3:24 PM |
As I was enjoying Jim's (we are now on a first name basis; maybe I'll be on his good side in the room reservation process) delicious herb biscuits, homemade marmalade, and cheese grits, I scanned the Chattanooga newspaper. These are two of the headlines:
Happening place, that Chattanooga is. This weekend is the Fog Festival. I know this because the liquor store is advertising three day Fog Festival special prices. So I asked my innkeeper what exactly is the Fog Festival. Apparently, there are very few things to do up here, especially in winter, so they make up stuff. Like next weekend's fifty things to not do. They make up a list of something you can do, then you can do it, or not.
Fog is "the mountain's" specialty. No one can tell me what the name of the mountain is. People call up and ask how the weather is on the mountain so they can decide whether or not to come here (or anyplace else on the other side of the mountain). Here are things you get during the Fog Festival:
Suspects Blame Each Other In Pastor's Shooting
Whooping Crane Killed In Alabama
Happening place, that Chattanooga is. This weekend is the Fog Festival. I know this because the liquor store is advertising three day Fog Festival special prices. So I asked my innkeeper what exactly is the Fog Festival. Apparently, there are very few things to do up here, especially in winter, so they make up stuff. Like next weekend's fifty things to not do. They make up a list of something you can do, then you can do it, or not.
Fog is "the mountain's" specialty. No one can tell me what the name of the mountain is. People call up and ask how the weather is on the mountain so they can decide whether or not to come here (or anyplace else on the other side of the mountain). Here are things you get during the Fog Festival:
- Free carnation from Patti's Patch
- Jim Oliver's Smoke House free fudge tastings
- Fog Lifter Latte
- Dutch Maid bakery tour (Dutch Maid is the oldest bakery in Tennessee)
- Throw a pot at Hallelujah pottery (I went by it today, it's in a log cabin)
- Cappuccino and Baklava at the deli
There was a lovely older couple at breakfast who are also runaways, but only for the weekend. She is a retired school librarian. So is my sister. I asked her isn't it the media center these days? Yes, she said, they were all called media specialists. Then the budget cuts came and media specialists were on the list. They became librarians again. Problem solved.
I asked Jim about recycling. He takes it over to Sewanee which isn't quite Kosher but no one cares. He leaves his wine bottles on the street but asks the garbage men not to take them. The glass blowers do, as do guys who make their own beer.
Monteagle is in three different counties, the richest one and the poorest one among them. They write the books on that side, Jim said, and they can't read the books on this side.
Monteagle is in three different counties, the richest one and the poorest one among them. They write the books on that side, Jim said, and they can't read the books on this side.
A girl was upstairs eating MacDonald's on the Chippendale furniture. I didn't see Inga today, so maybe this girl fills in. A huge sign sprouted in the front yard advertising Valentine's Dinner or a wine tasting or something. This is a pretty big B&B. Some women just checked in, one of them with that Louis Vuitton tote with the skinny handles that doesn't cost very much. I wonder if they are here for the Fog Festival.
And Parents Weekend and Graduation. Lessons & Carols is an event. I'm not sure what it is, but there it is. I need to be nice. Very, very nice. The Monteagle Inn is the only decent place to stay near Sewanee: The University of the South (how proper of me). I asked about special events, like graduation. How do I get on the list for a room? Well, I could get on the waiting list now. It will be about seven months, nine for graduation. I reserved for 2015. Heaven help my son if he doesn't graduate on time. On the other hand, I could probably make a ton of dough auctioning the room on eBay. I wonder if there's a change fee.
I love the housekeeper. If her name is not Inge, it should be. She is one of those mythical creatures with natural white-blond hair after puberty. She also knows how to iron tablecloths. I took lessons. Mine are always wrinkled. The secret to sheets, she whispers, is to use the microfiber kind. Very soft. She's right. No more wrinkled cotton for me. She also noticed that I needlepointed. She does too. Cross stitch, needlepoint, knitting. She shows me her socks. I can't knit to save my life. The yarn slips off the needles. I definitely get along better with the help than with the proprietors. I think the latter view me as very, well, working class. I work okay.
