November 5, 2021
The workweek was over. Plans for the weekend were floating in my head but nothing solidified. Within 48 hours, I would traverse four states and 1,400 miles of American roads. I’d visit one of the most somber of Civil Rights sites, attend the most dynamic live sporting event I’ve ever experienced, walk on the home field of one of the greatest high school football players of all time, and enjoy a short segment of one of this country’s most scenic byways.
Sometimes, the best-laid plans aren’t laid at all.
Just get up and go.
HOUR 1 - 7:00 PM - PRESS BOX - ARGYLE, TEXAS
Argyle has provided a unique experience since our move to Texas—a small town atmosphere with outstanding sports teams only 20 minutes away from our house. I’ve attended several of their football games, but this was the first as a “stringer” for the Dallas Morning News. The assignments are fun: travel to the venue, set up shop in the press box, keep stats during the game, then write a short story. Games in Argyle are always well attended, and it was Senior Night so there was an extra buzz throughout the game.
Halftime afforded me 28-minutes to start outlining my game story and ponder my weekend plan. The leading contender was to drive 618 miles to Tuscaloosa, Alabama to see the LSU Tigers play the Alabama Crimson Tide in a college football game at Bryant-Denny Stadium. Seemed like a bit of a crazy plan but my life has been a series of crazy plans that seem to fall into place.
Argyle proceeded to defeat Paris, 52-30. Fun game to watch. Nice start to the weekend.
HOUR 4: FRIDAY NIGHT 10:49 PM - The Decision
I wrote my brief game story, called the newspaper to inform them it was ready for their review, packed my equipment, then texted my wife, Vickie, at 10:49 pm that I was walking to my car. With my newspaper responsibilities behind me, I decided I’d try to make the drive on Saturday to see LSU vs Alabama.
I remember listening to LSU games via a transistor radio on Saturday nights back in the early ‘70s while in bed on 8th Avenue in Two Harbors, Minnesota. Years later, when the memory resurfaced, I wondered if I imagined the whole thing. Could AM-radio broadcasts from the Gulf of Mexico almost reach Canada? My doubts were dispelled when Minneapolis sports journalist, Patrick Reusse, who lived in the southwestern part of Minnesota, told his listeners of the same experience.
Attending a night game at LSU has been on my bucket list for as long as I can remember. Alabama would be the ideal opponent. Fast forward to 2021 and it was going to happen. Same teams but a different venue. Tuscaloosa instead of Baton Rouge. Not the way I envisioned it, but the minimal disappointment would be forgotten by Sunday morning.
LSU won the national championship in 2019; Alabama in 2020…and ’17, ’15, ’12, ’11, ’09 and twelve other times. Meanwhile, the team I was born to cheer for—the Minnesota Gophers, last won a national championship in the year of my birth—1960. This was also the last time the Gophers played in the Rose Bowl. Sixty years of college football futility during my lifetime.
I was hours away from experiencing something extraordinary different.
HOUR 5 - 11:15 PM - Bedtime or Waffle House
A sensible plan—if there was one, would have been drive straight home from Argyle and go to bed but my night was far from over. I drove past our house then another 30 minutes to downtown Dallas. Vickie–and my stepdaughter, Jakkie, attended a Trevor Noah event at the American Airlines Center. I didn’t want them to have to take an Uber home, so I volunteered to pick them up. Sure, I made that offer before deciding to drive to Alabama, but I was happy to stick to my commitment.
We agreed to meet at Dibs, a sports bar across the street from the AAC. After a short stay, we hopped in the car. We might have arrived home by 12:15 am but Waffle House signs along the route were too much to resist. During my college years it wasn’t unusual to leave a bar and either stop at Taco Johns in Duluth for a sack full of softshell tacos, or the Korner Café, better known as The Greasy Spoon, in Two Harbors to ward-off a pending hangover by eating a massive quantity of greasy food. I was within 24 hours of turning 61 years old and wanted to turn the clock back a bit. Furthermore, as a stepfather, I haven’t had to be much of a role model. Vickie raised the girls properly long before my arrival. But I’m hoping my stepfatherly legacy can at least include showing Jakkie how it’s done at the greatest restaurant in America.
We sat in the booth closest to the flattop grill at new Waffle House in Watauga. Our friendly waiter took our order. I ordered the “All Star Special” which included two eggs, over-easy, crunchy hash browns, country ham, a waffle, two pieces of butter-dredged toast—along with a couple of those little plastic tubs of strawberry jelly and a root beer.
