Driving across Alabama in the middle of the night

How about a road trip story? Buckle up.

Last Friday, I headed up to spend the Fourth weekend at my in-laws’ cabin on a farm that’s in the upper left-hand corner of Tennessee, a stone’s throw from Mississippi, Arkansas, Kentucky and Illinois.

Bess and our daughter drove up earlier. Two of my boys and I didn’t get out of town until 9 p.m., and then we had to swing by LaFayette, Ala., to pick up the middle brother, who was working as a camp counselor.

It’s demoralizing, within the first dozen minutes of a seven-hour road trip, to pass Hunters Pub.

At the camp, we drove around in the woods until we’d retrieved the middle boy’s sleeping bag and guitar and toothbrush.

We were in Camp Hill by 10 p.m., listening to Johnny Cash on Pandora and slowing down at the speed trap on Old 280. The state trooper was sitting there as usual, and we waved.

On the big highway, we coasted through Dadeville and Jacksons’ Gap and across the river into Alexander City.

We stopped at a Wendy’s in Sylacauga but the line was too slow, so we headed down the road to the McDonald’s in Childersburg. The drive-thru line wrapped around the building so we went inside and quickly placed our order, but then things ground to a halt. Cooking breakfast around the clock is too much for the late-night skeleton crew at your rural Mickey D’s.

The highlight was when two teenagers reeking of marijuana burst through the door and ordered hotcakes.

“Hey,” the McDonald’s cashier said, “you guys already placed an order at the drive-thru!”

“Um, those were our twin brothers,” they said.

By midnight, we were heading down the little mountain into Birmingham, watching hundreds of taillights flash red. Then the short stretch of I-459 to I-65, then through the big city, then breaking left while everybody else headed toward Tupelo.

We’re in Cullman about 12:45, heading west on Highway 72. We pass the Amish Dutch Oven Bakery, and then a bunch of farms, and then the Cowboy Church, which now has a neon sign. Doesn’t seem right.

And this is where the trip gets tough. To stay awake, we start listening to System of a Down.

“Wake up!” the lead singer yells.

“Why’d you leave the keys upon the table?” he asks. “Here you go, create another fable!”

I have no idea what this means, but my three teenage sons don’t ask me what things mean anymore. The last thing they asked me to explain was Matthew McConaughey’s Lincoln commercial with the poker cards and the iguana, and I failed them there.

Things get better outside of Tuscumbia, the birthplace of Helen Keller. That’s because we stop at a Love’s truck stop, where hot dogs, egg rolls and tamales cook all day on the roller grill.

We’ve never actually bought any rolling food, but it sure is fun to watch.

I get a tall coffee, and we fuel up on roasted peanuts, sour gummy worms and pork skins.

It’s easy from there. Somewhere in the dark, while we’re cracking peanut shells and crunching dried pork, the Natchez Trace crosses our highway at a place called Buzzard’s Roost. We slow the music down, first Del McCoury and then some Tom Petty.

Great line: “I’ll be the boy in the corduroy pants; you be the girl at the high school dance.”

We hit Corinth, Miss., at 3 a.m. and then rip off a bunch of Tennessee towns: Guys, Jackson, Bells, Friendship.

At 4:30 a.m. we’re opening the cattle gate and heading down to the cabin. A few hours later, we wake to the smell of bacon, surprisingly refreshed.

Another successful trip in the books.

This story was originally published July 8, 2016 at 6:40 PM with the headline "Driving across Alabama in the middle of the night."