LAST DAY OF LEAF PEEPING IN TENNESSEE

One of my brothers-in-law and I did a “leaf peeper” hike at Frozen Head State Park near Wartburg, Tennessee today. I think today was “peak day” especially since there was a heavy frost last night. So, today may have been the last day to enjoy the great colors of fall. The summer, like life, seems to end so quickly, but it sure goes out with a bang! That is my plan as well!

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LOSING MY INNOCENCE

We start out in this world trusting those around us – taking them for face value. Everyone was to be taken at their word with no second thoughts or doubts. However, there comes a day when you start to be leery of people and second guess their intentions – you start keeping an eye on them.

I was still small enough to have to sit on the padded board in the barber’s chair the day I began to mistrust adults, and two people regretted the incident for the rest of their lives.

The first visit to the barbershop in the 50’s was a “coming out” for a young man and it was a rite that only a man and his son should share. It was a dad’s way of welcoming you to his world and introducing you to his friends.

My dad proudly opened the door and let me walk into the smoky little red-bricked building first, and my face immediately began to glow hot from the attention as all eyes looked my way and seemed to dare me to enter alone. As soon as my dad appeared, smiles came to those faces, and greetings were exchanged, telling me that dad was known and welcomed there.

Little red vinyl padded chairs, with chrome curved arms and legs, lined one side of the room, separated by brown painted metal ashtray stands, folded newspapers, and stacks of Argosy and Field & Stream Magazines, while the other wall was grandly displayed with giant mirrored cabinets and shelves arrayed with strange electric devices, bottles of blue water soaking dirty combs clean, and big white haired brushes and cans of powder.

In front of the workstations were the stately padded and arrayed barber chairs with their chrome and porcelain pump handles and padded footrest. They were grand, magical things to me that rose and lowered at the barber’s command, or whirled from side-to-side as the customer was shown the barber’s experienced touch in the mirror.

My dad decided to go first, to let me relax and watch the show, and to see that there was nothing to getting a haircut. I watched and listened as the men all talked and laughed. It was all innocent enough and I could hardly wait my turn to climb on the big chair give it all a try. I listened to the clippers click on and off, the slap of the straight razors against leather straps, and the snip, snip of the shinny scissors, and the hydraulic sound the chairs made.

Finally, it came my turn and I stood waiting at the foot of the chair, one foot upon the footrest, until the “booster seat” was added across its arms. “Hop up son…you’re next!”

The barber gently put the traditional neck paper in place, then popped the white barber sheet clean of old hair and draped it around my body. The sheet, with my knees up under it, covered my entire body, and I was ready for the first real man haircut!

The barber clicked the electric clippers on and touched the warm face of the shears against the back of my neck. It felt good and I loved the hum and buzzing it made inside my skull – this was going to be good. The barber went round and around, and side-to-side, did some clipping with his scissors over his long black comb and finally completed his masterpiece on my little blond head. The final touch, so I thought, was the powdered brush across the back of my neck that made me blink and cough.

My dad walked behind me, out of view, whispered something to the barber, and then walked back in front. I should have known something was up, but remember, at that point I trusted all mankind!

I heard another louder buzz click on and thought nothing of it until the barber’s hand; complete with scalp massager touched the top of my head! Down from the chair I sprang and out the door I ran terrified! My dad chased me about a block before catching the barber sheet with me in it!

He carried me back into the barbershop where everyone, except for the barber, was still laughing. The barber looked sheepish and immediately began to apologize to me. “I’m sorry son, you’re dad put me up to it.”

I never again let that barber cut my hair. I went back to the shop for years, but I always used the second chair and kept a watchful eye on the barber when he moved away from the chair. No matter how much my dad pleaded I would not let barber number one touch me. Both the barber and my dad always regretted their little surprise, but never failed to tease me about it every trip back.

I lost my innocence that day, and three people learned valuable lessons for life – never let a stranger get behind your back and a kid never forgets or forgives!

MY “ROCKING CHAIR” DAYS

Fall has come to Mushy’s backyard, as it does each year at this time – strange how that works! As my dad always wanted to do when he retired but never really got to enjoy it, I am blessed to sit in my rocking chair drawing my “rocking chair money,” as he called it, and look out upon what God hath made. I just hope, as age continues to creep into my bones and loved ones are given up, that I will continue to see the beauty of the world through life’s pain.

The beauty of this view will never change, as life will. I just pray that my appreciation for it will always remain as unchanged.

"WE’VE GOTTA GET OUT OF THIS PLACE, IF IT'S THE LAST THING WE EVER DO"

I came across this old 35mm slide tonight, had to be the 70’s, of the Beacon Drive-In on the left and the big ESSO sign on the right during a winter snow (back when it used to snow in Tennessee). A flood of memories, smells, and tastes washed over me as I looked at this one. The Beacon was the last great drive-in restaurant in of the 50s, 60’s, and 70’s era in our area and when it went most of my teenage memories went with it.

The Beacon sat just on the west side of the bridge leading out of Harriman. I watched many drag races coming across that bridge, saw them whip off behind the Beacon to avoid police observance, and quietly slip into a parking bay, punch the speaker, and order a cherry coke and a cheeseburger with fries. It was a great meeting place for kids on a date, or a place to troll for one.

Hot-rodder’s ready to leave after refueling on the Beacon’s “basket specials” had a passenger jump out, knock off the “cut out pipe” caps, and hop back in as the big blocks roared to breathy life. The loud chugging and backfiring was a call to others that the game was on again. Usually, some contender took the queue, went through the same ritual, and brought their throaty beast to life – a new heat across the bridge was on! The challengers met at the side of road, looked up and down the highway, as the Beacon’s eaters froze in place, anticipating. Engines revved and strained against brakes until the coast looked clear. Then in a V-8 bellow they charged off in a cloud of blue rubber smoke. It was wonderful and the smell of burning rubber made a chilidog taste all the better!

