"Alma Jean," I said. "I've changed my mind. I don't want to go to Nashville so you can become a country/western singer. I'm hungry and it's Thursday."

She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head to the side. "So, what's that got to do with anything?"

"Duh," I said, "Mama fixes fried chicken on Thursdays and I'm a right fool for fried chicken."

She stooped down, picked up a rusty spike, squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed the spike like it was Aladdin's Lamp. Without looking at me, she said, "I wish I could eat fried chicken tonight."

I said, "Well then, let's get out of here."

Convinced that finding the railroad spike was a sign from God, she began to hang around the tracks looking for all kinds of discarded stuff. As Alma Jean grew, so did her odd collections.

For a few years, she focused on finding things nobody else could possibly want. One time she bragged about owning the world's largest collection of R.C. Cola bottle caps. Then one day she evolved. She went from caps to bottles.

"I've got the most amazing new thing for my collection," she told me. "It's a Coke bottle that Fats Domino's second cousin drank out of. Huh! How special is that?"

Last week she called me on her cell to say she was going to a big antique show in Atlanta. I was flabbergasted. What Alma Jean knows about antiques wouldn't fill up one of those bottle caps of hers. "What will you be looking for," I asked.

"Why, Elvis stuff, of course. I've always been a fool for The King."

"Alma Jean, I've never even heard you mention his name."

"Duh," she sputtered. "I don't have to tell you everything. FYI, I have fifty-five documented Skippy Peanut Butter jars that came straight out of Graceland."

"Alma Jean, fess up. Are you doing drugs?" I pictured her pupils the size of Krispy Kreme donuts.

"Oh, pooh, I don't do drugs, but get this: four of those empty jars had little bits of peanut butter still stuck to the sides. Huh! How priceless is that?"

Alma Jean has collected a lot of loopy things, but getting jiggy over peanut butter stuck to the side of Skippy jars says she's scrambling toward Cuckooville.

"I'm hoping to buy me a Big Mac box at the antique show."

"News flash, girlfriend. Go to any McDonald's, smile real big and shell out a coupla dollars, they'll give you a box and even put a burger in it."

She gave me a look. "But it wouldn't be a box with Elvis's fingerprints all over it. I want one that once held a cheeseburger eaten by Elvis himself. If I had me one of them, I could die happy. FYI, a Coke bottle what The King drank out of sold last week on EBay for five thousand dollars."

I so wish I could get a good look at those pupils of hers. "I don't think you should count on finding a Big Mac box at an Atlanta antique show, Alma Jean. They like have more high-end stuff at those events."

"Then I'll just have to look for Skippy jars. If I can't find any of those, it's NBD. I know one will turn up on EBay OOTD."

"Do you absolutely have to use that teenage spell-speak you picked up from your granddaughter? I'm a full grown adult and I can understand full grown words, so speak real English please and I’ll try to think that you've got a lick of sense."

She sighed heavily. "You need to get over yourself, girlfriend. Learn how to adapt. That's what I did."

"Yeah, right. Until I do, if you happen to run across some documented KFC crumbs that happened to drop off a drumstick on the way to Colonel Sanders' mouth, you be sure to pick some up for me, ASAP, OK? You know I've always been a fool for fried chicken."