I was almost to Carrollton (the town of face in the courthouse attic window) when I finally saw some accessible yellow flowers. I’d been eyeing those bright cascades of yellow jasmine since Atlanta, thrown among the still-gray branches of the roadside arboretum alongside budding maples(?) flinging up their fiery tips and the occasional spray of fuchsia redbuds. I pulled over and carefully extracted vines of fragrant yellow to take to mom, P, and R. As I pulled out of my roadside turnoff, another car pulled out not far behind me, a dark, non-descript, early 2000s model that COULD be a country cop or a local resident driving a cast-off cop car. I didn’t worry. In town, I was about to continue as usual around the courthouse and on toward Pickensville, but, looking this way and that as I tend to do, I realized there were old houses in there, and I had never taken the time to drive around this few-block town. So, making a rather sudden turn into the neighborhood, I proceeded to drive up one street and down the next (and that was it, there was only 2). Crossing the north-bound main road, I passed my car, yep, a cop, he was stalking me. I zigzagged on about my business then came out on 86 and proceeded east to Mississippi but before I knew he was even following me, i had blue lights in my rearview mirror. I pulled into the AA Pawn gas station a bit worried I’d been speeding. “Ma’am. You know why i pulled you over don’t you” he said over my shoulder standing outside my car (he took his sweet time getting there too). Not really, no. “Well I saw you coming out of the woods back there and I didn’t know what you was doing (picking flowers officer, i indicated them on the seat beside me) and then you turned off on that street started just driving all over the place kind of crazy, and you saw me back there, and then…” he checked out my insurance and my license and I went on my merry way, but lessons were not learned, they never will be!
At Sunshine I, typically, got distracted by all I could do and before I knew it I was digging up a bucket-full of irises which I had the brilliant idea to plant at the cemetery on my way on to Louisville. All I needed was a trowel, but I only had access to a shovel so i threw it in backseat with all the other dirt and flora that was accumulating (thinking of Eudora Welty and her letter to Diarmuid Russell allowing that though she kept clippers in her car she had no compartment for manure—so far I’m lacking a trowel, clippers, AND a compartment for manure), and headed to town. I studiously avoided a drive through the center of Macon, knowing how many stops that would take and went straight to Oddfellows and the hilltop where the Cavett family is serenely perched. As I pulled the big shovel out of the car I realized how this must look, and quickly got to work. Luckily, no one appeared to question me and I made it safely on to Louisville without another delay.