live. work. dream.

René has always had a hard time lighting the pilot for our Maytag RV oven. I never had a problem, so I always gave her a hard time in return.

Then one day I couldn’t get it to light.

After far too many times of kneeling before the Magic Chef, praying that it would light, we decided to call for service since it was still under warranty. But not before I dissected and reassembled the pilot assembly and combed the owner’s manual for assistance. There was none.

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I started out this trip behaving like a spoiled little West Coast snot, like a character out of that famous New Yorker drawing that shows a map of the U.S., with the Left Coast and the East Coast, and nothing in the middle. How wrong that is, and what an ignorant turd I was for falling for it.

The middle of this country has the nicest, most down to earth people we’ve met, and some of the most creative. And since arriving in the South, we’ve witnessed more talent, and met more artistic individuals here than anywhere else. Maybe it’s because they’re at arm’s reach here, whereas on the coasts, the artists and musicians I’ve met have gigantic egos, stick to their own kind and don’t make an effort to blend in with the masses, unless it’s to try to make a buck.

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