Life doesn’t get better.
Someday, Jakkie will bring her son, Carter, to Waffle House at midnight.
“Carter, do you remember g-pa Tom?”
“Of course, Mom”
“Well, one time he brought me and your Grandma Vickie…”
“I know Mom—to Waffle House for breakfast at midnight, right?”
“How did you know, Carter?”
“Every summer when I’d go stay at their house, we’d watch movies or go to a Texas Rangers baseball game then drive to the nearest Waffle House at midnight.”
“Are you serious? You’ve never told me that.”
“Yep. And g-pa always ordered the same thing.”
“Let me guess: Two eggs, over-easy, crunchy hash browns, country ham, a waffle, two pieces of butter-dredged toast—along with a couple of those little plastic tubs of strawberry jelly and a root beer.”
“Exactly, Mom. G-pa knew how to have a great time.”
We arrived home at around 1 am, Vickie and Jakkie stayed up for a bit, but I hopped into bed and set the alarm for 5:45 am.
HOUR 14: Goodbye Texas - Hello Louisiana
219 miles into the trip, I crossed the Louisiana border into Shreveport. The drive through east Texas is always scenic but the blankets of morning fog further enhanced the drive. I was feeling good. Adrenaline, my “3 AM Road Trip” playlist and a gallon or two Diet Dr. Pepper flowing through my veins probably helped.
One hundred miles later, I arrived in Ruston, Louisiana–halfway to Tuscaloosa. I’d reached the point of no return so I called Vickie. I made it official–I was definitely going to Alabama. Filled the tank. Celebrated the decision by opening the lid on the finest road trip snack ever invented–peanut butter filled pretzels.
Part of the fun of this trip was that my stepfather has been a Crimson Tide fan since living in Leeds, Alabama for two years in the late ‘80s. I was eager to share the experience with him via calls and text messages to Duluth, Minnesota though, of course, wishing he could experience the trip with me.
He’s a smart man. Decades ago, he pledged his allegiance with the Crimson Tide. I’m a dimwit. I stuck with the Gophers.
Oh sure. I’ll always have New Years Eve, 2004 to remember. The Music City Bowl in Nashville.
MINNESOTA 20
ALABAMA 16
The Gophers then lost their next seven bowl games against collegiate juggernauts such as Virginia, Iowa State, Syracuse, Missouri, Texas Tech twice and Kansas—yes, Kansas. Meanwhile, since then, Alabama won six national championships.
HOUR 19: Approaching Alabama
Eight hours and 524 miles into the drive, I passed through Meridian, Mississippi. There were exit signs to Philadelphia, Mississippi. I’d never been there but two thoughts immediately came to mind: Freedom Summer of 1964, and Marcus Dupree–perhaps the best high school running back of all time. Plans for a detour on the Sunday drive home immediately bounced around in my head.
I crossed the Alabama border and pulled over at the obligatory rest stop every state seems to have along Dwight Eisenhower’s network of highways.
After utilizing the conveniences at the above average Alabama Welcome Center, I leaned against the car in the parking lot then purchased my ticket to the game. I was 82 miles from Bryant-Denny Stadium. I’d been monitoring ticket availability and prices on StubHub so I knew a few tickets were available, but I would wait no longer. I found what appeared to be a too-good-to-be-true ticket, then clicked the “Buy Now” button
Within minutes, the ticket arrived in my Inbox. This was actually happening.
HOUR 21 - ROLL TIDE
I arrived in Tuscaloosa at around 4 pm—two hours before game time. I thought I was early but quickly realized the Tide fans likely had been tailgaiting since I crossed the Texas/Louisiana border. Crimson, gray and white everywhere–chairs, picnic tables, trucks, grills, coolers, hats, t-shirts, jerseys, flags and blankets. Youngsters threw mini footballs to each other just outside the walls of the field where the forthcoming Heisman Trophy winner would perform.
I walked past a young boy who held a Nerf football in his right hand. He told what appeared to be his brother, “I’ll be Bryce, you be Jameson.” Six words spoken by a 10-year old boy in Alabama teleported me back 50 years and 1,200 miles from Tuscaloosa to the vacant lots and back yards of our neighborhood in Minnesota when one of my brothers regularly said, “I’ll be Fran Tarkenton, you be Gene Washington.”
I watched them for a moment but kept walking towards the stadium.