This morning I asked for a recommendation for two things: a hairdresser (I want curls again), and a laundromat. She thought about the hair thing. There is one across the street, but then also one she and her husband go to. She relented and gave me the phone number of the good one. Unfortunately I had to cancel (see water pump). I got a real treat on the laundry side. It is a Health Department rule that guests cannot use the same washers and dryers that are used for the B&B sheets and towels and stuff. Must worry that all the cooties will mix up. They have two sets! And I can sneak my stuff in, as long as I am out before the sheets need to be done. The washer had a setting for "Silver Service." The label on the machine said it was a Silver Service model. I didn't touch it. Who knows? Either my wash will come out very shiny or it will cost me a fortune.
Anyhow, the innkeepers hold the keys to the kingdom. I now have in my sweaty little hands the schedule for all the events I need to reserve a room for. I must be very, very nice.
I love the housekeeper. If her name is not Inge, it should be. She is one of those mythical creatures with natural white-blond hair after puberty. She also knows how to iron tablecloths. I took lessons. Mine are always wrinkled. The secret to sheets, she whispers, is to use the microfiber kind. Very soft. She's right. No more wrinkled cotton for me. She also noticed that I needlepointed. She does too. Cross stitch, needlepoint, knitting. She shows me her socks. I can't knit to save my life. The yarn slips off the needles. I definitely get along better with the help than with the proprietors. I think the latter view me as very, well, working class. I work okay.
This morning I asked for a recommendation for two things: a hairdresser (I want curls again), and a laundromat. She thought about the hair thing. There is one across the street, but then also one she and her husband go to. She relented and gave me the phone number of the good one. Unfortunately I had to cancel (see water pump). I got a real treat on the laundry side. It is a Health Department rule that guests cannot use the same washers and dryers that are used for the B&B sheets and towels and stuff. Must worry that all the cooties will mix up. They have two sets! And I can sneak my stuff in, as long as I am out before the sheets need to be done. The washer had a setting for "Silver Service." The label on the machine said it was a Silver Service model. I didn't touch it. Who knows? Either my wash will come out very shiny or it will cost me a fortune.
Anyhow, the innkeepers hold the keys to the kingdom. I now have in my sweaty little hands the schedule for all the events I need to reserve a room for. I must be very, very nice.
Being all hooked up with a water pump delivery in two days, Donnie giving me a ride into (I can't remember the name of the town but it is 12 miles away) to get my rental car, and Floyd to install said water pumps, I can at last have an early dinner. I didn't realize exactly how early that would be as we are in central time zone and I am on eastern time. I decided to walk over to The Smoke House on the Sewanee side of I-whatever. My chirpy innkeeperess said to have fun! Would have been nice to have a ride. She is now punishing me with kindness. I'm just waiting for her to add an "bless your heart" which everyone in the South knows is the equivalent of a Wayne's World Not. Like, to an ugly baby's mother: What a sweet baby, bless her heart.
So off I go. I wanted to go to the Smokehouse because it always smells like barbecue and actually serves some, too. It is attached to "the lodge," a Best Western. I stayed there once. Even my son called it a miss. Had dirty light blue carpet and a heater that sounded like a 747. The sign has half the letters out and the "Jim" of Jim something or other is faintly sizzling. I was looking forward to buying a new pair of slippers there because I had bought them there in the past and also I had to replace the ones I lost in Gettysburg that they are sending to my house, a lot of good that does me.
