Yes, they DO still wave Old Glory down at the courthouse. . .
That’s a line from an old Merle Haggard country ’n’ western hit, “I’m Proud to be an Okie from Muskogee,” one of the all-time great anthems to unalloyed redneck pride. Other lines include: “We like livin’ right and bein’ free." . . . “white lightnin’s still the biggest thrill of all.”
So, in keeping with what I said yesterday about doing my own kind of sightseeing, when I saw a sign on Interstate 40 for Muskogee, I decided to go and see for myself.
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t’s about 35 kilometres along the Muskogee Turnpike, $1.25 each way – money well spent. Not that it’s a town of any great distinction, though the Ed Edmondson United States Courthouse is a handsome edifice (it makes the flag seem a little puny). But you don’t get the chance every day to chase down a cultural reference. I just wish some enterprising store owner had thought to stock “Muskogee Pride” T-shirts. I’d be wearing one right now.
Right across the street from the court is Charles Smith Bail Bonds: “We Never Sleep.” I wonder if he pays extra for the location.
I’m sure there’s another cultural reference in the star-spangled guitar outside the municipal building, with the words: “Serving with Pride, Those Who Proudly Served,” but I couldn’t find out what it was. I couldn’t even find someone to tell me how to get back to the turnpike.
The mail carrier outside the courthouse sent me the wrong way and then the clerk at a gas station put me even farther astray. I had to figure it out for myself. The one police car I saw – “To Serve and Protect;” same motto as the Toronto police – was moving too fast for me to flag him down and ask.
Muskogee more than made up for a dubious start to the day. It was very misty and I was chased out of Oklahoma City along the Freedom Freeway by black rain clouds that never quite caught up. Had the weather looked more promising I’d have stopped at Tinker Air Force Base for a closer look at their tremendous line-up of historic bombers, from World War II on up. And to ask why the base is named after one of my cats. It’s not very martial-sounding.
I’ve fallen into a frustrating pattern of hitting big-city limits right on rush hour. At the Arkansas/Tennessee state line, I came across a bridge of green girders over the Mississippi (better than the sad concrete span linking Illinois and Iowa) and suddenly I was in the thick of Memphis evening traffic. The Tennessee highway patrol has some unmarked black SUVs with blacked-out windows. Highly sinister.
The Accent’s mileage held steady (no air conditioning) at around 6.8 litres per 100 klicks. In fact, the second tank of the day seemed to be doing a little better; probably 6.7 or even 6.6. I’m in Jackson, Tennessee, for the night. The desk clerk was watching the Andy Griffith Show on TV, which seemed a little bit of a southern cliché.
Tomorrow, I’ll finally be getting off I-40, just short of Nashville, and on to 1-75 toward Louisville, Kentucky, and starting the long northward slog. The homing instinct is kicking in.
About 1,500 kilometres to go. Two more sleeps. . .
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