The other day I drove down from Memphis, TN to Jackson, Mississippi. I was on a literary journey to visit the home of the famous writer Eudora Welty. The road down there is Interstate 55. It is one long, straight, and incredibly boring highway of mostly black tar. I say mostly because in some stretches it is worn down to a Georgia red clay color with only a hint of its former blackness. The only visual distraction this time of year was field after field full of fluffy, white cotton ready for harvesting. The speed limit is 70 and everyone pretty much goes closer to 80 especially the semis. The road is full of semis as it is a straight shot down to New Orleans. I was speeding along trying to get something decent on the
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