After another day as Nanook, I was happy to see the welcoming door. It's a good thing shirts and shoes are required today, as I am not up on my frostbite first aid. I had the buffet. No barbecue. It did have smoked ham (hello? smoke house?) and fried chicken. Also broad beans with lots of pork, collards, and a neat baked shredded carrot thing. They bring you a corn muffin with biscuits and 5 kinds of jam in little plastic cups with lids. When I was done spreading the jam on a biscuit, I put the knife in my mouth to lick it off before using it on my real meal. I hope no one was looking. They sell a lot of barbecue sauce, so it was a surprise to see the pepper can with this on it:
Looks like something from George Cinq or Villa d'Este, except they would never put it on the table. Must have come from Costco. Left a big tip.
The Smoke House is the original Cracker Barrel. They have so much shit they don't know what to do with it, so they put it on the walls and ceiling. They sell longnecks (pop) in olde time flavors like orange cream. Also fudge, in hearts since it's Valentine's Day this weekend. The most interesting thing they have is a tote bag that says:
Now it's snowing. Again. I set off in my getting-quite-used-and-torn-up long down coat, definitely with the hood up. I walked a mile in the snow back to the "Inn." I'm glad I did because I saw some groovy stuff. First, The Smoke House is on Facebook. And YouTube. I have to check that out. In the parking lot of the Best Western is this truck:
I'm not sure who is a Brown, but they are just friends. I've never seen a Just Friends celebration before. I forgot to check if it had tin cans tied to the back. Maybe they are waiting for the Smoke House Wedding Chapel to open. I think this is it. Note the Co' Cola machine on the porch. If my Coca Cola Memorabilia Museum visit serves me right, that is an early 1960's model.
Not quite at the I-whatever is the Monteagle Diner. They have a buffet. I'm not sure how that's economical for them or even how they fit it in there. It is the size of an old gas station (probably was) and I think the kitchen can barely fit in it, nevermind the tables and buffet. I'll have to check it out tomorrow as I will have lots of time to kill. However, I may go to the iron cookware outlet. I can get a 10 1/2 inch iron skillet for $3.99 with a coupon I have.
As you cross over the overpass, there are big letters hand painted on the side of a building: "Tennisshoes, Family Shoes, Work Boots, Saturday, Sunday". And this hillbilly next to it. I can't believe I missed it before. Probably looking at the chainsaw eagles. Next is an eighteen inch square metal sign: Welcome to Monteagle. It is proportional to the population.
There is also a Pig Angel BBQ restaurant on the other side of the street. "Heaven scent." Across from it is the church. In case you can't read it, it says "Crime is not corrected in the electric chair but in the high chair." Good luck with that here. As I said, this is not a very Obama place.
The Smoke House is the original Cracker Barrel. They have so much shit they don't know what to do with it, so they put it on the walls and ceiling. They sell longnecks (pop) in olde time flavors like orange cream. Also fudge, in hearts since it's Valentine's Day this weekend. The most interesting thing they have is a tote bag that says:FLAMING RECTUM
Hot Sauce XXXX
Could I make this up?
Now it's snowing. Again. I set off in my getting-quite-used-and-torn-up long down coat, definitely with the hood up. I walked a mile in the snow back to the "Inn." I'm glad I did because I saw some groovy stuff. First, The Smoke House is on Facebook. And YouTube. I have to check that out. In the parking lot of the Best Western is this truck:
I'm not sure who is a Brown, but they are just friends. I've never seen a Just Friends celebration before. I forgot to check if it had tin cans tied to the back. Maybe they are waiting for the Smoke House Wedding Chapel to open. I think this is it. Note the Co' Cola machine on the porch. If my Coca Cola Memorabilia Museum visit serves me right, that is an early 1960's model.
As you cross over the overpass, there are big letters hand painted on the side of a building: "Tennisshoes, Family Shoes, Work Boots, Saturday, Sunday". And this hillbilly next to it. I can't believe I missed it before. Probably looking at the chainsaw eagles. Next is an eighteen inch square metal sign: Welcome to Monteagle. It is proportional to the population.
