BABE’S BLOG

CHECKING OUT THE NEW SURROUNDINGS . . .

The bike in the garage is promising. A rusty old green thing that looks like it might have been new when my mom was a kid. It has a basket, which is dorky but useful. I test it out in the driveway. Tires pumped and in good condition (thanks, Dad). No gears but, hey, no hills, so that’s a wash. An old-fashioned rusty bell that actually works. A clear drop of oil leaking from the bell onto my thumb is a hint Dad’s been working on the bike in preparation for my arrival.

In spite of the stifling heat, I dress in a long-sleeved blue cotton shirt and cut-offs (my white legs slathered with sunscreen). My crazy hair is stuffed into a wide-brimmed canvas hat—the kind you’d expect to see on an African safari. With my round, oversized sunglasses completing the look, I’m sure I look slightly . . . unusual. I pack four water bottles into the basket along with my backpack and set off for my first adventure.

The smooth cement of our driveway gives way to the sand and gravel crunch of Trout Lane. I pause to check out my new street but can see nothing much of interest besides our house. Just a lot of sandy looking soil and some tall pines. Makes me wonder where all those noisy tree frogs went, the ones that kept me awake last night.

I ride back out to the main road that delivered us here last night. At last I can see it for what it is, a highway without any street lights. And without any cars.

Then a truck whizzes by and honks. I’m not sure if I’m doing something wrong or if he’s just being friendly. There isn’t a bike lane so I stay as far to the right as I can without falling off the pavement.

After about five minutes of pedaling, another car speeds by and I realize I’m already thirsty. I get off my bike and guide it from the road into an area that looks to be free of fire ant nests, even though I’m not exactly sure what a fire ant nest might look like. I down an entire bottle of water in less than thirty seconds. That happened after only five minutes? I maybe should’ve brought more water.

Back on my bike and back on the road, I pedal on. Another few minutes and another car passes. The sun’s so hot it emits a high frequency note like a chorus of a million hysterical crickets. Even though my shirt sticks to me like a wet rag, I resist the urge to pull over for another drink.

Peering off in the distance I see wavy lines of heat rising from the blacktop, nothing that looks like a piggly wiggly, or anything else for that matter. Nothing but pine trees and the occasional car that passes every five minutes or so. It occurs to me I might die from the heat out in the middle of nowhere. But I’m not about to turn around and go home. I’m on a mission and I’ve chosen to accept it. Mission impossible? I hope not.

Another ten minutes and my doubts turn serious. Not even one car comes by during that time. I get off my bike again and gulp down a second bottle of water. My body’s expelling water through sweat faster than I can drink it. My face feels like the color it probably is. Red. Or possibly purple. Finally, a white pick-up truck traveling in the opposite direction pulls off to the side of the road—“Cummings’ Emergency AC Repair,” emblazoned on the driver’s door. I can definitely appreciate the fact that a broken air conditioner is an emergency around here. The driver’s side window rolls down.

“Are you alright?” A friendly-faced woman with glowing brown skin and French-braided hair looks out at me with . . . alarm?

“I’m fine, thank you.” Pretty embarrassing to know a passerby in a moving vehicle thinks I look like I might need 9-1-1.

“Are you sure I can’t give you a lift somewhere?”

“Oh no,” I laugh with false bravado as though this ride is a daily and pleasurable event in my life. But panic starts to set in as the window slides back up. “Excuse me please!” The window goes back down. “Could you tell me how far a piggly wiggly is up ahead?” I hope with all my heart she knows what I’m talking about.

“It’s about a mile up the road. Is that where you’re going?”

“Yes,” I lie. If I tell her I’m going even further, I think she’ll call someone to lock me up. “I heard it wasn’t far.”

“It’s not far if you’re driving,” the friendly lady says, “but it’s pretty hot to be out here on a bike. We can put your bike in the back of my truck and I could take you there.”

But my independence (or is it stubbornness?) won’t allow me to accept her offer. Scratch that. I think it’s plain old embarrassment.

“Oh, just a mile? No, I’ll be fine but thanks for the offer.”

“Alright then,” she looks doubtful. “Have a nice day.”

“Same to you!” I use my most cheerful voice while doing a quick estimate of how many minutes it will take to travel the half mile before I could stop for my next bottle of water. There has to be some kind of relief at this “piggly wiggly,” or at least I hope so.

__________

The Piggly Wiggly turns out to be nothing more than a big supermarket. It’s out there in the middle of what appears to be nowhere, but probably is somewhere. There’s nothing else in sight, just a huge concrete building surrounded by a huge blacktop parking lot which could fit a thousand cars, but only has about twenty. Seeing no bike rack, and having no kickstand, I lean my trusty transportation against the wall of the shopping cart corral. No bike lock—I didn’t think I’d be stopping anywhere on the way so it hadn’t occurred to me to look for one. But I take a leap of faith and decide this bicycle isn’t going to be a magnet for a bicycle thief.

I can’t wait to get inside and even the shocking temperature differential doesn’t bother me this time; in fact, I love it. I feel the redness of heat drain from my cheeks as I wander through the aisles, eventually picking up another four bottles of water.

“Can you tell me how far the Crystal Point Resort is?” I ask the cashier who looks like she’s only a few years older than me.

“Oh, it’s not far,” she smiles at me. “Just down the road a bit.”

By now I know enough not to trust the term a bit. Should I let her know I’m on bike and then ask the question again? Maybe a bit would mean something different in that case. But I decide to go with it. I’ve come too far to turn back, so what does it matter?

“Visiting?” she asks.

“No, I just moved here.”

“Oh, I thought . . .” she hands me change for my twenty-dollar bill.

She doesn’t have to finish the sentence. I know what she thought. My clothes are strange and I have no trace of a southern accent. I don’t look like anyone else in the store.

“Have a great day!” she chirps.

__________

People are nice here, but will I ever belong? Can I?

Comments:

Sandman: Sweetness r u here? never mind

Sweetness: haha you dont know what a piggly wiggly is? and also your diary is strange the way you write it like its happening right now. my diary is totally different than this but i still like yours too.

Babe: Thanks?