We took a long Sunday ride yesterday, kind of like I did regularly with my maternal grandmother ages ago on the red-clay roads of southwest Georgia.
But there are no pyramids in Georgia. And no red-clay roads here.
Along yesterday’s ride we passed the pyramids where I proposed, down on my knee as one should, to my child bride over a decade back. We had not been there in years even though they are only about 15 miles from home.
This is a prehistoric structure built by the natives in these parts, whom you might call Indians above the border, but these were not horse-mounted people who lived in teepees with bows and arrows to hunt buffalo.
They abound today, and you know them by the colorful pleated skirts of the women. The men look just like everybody else. And they speak their own tongue.
I got down on my knee that day, like in the movies, and proposed in the V between the two structures. She said yes, and things have gone great ever since.
We should visit more often. It’s a place of good fortune.