There is also a Pig Angel BBQ restaurant on the other side of the street. "Heaven scent." Across from it is the church. In case you can't read it, it says "Crime is not corrected in the electric chair but in the high chair." Good luck with that here. As I said, this is not a very Obama place.
This is what it says on an ashtray I stole from a hotel near Champagne when I was sixteen. It shows a little boy statue pissing in the fountain. The meaning is that you shouldn't drink the water, presumably because you will be drinking bubbly.
Today's theme is water pumps. As usual, I needed a jump to get going this morning. My innkeeper was glad to oblige as I come bearing my own cables now. I am reasonably sure AAA does not come here. No luck with the jump. Then I wondered if I was out of gas. Jim went and got some. It was in a brand new plastic can and he wasn't sure how to undo the valve. Is it coming out?, he asked. At this point Jim is getting a bit testy with me, and I know he is doing all he can do to be polite. He has a stick in his bottom and has never done hard work, ever. I can tell. However, he does cook a mean breakfast (a take on eggs benedict with Bernaise sauce, herb roasted potatoes and applewood smoked bacon). He reminds me of a dean at my son's country day school whose first name is Clee. Did I mention my son went to boarding school? That's because he didn't like Clee, among other things. My ex-husband always called him Cleat. He would have summer lacrosse camp every year. He wasn't very good, so I'm not sure how this worked. Lacrosse had been a gentleman's game until it turned into a sport.
Anyhow, the B&B's tagline is "An exceptional gathering place for the remarkable individual celebrating a special moment in time." I'm pretty sure I'm an exceptional person and I was about to experience a special moment in time. Woody was dead. D.E.A.D. dead. In the nick of time, up pulled another guy in Carthartt's (black coveralls this time) who had come to fix some lights at the Monteagle Inn. Everyone in Carthartt's is interesting. He was in the construction business which was kind of tough for a few months there, but he is/was also a musician. Little Richard has a house down in Winchester, and he still gets rolled around in town in his wheelchair. He's a drummer (so is almost-real imaginary boyfriend!). I should check him out on YouTube. Bear Hollow. My Carthartt's man is now my best friend. Note to self: discretely inquire of innkeeper his name. It is not one which I should have forgotten. He really gets how great the car is. Took a look and decided to bring his buddy in. Buddy gets off work at 3:30 and will come over right after that. In the meantime, we had a nice chat. He thinks that to be interesting you have to be "a little to the left, or a little to the right." I most wholeheartedly agree. He also says that when you need somebody with one of these things, someone's bound to oblige. He's right there too. And if I break down someone's gonna steal that car. And you, too, says buddy. Probably right again. Must. Fix. Car. The duo ooh and aah over the condition and originality of Woody. They are more knowledgeable than any other motor-lookers I've met. Tom offers to trade me for his Ranger. It works (the truck, not the trade).
Friend (Tom? I'm still freezing and do not have Carthartt's on) arrives with his amp meter. Battery okay. Best friend (mine that is) calls over to someone else to get a 6 volt. He'll have it 7 a.m. tomorrow. After some poking around under the hood the two guys remember that these Fords always had a tendency to leak coolant from the water pump which then messes up the points (by the way, I really do know that points are part of the distributor that is called a crab because it looks like one; Daryl taught me that and he's earned his 46). Another guy is called. He's real good with these because he's a car nut and does hot rods and all that. While we're waiting for a call back, we talk about Tom's collection of World War II firearms, some that look brand new. They have swastikas on them. BFF tells about a former Ranger they know that is sorta messed up in the head, but just won't quit. We get a call. Floyd thinks I need to get a new fuel pump because he doesn't want to rebuild this one. My BFF said that, shoot, he's a machinist so he could just make one for me. But he wants to call the guy at the parts store over in Tracey City. The guy's phone was busy. When BFF called back with a smile, he just wanted to ask if someone had called about a fuel pump. That'd be Floyd. BFF told me to write this down: Felton's Clutch in Chattanooga. I could call there next. No answer. Probably talking to Floyd.
