A couple of hours (and a mishap involving frayons and Penny's seventy-year-old Nancy Drew books) later, we departed, and Georgia behaved herself for two solid hours of travel. And then there was Bruce (the town, not the late kung-fu star). On the northern outskirts of the one-traffic-light town, we passed some anonymous soul's testament to tires, a monument of the Michelin Man.
Penny noticed it first, and she beckoned me to turn around so she could take this picture. After a couple of hours of travel, I was feeling a bit ornery, and I told her that I was ready to get to the condo, asking her why she wanted to take a picture of a bunch of used rubbers anyway. She growled, Nicholas pleaded, and I begrudgingly turned the car around. Georgia apparently didn't like her mother's idea either, so she started to fuss, cry, and pitch a fit, saying "Congo! Go Congo!" with tears streaming down her face. Penny promised her we would as soon as she took this picture. Georgia would have none of it. She cried until the moment we turned back around and headed north again. I asked Penny how the picture turned out, and she just told me to shut up. I know not why.
We had yet to travel two miles when I happened to spy some strange wood carvings in a yard to our left. "Was that what I thought it was?" I asked Penny.
"No. Just drive. We're ready to get to the condo...aren't we, Georgia?"
"Congo!" Georgia replied.
"Wait. I think it was. I gotta see this." I said as I turned the car around. Georgia started to cry again, and Penny was about to fuss, too, but I gave them both solace when I explained what we were about to see. "Georgia--look! It's a crocogator!" Her whimpering stopped immediately. We pulled in a long gravel driveway, and sure enough, there stood a whittled replica of the infamous Bogue Chitto Swamp Crocogator.
"Dad," my son said, "there's no such thing as a crocogator. I looked it up in the dictionary and the encyclopedia, and it wasn't there." "Son," I said, "you didn't find it because you weren't looking in the right places. I've got a couple or three encyclopedias at home that list creatures like the crocogator."
"Dad--comic books are not encyclopedias."
"I'm not talking about comic books, son. I'm talking about cryptopedias--encyclopedias listing the various creatures whose existence has been documented by multiple sightings though there is as of yet--yet--no scientific proof. These creatures--like the crockogator--are called crpytids."
"Dad," my son said, "you're cryptid." He giggled. Penny told us both to hush and for me to just drive. Georgia enjoyed our conversation though, for as soon as Penny admonished me, my daughter shouted, "Cryptid Congo! Go Cryptid Congo!"
And we did. We arrived at Pat's Place, and as I was carrying in Georgia and all of our luggage (all at the same time, too), Penny (who was unable to carry any luggage, for she was carrying a half-filled cup of cappucino) opened the door, walked in, and screamed. "What's wrong?" I asked, hurrying to the door.
"Somebody's been shot!" Oh my goodnesh-nellish! I froze where I was standing and shouted for her to run back, that'd we find somewhere else to stay. "Oh, there's no need. Fahgeddaboudit." I asked her what in the Sam Hill she was talking about, and she said, "C'mere!" I did. She continued, "It looks like someone shot Colonel Reb and he bled red, blue, and white all over this place. He's got Rebel stuff everywhere!"
"Well, honey, " I said, " we are at Ole Miss."
"Oh...shut up and put the clothes away...and change Georgia's diaper...and go to the bathroom for me, I'm going to lie down." I complied completely.
About an hour later, we decided to explore Oxford, and Penny and I both marveled at how clean and orderly the campus seemed, at the grandeur of it all. We were sincerely impressed. We wondered aloud about why Ole Miss's campus was so much prettier than MSU's, about why so many of our friends went to State instead of this gorgeous university, and we developed a hypothesis: the founders of Mississippi State University must have known that they couldn't have established anywhere near as fine a campus at the University of Mississippi, so they deliberately settled MSU 120 miles south of Oxford so that most of the state's high-school graduates would go to MSU because Oxford was just too darn far away.
After leaving campus, we found our way to the city square to visit the famous bookstore, Square Books; however, our children were hot and bothered, so we went to Off Square Books (Square Books' annex of bargain books--which is actually on the square) first and cooled down in front of their industrial-sized fan. We regained our physical composure, and then we crossed the street to Square Books, Jr. , which is the best children's bookstore I've ever seen. Their inventory is huge, easily doubling what Books-A-Million or Barnes-and-Noble have in their children's section. The atmosphere was open and friendly, allowing the children to talk and ooh and ahh and laugh without any worry of shhhs or raised-eyebrows. The employees allowed the children to take down toys, play with them, and leave them wherever, with nigh a sigh or grumbling to be heard. We loved it. We let the children down to play and browse, and we were able to do the same.
After about an hour there, we knew we needed to go so that we would be able to eat, and I would be able to go to Square books before they closed. We told Nicholas he could get any book he wanted, no matter the price, but he had to choose quickly. He put his hand inside a small basket in front of the register and pulled out a rubber, green fish that looked as if puke and puss was being expunged from its orifices if you squeezed it. "I want this," he said. "You can put the books back." My son the scholar.
We left the bookstore and crossed the street over to Old Venice Pizza Company (which I thought was native to Oxford, but have since discovered is a chain), a restaurant some of my Ole Miss buddies praised. The pizza there was good, but I've had better. Nicholas and I had fun, though, playing a fun little magic/logic game with the sugar packets, and Georgia enjoyed herself, too, kicking her sandals off, tossing crayons here and there. She seemed to agree with me about the quality of the food, as she took one bite of her three-cheese pizza and immediately decided that it needed a little something else. What did it need? Why, more cheese!
After we finished eating, Penny rode the kids around Oxford proper while I browsed through Square Books. I liked it, but I've visited similar bookstores in this state before, and greater ones (in New Orleans, in San Diego, etc...) elsewhere. As I waited in line to purchase a couple of books, I called Penny to let her know I was about to check out. She answered, panicked. "I can't figure out this square," she said, "and I've been driving around it for ten minutes. I seem to be caught in the loop, and I can't find my way out. And I need coffee." I told her to give me five minutes to check out, and I'd just meet her in the middle of the square, hop in, and help her figure out how to exit. Sounded good to her. Fifteen minutes later (because of waiting for the workers to grind the coffee, pay for it, and then going back downstairs to pay for the books), I stepped outside, and Penny was driving around the square, one hand on the wheel, and the other hand pulling the hair on her head. I darted across the square's outer lane (thankfully, no traffic) and started running around the inner lane, gaining speed. A few seconds later and here comes Penny, the Jeep kicking up dust like a turkey in the straw. She reached across the seat and somehow managed to push the door open without slowing down. Luckily, I timed my pace just right, and I jumped in the moving vehicle and slammed the door. Penny was frantic, and I had to calm her down. I finally breached through the dense fog in her head, and I was able to direct her out of the square. Whooh.
We drove back to the Congo, refreshed ourselves, and decided to drive down to Taylor to find where the Idea House was located, so that we wouldn't get lost or be in a rush looking for it early tomorrow morning. The scenic drive over and back, with the windows down, the children quiet, at dusk, the soothing sounds of Tom Waits and Randy Newman at their most elegant, all provided Penny and me with the most peaceful, relaxing, and spiritual moment of our trip thus far; it was a Commodores moment we were sharing, as the world seemed easy, easy like Sunday morning. It finally felt like we were on vacation. It was all we ever wanted.
Tomorrow: Part III
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