White Gold

I’m driving west on 280, early in the morning. All the girls wanted to leave at 7, so we did — even though, just a few hours earlier, I wasn’t sure I would even be capable of leaving with them, let alone driving the van/bus, thanks to what I’m pretty sure might’ve been some tainted shrimp on the Chinese buffet during the previous night’s dinner. (Actually, I’m more convinced that it was a combination of foods consumed within an approximately 48-hour time span that probably nearly did me in.)

Mind over matter prevails, though, luckily, and I feel much better at departure time. And several minutes into the drive on the divided highway, which will take us to 495 South to 65 North to 24 West to 57 North, everyone else in the vehicle is snoozing away while I drive.

We had arrived three nights earlier, around midnight, on this very road. Only it was dark when we got there, so all I noticed were the hills and curves of the highway and the lights from the mini-van right behind me — one of the girls’ mom and sister, who came on the trip to watch their daughter/sister play in the tournament. And followed me way too close, all the way down.

I found out, too, that this road was very difficult to cross on foot when I attempted to make my way to Big B’s BBQ the first day we were there. Difficult because there were no sidewalks nor crosswalks, and this intersection was an interchange of two four-lane highways. Plus there were brambles in the median, probably meant to discourage pedestrians.

On this morning, however, I notice the towns we pass through. Briefly. Not that different from small-town Illinois, except this is Alabama.

So, eventually, I see the red clay I have noticed in my previous trips to this state. And, for the first time, I see cotton fields. (Although I have been to ’Bama a few times, my trips were always during spring. When poppies are in bloom, but not cotton.)

Relatively small patches of cotton are growing, off to my right and left. Larger than the crop (one row!) planted by the man in this town whom I wrote the story about, recently, but not nearly as large as some of the smaller corn and soybean crops found in my county, my state, where most of the dirt is dark and rich.

The cotton makes me smile, and suddenly, I wish I were in my car, with all the time in the world, so I could pull over and open my camera bag and take pictures. But I’m not, and I don’t, so I keep driving.

On 65 North, near Huntsville, I see huge fields of cotton. And it reminds me, somehow, of marshmallows on chocolate, and again, I smile.

The Lovely suggests that we stop and pick some cotton. I’m all for it, especially since that means I can shoot some photos, but there really isn’t a good place to stop ... and besides, what you don’t notice, at first, when you look out at the cotton fields is that there are fences between us and them.

: )

When I was still in Alexander City, I bought a postcard with cotton fields on it. The card says “ALABAMA” across the top, in white-trimmed red letters, and just below it, in gold script, are the words “White Gold.”

My girlfriend prefers white gold to yellow gold, which I favor. The whole idea of different colors of gold seems odd to me, as gold is a color itself ... right? I mean, yes, it’s an element, a metal, but its name includes its color — kinda like an orange is, well, orange, and blueberries are blue. And white gold isn’t really white, either; it’s silver, but better, ’cause silver tarnishes.

And yellow gold isn’t yellow, of course. It’s golden.

: )