At this point, it was almost 5 p.m. Eastern time, and I figured I'd call back home to friend/car restorer to see if he has one on the shelf. He suggests Speedway in Nebraska because they are in the next time zone and maybe could overnight one. They can, only the UPS guy has already come and they will have to do it tomorrow. Floyd has four cars in his three bay garage, and they're in parts. Maybe the next day, but he doesn't work on the weekends. I have to get that pump, fast. I call Floyd back with the good news that I have secured two water pumps and that we might as well replace both of them. He disagrees and thinks that I should just carry the other one around in case. He'd do both if it was one like they build at Speedway, better than the old ones. Ta-da! My pumps are coming from Speedway. He is impressed. He will call me tomorrow to talk about the next day. I can just bring the car right over. Uh, no, I can't. He'll tow it. Please God, flatbed.
I'm one of those people who has to have wheels. Give me a bike and I'm fine. I just need to be mobile. I wonder if I can get a rental car. One of the girls in the B&B office said she thinks I can get an Enterprise car in Winchester, and they deliver. Well, I can get a car in another car and they don't deliver and it has to be tomorrow. Heaven forbid I should ask for a ride from my exasperated innkeeper. I'd been nosing around at the various brochures artfully arranged in a china cabinet. One of them was for longer distance rides. That's me all right. Gotta get to the rental car. Called Donnie. He said he's out of business, supply and demand he said, but if I didn't mind a pickup, he'd take me over himself. 10 o'clock, so we can see how the weather is. To add insult to injury, it is going to snow again. Two to six inches. This is Tennessee.
Asked to stay another night at B&B. Innkeeper went to check reservation books. Lucky me, he has an opening, but someone has my room booked for the weekend. I told him I would be fine with moving. I'm pretty sure I'm the only one staying here.
Emailed college boyfriend with lunch invitation. Took a nap.
Today's theme is water pumps. As usual, I needed a jump to get going this morning. My innkeeper was glad to oblige as I come bearing my own cables now. I am reasonably sure AAA does not come here. No luck with the jump. Then I wondered if I was out of gas. Jim went and got some. It was in a brand new plastic can and he wasn't sure how to undo the valve. Is it coming out?, he asked. At this point Jim is getting a bit testy with me, and I know he is doing all he can do to be polite. He has a stick in his bottom and has never done hard work, ever. I can tell. However, he does cook a mean breakfast (a take on eggs benedict with Bernaise sauce, herb roasted potatoes and applewood smoked bacon). He reminds me of a dean at my son's country day school whose first name is Clee. Did I mention my son went to boarding school? That's because he didn't like Clee, among other things. My ex-husband always called him Cleat. He would have summer lacrosse camp every year. He wasn't very good, so I'm not sure how this worked. Lacrosse had been a gentleman's game until it turned into a sport.
Friend (Tom? I'm still freezing and do not have Carthartt's on) arrives with his amp meter. Battery okay. Best friend (mine that is) calls over to someone else to get a 6 volt. He'll have it 7 a.m. tomorrow. After some poking around under the hood the two guys remember that these Fords always had a tendency to leak coolant from the water pump which then messes up the points (by the way, I really do know that points are part of the distributor that is called a crab because it looks like one; Daryl taught me that and he's earned his 46). Another guy is called. He's real good with these because he's a car nut and does hot rods and all that. While we're waiting for a call back, we talk about Tom's collection of World War II firearms, some that look brand new. They have swastikas on them. BFF tells about a former Ranger they know that is sorta messed up in the head, but just won't quit. We get a call. Floyd thinks I need to get a new fuel pump because he doesn't want to rebuild this one. My BFF said that, shoot, he's a machinist so he could just make one for me. But he wants to call the guy at the parts store over in Tracey City. The guy's phone was busy. When BFF called back with a smile, he just wanted to ask if someone had called about a fuel pump. That'd be Floyd. BFF told me to write this down: Felton's Clutch in Chattanooga. I could call there next. No answer. Probably talking to Floyd.At this point, it was almost 5 p.m. Eastern time, and I figured I'd call back home to friend/car restorer to see if he has one on the shelf. He suggests Speedway in Nebraska because they are in the next time zone and maybe could overnight one. They can, only the UPS guy has already come and they will have to do it tomorrow. Floyd has four cars in his three bay garage, and they're in parts. Maybe the next day, but he doesn't work on the weekends. I have to get that pump, fast. I call Floyd back with the good news that I have secured two water pumps and that we might as well replace both of them. He disagrees and thinks that I should just carry the other one around in case. He'd do both if it was one like they build at Speedway, better than the old ones. Ta-da! My pumps are coming from Speedway. He is impressed. He will call me tomorrow to talk about the next day. I can just bring the car right over. Uh, no, I can't. He'll tow it. Please God, flatbed.
