Alabama. How can I possibly encapsulate my brief time here into a blog post?

After an 8 hour drive from South Carolina, I arrived in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, home of University of Alabama and the man, the myth, the legend: Mike McEvoy. McEvoy and I first met in the fall of 2004 while on the Student Leadership team at the Inn, the college group at University Presbyterian Church in Seattle. I was the worship leader, and he was the resident UW football playing man’s man. We hit it off from the beginning.

McEvoy is down here in his second year of starting a college ministry through Young Life. I was excited to know that I would get to hear him speak at Club – but then imagine my excitement when he asked if I would sing! This officially makes The Big Trip double as my nationwide tour.

As I listened to Mike give a talk on a portion of the Sermon on the Mount, I just felt so proud to be his friend. He is an engaging speaker with substantial things to share, and funny. He is working so hard with this new ministry, and putting so much time and effort into getting to know students. And he’s doing an awesome job. The students adore him and swarm around, longing for dating advice, and he has this gift of making every person feel welcome and valued. We had some awesomely hilarious conversations with kids after Club at Wendy’s over Frosties and fries.

As for Alabama, it proved itself to stay true to many of my preconceived stereotypes. For example, I heard Toby Keith’s “Courtesy of the Red, White, and Blue” no less than THREE times in one afternoon. I don’t think I’d heard it even once in the last two years in Seattle – and thank God.

McEvoy took me to dinner at a shanty called Nick’s in the Sticks, which is basically a lean-to burger joint out in the middle of nowhere. I ordered a cheeseburger, and it came slathered with American cheese; come to find out, American cheese is the only kind of cheese Alabama knows. As we waited a long time for our food (remember, Mike reminded me, this is the South – no one is in a rush), I watched a team of miniature Budweiser Clydesdales pull a model wagon round-and-round on a Lazy Susan hung from the ceiling. And I learned the difference between the Atlanta Braves “A” and the University of Alabama “A.” Don’t mix them up.

At the Young Life gathering, one kid told me that I look like a backup singer from Steely Dan. Only in Alabama would an 18-year old kid know to liken me to someone from Steely Dan. Oh, and “not the young one,” he added. Awesome.

We also went off-roading in McEvoy’s 4-Runner. All over the CAMPUS LAWN. How much more redneck can you get? I felt so authentic.

I met a woman named Lurleen.

The Alabama flag was modeled after the Confederate flag. And I’ve seen many, many of both.

Alabama:
Confederate:
But I also witnessed a beautiful Southern sunset last night – yellow, peach, and slate washed across the vast sky. I was embraced by a group of students that I didn’t even know, who all want to be Facebook friends. I was given an air mattress and a pile of brand new washcloths to use. And I spent quality time with a dear friend.

Alabama, you have not seen the last of me.

I love Hilton Head. I want to live and die here. Well, that’s not immediately true. I want to live some other places for awhile. But when I am an old lady, after my husband has passed away (as men typically die earlier than women), I will cut my hair as short as I want and return here to the beaches of South Carolina. I will drink wine and gain some happy pounds and live out my days in peace.

I’ve walked on the beach. I’ve seen alligators and turtles and heron. I’ve finished two new songs. I’ve purchased six new books. I’ve noticed how the Spanish moss that hangs from the trees reminds me of furry monkey tails.

And tomorrow morning, I will continue The Big Trip to Tuscaloosa, Alabama. It’s time to do the Dirty South.

I arrived last night in Hilton Head, SC, and it’s exactly as I pictured it. The Atlantic coast, sandy beaches, reeds emerging from the water, Spanish moss hanging from the huge trees, blue sky, and… me. In a stranger’s home.

My mom’s… friend’s… neighbor… is hosting me. I showed up on her doorstep around dinnertime, having no idea who she was or what I might find in her home. How ecstatic was I to find that she is awesome.

Lynn is in her 50’s, a divorcée as of Thursday, and dating Mike, a hysterical ex-cop/insurance broker. They immediately invited me in, and poured me a glass of wine. Both bitter, angry, charming liberals, they fed me shrimp cocktail as a fire burned in the fireplace and incense burned in the corner. We got to know each other, talked about politics and religion and love and heartbreak, and I can’t remember a time I laughed so hard.

Today, Lynn took me to her church’s rummage sale where the entertainment was provided by the Alligator Dixieland Jazz Band, six old men in matching vests that one of their wives probably sewed for them. The upright bassist sang while the trumpet and clarinet and banjo supplied that definitive boardwalk band sound – it was just so classic. Lynn bought a set of used golf clubs, and I bought a stack of books.