As the engines went through synchronized gear changes, peaked RPM, and then backed off in distant popping and a halo of red taillights, the patrons resumed smacking and licking their lips. “Who won?” someone would shout.

Sometimes you could catch a fistfight further up behind the ordering bays, and inside a semi-circle of car headlights. Later, loser and winners broke up into small groups went somewhere to drink and brag.

Inside, the pinball machines beeped, clanged, whistled, popped, flashed, and chirped their wild sounds to cigarette smoking, gum chewing, and coke swigging boys bent on doubling their allowances. Many times I put my five-dollar allowance on the counter, ordered a cheeseburger and fries, a cheery coke, a pack of Winstons, and got the rest in nickels. If I hit the pinball, we all went across the street, played snooker, bought beer, and sat out back later laughing and talking about girls.

Of course if one of us did not hit, then we were left with deciding whether to walk home, or stand on the street, hanging off parking meters, hoping some body would pick us up, and ride us around. Riding around consisted of cruising up and down Roane Street, slow chugging (pretending your car had a cam) around the Beacon, and back down the main drag again.

It was this circle of life, the summer we graduated, that got to us. “Man! We have got to get out of this place guys. We’ll die here if we go around this damn Beacon one more time.”

So off we went the next day and three of us joined the Air Force on the “buddy system.” After basic training, I have only seen those guys once in forty-two years!

Ironically, I thought I would die if I circled the Beacon for the rest of my life – not knowing that I would be going to Vietnam where dying was a very real possibility. Stupid kids!

Someone, somewhere out there in America tonight is having that same thought. They do not know when they have it made. They spend most of their time wishing their lives away.

How I wish I could circle the old Beacon one more time or taste that wonderful cherry coke and cheeseburger combination – wearing that younger man’s shoes, but feeding this older man’s face.

FALL HAS FELL

It would be hard for me to say which I like best, spring or fall, but this fall has been especially interesting to me, possibly because the tree colors are extremely vivid! I took this shot during my walk by the river this morning under overcast skies. While it would have been more brilliant with more sunlight, I think it captures what I mean.

It takes a combination of cool temperatures and rain to make fall especially brilliant and we have apparently had the perfect conditions this year. East Tennessee is alive and showing its stuff!

We should have this color for at least the next two weeks unless a heavy frost presents itself and spoils everything.

The other two greener shots are from the Clifty Creek area near Harriman - a beautiful place that is now private property. As teenagers we used this area to shoot, hike, camp, and occasionally we were lucky enough to park there with a pretty gal!

If you click and enlarge the one with the arching trees over the creek, you can just make out a father and son slowly drifting out on Emory River fishing. It is trips, fall foliage, and quiet times like these that build memories that last.

ARE YOU GETTIN’ READY FOR HALLOWEEN?

I don’t really celebrate Halloween or Christmas anymore, but for the blogs sake I’ll decorate it up a little bit for everyone soon.

Here is a shot I took recently in the old Harriman Cemetery while preparing for a big Halloween blog post later this month. The shot was beautiful, I thought, on its own, but a little special effects from Photo Shop Elements may have made it print worthy. What do you think?

Old cemeteries had ambiance and style, while those new hillside, all in a row, with no head stone places just seem like giant parking lots for coffins. There are no trees to cast spooky shadows, or for moss to hang from, no creaky wrought-iron fences and gates, no aging stately leaning monoliths, no distinction in the grave markers letting you know instantly if the occupant is an adult or a youth, or whether they were rich or poor. I hate political correctness!

A SCAR UPON THE LAND

As I mentioned previously, the “Traveling Wall” is visiting our fair city this week and weekend. As I viewed the Vietnam War Memorial today, I touched the panels where the names of Airman Fuller and Jones were imprinted. These Air Force Security Policemen died thirty days before I was to leave the country, making my final month the longest month of my life. I was “short” and afraid I would not make it home myself.

I just wanted to let them live once again, at least in our minds, and ask you to pray that the war against terrorism does not grow into another scare upon our land.

Gary Leroy Fuller - The Plains, Ohio – Married - 22 Years Old (Panel 15E Row 105)

Robert Henry Osborn Jones - Arlington, Virginia – Single - 21 Years Old (Panel 15E – Row 106)

Both died on February 27, 1967 at DaNang Airbase, South Vietnam during an early morning Katyusha rocket attack on the base. Fuller died as he sat up startled in his bunk from another explosion, about two hooches south of mine. Shrapnel caught the young man in the jugular and he almost surely died instantly. Airman Jones was wounded running for a bunker, catching shrapnel from the same rocket in his lower body. He died minutes later on a hospital ship in the China Sea.

This photo is of me next to the rocket crater that woke Gary Fuller. It was to the rear of the hooches, while the one that fatally wounded both Fuller and Jones hit forward of the hooches.

These are just two of the many young men (and women) who never got to experienced marriage, children, grandchildren, or any grand slice of life at all. The least we can do is remember them.

It seems we do not have enough time to heal from one war until there is another one - always an open wound on the land for one reason of the other. However, it is not as if we were not told – the Bible plainly says, there will always be wars and rumors of wars. And so it shall be!

THANK YOU IS NOT QUITE ENOUGH

Riverfront Park runs along the Emory River and perpendicular to the Harriman Bridge into Harriman, Tennessee. This is where I try to walk at least twice a week. The gravel trail runs 6/10 of a mile around the perimeter of the park and I never walk less than 3 times around, but push for 5 when time permits. It is a fun walk, with lots of flowers, slow moving water, and people either walking or quietly sitting along the way.

This and last week have been busy in the park, with the Brushy Tennessee Department of Correction crew painting the gazebo, cutting back weeds from the river bank and underneath the bridge and along the fences that run between Christmas Lumber Company property and the park. It is hard labor, but the young guys are largely unsupervised and seem to appreciate being here than behind a fence or bars.

