I hadn’t gotten to see much of Jackson the night before, so I set about it in the morning. The capitol building was less than a mile away from my motel, so it seemed like an obvious destination. While I say the capitol building was less than a mile from my motel, there were actually two capitol buildings less than a mile away from my motel. The Old Capitol is now a museum of state history, and the New Capitol replaced the Old Capitol as the functioning house of the state government in 1903. I drove to the New Capitol in about as quickly as the state leaders had decided on the names for the buildings back at the turn of the twentieth century.
“Well boys, now that we’re moving from this old capitol building to the new one, how will we and future generations possibly tell them apart?”
“Um, sir, maybe we could call the old capitol building Old Capitol, and the new one New Capitol.”
“My God, Richardson, that’s the kind of thinking that will make us the greatest state in this nation.”
As I drove into the parking lot of the current state building, I was immediately surprised. The only capitol I had previously been to was Texas’s in Austin, and the difference in security between it and Mississippi’s capitols was astounding. In Austin, the building is nigh unapproachable, as the parking lot is blocked by retractable bollards, and the entire premise is surrounded by high iron fencing. Conversely, you can drive right up to the front door of the Mississippi capitol. When I first pulled in, I thought this was a mistake. “There’s no way they should be allowing me to park this close. I must be in a restricted parking lot.” But a passing worker assured me that, no, everything was fine.
After passing a security check complete with metal detector, I entered the main floor to find it quite empty. I had apparently missed the legislative session season, which somewhat saddened me, even though I doubt it would have made the trip any livelier. Walking through the building, I noticed that it looked like the Texas capitol, and probably all US capitols.
I approached the visitor’s reception desk tucked in the back of the first floor, where an older lady with kind eyes and a kinder smile sat behind a small library of tourist information and reference material about the 20th state. She seemed genuinely enthused to see a visitor, and since it was only 10 am, I was fairly certain that I was the first guest she had seen today. She asked me to sign the guestbook, where I confirmed that I was the day’s first visitor. I looked over the most recent page, and the lady that signed before me was from Ireland. Her name was Evelyn, and she had been there the day before, June 9. She had put 9/6/2010, as Europeans are wont to write the date with the day before the month. So I signed my name, wrote 6/10/2010 for the date, and in the “Comments” box wrote, “Evelyn is from the future!” I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m easily amused.
I walked through the capitol’s hallways and up to each floor, but since legislature wasn’t in season, there really wasn’t much to see except the fine white marble walls and locked, over-sized brown oak doors. Well, I assumed they were locked, as I wasn’t going to try opening random doors in a government building. I wanted to walk out of the capitol, not be thrown or drug out. After I had seen enough of the empty halls, I made my way back to I-20 and continued my push eastward.
Just after crossing the Alabama state line, I stopped to grab gas and lunch. It was 2 pm and I was trying to make time, so I consigned myself to eating at the truck stop where I fueled up. I spent a handful of formative years living in what we called a “truck stop town”. That is, it was so small that the majority of the reason it existed was hosting a truck stop in between Dallas and Oklahoma City. For this reason, and probably others, I’ve always felt comfortable at truck stops, at home even. For places that are temporary destinations by their very nature, truck stops as a rule exude comfort. At gas stations you always feel like you’ve got to get in, get your shit and leave, while truck stops are inviting, wanting you to stick around for a while. They know you’ve been sitting on your ass for over four hours, and they know the road is a demanding old mistress, expecting you to return to her posthaste. So with a wink and grin, you’re welcomed to take your time, as the road can wait.
The diner attached to the truck stop was overwhelmingly sterile. The walls , counters, and tables were white, but not a bright, just out of the package white, instead more a dull white, a result of the shine being scrubbed off by way of Windex. This was a restaurant that had upheld the ethos that cleanliness was next to godliness, but had lost its soul along the way. There was no hostess at the front, and I got the feeling that no one in the place was in a particular hurry. I seated myself at the counter among 4 or 5 truckers and sat in silence after ordering. I felt self-aware, and eventually I understood why. I looked up and saw a “Professional Drivers Only” sign hanging above the area I had seated myself. For a second I was about to get up and move to an area meant for the common folk, but the moment passed. I told myself that for the duration of the trip that I was a professional driver, in a very roundabout way. Okay, I knew that was bullshit, but I did feel a kindred spirit to the drivers. Sure they were driving multiples of how far I was each day, but we shared the road as a constant. When I went to bed, I knew what awaited me when I woke up. Life is a lot more carefree when your only responsibility is putting foot to pedal.
Finishing off a tasty burger, and with a full tank of gas, I continued down I-20. Before I left Mississippi, a place called Oak Mountain State Park caught my eye while I was scanning a map of the Birmingham area. I was getting tired of the bland scenery of asphalt and government-approved landscaping, and I knew the mountains would be an inspiring change. So when it came time, I cut across I-459 to I-65 south, and after an hour of “I see the damn mountain but I don’t know how to get there!” I found the right exit and the entrance to the park.
I was pleasantly surprised that admission was just two dollars, and I asked the park ranger working the entrance booth how to get to the mountain’s highest vantage point. She gave me directions and I drove forth. As soon as I turned around the first bend, the scenery was immediately beautiful. A vast, perfectly reflective lake stretched out in front of me. I could only think that if this was what the park looked in the first few minutes, what I would find at the summit. I was instantly happy I stopped by. After the lake I drove past several groups of children attending day camp, apathetically walking down the middle of the road. Eventually, after driving through the main park road at a mind-numbingly slow 15 mph, I reached the turn off that led to the mountain summit. The climb was slow and long. The road was narrow enough that the few unfortunate times a car would approach from the other direction, one of us had to pull over as far as we could, in this case about six to twelve inches, and wait for the other to inchingly crawl past. I tried not to look down over the cliff shoulder, which was hard since only a few feet separated myself and a long plunge down the mountain, during which a tree top would penetrate my car sideways, and me along with it. Needless to say, I did not want this to happen. All said it took thirty minutes to drive ten miles, but I finally came to a clearing at the summit. The view was better than I could have hoped for, and I just stood there speechless. Deep hills covered by a canvas of green stretched out for miles, until the green became faint blue, merging with the cloudless sky. I continued to stand at the edge of the clearing, absorbing the scene, assuming I might not see one as awe-inspiring as this for a while. When I was was sufficiently ensured that I had the image burned to memory, I got into my car and drove slowly back down the mountain, pleased with what America had shown me so far.