At the sale, I met Louise, an 80-year old spitfire who told me her life story over a plate of nachos. She told me that she will be in Kansas City for Christmas Eve 2008, and after hearing that my dad is a pastor, is planning on attending a service at his church. She even wrote down directions – ha! So Mom and Dad, get ready to welcome Louise… in a year.

This afternoon, I plan on finishing some songs that have been in the works for a few weeks now. I have to have SOMETHING to show for this extended time on the road – something besides a few extra pounds, a few new friends, and a lot of really, really good memories.

Sometimes I say too much. I open my mouth, and everything comes falling out faster than I can rein it in. I have this bold and intrepid streak in me, and when I pair that with having an innate need to communicate, the occasional result is a reckless slew of kamikaze words.

Words are hard to take back.

Proverbs 10:31 says, “The mouth of the righteous flows with wisdom, but a perverse tongue will be cut out.”

For the most part, I do a pretty good job of watching my tongue. I value words, and so I am careful with them. I like to use them for good, for storytelling, for communicating pleasant things, for sharing observations, for revealing truth. I rejoice when I am able to find the perfect words to describe something, or articulate something for the very first time, giving me a certain familiarity with myself that I did not have before. But sometimes, the cynical, sardonic side of me commandeers my train of thought, and all of a sudden, I have said too much. I have been too harsh, gone too far.

As one who loves to write – prose and verse – I know that I must continue to feel and experience and share and convey and transmit and speak. I have to be willing to communicate the good and the bad, the easy and the difficult, the beautiful and the dark. But how can I do that – stay true to what I believe is a calling on my life to be a communicator of sorts – and still be wise with what I say?

It’s a fine line. And sometimes I’m not very good at walking it.

My dear, sweet blog readers… we’ve been friends for a while now, right? And there’s nothing I could do or say that would make you disown me – or my blog, which is the closest thing I have to a child? I feel like we are intimate enough that I can let you in on something a wee bit quirky.

I hoard washcloths. Seriously, I stockpile washcloths like a worldwide cotton plague is imminent. I have – I don’t know? – 40 or 50? And while I got rid of many things before the big move last summer, I cannot tell you that I got rid of any of my precious washcloths.

I wash my face every morning and every night, and usually once in the afternoon, each time with a fresh, clean rag. Many things are better “used,” but this principle does not apply to bathing suits, car tires, or washcloths. As I am traveling light (um, “light” being a relative term) on The Big Trip, I left many things behind. But not my washcloths. I brought them all.

The washcloth must be laundered, fluffy, and folded into quarters. It must have all loose strings cut from the edges. It must be stacked in a multi-colored pile, never next to the same shade. It must be drenched in significantly warm water, and used with Biore face scrub. It must.

I promise I am not a freak.

Actually, I just read what I wrote, and… never mind. I hereby raise my freak flag – fastidiously, and in the form of a washcloth.

As I drove south through West Virginia, I pulled into a Kroger parking lot to buy apples and cheese sticks. Walking toward the doors of the store, I was stopped by a man who was, I don’t know, SO WEST VIRGINIA.

“Warrrshington? Did I see Warrrshington plates?”

He had no teeth. Well, maybe two teeth. He had a long (as in: foot-long) white goatee, and was wearing a flannel shirt and a stocking cap. But his blue eyes sparkled, and so I laughed and told him about the adventure that I’m on.

“Whoa, Nelly. That there car’s made it all this way? Sheesh. I ain’t NEVER been to Warrrshington. A girl like you’s out alone on this here road? Well girly, you be safe, and getcher coat – it’s a cold ‘un today. And don’t be speedin’ through Summersville – they’ll getcha. They’ll getcha good.”

He was the cutest Appalachian hillbilly I’ve ever seen. And now I know where to turn when I need someone to teach me how to cook possum.

This afternoon, I drove from Washington, D.C., to Morgantown, West Virginia. And I made a present for you:

Keeping myself entertained from Annie Parsons on Vimeo.

Wow. I bet that you wish you could write lyrics like me. And yes, I fully acknowledge the obnoxious Jay Leno chin view, and 3-days-since-a-shower hair.

If you want to hear my music for real, check out my latest internet venture: my music MySpace page here. I wrote a track (“By the Time”), and my dear friend Katie Freeze wrote two just for me (“Don’t Come After Me” and “While My Heart is Young”). If you are a guy, and a song sounds like it’s about you, then yes, it probably is.

Unless, of course, you listen to “My Shepherd.” Sorry. Not about you.