Others have been busy putting up big white tents, retiling the bathrooms, and cutting the grass for the coming ceremonies. They are all preparing to dedicate The Roane County War Memorial on October 14th. A big brick fountain, plaque wall (now draped in purple to keep the names they hold a surprise), and flagpoles have been installed for this specific purpose, and it all looks grand.

It is a good place to be and a good place to walk and contemplate…well, wonderfully there is less clutter in my head these days, and so much of the walk is just quiet time, simple prayers of thanks, and the buzz of brain cells waiting or searching for something to process.

I love it. I have been blessed, and I know I have said it many times before, but “thank you” cannot be said enough.

UPDATE to local readers: The traveling wall, Vietnam War Memorial, will be at Riverfront through the weekend, beginning this Friday.

PACK’EM DOWN

We all long to feel love from those around us, but we have to adjust to understanding how each individual expresses it in order to get because some just do not know how to say it out loud. Everyone expresses it in different ways – mom always hugged me, kissed my cheek, and said “I love you” out loud, but dad only worried about me and fuzzed at me so that mom had to tell me it was because “he loves you.”

I guess I am just hard headed but I like to be told outright and not have to wonder. I have trouble reading minds, although my wife expects that to be a dominate trait of mine!

Touching is another way people express their love for others. I sometimes touch a person on the arm or back as I speak to them. They may not be able to read my mind, but it means I care; I am glad they are there with me, or that I am interested in them and their problems. If dad had touched me more, maybe I would have gotten the message – oh wait, maybe it was when he held me down and tickled me until I cried!

Anyway, one of the most endearing “touches” was from my fraternal grandfather “Pa.” Pa never failed to wake me each morning when I stayed with them during my adolescent summers. Gentle but rough farm worn hands would nudge me awake as they pressed firmly down on me from head to toe as I lay under the covers. His soft gravelly voice saying “Pack’em down, pack’em down, pack’em down” as he went up and down my body two or three times. I would begin to move around, yawn, blink my eyes open, and look up into his weathered face.

“Your Ma and Lois almost have breakfast ready…better get up. We got lots to do today.”

I loved this attention and understood it was his way of saying “I love you,” although he never actually said it out loud. I loved this old man just because he “packed me down” and for little else. It was all that mattered and all that I really remember about his nature. He will long live in my mine as a gentle, hard working man, who packed me down!

I have continued this tradition of “packin’ ‘em down” with my son and my granddaughters. If they do little else in their lives to show love to their children I hope they remember to wake them up in the mornings with a soft loving voice saying “Pack’em down, pack’em down, pack’em down.”

It takes so little to love others – why don’t we do it more often?

JUST THIS SIDE OF TOTAL FEAR

On this moonless night in 1963, Highway 64 between Waynesboro and Lexington, Alabama was very dark. So dark, as I remember it that it required very determined headlights to cut little temporary tunnels through it.

With the 750 kW WSM sounds, from 650 on the dial, bathing us in a soft yellow glow from the radio, Mark and I joked, laughed, and poked at each other with schoolboy exuberance as we drove along. “How cool are we?” we thought!

Earlier that afternoon, my dad had given his reluctant permission for me to drive, with my cousin Mark, the 52 miles from Lexington to Waynesboro. This being not only my first “road trip,” but also my first real trip without supervision made me feel grown up and special. It also made me very nervous. My father trusted me with the family car and the safety of us both – I did not want to let him down.

I was a very inexperienced driver, especially at night, so with the visit with my old friend Richard in Waynesboro completed late in the evening, I anxiously piloted the “Thunder Chief” back down the dark highway. Behind the headlights the night enveloped the ’55 Pontiac Star Chief so that it was invisible just behind the lights, only revealing itself with the noise of its 287 cubic-inch V8 as it passed.

After a few miles, we both became quiet and intent on the road ahead. There was no white line defining the side of the road as there is today and the center yellow line had long since lost its brightness. I think we both knew that it was going to be a long forty-some miles home and that it would take four eyes to find our way. However, after a few miles we drifted off to inner thoughts with only short quiet sentences breaking the silence between us.

At some point my mind registered an image that was not quite right and shot me full of adrenaline to help me focus! I had just topped a small grade and started down and around a gradual curve to the left when the headlight’s tunnel, which had been shortened by the hill, beamed fully on the “dirty side” of a car lying on its side across the center line!

I think we both yelled out, but really cannot remember, but could I have the moment over, I would!

Somehow, inexperienced as I was, I whipped the wheel hard left and quickly back to the right and around the wrecked vehicle. I finally got control and slid to a halt about thirty yards beyond the car, which was now again bathed in darkness. As I said, there was no moon, probably no stars, and no lights from civilization for miles and we sat there in the yellow glow of the radio starring at each other, searching for strength and direction in the other. We dreaded the moment, but we each knew we had to get out of the security of the car and see what could be done.

The dark enveloped us as we moved away from the red glow of the taillights and in the direction of the overturned car. At first the only sound was a roaring coming from the direction of the car. Somehow we soon understood it was the front wheel still spinning from its pre-accident momentum just moments ago.

We had only taken a few hesitant steps toward the car when a woman’s frantic voice screamed from the dark, “Oh God, help us! We have already killed one!”, and then crying and sobbing. This evoked a booster shot of adrenaline that I could feel course its way up my neck to my brain! We imagined all sorts of dead and bloody bodies lying there in the dark, waiting for us to touch them before screaming again!

Horrified we froze for a moment, but then realized we had to help. We took a couple of running steps when suddenly lights from another car broke the darkness behind the overturned car. For the first time we could see the vehicle’s outline silhouetted by the oncoming headlights and could see the car was a mangled mess.

Again we froze realizing that the next driver might not be as lucky as we had been and ram the car head-on. We knew this would injure or kill more, and possibly knock the wrecked car into us, so we ran back toward our vehicle.

Tires squealed and people were screaming in the night. It was so overwhelming that we were in near shock ourselves.

The oncoming car made it around without incident and slid in behind mine. A man jumped out and hollered, “What’s going on?”

