It's like a song stuck in your head

 

We were driving through Tennessee earlier in the trip.  Various signs for Davy Crockett.  He was born on a mountaintop in Tennessee as I recall.  Raised in the woods till he knew every tree.  Kilt him a b’ar when he was only three…

 

I’d like to pause here and take a poll.  Is there anyone out there who does *not* have the Davy Crockett song running through their head now?

 

Not to worry.  I can make it stop.  Shift your attention to our plight a little later in our trip; driving New York and New Jersey tollways.  They collect the tolls *after* you’ve driven through a section.  Imagine poor Charlie and his experience with the MTA in Boston.  When he got there the conductor told him one more nickel, Charlie couldn’t get off of that train.  But did he ever return…..

 

You can thank me later.

 

So after we spend a few weeks in Maine, the conversations I hear in my head are all sounding like episodes of Murder She Wrote.  Pure Maine dialect.

 

Now that we’ve been hanging with Barb and Henry, our Germadian friends, for a week, the voices in my head are speaking to me with a heavy German accent.

 

When we left on this trip, it seemed funny to pack jackets, but we did.  Now we’ve been wearing them every day.  (Say that to yourself like Arnold Schwarzenegger; with his accent.)

 

It might be time to head south.