Crossing the Mason-Dixon line

Sam crossed the Mason-Dixon line on Sunday, July 23, shortly after breakfast. A pale, warm sun was just beginning to drizzle over fluffy Kentucky fields. I was eating a cheese McBiscuit. Danny was driving. Sam, who is disgustingly happy in the mornings, was in his car seat sucking four fingers at once and making loud smacky noises. And then it happened: the Ohio River Valley spilled away before us like a giant bowl filled with the jumbled granola of Cincinnati. Factories that would have been dingy in another slant of light, now looked like sugary golden-brown crumbles on coffee cake, and the river like a sunny smear of apple jelly. Barges of coal slid, both stately and grimy, beneath towering steel bridges. The murky water puckered and burped in their wakes. As we drove above river, I explained to Sam the significance of the crossing. He shouted, “Ga!” and then smeared his drooly fingers across the window until it looked like a herd of slugs had traveled there.