If you turn onto any one of the country roads after you pass the one named Ataway and drive until you run out of asphalt, you will motor out of this century into a backwoods garnished with long winding ribbons of red clay lanes, none wider than wagon trails. Beaten paths of mud holes where the faces of large rocks gow out of the ground, nothing more than bumps in the road to the hillbillies who live in those woods.

There is a paradox to a place where rubber meets dirt, to a place where its avenues are stuck in their genesis and the tracks in the ground are from retreads and not horse and buggy wheels. The first mailbox is yet a country mile away and incidentally, delivered by a local who owns a station wagon.vv