I mossied up into town today around 0930. I was hoping that some wonderful persons had set up a, I don't know what you call it, a trailer with people cooking food inside.

I missed one a while back, I was eating a terrible fast food fish sandwich, while watching folks buy lobster meals from the back of the truck next door.

No food trucks so I just kept going and did a shop at Krogers. Back home, Daniel asked me if I would like to drive up to the store with him. Well, of course!

He had just had his ride detailed, looking pretty, full tank of gas, early in the afternoon of a St Patricks Sunday.

So Daniel, a man who was born and raised here, and has lived his entire fifty six years of life here, turns to me and says where would you like to go?

I said somewhere I've never been and for the next hour or so we were cruising Iron City backroads that blew my mind. Places so far off the grid that the only time the police would show up, is when they absolutely have to.

We ended up at a bar called Parker's Place down on the Alabama border. Daniel and I were both wearing cowboy hats and probably looked like a father/son act as we came through the door. We hung out, had a beer and decided the best thing to do was to set the GPS to Home.

Here it is around 1800, door wide open, birds thanking me for the seed. I am alone. Suddenly the phone rings and it's a voice from Tampa, my favorite grand-daughter sending her love my way.

The truth is, I'm really beat up. I've been trying to hide it, but I'm a broken man. I think that's what drives me to write, I need to capture and save whatever I can, just in case somebody cares down the road.