Tennessee Valley Beauty…and Beasts
Through the green, some sappy feelings on America the Beautiful, and a near-miss on the highway
“I’m from Mississippi, been here 20 years, but I’d pick up and go for an opportunity. You gotta go where the opportunity is.”
“Like ‘follow your passion’?” I asked.
“Yeah, there you go, and the money” he shot back, laughing.
Alfred had a simple philosophy on Home. He let me stay at his house just outside Memphis — with some AirBnB vetting of course.
After a few nights camping and the long-ish haul from Arkansas into Tennessee, it was nice to have a resting place. I showered and slept and wrote until my brain wore down to a crawl as it recalled the nights and heavy lessons of the trip after only a week.
Where should I go for a workout, a move-heavy-stuff kind of workout?
Planet Fitness was down the street, but I have no affinity for their bagel and pizza days or the “Lunk Alarm”.
It came to me as I thought of community, places where people meet and share — or find escape: The YMCA — of course. A classic symbol of traveling health, rest, recovery, community. I also remembered the prevalence of the YWCA (that’s YW, as in women) on the Green Book listings in major cities.
At the YMCA, all were friendly, giving me spots and commiserating when I dropped a weight on my foot in my early morning hurry.
Outside, I remarked how nice a day it was to a woman passing me. She noted she would be missing it, as she drove through West Virginia in a few weeks. Teresa gave me a contact in her friend John for camping spots when I asked, and warned to “stay out of Huntington” — I didn’t pry further on that. It will be something to reference as to why when I pass through.
An older guy, who I saw lifting heavy earlier, lit up a cigarette. Still in his workout clothes, he gave me a nod as I unlocked the Buick. Everyone at the Y — inside and out — seemed at home.
Having Conversations: the lost art Americans can easily find
When asked by Liz, a graduate student working on an American Conversation Project, what techniques and methods I used. She is in the early stages of developing conversation tools — a powerful set of devices for communication and human interaction.
It’s hard to describe what makes something natural. Mindset and open, equally vulnerable sharing equates humans
So what tips and observations could I share? What have I learned in the short time and set of conversations so far on this Roadtrip Americana? There’s a Big 3 so far:
1) Asking about “Home” works.
Americans need a home — a place to remember. We move around and find meaning in many things. Home is a concept, a place inside us we can access wherever we stop/land/feel trapped.
2) Americans need to talk
Once someone sees I’m actually listening, actually care about what they’re saying (time to this recognition varies) — they open up and go deep. Sometimes, it only take a few minutes and references to my own life to open the floodgates.
3) There’s no such thing as TMI
After the listening point, the point of trust to share — whatever comes out, needs to come out.
I’ve heard entire lifetimes — the dramas, the struggles, the fears, the dreams and passions — only a few minutes after meeting an American for the first time. It runs counter to what we think we know about sharing. Talking, listening, dialogue is how we understand life.
When we stop talking, we lose knowledge, we create assumptions and fears — false narratives to replace the ones we used to hear from others.
Whatever comes out — it’s ok, it’s natural. I’m not here to attack or embarrass you. Better Too Much Information than the value-less drivel and small talk of Too Little.
America(ns) the Beautiful
We fight and feud. We are unkind.
We exploit, and divide, and segregate.
We hate and holler and have stubborn denials of how the world has changed.
There is a Great Divide in our communication. I hear it in nearly every simplified opinion and belief shared as I travel.
You know what Americans share? What (I hope) doesn’t change?
Our beautiful places.
Somewhere along the roadtrips and travels of my youth, we (I) missed Tennessee.
How? Ask the assumptions of Middle America I heard around and inside me. It was a state, a valley and a region, to fly over or drive around.
Like the people here, you need to see and listen to appreciate, to understand.
Damn is it pretty — beautiful enough for profanity, loss of words, and a constant shaking of my head as I drove.
Maybe its been too long since I’ve seen such green. It contrasts vividly with the landscapes of the southwest.
Maybe it really is a first time awe.
I crossed Candy Fork River, and so many other flowing streams — it reminded me of my childhood with my father, when we hiked down into a ravine in New York State. I wanted to swim in each of them, go close, down by the river — catch fish, camp, feel the Tennessee Valley.
If America could elect a few stretches of highway to remind us of our shared beauty — everyone could find something to admire in the turnpikes and tunnels of Tennessee.
What made John Denver cry all the time like a baby, what inspired country music’s origins, what was built in the spirit of preserving America’s purpose and natural resource in the TVA — I saw it unfold and ask, Is this what real, individualized patriotism feels and looks like?
I felt a pride and instant connection.
