Over the winter I drove from New York to Florida.
Driving there, the last stretch of the trip was in complete darkness. I wound through dark roads in Alabama, passing through small towns. I had plans to fuel up at the next town but then the towns...stopped appearing. The night became darker, my gas light blinked on, and I tried to gauge whether to turn back toward the last town or hope that another would appear.
The last town was too far back, but I had no idea where the next town was. I had printed directions, a child asleep in the backseat, and roads that no longer matched what was in hand.
I passed an abandoned gas station with a splintered wooden sign. The pumps were dusty and the building shuttered. I pulled into the gravelly drive. I didn't contemplate the next move long. I thought of all the calls my one brother receives as a firefighter where he arrives to find: someone needs Tylenol, someone's smoke alarm is broken, someone is locked out of their home.
I thought of my last conversation with my other brother, whom I was driving to see. He'd said, "Alabama is the hardest stretch. It's like no-man's land, especially in the dark. Just miles of nothing."
I had technology in the car, but it had broken in Georgia, and so my printed directions were the last hope I had.
I dialed 911 and said, "This is not life threatening, but I am out of gas, in Alabama, and I'm lost, and I have a child with me, and I have no idea where the next town is."
I spoke with the call receiver and told the name of the darkened gas station where I sat. She spoke with me about the road I was on, and said she would send someone to lead me to the next town because "you'll never find it otherwise."
Minutes passed and then an officer arrived. I followed him though pitch black for several more minutes, around side roads, until we reached a two-pump gas station lit up like a stadium. It appeared from seemingly nowhere, and I never would have found it.
The officer stayed with me and explained that on Sunday, most of the gas stations were closed at a certain point.
I pumped gas and he looked at my directions, and printed me up a new set from his car, reflecting where we were.
I took the directions, had a full tank of gas, and was so grateful for the help. My child slept on and I traveled the last part of the journey.
The next morning over coffee, I recounted the drive to my brother and his wife.
They'd had others drive to see them in Florida and it was confirmed that getting through pitch-black Alabama at night was no picnic.
Despite that, I'd developed a little soft spot for my first encounter with Alabama. I'd called for help, and help had been abundant. I'd been given better directions and good advice and was set forth to keep driving.
I spent a week in Florida and then, with my technology fixed, headed back to NY. Alabama was a picnic. I had sunlight, and strangely, some flakes of snow, and my daughter was awake to ask a million questions. She does this thing her dad does, which is to read every billboard out loud.
In Alabama it sounded like this:
"Go...to....church....or....the....devil....will.....get.....you. What does that mean? What is that red thing on the billboard?"
I glanced at the billboard, which was huge, and there was a painted red devil on it. It struck me as so funny that my daughter didn't recognize the devil which was so familiar to me.
"That's a devil that someone painted."
"But why does it say the devil will get you?"
Soon another billboard,
"Marriage....equals....one man....plus.....one woman....I think I know what that means."
More discussion.
Then,
"What country is that flag for? Or is it for a company?"
It was a giant Confederate flag. To explain this was no picnic, but it was possible.
Her questions: "But why is that flag flying since that war is over and it's one country? Does that mean the people flying the flag want to have slaves? Is that the flag that was flying when Addy Walker was my age?"
I had no idea who was flying the huge flag, or why. I didn't understand it anymore than she did.
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