The Fredösphere

We survived our drive down to Florida and back.  Thank you, Game Boy, for keeping the kids happy in the van.  Most satisfying moment:  pulling into our driveway at midnight, Tuesday night and having avoided wasting 60 bucks and nine hours on some nasty cheap motel room.  (We had left Sarasota, Florida at 4:30am that morning and experienced near-ideal conditions of road, traffic and weather.)  Least satisfying moment:  walking away from a convenience store in tiny Philadelphia, Tennessee, having noticed they sell the legendary Dr. Enuf soda pop (on my sidebar from the beginning of the Fredösphere but never tasted by me), but realizing that the wifeösphere would be in no mood to expend a little more time and money to get a bottle since that stop was one several gratuitous bathroom breaks of the afternoon, thanks to both kids having drunk an inordinate amount of juice.  Ah well, I have a tendency to idealize things like Dr. Enuf; no doubt my Sweet Desire for it is better than any real taste of it.  (Now I sound like that chick from Millennium Actress, and I never thought that would happen.)

Because the grade of the kids' behavior was cherubic, indeed, almost seraphic, and because I seem to be getting more tolerant of such rigors, I found the long hours on the road not terribly arduous.  There's something enjoyable about watching a large slice of this great country scroll pass before you.  As always, the religious expressions fascinate me.  They start abruptly a little north of Cincinnati (with the giant Jesus I blogged previously) and stay steady until Florida's tight signage laws banish them.  One large cross appeared to be connected to no nearby church, but happened to be sitting next to an adult bookstore.  Coincidence, you ask?  I doubt it, and one can easily imagine all those grown-up church boys casting a guilty look at it as they approach the store.  A brief drama plays out inside each mind, and some harden their hearts, some repent, and some fall miserably into the middle ground, neither repenting nor taking Martin Luther's advice.

(Speaking of which, my friend and fellow church musician Alan alerts us to the arrival of the 2006 Hooters calendar.)

I can't help but become a connoisseur of place names.  I heap scorn on all mindless derivatives of current European places, especially if "New" is tacked onto the beginning:  London, New Zion, Cairo, Athens (Ky) and Athens (Tn), Lebanon.  More forgivable are the names of no longer (or never) existing places, since they give the place a patina of classical dignity:  Troy, Arcadia.  In a similar category are the biblical references:  Corinth, Berea.  Some declare the noble aspirations of the founders:  Union, Pilgrim Rest, Independence, Experiment, Concord.  Native American names have potential, but are often spoilt by their loopy spellings:  Echeconnee, Ooltewah.  Best are those that elevate the common by their uniqueness as place names:  Paint Lick, Rockholds, Dog Walk, Stamping Ground, Turkeyfoot, Locust Grove.  In the ultralame-o category are Middletown, Centerville, Ten Mile, and Lake City, which no doubt stands beside Lake City Lake (which in turn no doubt contains Lake City Lake Island ... but we better stop there).  Absolutely the best highway sign of all:  one in Ohio that announces an exit for both Wapakoneta and Uniopolis.