radiator cap when it poured out and I screwed it back.

Stupid move. Lucky I had my gloves on.

We waited a bit for the engine to cool; then I fetched the water bottle and topped off the radiator. We’re stopping at the next house, see if I can fix it.

I fired up the bike and we took off, me struggling to watch the road and gauge. A few miles later I spotted a dirt drive and turned down it, where it pointed straight to an unpainted shotgun shack with a tin roof. An old white Dodge three-quarter ton pickup sat beside the house, dusty and spattered with clay mud around the fenders, lifted with huge mud tires. It sat low on one corner; looked like a broken shock. A couch squatted on the porch, sagging like a hammock. Two men stepped out, one thin with long blond hair, carrying a beer. The other was shorter and dirty, wiggling a toothpick. He took his three teeth and moved into the shade of a tree. Why would he need a toothpick with so few teeth?

What do you want? Watchoo wawunt.

My bike, I pointed, got a hose cracked. If you’ve got a few tools I could borrow...

Sure. Shore.

I could use a Phillips screwdriver. It looked like I could remove the hose, cut it shorter and replace it. I could ride it to a bike shop and get it replaced properly.

The guy belched and went inside. Denise turned away and made a face like, ‘Ew.’ He returned with a couple of screwdrivers and handed them to me. The smaller one looked like it would work.

Nice hawg ya got there, he said.

It’s actually a Yamaha. A 1300 Royal Star Venture. I loosened the radiator clamp.

A rice burner. He said it like it was poison or something.

I started to say, It’s cheaper than a Harley, and caught myself. It’s been a pretty good bike. God forbid I thought it was more dependable than a hog, and with my current situation I’d be arguing from a bad position.

Don’t look like it to me.

Well, it’s got a hundred fifty thousand miles. I worked the hose free. You got a knife I can borrow?

He moved his shirt and lifted a huge hunting knife from his hip. Careful. It’s real sharp.

It felt heavy, and the edge shone like chrome. Why does a guy need a knife like this?

I sawed at the hose, the knife cutting it cleanly.

Y’all ain’t from these parts, are ya?

We’re touring, from Seattle. Denise said.

"Y’all Yankees