The Sunday ride

Church in a town called Huecorio.

WHEN I WAS a kid, I often spent summers with my maternal grandmother in rural, southwest Georgia.

We had a routine on Sundays. After lunch, the two of us would get into the old Ford with me driving. I may not even have had a license at that time. I was 14 or 15.

We’d head down the red-clay road about half a mile to her sister’s place. We called her Bubba. Bubba would get into the backseat with her cigarettes and Coca-Cola, and off I would drive. Bubba likely did not weigh more then 85 pounds. She rarely ate, but she loved cigarettes and Coca-Cola.

The car was straight-stick. It had no air-conditioner, so we all had the windows open for the hot summer air. Nobody ever felt uncomfortable. We weren’t spoiled.

We’d travel through red-clay roads for miles before heading home, dropping off Bubba at her place, and parking the Ford in the wooden garage that leaned a bit. It had gray tarpaper on the exterior with a fake brick façade.

At times, my child bride and I take Sunday drives through the Mexican countryside. Instead of an old Ford, we use a 2009 Honda CR-V, a far nicer ride. It sports automatic transmission with air-conditioning and cruise control.

We are spoiled.

We did that yesterday, and I took some photos.

This house rests alone in the woods near our large lake. It’s been abandoned since I moved here almost 19 years ago. It’s probably haunted.
Departing the grounds of the church in Huecorio.
Inside another church. This one is in Santa Fe de la Laguna.
The owner of this place is one fortunate S.O.B.
The entrance to the church in Santa Fe de la Laguna.

The final town we visited was Tzintzuntzan. Can you pronounce that? I did not take any photos, and we didn’t visit any churches. We did buy blue-corn gorditas on the street. We ate them while sitting on plastic stools on the sidewalk.

Then we came home.