New Job

My morning drive to work is probably the world's most beautiful commute. I drive my dad's Cadillac along a fifteen-mile stretch of curved road - the illustrious "Neal Wickham Parkway," which meanders along the spine of Pine Mountain, one of the many ancient, wooded foothills of Appalachia.

This time of year, the woodlands are thick with new growth, so the highway is a chlorophyll tunnel. Every now and then, there's a break in the dense jungle Georgia growth that allows a view of four or five counties worth of sprawling, rolling land. It's all rural woodlands and pastures and highways and homes, as far as the eye can see, right up to where the land meets the sky.

The Caddie is a svelt shark that never jolts, bucks, or bolts. It's about a smooth as a pat of butter on a piece o' pone. I thread it across the mountain, one-handed, with my coffee in my other paw, gliding like a diamondback on a mission from God at fifty-five mph. By the time I've made it out to the organic farm I work on, she's done gone & guzzled about three and a half gallons of that good Gulf gas, so my first hour or so of work is basically just to pay for my morning ride. It's worth it, though. Bob's right about the Caddie. It's a good car to drive after a war. And it makes you feel like a million bucks.