Call me crazy, but unlike some people who steer clear of two-lane roads because they don't want to get stuck behind poky farm equipment, I'm more terrified of the 10 ton, 18-wheelers barreling down on me at 70 miles per hour. My survival instincts override my need for speed nine times out of ten.
As we get closer to Lisbon, the road goes from not-so-bad, to so-so, to what-the-hell-are-you-doing-driving-on-this-thing. Before long, we drop down into a what the locals would call a "holler" and we seem to have arrived. But where, I'm not sure.
As an odd coincidence, while trying to break in to the library (so to speak), we ran into a retired priest we knew from days gone by. He gave us a brief but fascinating history of the city and an introduction to Glasgow's role in the civil war.
With arms out-stretched and index fingers rigidly pointing in the direction they traveled, these life-sized "cut-outs" were pretty far-out from all accounts; but neater still because their heads were missing.
Someday, Paul and I are going to go to Canada's Montreal. But for now, we settle for the next best thing.
Tiny houses, wood-sided or clapboard for the most part, flank the streets. Porches are popular, and the front yards run together like one long ribbon of grass, butting up to sidewalks that have seen better days. But as Missouri natives, we find the overall effect warm and welcoming, and we feel right at home.
It’s well-documented that men and women approach travel quite differently. In fact, scientifically, it all stems from our cavemen ancestors. About a gazillion generations ago, our forefathers (and foremothers) took...