I don’t reckon I’ll ever get to do no traveling till I’m a spirit.

From A treasury of American anecdotes; sly, salty, shaggy stories of heroes and hellions, beguilers and buffoons, spellbinders and scapegoats, gagsters and gossips, from the grassroots and sidewalks of America by Benjamin Albert Botkin. 

Grandpa, who was about ninety-seven and a half on the record books, had never gone what he called “an overnight piece” from his birthplace in the Appalachian Valley, never, not even once. So, after church one Sunday, he waited to talk to the mountain preacher, and he got the Reverend to one side, and, stroking his beard thoughtfully, he said, “Parson, I don’t reckon I’ll ever get to do no traveling till I’m a spirit. But,” he said, “I’ve allus had a hankering to see a big town, and I wish you’d just mention casually to the Lord that, while I’m on my way to heaven, I’d like it powerful well if I could make a little detour down around Knoxville.”