Every time we set out for the great southlands of these United States, this song plays in my mind. On infinite repeat. Oddly, though, it’s not particularly apropos. First, we shan’t be traveling by rail. If such service did exist between our home and destination, we’d certainly use it (hello, Amtrak); but it doesn’t. Drat. Second, we’re not heading for Georgia, but it’s neighbor to the west, Alabama. Last, though we often feel emotionally and physically clobbered by the time we arrive in the Birmingham airport – much as one feels at the stroke of midnight after an evening of New York Times Sunday crossword puzzles – we actually leave at the ripe time of 7:05 in the am.
So, perhaps I should be belting out, “Leaving on that morning flight to Alabama.” Catchy? No, I think I’ll stick to the original, as my edits, though factual, aren’t particularly sonorous.
Melodious fiction clobbers dissonant truth.
Though I wonder if the two states might consider swapping names. It would only be for a short while, say eight to twelve months. Governors?
