It's Dana's birthday. I'm now the proud mother of two great teenagers. She's trying to decide what to do for her birthday dinner -- either go to a restaurant and order a big hot fudge sundae for her supper, or get Wendy's. Up to her.

Dotsie, I'm so glad to hear you're son's having a great time so far. I've been meaning to ask whether you'd heard from him. Rome is a magnificent city. But the weak dollar is surely making Europe much pricier than it's been in the past. I remember when the Euro was about 80 cents. Now it's about a buck and a quarter.

Before I run off to either Wendy's or ice cream heaven, I wanted to share this book excerpt with JJ. It's about southern hospitality and the kindness of strangers. I'll never forget these two guys. We're in Mississippi:
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When we got to Natchez, we sized it up as a good place to fish, and we drove to Bailey Park early one morning so Adam could spend some quality river time before the day’s high heat and humidity set in. He looked under the seat for his rod and tackle box. “Where are they, mom? I gave them to you to hold.”

So he did, back in Vicksburg, where I’d laid them down to take a picture. I felt worse than bad. Adam had been looking forward to this. Up in town, there was a K-Mart next to the Natchez Market, where the day before we’d spent a few fun minutes watching red plastic shopping carts roll through the downhill-sloping parking lot and bump into shoppers’ cars. I told Adam I’d replace his equipment as soon as K-Mart opened. But that was over an hour away, and I had ruined this perfect fishing morning. Adam was decent about not rubbing it in, but did utilize his keen eye for opportunity: “Since I’m so devastated, can I have a root beer for breakfast?”

Two men in a pickup backed down the cement boat ramp pushing a Bass Tracker. “How you doin’ today?” asked the driver.

I pointed at Adam, sucking down his 7 a.m. root beer. “Well, right now we’re trying to get over the fact that mom left his fishing rod in a park back in Vicksburg.”

John and Mac immediately became everything good about Mississippi that we needed to know. Our chance meeting meant they couldn’t solve the rod problem (“If I’d a known these kids was gonna be here, we’d a brought some rods – Mac’s got about ten,” sighed John), but they found other ways to show the kids a fine Mississippi River time.

They hoisted Adam and Dana into the bass boat and opened coolers holding yesterday’s catch. Three catfish, a whiskered one and two flatheads, each about six pounds, sat on ice. They looked huge to me, but Mac dismissed them as small, unprofitable fry he hoped he’d be able to sell. “The best eatin’ catfish are about eight to nine pounds.” Size matters in catfish. “Caught a 76-pounder once. Too big. Bad eatin’. Too much fat. Nobody’d buy it.”

Mac told of the “evidence” of a 110-pounder capable of turning the who-eats-whom tables. “River’s got stories.” He pointed to a spot in the river. “Right out there. Eat a man whole.” As Adam listened to the fish tales, I imagined him wanting to get to K-Mart as soon as possible to retool so he could reel in one of these leviathans. He probably also fantasized that I’d empty the Thule and fill it with ice, so we could haul the thing around for a while.

Mac did most of the talking while John got ready to launch. He was going to cross to Vidalia on the Louisiana side to check some catfish lines he’d sunk near a spot where a new hotel was going up. He offered to take us along for the ride. It was tempting to go out on the Father of Waters and watch a Natchez fisherman at work.

But I couldn’t. While intuition sounded the all clear, I needed to err on the side of too much caution when it came to decisions about safety or vulnerability. Keeping my guard up wasn’t something I could compromise on this trip, even if it meant missing some experiences. I had a fitting, but truthful excuse.

“Thank you, but I’m afraid of the water.” Mac, either sharp, sympathetic, or both, said he understood my fear. “So’s John’s girlfriend. She won’t get in the boat.” Then he added, “This river’s taken a lot of my friends.”

But he loved it. “I been on every inch of her. I’ve camped on all these sandbars, me and my wife. We got a generator and TV.”

The signature steel bridge that connects Natchez with Vidalia began to shimmer with heat as the sun assumed its position over the Mississippi. Mac and John told us that about four years back, the water level was so low you could stand on the bridge and look down on a pile of cars and trucks, dumped into the river when a barge hit the bridge in 1945.

By now, John had an overdue date with some catfish lines, and K-Mart was open and ready to sell us new fishing gear. We shook hands. John looked at Adam. “Take care of your mama.”

We felt happy as we drove away. The whole day and the whole country were ahead, and everything we’d left behind was good. “Just think, Adam. Some kid in Vicksburg is catching catfish right now.” Adam smiled. “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.”

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(Dana just decided. It's Wendy's.)