There’s nothing quite like that first glimpse inside historic sporting venues—be it Fenway Park, Notre Dame Stadium, Madison Square Garden or Augusta National. I was tempted to immediately enter the stadium but knew better. College football isn’t just about the game inside; it’s about the party outside. Young. Old. Men. Women. White. Black. Asian. Latino. A melting pot which wasn’t boiling over. Just simmering with the smell of southern barbeque and burgers on the grill.
My First View Inside Bryant-Denny Stadium
My ticket provided a fantastic surprise—sideline access. My first view of the field at Bryant-Denny stadium was from behind the bench of the Crimson Tide.
Pinch yourself, Tom.
I walked from one end of the field to the other, taking it all in. Eventually, I climbed the steps to my seat in row 26. The woman to my left has had the same seat for 30 years. She found it hard to believe that I started my day in Fort Worth, Texas without a ticket to the game. The gentleman to my right lives in Houston and flies into Tuscaloosa for every game. He was the one who sold the ticket to me via StubHub. I thanked him repeatedly. They—and everyone surrounding us, were nice people to spend the evening with.
I had multiple motivations for attending. Lifelong sports fan. Lifelong sports venue fan. Lifelong college football fan. I have an abnormal affection for sports uniforms, logos, helmets. Alabama sports a classic look. LSU’s uniforms have always been on my short list of favorites. As I surveyed the stadium, the phrase “color and pageantry” reverberated through my head, as did the voices of Bill Fleming, Dick Enberg, Curt Gowdy, Chris Schenkel, Verne Lundquist and Keith Jackson as I thought back to the days of my youth, watching games—sometimes on black and white televisions, thinking “I’ll be there someday.”
November 6, 2021 would be one of those somedays.
When the game started, every expectation on the field below me was met. In the stadium surrounding me, every expectation was blown away. I grew up in an era where breaks in the action were occupied with buying beer and hot dogs or rushing to and from the rest room. Somewhere along the way, scoreboards started telling us when to cheer. Then the next bad decision: injection of music into every break in the action. Listening to “Eye of the Tiger” over the same loudspeakers once used to announce Mickey Mantle was stepping up to the plate just didn’t work. Some people liked it. Not me. I prefer organ music, or various renditions of the stadium orchestra playing “In Heaven There is No Beer.” I was most definitely in the “get off my lawn” crowd.
I once stood twenty rows from the ice at Met Center in Bloomington in the late 80s watching the warmups between the North Stars and Montreal Canadiens when “Eminence Front” blared from the speakers. I seem to recall tapping my toes a few times as I said “this is The Who’s best song” to my buddy. The woman in front of us turned around and nodded in agreement. This was followed by Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean.” The “Let’s Liven Up Sports Venue Atmosphere” marketing folks were coming after me. Thirty years later, I remember the sequence of those two songs at a sporting event. It made an impression.
The curmudgeon was softening.
Begrudgingly, I admit that I’ve had fun with the “Sweet Caroline” experience at Fenway and would love to experience “Jump Around” at Camp Randall, or Seven Nation Army at Happy Valley. The in-game entertainment has evolved, much of it—such as the Kiss Cam or showing people dancing to the music can be fun.
Nothing prepared me for what I’d experience on this night. The hours-long party outside the stadium didn’t stop, it just migrated to an assigned seating format inside. 100,000 people would soon sing along to every song, knowing exactly when to yell “Beat Auburn” at the right moment. Nevermind that Auburn was playing at Texas A&M on this night. Throwing shade—as the youngsters now say, at their arch-rival is architected into every ‘Bama game.
During the second half, a simple thought occurred to me: “This is what decades of winning looks and feels like.”
This wasn’t just a football game against LSU. This environment was the culmination of decades of winning. It felt as much like a concert as a football game. Fans enter the stadium knowing they have an integral role to play. The players play. During TV timeouts, the cheerleaders, “game operations” crew and yes, the fans, take over. Your eyes and ears never rest. It wasn’t sensory overload—it was sensory precision.
I’ve never experienced anything like it.
Was it “just me?” Ironically, a friend of mine from the same small town in Minnesota was on the opposite side of the stadium. What were the chances of two people from the same small town in northern Minnesota attending this game in Alabama? Kim Klein Burke was escorting her daughter on a college visit. Her daughter recently made her decision.
Yep. Alabama.
I’d have made the same decision.