I hope to record and put up more of my own material soon, but I could not resist putting Katie’s songs up. She is incredible, and has this uncanny gift of writing for specific people’s voices and life situations. If you don’t know about her, just wait. You will.

How did I get such cool friends? Because it sure wasn’t by merit of my road tripping entertainment videos.

I spent my Sunday wandering around our nation’s capitol. I saw the museums and the monuments – nothing in depth, but everything briefly. The one place that I took my time was the National Gallery of Art.

I don’t claim to know anything about art. I know that I like it. I like to look at it. I like to have it on my walls. But sometimes I can’t remember where Van Gogh was from, or what genre Rembrandt falls into, or the difference between Monet and Manet. And they’re even the famous ones! But despite my lack of knowledge, I know when I like something.

Here’s the thing about art: discerning people are not going to like everything. And not everyone is going to like any one particular piece. As I meandered through the maze of galleries today, I was struck with how some pieces caught my eye and drew me in, and others repelled me. I don’t know many people who would want a mural-sized painting of a naked Daniel in the Lion’s Den hanging in their dining room. Or a bland landscape of a murky ocean and boring shore displayed in their entryway.

But what do I know? I only know when I, Annie, like something. And so I bought this Charles Rennie Mackintosh print today (he signed his name “Chas” in the corner – I feel like we are close and personal friends), and plan on hanging it somewhere in my future Nashville home. Because I love it.

I spent last night and this morning in Norfolk, VA, with my hometown friend Dylan Schoo. Dylan was the first boy I met when my family moved to Montrose, CO, in 1989; we went to prom together junior year, and have remained friends throughout the years and across the distance.

Dylan is pretty much the biggest badass I know, since he is a pilot for the Navy. He was exceedingly patient with me as I asked incessant naive, girly questions about the military: “How many outfits do you have?” “What does this knob do?” “Who is our biggest enemy?” “Can the government see through my walls?” “Who builds the submarines?” “Do they train you how to withstand torturing?” “Can you kill a rabbit with your bare hands?” “If a mission has been compromised, do you say, ‘Code up the GPS!’?”

Code up the GPS? Thank you, Dylan, for not abandoning me on the side of the highway.

He took me to see the E-2, which is the plane that he flies. People – he lands this thing on an aircraft carrier! On his own! It has an 80 foot wingspan, and a frisbee-like radar on top. There are few jobs in which one’s knowledge and skill and clarity of mind have life-or-death ramifications, but this is one of them. Mind-boggling.

And finally, I made it to the Atlantic Ocean. It only took me 2 months. We even made a video of the occasion – enjoy.

The Atlantic from Annie Parsons on Vimeo.

Before I left Seattle, my friends were so sweet and generous and gave me tons of Starbucks gift cards for the journey. Although I do not prefer to support Starbucks, as 1) they are THE MAN, and 2) their coffee tastes like bitter sewer water strained through moldy cotton balls (sorry, Dad), I have gladly used these cards for over-priced veggie trays and large quantities of hot tea. It has become second nature for me to walk up to the cashier and order, “A venti, single-bag, Wild Sweet Orange tea.”

Yesterday, amidst the tawny, velvet Virginia fields, I ordered my usual from a Starbucks drive-thru. “We’ll have your total at the window,” the voice from the billboard said.

I pulled up to the window, and the cashier stated, “That will be $5.40, please,” while handing me an entire box of Wild Sweet Orange tea bags. I immediately corrected her: “Oh, no – I wanted a cup of tea.”

“In a cup?”

“Yes.”

“Like, these tea bags, in a cup?”

“Um… yes – just one.”

“We don’t do that.”

My eyes quickly darted to the green emblem of the mermaid, assuring myself that yes, I was indeed at Starbucks, home of my beverage. However, I could not collect my thoughts rapidly enough – because how could I possibly have comprehended the concept of no tea? – and so what came out of my mouth was a jerky, disconnected slew of syllables: “I – uh – meh – hmmgh – sigh.”

Apron-clad woman looked alarmed.

I finally pulled myself together enough to explain, “I would like one tea bag, in your largest cup – a cup of tea.”

“Oh, like, with hot water?”

It is moments like this that I wish I had a video camera to capture my facial reaction. Moments when my thoughts are all OF COURSE with hot water, how else do you make tea, and how can you possibly misunderstand the process of placing a tea bag in a cup of hot water, and don’t you know you work for Starbucks, the czar of uniformity?, and yet all that comes out of my mouth is, “Yes, ma’am.”

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Today, I drive from Blacksburg to Norfolk, and will finally arrive at the Atlantic Ocean. It’s about time.