When I went to the North Carolina mountains recently, I went by way of South Carolina. I wasn’t lost; that’s the way the Driving Directions took me.
Coming back, I stopped in a SC town for a double fill-up: the car and my stomach, plus the requisite bathroom visit. I filled the gas tank first and looked around for someplace to eat. Alas, all the fast food places were to my left which would mean crossing four lanes of speeding traffic, so I decided to eat at the barbecue joint attached to the back of the gas station.
Don’t bother; I’ve already gotten a horrified lecture from Dearly Beloved, thank you very much.
While I’m in confession mode, here’s something else: In my haste to get to a bathroom, I somehow managed to close the door to my gas tank without putting the cap back on, so it must have dangled by its little pigtail coil like toilet paper stuck to a shoe heel, until it finally snapped off somewhere along I-85.
I didn’t realize it even after the Check Engine light came on, an expensive error on my part, since replacing it a few days later cost $85. They had to test all the other things a Check Engine light could mean, the Service Representative said.
At least the barbecue was good.
My friend Birdie, also horrified at my service station restaurant choice, sent pictures of a more popular and … um… upscale… establishment she recently visited. They even have a website to show their history and how they have been visited by the likes of Newt Gingrich and a string of other Republican politicians and found their way into the Congressional Record.
I’m passing her photos along, in case you ever find yourself traveling through the mountains of North Georgia with an urge to eat barbecue and leave your name on a pig placard stuck on a hillside.
As I don’t have music on my blog, please hum Dueling Banjos as you scroll…!