Bailey, didn't like to arrive at a
motel with a cat.
She sat in the middle of the
back seat with John Wesley
and June Star on either side of
her. Bailey and the children's
mother and the baby sat in
front and they left Atlanta at
eight forty-five with the
mileage on the car at 55890.
The grandmother wrote this
down because she thought it
would be interesting to say
how many miles they had been
when they got back. It took
them twenty minutes to reach
the outskirts of the city.
The old lady settled herself
comfortably, removing her
white cotton gloves and putting
them up with her purse on the
shelf in front of the back
window. The children's mother
still had on slacks and still had
her head tied up in a green
kerchief, but the grandmother
had on a navy blue straw sailor
hat with a bunch of white
violets on the brim and a navy
blue dress with a small white
dot in the print. Her collars and
cuffs were white organdy
trimmed with lace and at her
neckline she had pinned a
purple spray of cloth violets
containing a sachet. In case of
an accident, anyone seeing her
dead on the highway would
know at once that she was a
lady.
She said she thought it was
going to be a good day for
driving, neither too hot nor too
cold, and she cautioned Bailey
that the speed limit was fiftyfive miles an hour and that the
patrolmen hid themselves
behind billboards and small
clumps of trees and sped out
after you before you had a
chance to slow down. She
pointed out interesting details
of the scenery: Stone
Mountain; the blue granite that
in some places came up to both
sides of the highway; the
brilliant red clay banks slightly
streaked with purple; and the
various crops that made rows
of green lace-work on the
ground. The trees were full of
silver-white sunlight and the
meanest of them sparkled. The
JOY FEELINGS | DECEMBER ISSUE
231