I'm one of those people who has to have wheels. Give me a bike and I'm fine. I just need to be mobile. I wonder if I can get a rental car. One of the girls in the B&B office said she thinks I can get an Enterprise car in Winchester, and they deliver. Well, I can get a car in another car and they don't deliver and it has to be tomorrow. Heaven forbid I should ask for a ride from my exasperated innkeeper. I'd been nosing around at the various brochures artfully arranged in a china cabinet. One of them was for longer distance rides. That's me all right. Gotta get to the rental car. Called Donnie. He said he's out of business, supply and demand he said, but if I didn't mind a pickup, he'd take me over himself. 10 o'clock, so we can see how the weather is. To add insult to injury, it is going to snow again. Two to six inches. This is Tennessee.
Asked to stay another night at B&B. Innkeeper went to check reservation books. Lucky me, he has an opening, but someone has my room booked for the weekend. I told him I would be fine with moving. I'm pretty sure I'm the only one staying here.
Emailed college boyfriend with lunch invitation. Took a nap.
Ok, that's that wrong Sewanee. Al Jolson's is Swanee. Part of the admissions process at The University of the South is to be able to spell Sewanee correctly. I am here in Sewanee, Tennessee, personally delivering the deposit for my kid's enrollment next year. I thought that would be a nice touch. Besides, I need to do massive purchasing of purple and gold merchandise at the bookstore. We're all very proud. And relieved. Hope he makes it through four years, but as far as I'm concerned he's hatched. I have completed my responsibilities.
I'm laying over for a day because I need to do laundry and get my hair done. This is a very nice B&B, The Monteagle Inn. Monteagle, the town, is on the other side of the highway from Sewanee: The University of The South. It has a population of 1,213. Sewanee, in contrast, has a population of 2,472, with a median age of 21.4. The Volunteer Fire Department has 30 local residents and 15-18 students. The mayor is also the Vice-Chancellor of the University. The Chancellor, by the way, has ceremonial duties, while the Vice Chancellor does the dirty work. Kind of like the Queen and Prime Minister.
I have been perusing The Sewanee Mountain Messenger. The post office has gone from labelling the two slots Sewanee mail and Out Of Town mail, to Mail and Netflix. True.
The traditions at Sewanee (the school, not the town, although they are pretty much the same), are most definitely unique. The students wear sports jackets to class, by choice. I had heard that, but verified by the presence of another (the only) guest's son who came to breakfast. If they reach a certain grade point average (going lower each year) they get to wear academic gowns. The tattier the gown, the more prestige. By now, you get the picture that the school's original library came from Oxford and Cambridge. Sewanee's intention was to be the southern answer to the Ivy League. I asked my innkeeper why it has these two names. Political, he said. A $250,000 consultant was hired to advise as to how to attract more "diversity" to the school. "The University of the South" had bad connotations for the, uh, diverse community. It didn't help that the flags of the dioceses flying in the mail chapel:
included some red, white and blues with X shapes in them. After the change, they got some students from Maryland, enthusiastically decried by a Sewanee mom staying in the B&B with me. Since girls get better grades in high school than boys do, the boys have an easier time getting in. Sounds like old time religion to me. The flags went out for cleaning, and the chalice used by the founder of the Ku Klux Klan "disappeared". This is beginning to sound more and more like a Da Vinci Code kind of place. Here's the school chant:
Rip 'em up! Tear 'em up! Leave 'em in the lurch. Down with the heathen. Up with the Church.--Yea, Sewanee's Right!