All I could do was say, “They said they’ve killed someone and need help! Please go see what you can do and I’ll go get help!”

I never saw the man’s face or anyone from the wrecked car, but somehow I am still haunted by faceless people screaming in the darkness.

Mark and I drove a few miles to the next farmhouse and had the owner call the highway patrol.

We looked at each other in the glow of the dashboard lights and without saying a word, drove slowly on back to Lexington. We just could not go back, whether too ashamed of how we reacted at first in the darkness by the wreck, or just because we knew we would be useless there.

Who knows, if there had been more light, no one had screamed, and the other car had not come along, we may have been some actual help that night.

However, we did grow a little that night and deep inside we knew that if it ever happened again, we would be at least a little braver. Thank God it has never happened like that again, but if it does I pray I stay just this side of total fear long enough to help.

HOW I SURVIVED BEING A “LEAF PEEPER” – Day 7 and 8

It was eight days on the road, the rail, and the water! And, let me say up front it was wonderful!

Day seven began with a ride on the Essex Steam Train through the Connecticut countryside. Our guide warned us about soot from the train, but we did not experience any problems, so I guess the wind was in our favor.

At Deep River Landing we boarded the Becky Thatcher for a relaxing ride up the Connecticut River, past the Gillette Castle and other beautiful homes before continuing on to Cape Cod.

We rested with a two-night stay in the Four Points Sheridan in Hyannis, Massachusetts before heading back to Boston for our flight connection home on day 9.

Our room looked out over the par-3 golf course where wild geese walked the course with the golfers. My wife and I enjoyed a couple of highballs on our private balcony before heading out for a wonderful dinner at The Paddock – a must for any visitor to the area.

Day eight began with a Hyannis Harbor Cruise and an offshore visit to the Kennedy Compound, followed by lunch at the British Beer Company and time to shop.

Later we were treated to another local train ride on the Cape Cod Central Railroad past cranberry bogs, through woodlands, marshes, and sand dunes before paralleling the Cape Cod Canal.

The trip culminated over an included lobster feast our last night in Hyannis. Go to Mushy’s Cookings to see photos of several fellow travelers enjoying their meal.

Thus ends this travelogue (and you are probably glad) of our “leaf peeper” trip to New England. I highly recommend the trip. Even though it appears to be rushed, there was plenty of time to relax and breathe. The guide arranged a system whereby we got different seats on the bus daily and she rotated which side got off the bus first at each stop.

There was no need to worry about driving and missing the scenery or the hassle of loading and unloading our luggage. The hotel unloaded all baggage at each stop, delivered it to the rooms, picked it up outside the rooms each morning, and loaded it on the bus. All we had to do was sit the baggage outside our rooms, enjoy the breakfast buffet, load ourselves onto the bus, and sit back and “leaf peep” around wide-eyed or nap!

HOW I SURVIVED BEING A “LEAF PEEPER” – Day 5 and 6

It was eight days on the road, the rail, and the water! And, let me say up front it was wonderful!

Day five found us traveling to Vermont along the scenic roads of New Hampshire. We stopped along the way at The Brick Store in Bath to step back in time, pick up some maple syrup for the folks back home, see the covered bridge, and have an ice cream.

Then it was on to Vermont’s Green Mountain Flyer in Bellows Falls and near Chester, Vermont for another beautiful ride through the local countryside.

The day ended in the Killington, VT Holiday Inn.

Day six was travel to the Mohegan Sun Hotel and Casino in Uncasville, Connecticut. The 34-story 1,200 room hotel was exquisite with spectacular views. The trip included two free meals and you cannot imagine the food presented in both the hotel’s huge buffet rooms, and breakfast was a feast!

Yes, my wife played a few of the 6,300 slot machines, but alas she did not come away a big winner!

HOW I SURVIVED BEING A “LEAF PEEPER” – Day 3 and 4

It was eight days on the road, the rail, and the water! And, let me say up front it was wonderful!

Our big red DATTCO bus took us from Boston to Portland, Maine for our second night of the tour. The harbor there is beautiful and the view of it from our room in the Holiday Inn was spectacular. The only problem with the hotel was the bath tubs. The bottom of the tube is six to eight inches higher than the floor and you normally expect to step out of a tub at floor level. I caught myself before falling, thought briefly about all the older people on the tour, and wished them well in my thoughts. However, my wife did fall, pulling the towel rank off the wall, but only hurting her dignity. I regretted forgetting to warn her, but that is how things go.

Our friend Billy Joe was not as lucky, he actually fell in the tub when the shower mat slipped and he probably broke a couple of ribs. He was a trooper and endured the pain for the rest of the trip. I thought of the old joke, “Have a good trip?” when someone trips, but held it back. I knew he was hurting and probably is still hurting today.

We took a very short ride on a “narrow gauge” railroad the afternoon we arrived and got a bayside view of what would come the following day as we traveled by water. The first evening in Portland was topped off by a wonderful meal at DeMillo’s.

The grandest sight of the entire trip was Portland’s Head Light lighthouse. The rocky cost line with waves crashing against them was what I have always wanted to witness. The sky was so blue that day and the white lighthouse against it was spectacular. I do not think there is anything I will ever see again, that will replace this vision as number one for me – WOW! The only thing that would come close would be the lighthouse wrapped in snow and ice! If you click on the embedded link above, you can find a picture of that very thing!

We ended the day with a Casco Bay tour – out past Fort Gorges, around the islands of the bay where people take water taxis to and from the mainland, past the huge oil tanks and tankers, and around the bay past several lighthouses. It was interesting to us that the water on these islands is turned off at the end of October because the soil is so shallow the water lines cannot be buried deep enough to prevent them from freezing in the winter. The glaciers of the ice age scraped it all away leaving just a few inches of topsoil. That is why there is little farming, except cattle farming, in these New England areas.

