What makes you a patriot?

Scott Lincicome:

We’ve all been there. You’re suddenly the middle of nowhere with an empty gas tank or full bladder, seriously regretting you bypassed that fancy interstate rest-stop 40 miles ago. You’re filled with hope when you see a gas station sign on the horizon, but that hope turns to concern as you approach the ramshackle building and its two rusty gas pumps (which, of course, don’t take credit cards). These places – and, for you ladies, their toilet seats – might fill you with dread or disgust, but for me they’re each a great, messy, unique monument to America’s car culture, small town values and the quirkiness of free market capitalism.

Each roadside oasis is different – some clean, most dirty, some empty like the mill towns they once supported, others bustling with country life and filled with tchotchkes and pork rinds – so, so many kinds of pork rinds. On one recent trip through Virginia, a simple, Spartan edifice belied a sprawling country store chock-full of taxidermy and cammo-clad good ol’ boys eating homemade fried chicken at the lunch counter. (But never mind that restroom. Yikes.) Then there’s my normal pitstop off I-85 that, for some unknown reason, has a huge selection of 80s cartoon hand-puppets (my daughter’s collection now stands at three – a chef, cop and soldier). And while each place is different, a few things are the same: you’re always welcome, always helped, and always, always, called “honey.”