The heathens are the Methodists at Vanderbilt. YSR is emblazoned on baseball hats, coffee mugs and the like. It's sort of like those black and white oval stickers with airport codes that nobody but you and the King of France knows. And all those other people in Nantucket reds. You know, they used to be for countries in Europe and they had to put them on for some reason.
Here is an on-line auction from WorthPoint (!) that speaks to the history of The University of the South, including that the first convocation was held in 1868 (note the events in the South at that time), and Robert E. Lee was offered to head the school. This is an Episcopal school. I hope my son will emerge a gentleman, as this was the point to begin with.
I'm laying over for a day because I need to do laundry and get my hair done. This is a very nice B&B, The Monteagle Inn. Monteagle, the town, is on the other side of the highway from Sewanee: The University of The South. It has a population of 1,213. Sewanee, in contrast, has a population of 2,472, with a median age of 21.4. The Volunteer Fire Department has 30 local residents and 15-18 students. The mayor is also the Vice-Chancellor of the University. The Chancellor, by the way, has ceremonial duties, while the Vice Chancellor does the dirty work. Kind of like the Queen and Prime Minister.
I have been perusing The Sewanee Mountain Messenger. The post office has gone from labelling the two slots Sewanee mail and Out Of Town mail, to Mail and Netflix. True.
The traditions at Sewanee (the school, not the town, although they are pretty much the same), are most definitely unique. The students wear sports jackets to class, by choice. I had heard that, but verified by the presence of another (the only) guest's son who came to breakfast. If they reach a certain grade point average (going lower each year) they get to wear academic gowns. The tattier the gown, the more prestige. By now, you get the picture that the school's original library came from Oxford and Cambridge. Sewanee's intention was to be the southern answer to the Ivy League. I asked my innkeeper why it has these two names. Political, he said. A $250,000 consultant was hired to advise as to how to attract more "diversity" to the school. "The University of the South" had bad connotations for the, uh, diverse community. It didn't help that the flags of the dioceses flying in the mail chapel:
included some red, white and blues with X shapes in them. After the change, they got some students from Maryland, enthusiastically decried by a Sewanee mom staying in the B&B with me. Since girls get better grades in high school than boys do, the boys have an easier time getting in. Sounds like old time religion to me. The flags went out for cleaning, and the chalice used by the founder of the Ku Klux Klan "disappeared". This is beginning to sound more and more like a Da Vinci Code kind of place. Here's the school chant:
Rip 'em up! Tear 'em up! Leave 'em in the lurch. Down with the heathen. Up with the Church.--Yea, Sewanee's Right!
The heathens are the Methodists at Vanderbilt. YSR is emblazoned on baseball hats, coffee mugs and the like. It's sort of like those black and white oval stickers with airport codes that nobody but you and the King of France knows. And all those other people in Nantucket reds. You know, they used to be for countries in Europe and they had to put them on for some reason.
Here is an on-line auction from WorthPoint (!) that speaks to the history of The University of the South, including that the first convocation was held in 1868 (note the events in the South at that time), and Robert E. Lee was offered to head the school. This is an Episcopal school. I hope my son will emerge a gentleman, as this was the point to begin with.