The DATTCO bus hauled us on to North Conway, New Hampshire and the Green Granite Inn where actually spent two wonderful nights. My wife enjoyed a full evening of outlet shopping at the mall that was just a few steps away from the motel. I enjoyed my one and only cigar that evening on the patio, but the next morning I had a sore throat from something I had inhaled on the airplane. I do not know why, but that always seems to happen to me – don’t they ever change those filters?

Day four was highlighted by the best train ride of the trip through the White Mountains and White Mountain Valley countryside on the Conway Scenic Railroad. Lunch was at the top of the notch pass where we again boarded the bus back to the Green Granite Inn.

HOW I SURVIVED BEING A “LEAF PEEPER” – Day 1 and 2

It was eight days on the road, the rail, and the water! And, let me say up front it was wonderful!

I have traveled on Greyhound and Trailways buses back in my Air Force days, and even rode one or two to Florida for cruise connections, but the bus we had for this tour was a hundred times more comfortable. We met the Mayflower tour guide and bus driver in Boston at the Doubletree Hotel. This was my favorite hotel, even over the Mohegan Sun because of the wonderful bed with six pillows and a fluffy comforter! Although, I am pretty sure I hear at least 6 shots being fired somewhere nearby during the night!

We spent the first evening touring Boston on our own. We wanted to hit Cheers (the original), walk some of the “Freedom Trail,” and sample some good local seafood and did pretty well on our own. “Our own” should be interpreted as two to three couples. We met two other couples from the Oak Ridge, Tennessee area and we ran as a Big Orange “clique” the entire trip.

The next morning was the first official day and was made up of a very detailed bus and walking tour of Boston. We were impressed with the city’s history and historic sites, the old and new architecture, and with how clean the entire city was. That is, of course, in areas other than the “Big Dig” and the airport! I would not personally drive in Boston, but our bus driver was fearless and could magically reduce the size of the bus to get down narrow streets, between parked cars, and through parking lots.

One of our best meals, even topping the full lobster our last evening, was at Legal Sea Food, where I indulged in scallops served up three delightful ways – fried, broiled, and bacon wrapped! See more at Mushy's Cookings!

MOUNTAIN FOLK!

My mom and dad tried hard to keep in touch with their family when dad took up the electrical craft and left the farm. Almost every other weekend was time to “go down home.” It was fine with me for the first ten years or so, but as soon as I became self aware and made friends I resented having to go. I longed to be older so I could stay home and be with my friends or just be by myself. However, I do not remember that happening more than once.

One of my earliest memories of “going down home” was of the old Mashburn home place shrouded in darkness and somehow out of place than the last time I saw it in the sunshine.

My uncle Ersie actually replaced the spot where the old homestead stood with a brand new 1950’s ranch style house and lived there with his parents and sister until he married sometime in the mid-sixties. Pa, Ma, and Lois then moved to another little farm only about a half a mile from Five Points, TN.

This particular night, when I was around 4 or 5, was not the first time I saw the old home place, but was the first time I can remember it. All I knew was that it had been moved from somewhere that I remembered it being before, but I had no previous recollection of where it sat. It was my first real consciousness of the house and I was seeing it in strange circumstances and in the eerie light of “coal oil” (kerosene) lamps.

The new house builders had pulled the old house about 200 or so feet, from its original resting place, out in front of the barn. It was there the family camped until the new house was finished.

As dad got out of the car at the end of our drive “home,” he yelled his familiar “MOUNTAIN FOLK!” greeting toward the house. As the other car door slammed shut, we could see faint yellow light coming from inside the house. Farm folk go to bed early, soon after dark usually (or as they say, “With the chickens”), so it was most likely about 8 or 9 o’clock and our arrival probably aroused them from their first blinks of “REM” dreaming.

As my dad opened the door, the yellow “coal oil” lamp light glowed on the face of my Aunt Lois, lying on her side on a quilt pallet on the floor and putting on her glasses. “We gave up on ya’ll, and turned in about an hour ago.” Lois said, getting up to hunt for more quilts.

That is the only memory I have of the old house, and after that weekend only the “new house” remains in my thoughts of what “home” was. I am quite sure my dad lost a host of memories after that of his days in and around the “old” house. A little bit of him gone and the first embers of my memory beginning to glow. For me, it was just a doorway opening to yellow light and the love and greetings of my grandparents and aunt in a time and place gone forever.

The new house was “down home” to me from the next visit onward. It was a fine house with indoor plumbing, brick sides, lights in the pillars of the porch, and beautiful hardwood floors throughout. I do not remember there being any heat source other than a large fireplace in the living room. All the beds were piled high with colorful handmade quilts on top of plump feather beds, and there was certainly no air conditioning in those days.

The new house still stands today and still looks good for its age. I am sure central heating and air has been added since those days, but I have not been in the house in more than forty years.

When I pass I still imagine family standing around in the kitchen watching Ma and Lois cook, or sitting around the dinning room table, the fireplace, or in the living room laughing and talking conversations they had years earlier. I wonder if the smells of cooking from those days still lingers somewhere in the corners of the dinning room and kitchen, or at least in the attic somewhere protected from time.

I wonder if the old sound of me playing choo-choo train on the old foot peddle powered sewing machine and making it clang into station can be heard late at night, or the sound of my running feet as I rode my “stick horse” around and around the hall, through the living room, into the dinning room, and on into the kitchen and began another dusty trip down the hallway trail again and again.

The “stick horse” was a stick Pa made for Ma so she could smooth out the tops of the feather beds while standing on one side of the beds. One end served as the handle end, being slightly larger than the circumference of the rest of the “smoothing stick,” which was about one inch in diameter and about four feet long. Years of smoothing had honed the stick into a beautiful slick piece of country art. To me, a mighty fine palomino pony that was faster than the wind - what I would not give to ride that ol’ hoss today, and come down that hall announcing that the “Mountain Folk” are here again!

