...played as I crossed over the Missouri border. At least, I felt sure I had entered Missouri. The American Family Radio station that carried me through Northeastern Oklahoma had long since faded and the highways had letters for names instead of numbers. As a Texan, I'm deeply suspicious of borders not clearly marked with a body of water.
Getting out of Oklahoma turned out to be an awkward situation. Despite the recent advances in modern technology, the turnpike toll booths had woefully obsolete equipment. You can buy Google Glasses but you can't pay at a toll booth with a check card. The old man working that booth said he'd take care of it. Said do something nice for someone today. So when we arrived in Champaign, I carried all the heavy boxes and gave Ainers the light ones. I thought that was pretty nice of me.
Eastern Missouri doesn't have much going on besides the most beautiful wooded rolling hills I've ever seen. Like Loop 360 without all the mansions. And bigger hills. And lasting for hours instead of 15 minutes. After you cross over the Mississippi River into Illinois, the terrain flattens almost immediately. And stays flat for the rest of the drive. At least Illinois has some proper borders.
Mark Twain said:
"The river below St. Louis has been described time and again, and it is the least interesting part. One can sit on the pilot-house for a few hours and watch the low shores, the ungainly trees and the democratic buzzards, and then one might as well go to bed."
That's the part of the Mississippi we crossed. I didn't get to see much of Ol' Man River, though, occupied by maintaining a visual on the speeding Yaris weaving through traffic.
After passing several thousand acres of standing corn, we arrived home in Champaign, Illinois. Then we unloaded the truck for two hours in triple digit heat.
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