We have 22 hours to get to a radio station in Charlotte, NC. We’re a little behind schedule, but we’re not sleep deprived. Tomorrow could be a different story.
We’ve crossed over into Humid America, where your clothes never quite dry out and you wonder how people lived without AC.What river was that? We’re in green, green Oklahoma, contented cows in green fields, silos, woods, not forests. Crossed a big river on a big bridge, could have been the South Canadian River, driver Paul M says we’re low on gas, should make it to Ft. Smith, Arkansas, 38 miles away. It was the Arkansas River. Big river.
We have seen many combo names on our trip, a la Texarkanada: Arkhola Cement Co on a big truck, towns of Texoma, and, uh, the others. We’re really hungry, but holding out for a Waffle House. Smothered potatoes, raisin toast, simple, honest architecture, a tall sign reaching out like a beacon in a green Oklahoma sea. I have a serious aversion to grits, always have, but I’m going to try Rob’s heavy dousing with Tabasco.
Eastern Oklahoma I-40 is devoid of food stops. We are so hungry that we’re going to write about food:—–