THINGS I LIKE TO DO - PLACES I LIKE TO BE

MISSING MY BEST GIRLS

"If there are no dogs in Heaven, then when I die I want to go where they went." Will Rogers, 1897-1935

The time came a few years back when I had to put my dog Lacy down. She had been deteriorating steadily for several months and had become a bag of bones, weighing half her prime weight of eighty-five pounds, could not hear, did not recognize us, and lay, and just shook. She had not eaten in three or four days, had not moved in two, before I decided enough was an enough. She was totally in a different world, and if I could have changed places with her, I would have wanted out.

I could not cap her – always thought I could, since I put a stray down once that had a mangled infected leg, but Lacy was my girl. I loved that dog the moment I saw her, even though I first thought she was a cat, and you know how I hate cats! But I saw her at a flea market and she was black/white/gray stripped like a cat, and had one eye that was half-white. She was a very unique blend of Australian Shepherd and Husky, and there was no way I could take her life. I had to take her to the vet and hold her until she released her final breath. She does not hurt any more, but I do.

She survived numerous stitches, broken bones, and countless dogfights before learning how to protect herself. Lacy protected our home for nearly twelve years from evil UPS drivers, windshield installers, numerous cats and opossums, one groundhog, a few snakes and squirrels, and other sneaky neighborhood yard squatters!

She always made me a part of her kills, particularly the ‘possums! She would begin by barking strangely and cause me to pick up my shotgun and go outside to investigate. When I arrived, she would be circling the intruder waiting on me to be the diversion. Once the prehensile tailed, over grown, rat looked at me it was all over! Lacy lunged in and caught the ‘possum right behind the ears and locked on like a snapping turtle waitin’ on thunder!

From that point on it was shake for 20 seconds, crush the neck bone, shake some more, then crush a rib or two, shake, and finally she ran her powerful mouth up and down the length of the body to ensure everything was broken. The popping sound was at once horrifying and satisfying to me. She would then release her hold and stand panting for several minutes as she nudged it a few times with her nose just to make sure. Believe me, it was dead – dead and not playing “possum”!

Lacy was the ultimate protective but gentle dog and you do not find them often. Usually, they are just mean without showing affection, or a complete puss, but she had it all.

The neighborhood will miss her, because she kept the peace, and I have yet to see another dog step up and assume the alpha role in the area.

Oh, I have another dog now and I love Baylee like my own child, but she is just a loving dog, afraid of her own shadow, but loves to chase and catch a ball, splash in the lake, and sit under you for hours begging to be rubbed. I have to protect her most times, but there is just no aggression in black labs, even eighty pound ones. I often have to warn the UPS man to watch out or he will get licked to death!

Missy was the first dog I can clearly remember, and there is no photograph of her in any of the family shoeboxes of archived pictures. She was an English Shepherd of medium build with a loving manner. She was not aggressive either, but was very protective. Many times when I was around seven or eight years old she got between danger and me, especially if other dogs were around.

Once while I was exploring the woods near my neighborhood, Missy got in front of me just as I was about to step over a log that had fallen across the path I was following. Every time I raised my leg to step over, she pushed between the log and me and barked. One of those moments when you want to say, “What is it Lassie? Is Timmy okay?”

I did not realize the possibility of a snake being on the other side for several years, but looking back on the incident, as soon as I changed directions she allowed me to proceed, but I could not step over the log. There had to have been something – some danger – there. You will never convince me otherwise.

One other incident involving Missy stands out in my memory, and that occurred during a thunderstorm.

You know how parents put their fears into their children (from Pink Floyd’s “Mother”), well; I overheard a conversation between my mom and dad about how metal, trees, and dogs attract lightning. Well founded or not, I heard it and believed it.

One day Missy and I went on a mile walk to a nearby store when a summer thunderstorm came up suddenly. I ran to a neighbor’s porch to get in out of the rain and of course Missy came with me. Just as a loud clap of thunder rattled the immediate area I remembered, “…dogs attract lightning”!

Oh my God - I started shoving at Missy and screaming at her to get away! I regret the incident, even though Missy did not understand, but the more I pushed the closer she wanted to get. After all, she was as afraid as I was!

It was terrifying to me, but summer storms pass on as quickly as the come, so it was not long before the storm calmed and I saw my mom coming in the car. She stopped and opened the back door and Missy and I jumped in. The only other thing I can remember was being a little mad at my mother for not coming sooner.

Missy developed some sort of “running fit” (as it was explained to me) a few months later and ran into a man’s house during a storm. I heard that the man killed her, but we never did get the real story, but I still grieve.

Anyway, I was just missing my girls today and wanted to say a few words about them. I know in my heart-of-hearts, that if there is a heaven, a place where you are supposed to by happy, then I will see all my girls again someday. Without them, I could not be truly happy, and it would truly be a sad place.

MY NEAR DEATH EXPERIENCE (NDE)

It is known today, especially in middle-school circles, as "the choking game," "the pass-out game," "the tingling game" or "the space monkey." At that age, my friends, and I experimented with a version of this we called “the hyperventilation game” (we should have called It “the stupid game”) and no choking was involved. One person simply would squat down, take 30 or so quick deep breaths stand up quickly and exhale forcefully, and another person would grab them from behind, wrap their arms around their chest, and squeeze until the hyperventilated person fell limp in their arms.

I understand now that the brain maintains no reserves of O2 and, unlike other organs, has an exceedingly low tolerance of O2 deprivation, plus the low levels of carbon monoxide in the blood causes the veins in the brain to constrict. The brain is temporarily deprived of oxygen – you pass out. THIS IS A VERY DANGEROUS GAME THAT CAN (AND HAS) RESULTED IN MANY DEATHS!

Three of us played this dangerous game for a brief time when I lived in Florence, Alabama. I may have continued to play it longer had I had a better experience. The other two had good experiences and their description was much like those people who claim to have had a NDE describes theirs.

Laying there in the grass, still not fully in control of their arms and legs yet, they talked about how peaceful it was, about the white light, about the weight of the world lifting from their extremities, and about how weak they still felt.

