It's time to migrate

With the ice closing in on the rivers and lakes up here in the Drizzle Creek District, it about time to either go into hibernation or migrate. My wife, the Pearl of the Orient, says since I’m a grumpy old bear and have a pretty good roll of fat around my middle, hibernation would probably be my best bet. But on the other hand, she needs someone to chauffeur her south so migration is the better option.
With that decision behind us, I have been working on my driving skills so I’ll fit in with the standard mix of drivers in the Deep South. You’d think the rules of the road would be universal, but they’re not. Once that salt air off the Gulf hits you, your brain as well as the finish on your car begins to rot at an increased rate. Here’s the scenario.
For the first five hundred miles the status quo continues. You use your signal lights, drive in the proper lane, and keep a sensible speed of fifteen mph (no km here... we’re in the U.S.-) over the speed limit. This is of course, if the road and driving conditions are good and the traffic light. If it is snowing or better yet freezing drizzle, with limited visibility and bumper-to-bumper traffic, it’s pedal to the metal with one foot hovering over the brake as you watch for brake lights about ten cars ahead. The noise beside me is the Pearl, her head covered with a veil, wailing ‘Hail Mary’s’.
By the time you hit Nashville, things have mellowed out a bit. With a country music station (there are no other genres near Nashville) blaring full blast, you crack a window, and inhale deeply of the warm humid smog rising off the river. The traffic’s still heavy, so you keep the hammer down and weave from lane to lane, in a well-choreographed automotive ballet. Use of the signal lights ceased someplace north of the Tennessee line. Their only function now is to keep time to the beat of ‘I walk the line’.
Finally you hit the hill country of Alabama and Northern Florida. Off the Interstate now, you search behind every clump of brush and tree for stop signs and reduced speed limits. You can bet Sheriff Buford T. Belly or one of his deputies will be on the hunt to bolster the county’s pension fund. If stopped you’ll need a translator, as even Jeff Foxsworthy couldn’t understand the redneck dialect spoken in these parts
As the coast comes into sight, your worries evaporate. Back amongst your own kind, you only have to watch out for the occasional ‘rebel’ plate. All the rest are from Ontario or Michigan. But remember, dawdle in the passing lane and don’t use your signal lights- that would only confuse the issue.
Back in Drizzle Creek at the Bakery, the winter will pass, as it should. Lies at the debating table will be of the most profound nature. Pickle finally managed the bag a deer. A month after the fact, it has gained 100 lbs and 10 points. His neighbour Dot will have her hands full all winter making sure he minds his ‘p and qs’. The Runt will keep the long john population in the pastry shelf under control. Dr. Goodwrench will continue to evade meaningful employment. Tiny Tookalook will be patrolling the side streets and back alleys. Watch for the footprints under your window.
The only one missing other than yours truly will be Moose. He’s off to Ottawa to advise Stephen Heartless and Jim Flabbergast on how to make friends and influence people.
If you’re down at the Beach, make sure you drop around for a visit. You know the address, right? Otherwise see you in the spring.