I-10 Is My Playground

I'm off for N'Awlins (or its environs) tomorrow morning (well, if we want to go by our mechanistic society's reckoning of time, later this morning) for a tres large book sale. After that I'll be heading up to Monroe, Louisiana, to visit the noble Jeremy Wilkins, his loverly bride, and their children.

I have biographies of T. J. Jackson, J. E. B. Stuart, and Francis Drake ready to rock my tape player during my travels. The first two are especially appropriate, since I'll be travelling north into the true South.

And Francis Drake will remind me of my trip to Spain in the spring of '01, taken with my parents, siblings, and my then new wife. We spent most of our time in Sevilla, but on our day-trip to Cadiz, I couldn't help thinking "Francis Drake burned this place! Nanny-nanny-boo-boo!" And I'm not even English. Of course, even though I'm not English, I also had to stop at an English pub across from the cathedral in Sevilla for a Guiness. Some things are just a part of our souls, if not of our genes.

Please pray for me. I want to score beaucoup books at low-low prices, and I'm going to be visiting Remy. Both are matters of prayer. I'll be online during the trip (I think). But for now, ciao, babies.