I'm ready to leave the Sunshine State for dreary Dublin, Ohio and pronto. After five weeks, wherever I am, that's my limit. A psychiatrist could explain it to me if I was interested in it's pursuit. The bad news is I've got seven more days to hang out in Miramar Beach. The good news is the time will fly faster than it takes for M&M's to get from the bag to my mouth.
As is the usual case I'll take the circular route, much as Santa does when he takes off from the North Pole. Lizzie gets dropped at the Pensacola airport. I'll continue on driving through Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, Bill Clinton's putrid state of Arkansas and finally reach my first oasis; Miami, Oklahoma. I'll spend the night with my stock broker, college roomie and good buddy, Big Buff. When I write big I'm talking BIG! Buff is the world's best fisherman and hunter. He's a good ol' boy raised and Nebraska who started his career in Iowa and then transferred to the Sooner state. Miami is close enough to Missouri, Arkansas and Kansas that he doesn't consider himself an Okie. When the born and bred Cornhusker left Iowa for Oklahoma his mom cursed him. Nebraskans and Sooners don't get along well especially on the football field.
I think I'd better make this a diary trip. After Miami I have five more stops four of them in Iowa, on the trip home to Ohio. I may even see a prairie dog on two. I know there will be cows and piggy's galore. Please, Dear God, don't let there be snow. Chances are slim and none. Iowa in March is like Alaska in January. Snow is a given.
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