ESPN sent their top broadcast team—Kirk Herbstreit and Chris Fowler to cover the game. They’ve covered football games at every top venue in the country and were assigned to the National Championship game in January featuring Alabama and Georgia. Following a commercial break early in the fourth quarter of the LSU/Alabama game, they had the following exchange:
Chris Fowler: “I bet they can hear this music in the blimp. Goodyear providing aerial coverage. They did not buy cheap speakers.”
Kirk Herbstreit: “Game Ops has never been a bigger deal in college football and in sports than right now. If you’re looking to visit, come visit this stadium, and come listen to a seminar on game ops. They’ve got it figured out here.”
Fowler: “They make the experience fun for the fans. A lot of times, you kind of rely on the brand, but these days you have to put on a show.
Herbstreit: “The TV breaks are as exciting as the game.”
I moved away from Minnesota 26 years ago. Denver first, now Dallas. Not once have I developed the slightest interest in shifting my sporting allegiance to a team from Colorado or Texas. I’m not sure if it was “Mr. Brightside” by The Killers or the Alabama marching band playing Green Day’s “Basket Case,” but by 10 pm on November 6, I was ready to get a Nick Saban tattoo—location to be determined. Neither “Sweet Home Alabama” nor “Dixieland Delight” have ever been musical favorites. Now, I want both songs played at my funeral.
I’ve attended hundreds of sporting events. This experience is unrivaled.
Roll Tide.
Game Night in Tuscaloosa
HOUR 29: Spring Ahead and Fall Back
While I was sleeping, our clocks would fall back an hour while my age sprung forward another year. I’d be ringing in my 61st new year, at the Studio 6—an upgraded Motel 6 in Meridian, Mississippi. Not exactly the Waldorf Astoria but it served its purpose just fine.
HOUR 36: Highway 19 – Meridian to Philadelphia, Mississippi
Two paved lanes thru rolling hills led to me to “11191 Road 747.” I pulled over, parked on the grass, then walked up the slope towards the church. Maybe it’s just my imagination but some places retain a “something significant happened here” vibe. As if the wind, grass and trees bore witness and remain vigilant against a recurrence. As if the molecules of the place now flow at a different pace—a slower, heavier pace. From the moment I arrived, this felt like such a place.
Meanwhile, gravel crackled under car tires as churchgoers pulled into in the same weather-worn parking spaces once occupied by their elders, some now laid to rest in the adjacent cemetery. Families adorned in their Sunday best walked peacefully to the front door and beyond. It never crossed my mind to follow. I hadn’t earned the right to hear the inspirational words of the day. I wouldn’t be inside, filling the basket with a donation. My offering was my presence outside, a nod of the head to those with whom I made eye contact—an unspoken acknowledgment of my support—a message that some still remember—that some still care. Hopefully, that’s worth something.
There was a time when I, a white man, was probably not welcome here. Perhaps I’m wrong. This humble church felt like a place where the best of religion is found—where fellowship and forgiveness are integral. This felt like sacred ground.
In June of 1964, three others drove the same road from Meridian to 11191 Road 747—the site of the Mount Zion United Methodist Church. Their names were James Chaney, Michael Schwerner and Andrew Goodman. They were here to explore the possibility of establishing a “Freedom School” within the church. According to www.civilrightsteaching.org, Freedom Schools were “part of a long line of efforts to liberate people from oppression using the tool of popular education, including secret schools in the 18th and 19th centuries for enslaved Africans; labor schools during the early 20th century; and the Citizenship Schools formed by Septima Clark and others in the 1950s.”
Education and the right for a citizen to cast a vote.
Simple concepts.
But not for the local asinine Ku Klux Klan. Threatened by schoolbooks and ballots, they burned the church to the ground. After hearing the news, Chaney, Schwerner and Goodman returned to the site. Two months later, their bodies of were found, buried in the mud. They had been murdered on June 21, 1964 during their drive back to Meridian from the church site.
The church was rebuilt. The congregation carries on. The lives of the Freedom Summer workers are not forgotten.
As was leaving, I pulled over onto the shoulder to verify the address of my next destination. A gentleman pulled alongside in his pickup to ask if he could help. Our skin tones were different, He looked significantly older than me. He spoke with an accent different from my Canadian-influenced adaptation of English.
Our initial differences didn’t impede the friendly, fun conversation which ensued. Five minutes from beginning to end.
One person offered an unwarranted dose of kindness to another. I’m thankful to have been the one to receive it.
I’ll forget much of what I experienced on this trip. I won’t forget him.