I felt a swell of hope and heard a cheesy voice begin to rattle off romantic country song verses. I sang the choruses of John Denver songs out loud and didn’t care who saw or heard me. I was in some kind of heaven — and saw a well-timed roadside cross to frame the thought:
“Everyone — passing through or staying a while — should feel this way” I thought.
Those builders of the Tennessee Valley Authority had purpose.
In creating power from the natural structures of the land — it’s rivers and lakes and waterfalls giving life, energy, peace to Americans in the darkness of a Great Depression. Thinking of the home and purpose this part of the US brought — the Scottish and Irish settlers, the Native Americans for millennia before, the Country Western singers and songwriters. Now, it gives mesmerizing pause to a wide-eyed traveler who keeps saying “wow” with every new turn and stretch of highway.
Each turn was a fresh experience, resetting me to the child-like amazement I once felt for the world at large. Each new scene and idealized impression reset my wonder.
I pulled over at a park to get a little sappy, remember my privilege to take in such sights, to travel. What a drive, what a trip, what people and places I’ve seen — what a life.
Priest Lake’s Revival Power
The Lake started with a sign I saw on the highway — one of many referencing some lake or creek or river in the welcoming brown color of American public parks. As the Tennessee sun beat down, a swim in a cool lake was calling me on in.
“Season’s over — there’s no fees for the lake now.” A pair of workers replied when I asked on the shuttered entrance hut.
“Ok, well, nice work — place looks great.” I said
“Hey thanks” they said in unison, turning and smiling at each other.
The Army Corps of Engineers patrolled the park, the campgrounds, the dock — for litter, to maintain, to demonstrate purpose and pride in the place.
At one of the many empty campsites, I had a wander.
The green was deep. It had a fresh dew, a cool feel as my big-kid hands felt the leaves and branches.
Yoga by the shore and a swim in the lake had me in a relaxed observation.
An old man swam with diligence nearby, using a float to keep steady, keep safe. Locals came on various breaks and for different reasons.
Couples argued in parked cars, others snuggled on picnic blankets. A man read intently on a bench, pausing to look out on the lake, smile, and go back to his story. Packed lunches and to-go containers were eaten and emptied.
A woman parked her Prius — an odd sight among the nonstop pickup trucks of Tennessee. She had the “headlight eyelashes” out front, and proceeded to make her way down to the beach for a morning read and meditation.
The scene could have been anywhere on a East or West coast — minus the country music, the men and couples doing some serious fishing.
Another Green Book-less Stretch going East
Coming across Eastern Tennessee, it was hard to stay focused. The valleys and the rich green, the road rolling into scenes of unbelievable, country beauty. If it sounds cheesy — I was cheesy. Singing combinations of John Denver’s “Country Roads” and any given mix of country songs (my Drive By Truckers preference returned).
After the now-demolished or repurposed places listed in Nashville, I set my next stop for Asheville, North Carolina. There would be no Green Book places for the rest of Tennessee.
On the highway from Memphis to Nashville, I passed a trio of Harley riders — two of which had bright (newly applied?) confederate flags on the back of their leather vests. Their eyes were hidden by dark sunglasses and their mouths showed stern anger. People I would like to interview I thought — maybe if we meet at the next rest stop.
Billboards I passed read “in the beginning there is God: Genesis 11” with a graphic of crossed-out evolution stages (from ape to man) underneath. Later, “faithful friends bless Israel” shared a sign with American and Israeli flags crossed in solidarity.
The Road Hazards of Knoxville
Coming through the start of Friday rush-hour — traffic choked and slowed to a stop every few minutes. Drivers anxiously moved through the main thoroughfares.
There was a sudden stop at a convergence point — all of us went from 70 to 0 at the same time.
A woman in front of me with the license plate “Suzie 5” wisely pulled off to the shoulder to give me enough space to brake. Feeling my power brakes kick in was incredible in the moment. Enough space was found, disaster averted— at least for us.
I heard small booms and crunches as a few cars behind us started to pile up.
The police were the next lane over and wait for us to keep moving. Reality check — my cortisol spiked and then settled. Had I not done the brake conversion and relied on mechanical drum brakes, I likely would have plowed into Suzie 5 and others.
Old highway travel — int those mysterious Good ‘Ol Days — was dangerous.
I was thankful for both the upgrades and my awareness — the attention in listening to the road and the car over my phone or an audiobook. Directly behind me, the scene showed the nature of modern distractions, and also community. There was frustration and shock and fear. There was also immediate help and support for those involved.
We are instantly bonded by the recognition of direct human suffering. To have to be at that point to force community is tragic in a way — yet it shows the roots of goodness still run.