For me, it was at first the feeling of numbness coming over me, then bright sparks of light blinking around my head and in front of my eyes, then a while light flashed and changed to red, and then a horrible face (that I perceived as the devil) appeared before me! Kids that do this often laugh at the involuntary movements of the “victims” arms and legs. My legs and arms flailed wildly as I fought what they could not see – I pushed, shoved, and punched with closed fists to their distant amusement.

When it was my turn to describe my experience it was totally different, I lay in a panic gasping for breath. The others could not understand why I did not get a kick out of it, but I knew that I did not want any more experiences like that again.

However, like all stupid kids trying to be accepted, I did try it one more time after being pressured into it. It was also very stupid that I let them talk me into trying it inside and, worst yet, in my mother’s living room.

As soon as the guy released his grip on my chest I lunged into a rage and stormed around the room screaming incoherently and punching at the face of the devil that was poking at me with his pitchfork! At least two lamps fell and broke, pictures were scraped from the walls, and chairs were turned over.

When I regained control and focus, I saw the two guys that had promised to hold me down standing huddled in a corner looking very confused and frightened. I perused the damage and knew immediately that there was not going to be any “talking to me” this time. This warranted a full-fledged butt whipping!

I never again played that stupid game and as far as I know neither did the other guys.

I submit that the “near death experience” is merely the brain's lack of oxygen and low level of carbon monoxide. If you have ever almost passed out, or stood up too fast, you too have come close to a NDE. To me it is just another reason not to fear death. Whether you see the comforting light or the face of the devil, it will not last long; there is no pain, you are receding!

KEEP YOUR DRAWERS CLEAN #2

Well alrighty then! I had so much fun doing the belt buckles post that I thought I would try at least one more similar. Who knows what I will find next week.

Monday was house-cleaning day at Mushy’s, a bi-weekly chore I share with my lovely bride of 26 years, known affectionately as “Sweet Angel’s Baby’s Doll Face” only to me. Now the secret is out and I’ll catch hell from the B&Ss-in-law about it!

During my cleaning tour I decided to clean out another drawer and a couple of World’s Fair, Yosemite Sam, and VOLS glasses that are collecting dust on my bedroom display shelves. This shelf holds my prize Mustang and AC Cobra Hot Wheels collection and gives my room the appearance of a little boy’s room. What the heck…I am a 60-year-old little boy and will forever be so! I dare you to try and make me otherwise!

Anyway, back to the intended task –

Appearing in the upper left corner is a tiny little sheriff’s badge from the Smoky Mountains. Who knows how long this has been waiting around to be seen and handled again? It’s kind of cute with a little black bear in the center.

Extending across the top are two crab-eating utensils obviously from Hooter’s! They reminded me of the day I embarrassed my brother-in-laws for cussing out our waitress. It went something like this; she took our beer orders, left, and almost immediately went back to the table she was previously flirting with – young dudes, naturally! We noticed the beer bottles were placed on the bar (We don’t drink the pitchers there because for some reason the beer has a tin or metallic taste, and we’ve even noticed it in the bottles! Must buy in bulk is all we can figure!). We kept waiting for the waitress, whose belly was pooching out over her tight orange short-shorts, and she was obviously too busy making time to notice. Finally, mostly because we are Americans and hate hot beer, my brother-in-law goes to the bar and gets the four beers.

When we are almost finished with the beer, Miss “too stupid to know old men can make car payments in tips if stroked enough,” comes back quickly, still looking over her shoulder at the “young table” and asks if we want another round. We say yes, she turns in the order, and returns to her hand-on-stuck-out-hip stance at the other table.

The beer is placed on the bar; we look in her direction, and give her 10 minutes. No beer…so Ron gets the beer the second time.

We have now had enough and have decided not to eat lunch there and want our tab so we can leave. Eventually, with dry bottles in front of us, we wave at her and finally get her attention. She wobbles over and asks if we want another round. I say NO…we need our ticket.

“Oh,” she said, “So you’re leaving me?”

“Yes, we are going somewhere where we can get waited on!”

“What do you mean? I waited on you and brought you your beers!”

“Bull shit,” I say, “Ron here went and got our beer off the bar twice while you were over there flirting with the young dudes! I sure hope they tip you as well as we would have, ‘cause you AIN’T gittin’ nothing from us!”

She threw the ticket on the table, and instantly I detected she had charged us for an extra beer. The old hand went up and I pointed out her mistake. She was furious and stormed off. We left a dime on the table – which should have inferred her service wasn’t worth a dime!

Anyway…did not mean for that to go on so long, but suffice it to say we don’t go there anymore. “You mean you go to Hooter’s for the beer?” Used too!

Moving on down from the left is: another Marlboro memento for a keychain, two dinning room cards from two Carnival cruises, a pair of 3-D glasses that still come in handy occasionally for TV, a plastic Cracker Jack bookmark, a special trigger housing for an SKS (that’s all I’ll say here about it), the backstage and onstage pass I once got for an Allman Brothers concert (once in a life time event), a tiny deck of World’s Fair playing cards, a P-38 Folding Pocket Can Opener that I’d like to say I had in Vietnam, but I actually lost that one and bought this one at a gun show, a 60 year celebration pin from K-25 where I used to work, a SecurID card I used for access to network equipment at work, and lastly but not least, a 1997 game schedule card from when Peyton Manning played at UT. Old Peyton never could do for us what Tee Martin did the next year, but he was good and did a lot for promoting our university.

You probably did not enjoy this trip down memory lane as much as I did, but I’m glad you came along anyway. See ya soon!

MUSHY'S DOODLES

Going through some old papers I brought home after retiring, I discovered three surprisingly good drawings on scraps of paper and cardboard, that had at one time or the other must have pushed the hands of a slow day or boring marathon staff meeting. I say they are surprising because I think they are good, for elaborate doodles, and for the fact that I obviously drew them. Although, I cannot, for the life of me, remember doing them or the reasons or events in my life that made them what they are. I can only surmise they accomplished their goal since the spawn of their burden lingers not.

