Biscuits and Gravy

It’s morning at a Davy Crockett Truck Stop. I’m waiting for my biscuits and gravy as the Tennessee sun forces its way through the window. It is already beginning to warm up and I notice that I, with my denim jacket, am the only one in the place wearing long sleeves. Fake wood, linoleum tile and naugahyde lend creedence to the sign out front proclaiming the 30th anniversary of this noble establishment. It could still be 1976 in here. A woman with tattoos on her wrist meditates over a cigarette at the next table and the smoke fits the scene the way that wood smoke fits a log cabin in the woods. From here I can see the interstate with its endless flow of traffic rolling south toward Knoxville. This is blue jean America, the land of baseball caps and work boots, plaid shirts and pickup trucks. My breakfast arrives lukewarm, the eggs dried out. The coffee is strong. The thick southern gravy is comforting.

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