So I'm sitting out on the porch, finishing up my cigar, when I hear a vehicle approaching. It's loud. Like, a dozen washing machines falling down a flight of stairs loud. And it crests the hill about 100 yards away from my house, and the noise gets exponentially louder.
And then it comes into view, or at least as much view as can be seen at night in the rural areas around here. It's a truck, pulling a trailer. Or dragging a trailer, as the case may be. I don't know if there were just flat tires making the rear of the trailer drag, or if some part of the trailer had come unscrewed and was dragging. But there were sparks flying from the entire rear end of the trailer as the truck dragged it along the pavement. And again, it was loud, like one continuous car wreck in progress.
Before I could really comprehend what I was seeing, it took the curve and disappeared from view, but the racket went on for a good thirty seconds more as it crested another hill and dipped out of auditory range.
Things happen in Mississippi that the Mrs. and I normally don't talk about to our friends and families, because they don't believe half of what we describe. You have to live here to really comprehend what it's like.
Oh, and I've also been told that anyone who lives north of I-10 is a damn Yankee. I asked if it were possible, since the state I claim as residence was founded after the Civil War AND is on the other side of the country, that I escape Yankee status. All I got was a one-eyed glare, and a lot of muttering about foolishness and nonsense. But they did like the bread pudding the Mrs. made, so there's that.