February 15, 2009
As a child in the sixties, your father would drive the old roads on vacation or trips. There were no interstates to speak of. On those trips to Atlanta or Athens or Birmingham you would stare out the station wagon window to endless miles of dirt poor folk and scrub oak and slash pine and sentinel chimneys, the houses long since burned, leavened by the occasional town or hamlet, and, most importantly, the Goat Man. Walking with a beaten wagon pulled by a team of six or eight goats, the wagon overfilled with garbage variety tinware and kettles, the Goat Man was not just a curiosity, he was a vision, a freaking vision, to a child.
Posted by Vanderleun at February 15, 2009 11:05 AM. This is an entry on the sideblog of American Digest: Check it out.