We’ll be headed home soon. Putting the hometown of Randy, Teddy, and Jeff in the rearview mirror. Leaving 66° mornings for good old 98% humidity.

Today we were like regular tourists rather than rabid yard sale junkies. For days I’ve been wandering aimlessly among tables and tarps of stuff. Certain that the yards we passed up held the perfect whatcha-ma-callit.

I’m pretty sure we logged 142 miles by truck and 1,356,878 steps by foot. We even went to a few sales twice just to make sure we didn’t miss anything.

If you need clothes, there are enough here to stock every thrift store east of the Mississippi. If you need dishes and uglier-than-sin tableware, this is the place they all go to retire and finish out their useless lives.

The thing that got me? The metric tons of tools for sale.

I’ve never seen so many tubs and mixed up piles of wrenches. Box wrenches. Off-set wrenches. Pipe wrenches. Vise grips of every size and shape.

Rusty wrenches. Old broken wrenches. Homemade wrenches. Tru-tempered ones. Forged ones. Standard and metric ones. Wrenches that came in sets. Wrenches that had been welded back together.

I have the offset box wrenches that belonged to my dad. They used to hang on nails above his workbench inside the old smokehouse behind the house.

They now reside in one of my toolboxes at home. I love using them.

The 1/2“ one is missing. But not any more. I found a match in a tub under a tent on the side of highway 89.

I got to thinking about all the tools ever made. All the folks who buy them. Cheap ones and good ones.

I’ve often walked through the tool section at the hardware store and wondered how many tools do we humans need on this earth. If a man buys a good wrench set and takes care of it, it should last him a lifetime.

And maybe that’s it. A man doesn’t live forever. He moves on to that workshop in the sky. His tools end up in a box at the World’s Longest Yard Sale.

I am glad today for a different agenda. My treasure bag is full enough.

Sunday morning. The air is cool. After breakfast, we ride toward DeSoto Falls.

The winding road is shaded by hickory, oak, poplar, and sourwood. At 30mph we saunter beneath the cathedral ceiling of green. No rush. No schedule.

The windows are down. The mood is peaceful.

I am half singing, half humming the melody of How Great Thou Art. It’s odd for me not to be in a regular church service on a Sunday. Still I am mindful of Him.

The water is low on the west fork of the Little River this time of year. But we can still hear the rumble of the falls before we make it down the trail to where the cascade comes into view.

Sitting on the rocks in front of the massive granite face that surrounds the falls, the four of us speak of awe and wonder and faith. It was like church of another kind.

Marion and I went by the lodge for the buffet of fried chicken and peach cobbler. We’ve cooked every meal on this trip, but this time we decided to give the griddle a rest.

By early afternoon we made our way down the mountain into town. Home to Alabama, the award winning band, not the state.

There’s a museum here that houses much of the memorabilia from their career. Three small town cousins who made a lot of music history.

They had 12 drummers in 49 years of playing music together. 43 number one hits. Hard days in a 1970 Dodge van traveling to Myrtle Beach. More CMA trophies than you can shake a stick at.

The T shirts are $37.50.

By 4pm we’re back at the camper. I pretended to read while napping.

New campers are moving in for the week. With that comes kids on bicycles.

A brother and sister are pedaling toward us. He’s maybe 10. She’s got training wheels. The curve is too fast and she darts off the asphalt through the grass.

From our lounge chairs there doesn’t appear to be any blood. She’s crying. Brother is fussing at her to get back on her bike.

The spirit moves Marion. She goes inside the camper, gets a wet paper towel, and heads off toward the two victims.

I am just the male observer. I can tell there’s conversation but can’t hear it. The crying stops. The two pedal off.

“Everybody okay?”

“She’s fine. She’s also 4, her birthday is December 16th, her camper is blue and white, and she’s taking swimming lessons.”

“Uh huh.”

“That girl can talk.”

Camping life is all about making friends and doing new things. It’s been a great trip. But we’re both ready to pull up stakes tomorrow.

Thanks to all the yard sale folks. Thanks to Kent and Dale who camped with us. Thanks to the fine people of Fort Payne.

And thanks to Alabama.

But my home is in Georgia.