Dead Chickens EVERYWHERE

I realize I haven't flashed back on a Friday in a while, so I'm taking the liberty of doing it now.  On a Tuesday.  I can't say for sure why I thought of this particular event, but I suppose it's because early December is the first time I ever traveled to Georgia, and it happened during that long ride down here.

My mother was blessed with the gift of gab.  She passed it on to Julie.  Me, not so much.  Conversation is work for me, but I'm (very slowly and in my own opinion) getting better.  Already I've digressed.  Dangit.  If you know my mother, close your eyes and try to imagine her on a 12 hour car-ride, having to sit still, and with nothing to occupy her but her thoughts.  If you don't know my mother, think of the person in your life who talks more than anyone else that you know.  Then close your eyes and imagine that person on a 12 hour car-ride, having to sit still, and with nothing to occupy them but their thoughts.

Okay.

Such was the case on our first trip to Georgia for Mercer's Scholar's Weekend.  I, on a very random whim, decided to apply to this little old school way down in Georgia, and furthermore came to compete for a scholarship all the way from Maryland in December of 2000.  The trip was mostly unmemorable.  It's a dull ride down I-95.  For 12 hours.

Joyce was gabbing away.  My dad was fighting with the windshield wipers that kept randomly turning on and off without prompting.  I was no doubt listening to CD's with my headphones on.  All of the sudden my mom exclaims, "What's with all of the dead chickens on the side of the road?"  That was enough to get my attention so I looked out the window to see white tufts laying all across the median and on both shoulders.  My dad asked, "What?  What chickens?"  She pointed out the white things.  Chickens, undoubtedly.

My dad looked at her and said, "Joyce, those aren't chickens.  That's cotton."

Oh.

Yeah, we're not from the South.  (And my mom has since gotten glasses.)