High School Field of Marcus Dupree: Philadelphia, Mississippi
High school athletes don’t often have streets named after them. When they do, it’s typically solely due to their on-field successes. When I turned onto “Marcus Dupree Drive #22,” I knew there was more to Dupree’s story than the fact he had broken the all-time touchdown record previously owned by a guy named Herschel Walker.
Dupree’s first high school game was on September 8, 1978—the same night as the opening game of my senior year in Two Harbors. He scored his first touchdown the first time he ever touched the ball. College scouts descended on this field for the next four years to watch him play. Perhaps they were too busy watching Marcus to trek to Minnesota to watch me. That’s what I’m going with.
If I visit a sports venue on a non-gameday, finding an open gate is the key to exploration. No fences to scale or unlocked doors to find. I parked beside a few school buses, then stepped onto the field. I walked from one end zone to the other, on the same grass yet at a much slower pace than Dupree had 40 years earlier. I felt like a little boy when I crossed the goal line. Nobody cheered from the bleachers but in my mind they did.
I took a picture of the scoreboard, then turned and noticed someone walking towards me. I was in the north end zone, he was in the south. I momentarily thought about pretending to be Marcus: feigning the catch of the opening kickoff, tucking the imaginary ball between by right elbow and rib cage, then dodging and weaving towards the stranger to see if he’d play along. Like two pups at the dog park. Recollections that my peak athleticism began declining when Jimmy Carter was President prompted me to approach this stranger with a handshake instead of a stiff arm.
Compelled to explain the reason for my trespassing to my new acquaintance, I explained my fascination with Marcus and football fields. Eight billion people live on planet Earth. A recent Twitter search resulted in only one other person with my same obsession with high school football fields. Two people among eight billion. It’s a lonely hobby. His handle on Twitter is “@sykotyk” – a fitting name for both of us.
The gentleman I visited with works for the local school district. He probably thought I was a bit goofy, but he was welcoming, and I enjoyed our visit.
Marcus Dupree was born three weeks before the Freedom Summer murders. One of his teammates and childhood friends was Cecil Price Jr. In October of 1967, his dad, Cecil Price Sr, was found guilty of “conspiracy” in the murders of Chaney, Schwerner and Goodman. He was sentenced to a paltry six years in prison. He was released in less than five from the Sandstone Federal Penitentiary in Sandstone, Minnesota—92 miles from my hometown. Price returned to Philadelphia where he was a big fan of Marcus and likely attended every one of his—and his son’s, games at this football field.
Marcus was must-see-TV during his year with the Oklahoma Sooners. His must-see story has been preserved forever in the ESPN “30 for 30” documentary titled, “The Best That Never Was.”
Never was? His career was cut short by a knee injury. During the documentary, journalist Billy Watkins shared the following thoughts of the Dupree era: “It was amazing to go there on Friday nights and to see the stands. Black people. White people. Sitting together, cheering a team. 15 years before that, that would have been so foreign to think that could happen.”
Some might view Dupree’s football career as a failure. Not me. Dupree not only carried a football, he carried the town of Philadelphia forward with him. He gave new identity to Philadelphia. It seems he came along at the right time, in the right place to help a town heal. In that sense, he accomplished more than most of us ever will.
I didn’t plan to go to Philadelphia, Mississippi but I might plan to revisit: perhaps on a Friday night in October, followed by a Saturday in Tuscaloosa.
HOUR 41: West to Texas
There are few things I enjoy more than driving a road I’ve never previously traveled. Today’s detour to Philadelphia would give me another line to draw on the wall map back home. The Natchez Trace Parkway provided beautiful scenery and time for peaceful reflection.
How could the events April of 1964 have happened in the friendly town I just visited?
The audiobook keeping me company on this trip was the Pulitzer Prize winning, “Devil in the Grove: Thurgood Marshall, the Groveland Boys and the Dawn of a New America.” This book wasn’t about the Freedom Summer Murders. It was about a lesser-known series of atrocities against blacks in central Florida, 25 years before Freedom Summer. If you ever feel the need to get pissed-off, listen to—or read, this book.
During and since the trip, I’ve been thinking a lot about racial issues. Truth be told, I’ve been thinking about it for many years.
Who hasn’t?
I once emailed the Obama White House with a plan. They replied with encouragement, but I, regretfully, didn’t follow thru. I was concerned about security and legalities. Since then, I’ve had grand ambitions of writing stories, writing books, creating and sharing videos.
