Post by jokerrelentless on Jun 20, 2019 16:30:22 GMT -5
I road from northern Florida into South Carolina this past weekend. On my way back south I stopped just before the SC/GA border in a little town called Hardeeville and had lunch at a little joint called Gwen & Franny's Fried Chicken. I had the two piece (dark meat) with collard greens, macaroni & cheese, and cornbread topped off with a big cup of sweet tea (southern meal if ever there was one). Now, the chicken was good, not great, but good; Excellent crispiness but not enough seasoning for my liking. The collards were well enough with copious amounts of pork. The cornbread wasn't as good as my wife's (no cornbread ever is), but it was pretty damn good. The mac & cheese on the other hand was fantastic. If you're ever in that area, it is definitely worth the stop to feed your gut. I'll go back if ever the opportunity arises since everything was about average, and nothing was bad.
That isn't the road story though.
Shortly after ordering my food an older lady came over and asked if I would like to eat with her and her husband. I politely refused, but in true southern woman fashion she got her way as I found myself eating with them. Their names were Debby and Phillip, and they were on their way from somewhere in South Carolina back to their home around Tallahassee, Florida. They had been born and raised in the area, but Phillip spent an enlistment in the Navy which took him away. He decided he didn't like going to sea on a ship, so he switched gears and reenlisted into the Marine Corps. After that enlistment was up him and his family moved to Atlanta where they lived for many years until they decided to retire at their current residence. We ate lunch together talking about all of the aforementioned information, as well as the finer points of why Debby found motorcycles far too dangerous. After lunch, they surprised me by paying for mine, and after many thanks from me, we shook hands, wished each other safe travels and parted ways.
That STILL isn't the road story...it's much shorter.
After they had gotten in their vehicle, and I was on the phone, Debby comes back over. She had to decided that she wanted to present me with a freshly picked Georgia peach. That was incredibly nice of her. Wait...a thought came to me...what in the fuck am I going to do with this thing? I have no bags on my bike. I have no backpack or anything like that. All I had was my trusty LOBO vest. Just so y'all know; the right chest pocket is exactly the right size to fit a peach. So there I am riding a little more than 130 miles, stopping at two Harley dealerships, the Florida border, and even to get ice cream (don't judge me it was like 95 degrees Fahrenheit) with a peach in my pocket. I felt like some damn peach smuggler. I wonder if trafficking peaches is against the law in Georgia.
That isn't the road story though.
Shortly after ordering my food an older lady came over and asked if I would like to eat with her and her husband. I politely refused, but in true southern woman fashion she got her way as I found myself eating with them. Their names were Debby and Phillip, and they were on their way from somewhere in South Carolina back to their home around Tallahassee, Florida. They had been born and raised in the area, but Phillip spent an enlistment in the Navy which took him away. He decided he didn't like going to sea on a ship, so he switched gears and reenlisted into the Marine Corps. After that enlistment was up him and his family moved to Atlanta where they lived for many years until they decided to retire at their current residence. We ate lunch together talking about all of the aforementioned information, as well as the finer points of why Debby found motorcycles far too dangerous. After lunch, they surprised me by paying for mine, and after many thanks from me, we shook hands, wished each other safe travels and parted ways.
That STILL isn't the road story...it's much shorter.
After they had gotten in their vehicle, and I was on the phone, Debby comes back over. She had to decided that she wanted to present me with a freshly picked Georgia peach. That was incredibly nice of her. Wait...a thought came to me...what in the fuck am I going to do with this thing? I have no bags on my bike. I have no backpack or anything like that. All I had was my trusty LOBO vest. Just so y'all know; the right chest pocket is exactly the right size to fit a peach. So there I am riding a little more than 130 miles, stopping at two Harley dealerships, the Florida border, and even to get ice cream (don't judge me it was like 95 degrees Fahrenheit) with a peach in my pocket. I felt like some damn peach smuggler. I wonder if trafficking peaches is against the law in Georgia.
