Welcome to the Pipps Motel

Update on the research trip:
From the deep woods of the Ozarks, where I always write in peace:

Welcome to the Pipps Motel, name changed to protect the 97-year-old lady in the shuffley slippers who had to borrow my glasses to register us through the mail slot in her back door.  As per the sign on the “office” door, I’d made my way across the alley, up her broken back porch steps, slid among the barbecues, washer and dryer, stacks of old tires, rang the bell.  “Hello!” I sang out.  “I was so glad to see your motel on this road!”

Liar, liar, pants on fire.  Truth is, we’d left our econo-home in Memphis early this morning, several notebooks spread in my lap, heading north in search of the character, Easter’s, house in the Shelby Forest.  Thus I had not taken time to shower in that downtown hotel room perched on the tenth floor of a parking garage, pipes running around the room at least painted to match the walls, permanent sludge in the coffee pot.  I was looking forward to one night – tonight -- at a Marriott, lovely hot shower and lavender shampoo.

With those things still in mind, I did not tell husband that, here on the two-lane, I’d seen the sign for the off-road Pipps Motel.  But it was six-thirty and the Mercedes had a headlight out, and Ozark twists and hills were upon us.  No towns with population over 600 for over a hundred miles, so I finally admitted the sign:  Pipps Motel, back to the stoplight, left five blocks.  Consequently – I paid $38 and here we are.    Room with a twin bed and a full for me and my books and notes, bathroom two feet by four feet, its floor holed-out with cigarette burns.  Either a lot of people fell asleep on the pot, or got in, turned around and couldn’t get out.  The light switch is in the shower – one can raise a foot to shave one’s leg and never worry about falling over -- and a gas heater is pilot-lit next to husband's oxygen tank.  There is just room at the foot of my bed for him to get down on his hands and knees, crawl into the pea-sized closet and find a gas shut-off valve.  He may have to stay there.  The TV is old episodes of M*A*S*H, but they do have wireless internet.

The joys of the day were again many:  wait until you see the photos of Easter’s house – I tried not to step in the poison ivy – and we, incredibly, met up with firstborn son for dinner in Jonesboro, Ark.  Thirdly, every last living thing has fit into the book for which we are here.  And – shame on me.  Immersed for a year in the Civil Rights movement, I whine about this tiny, dark-paneled room and a few tires on the porch.  We are safe and dry -- and I’m on fire with the New Book.