Almost exactly two years ago plus two weeks, me and the girls said to hell with it and loaded up in Granny's van to head for the beach. We eased out at the crack of dawn through thick fog and headed south on US 45 from Jackson. There's an interstate route, but it's like playing bumper cars and we were all about no stress. Liz drove with me in the front and the girls back behind us wedged between coolers and suitcases. Road trip!

The further south in Mississippi we traveled, the more voodooish the names of the towns became. While the highway was mostly deserted, on a Sunday, it weaved around through the medium metropolis areas of Tupelo and Clarksdale and the minor holes in the wall like Shubuta and Bucatunna. It was right outside of Shubuta that I began to get the willies. 'Bout half of the way the road was two lane in a switching back and forth kind of thing that reminds you of a computer road game. Evidently Shubuta was last on the list for highway funds and it turned into a long stretch of curvy hilly highway madness. The thunderstorm hit when we were in a spot where you'd never be discovered in the kudzu if you plunged down the ravines. The town's claim to fame? Home of the Artesian Well. Says so, right there on the sign.

The miles melted away into the great state of Alabama and Mobile Bay with visions of hermit crabs and margaritas dancing in our heads. A swift pass through Foley's outlet malls and fruit stands, and we were finally there.



There wasn't near enough money for everybody's dream tatoo, but we managed. We played and ate and drank and bonded. My first ever visit to a Hooters left me with the distinct impression that if I had to make a living wearing tights and a wife beater, I would starve. My cleavage is good but I don't do pantyhose. At. All.

It is my habit to walk the beach early in the morning when I have the chance. The day we were to leave, I got up and out while the rest of 'em slept. Just a short way down the beach I noticed a couple on a mission, the guy with a stethoscope around his neck. I watched as they approached a spot that was marked off with rope and black plastic and I drew in closer to see what was up. Don and Sandy are volunteer sea turtle parents on that stretch of beach and I was lucky enough to catch them in the act. They shared their knowledge with me about the turtles and their nesting and the triumphant entry into the sea. Very few baby turtles make it, even though there are hundreds of eggs and the volunteers actually flush them through tunnels in the sand to help them along. There was a handwritten log buried in a ziploc baggie under the sand with notes from other team members who were monitoring the progress of the nest. They made their notes and shared with me everything I never knew about sea turtles but am always glad I learned.

Last I heard from them, they were thinking about leaving the area after Ivan and moving back to Missouri where there are tornados instead of hurricanes. The way I figure it, Mother Nature can hit you anywhere you hang your hat and call home. Been there, done that. And I won't evacuate until I'm forced to.