On each occasion, I conclude, “Who the hell am I? I’m just one person. How arrogant and/or stupid must I be to think that I can make a dent in this problem?”
Governments haven’t solved the problem. Religions? No. Society? Nope. Our educational system? Nope.
Progress? Certainly. But why has this been so hard to resolve?
I drove the backroads of Mississippi, then across Louisiana brainstorming for solutions to race relations. Two lanes of pavement and two-bit ideas. Simplistic ideas to solve complex problems bounced around in my head.
The black guy in the truck helped me–a white guy. We brightened each other’s day. It seemed easy. This problem shouldn’t be so difficult to solve.
If only it were that simple. This problem is complicated. I reminded myself to avoid trivializing our history.
It occurred to me that racism is a symptom of something even bigger. Racism is based on differences of skin color. As if white people only have problems with non-whites. Has anyone attended a recent potluck social hosted by the local “Progressives and Conservatives For Unity Club?” The local chapter seems to have plenty of seats still available.
We gravitate to the side of the story we like while discounting the side which makes us uncomfortable.
Perhaps shouting and demonizing isn’t conducive to listening and understanding. Perhaps it’s also a problem when every campaign speech from our political clowns includes the word “fight.” Maybe words like respect, collaborate, compromise and phrases like “common ground,” “mutually beneficial,” “shared interests” would set a better tone for solving our problems.
We are living amid a humanity problem. We have people in this country attacking Asians because Covid started in China. How dumb can we be? Ironically, in a non-racial sense, we’ve built a black-and-white world. I’m right, you’re wrong. We’re right, they’re wrong. No nuanced gray area.
These thoughts escorted me amid the beauty of Natchez Trace Parkway. On my next road trip, perhaps I’ll consider solutions to the humanity problem amid the beauty of the Pacific Coast Highway.
Wish me luck.
Better yet, wish all of us luck.
Mississippi Cotton Field
Two gentlemen had gone out of their way to visit with me in Philadelphia—one near the Mount Zion Methodist church, the other on the football field. Two friendly conversations among strangers. Two acts of kindness that stay with me. Two separate black men visiting with this old white guy. Part of me knows that their skin color shouldn’t be notable—it really shouldn’t.
Then you turn on the news and realize it still is. Lost in the nightly news is the fact that there are countless wonderful people of all races/ethnicities in this world–most of whom get along just fine. Telling those stories is of little interest to our “news” networks.
One person at a time. One act of kindness, one handshake, one story shared, one small barrier broken. Repeat.
Repeat eight billion times.
Then again. And again. And again.
I know. Too simplistic.
It’s one of the few things we can all do.
Be kind.
I thought back to those two boys outside Bryant-Denny stadium, pretending they were Bryce and Jameson. That is, Bryce Young—recent winner of the Heisman Trophy and Jameson Williams, a likely first round NFL draft pick in April. Two young white boys wishing they were two young black men. During my lifetime, there was a time when this selection of role models wasn’t so likely. It occurred to me that those two boys had not yet been exposed to messaging of ignorance and hate. Didn’t take long for my brain to auto-correct itself: of course, they’d been exposed–they just didn’t accept the nonsense. I’m guessing their parents raised them properly.
Amid my advancing age and a pandemic, I no longer take my time here on Earth for granted. Every day is a good day. The 48 hours beginning at 7 pm, November 5, 2021 were as good as it gets for someone who loves road trips, sports and history.
It took two minutes to pack for this trip. It’s taken two months to unpack.
Thank you for reading. Next time you have the chance, say hi to a stranger who doesn’t look like you.
I’ll be Bryce, you be Jameson.
Updating the Road Trip Map
Natchez Trace Parkway and Cypress Swamp
More Pictures of the University of Alabama
Football Field in Philadelphia, Mississippi
Shared an Idea, Then I Didn't Act
Tom….this is so very, very good. Two Harbors own Stuart Stevens. Wow.
Beautiful, Tom!
An epic trip, Tom! Thank you for sharing so beautifully what’s on your mind and in your heart.
Love the road trips, and envious. Next time we are going through Alabama definitely stopping in Tuscaloosa. Roll Tide!
Excellent work as always Tom! I loved how you interspersed video clips, especially the 15 minutes of game coverage and the clips of Marcus Dupree. Pretty cool how they did the wave with lights at the game. I also liked looking at your travel map, have you tracked your miles? 🙂