Hope you enjoy them as much as I did in finding them. I have interpreted them from raw feeling, not memory – you are welcome to make up your own.

“I once had a girl, or should I say, she once had me”

I call this one “High Maintenance” - It is a composite of all those young things that required more than I cared to offer. I do not remember if any were worth more effort, but since I am left wondering I suppose they were not.

Since a tear is prominent, I suppose either she or I cared at the time, whatever minute of time was spent. However, obviously the ornate earrings symbolize both the attention she would have required and the coolness returned.

Finally, the levelheaded lady with no visible mouth must have left no memorable words on either side of passion.


"Transcend, Purify, Glorious"

I call this one “Transcend” - We move through life changing what we are more than who we are – moving constantly toward the seventh level – perfection, if that can truly be obtained. Surely as we move we must change our halo of color – some good, some bad, but all seen by someone. After all, we can only hide from ourselves.

“Pride is the Father of all Sins”

I call this one “Reflection” – The monster of “pride” must be a hideous creature since “envy” is said to be only “green eyed.” So how would we identify him if he came knocking at the door? I can only attest to having met him once and that I lost everything soon afterwards, but I do not recall his face. I think his face is pleasing and quite ordinary, otherwise he would not be welcomed in so easily – so often.

SPENT THE DAY WITH ME LITTLE MUM!

My wife and I took my mom to Applewood Farms today so she could make Thanksgiving reservations for herself, her brother, and sister-in-law. If you’re not on the books, you don’t get in on Thanksgiving! Most any other time you can walk right in!

The bargaining chip she used to lure me away from the computer was homemade fried apple pies and ice cream – it worked. You can tell just how much the little 90 pound woman loves her pie and ice cream! More on the food there at Mushy's Cookings.

There are members of our family that drive from Florence, AL all the way to Pigeon Forge, TN (home of Dollywood!) just for pie and ice cream. While it was delicious, I’m not sure I’d drive that far just for a taste.

We actually had a wonderful day walking the Applewood grounds and shopping at the Tanger 5 Oaks outlet stores. I picked up the most goodies myself!

It’s good to spend time with your little mum!

SWIMMING WITH THE STINGRAYS

So long Steve – like the animals, I will miss you!

Crickey! Had we known then (2002) we might have had second thoughts about swimming with the Stingrays while we were in the Grand Cayman’s. I remember them feeling like cool firm jell-o in the warm seawater. Our only safety instruction was to shuffle our feet along the sand as we moved about the chest deep water. Dozens of them swarmed around us looking for the handouts the guides offered.

One young woman screamed from the first brush against her legs! She somehow climbed up around her husband’s neck and almost drown him before they could wrestle her back up onto the boat.

CELEBRATING THE END OF THE HOUSEBOAT ERA!

The last houseboat my brother and sister-in-law will probably own sold this weekend, so we bid farewell to an era!

Charlotte and Gary,
Thank you for having us along for the ride all these years. Those moments have been some of the most special in all our lives. You have both made our lives so much richer. Sharing our lives on deck of one of your boats has meant so much and we will never forget you or them. The laughter and the memories will not fade as long as one of us lives.

ON THE TRAIL OF BOBWHITE

Long before I ever saw one I heard the bobwhite quail and learned to differentiate between the male and the female – while the male simply called and said “bob – white”, the female’s answer was a flirting four-syllable “who-who-bob-white”, with extra emphasis on the WHITE!

While not as rare as the whippoorwill, the bobwhite’s conversations were rare enough to intrigue a young boy’s mind. I wondered where they hid, how the moved about in the fields, and what they were really saying.

I was finally introduced to a whole host of quail when our next-door neighbor, an avid hunter (and Big Dixie’s daddy), began to raise them from eggs given to him by the local game warden. I got to stand up close to the raised white cage; about four feet off the ground, and watch through the wire the different stages of their birth and growth. Finally, in the fall of the year the neighbor released them to fill the surrounding fields for hunting season.

I watched them rise high in the air, circle the owner’s yard, and then head off to a sagebrush field about a quarter mile away. I often played in that field during the summer months alone. I rarely walked, but rather crawled slowly along the network of trails made by the quail and rabbits that lived there.

I remember I became quite accomplished at crawling up to quail nests in the sage grass and looking at the little white eggs, sometimes as many as a dozen in each nest. Later visits were rewarded with the wondrous sight of the chicks starring back at me. The momma would round them up and herd them off down one of the paths for protection. I loved to watch them scurry down the paths just ahead of me and then disappear around a turn.

Often times I would spook a rabbit that would somehow jump straight up and turn in the opposite direction before coming down on his big hind legs and run off.

Sitting down in the grass, I was hidden from the world and perceived myself as part of the field and a member of the local wildlife community. I would crawl for hours around the field until I knew all the interconnecting paths, dead ends, and shady spots under the dogwood trees. If I lay on my back and looked up through the grass at the sky, I felt even more connected to the field and the world. Once while watching white billowy clouds against a deep blue sky, I dosed off and slept until the sun reached across my face – such peace is rare today.

As I said, I often visited that field as a child, a field on which my future in-laws would build a large tri-level house some ten years later. I do not know where the bobwhite went to after the home was built, but while I lived and visited there, I often thought about how free I was during those days. I remembered the smell of it, the beauty of it, and the serenity of it.

This photo is of my son, nearly thirty years ago, swinging on one of the many dogwood trees that dotted the field where the quail and I played, but now they are part of the landscape in the yard where his grandparents now live.

I often wish I could go back to that innocence – a place where I felt as if I was one with the animals, nature, and my own soul. I know I can never go back, at least in that full sense, but it is comforting to know that I did learn what they were saying when they whistled their bob-white tune and they still call me today, from a distant field, saying – "COME PLAY, COME PLAY"!