I have finally escaped the vortex of E-Town. I am heading to Bardstown once again. Gary at the Ramada gave me decent directions. Very easy. Unfortunately, I needed a jump again. I have no cables because they are in the tailgate area along with all my parts and tools, and I can’t get in because I lost my keys and the guy only made the one for the ignition because his code said the door locks and the ignition locks are the same. They are not, but I didn’t care because I just wanted to get out of dodge in enough time to go to Lynn’s Paradise Cafe before I had to get on the road again. Note to self: make duplicate keys and rewire Woody to 12 volts. This 6 volt battery sucks in the cold.
I just could not call AAA again (a pride thing, although I probably should have just gotten my money’s worth). Gary called the maintenance man, who had just left to take care of the other hotel, and asked him if he had cables. No can find. After much ado, Gary told me I could take his vehicle to buy cables of my own (my suggestion, the cables, not Gary’s car). I wouldn’t do that. Sandy, the older kitchen cleaner upper was so kind as to drive me to NAPA. She had Little Debbies and one of those small cans of Dr. Pepper. My kind of girl. She also smokes. Everyone here does. Upon my return, we used Gary’s “vehicle” to start Woody up. Like velvet.
Time for bourbon! Got to Bardstown, finally. It is a really pretty place. I wish I had gotten here last night. The Jail Bed and Breakfast was right in the center of it. It was very intriguing and I had always wondered what it would be like to be locked up, but I am claustrophobic and the E-Town force field would probably suck me up from my hanging cot. Reserving this experience for almost-real imaginary boyfriend in the privacy of our own home.
Passed through town. Headed to the Bourbon Heritage Center. As I drove, I saw these very scary buildings that look exactly like our prisons, especially those on Manhattan next to the courts. They move the prisoners directly underground to their trials. Anyhow, this sign was at the corner (kinda hard to read due to snow and rain; it say Good Times Happen Here!)Wow, have fun at the prison! Hmmmm… Turned right. Came to the Heritage Center. Beautiful. As always, I was the only guest. I walked in and asked if I could plug in my laptop. I could indeed. My Macbook needed charging because I was so fucking cold that I left all my cables in Woody last night making the mad dash into the Ramada and Gary’s arms. Met George. Saw 14 (or was it 13?) minute film. Actually very interesting and informative. I was disappointed that I couldn’t go to the brick houses and see some “cooking.” However, George explained the elaborate genealogy of the Beam family (somewhat cross-bred with the Noe family, those interlopers). Yes, practically all the Kentucky bourbon producers are related. This Center is affiliated with the Heaven Hill distillery. I decided I would buy lots of Heaven Hill bourbon. Now to the brick houses. I didn’t see any out there. They looked like concrete block to me. Apparently the prisons are actually where they keep the bourbon, apparently to keep it from running away. And they are called rick houses, not brick houses. I’m not sure that is rick as in rick or rick as in rack (hey, rick rack, I made a funny by mistake). A rick is three barrels high and 16 (or is it 17 or 19) barrels wide.
The first exhibit has a quote that will be dear to my heart evermore:
Only George says the real word he used was “confounded”. I like that better. Also region called Caintuck. Is that what happens when a drag queen is sick?
Here’s what it takes to be called bourbon:
- All American ingredients (lots of flag waving and billboards with cute little babies and the admonition that they already have souls; not Obama country far as I can tell)
- At least 51% corn
- A new charred barrel each time (they send the used ones to Scotland for Scotch. Note to self: drink good bourbon, not sloppy seconds scotch)
- No additives for color or flavor (very natural whole foods stuff here; they also are locavores)
There are other whiskies, but this is bourbon which by the way was called bourbon because someone stamped it on the barrels going downstream to New Orleans, I think because Bourbon is a place.
Cooperage (making barrels) is piecework because it is such a crappy thing to do. You have to basically incinerate the insides for just the right amount of time before extinguishing it. Sounds like a lot of blisters to me. Nevertheless, jobs as coopers are handed down from generation to generation. You better not try to get one. The guy from Dirty Jobs on TV did this job. See?
George took me through the exhibits, including one where you get to smell the raw alcohol stuff that comes from the stills and then from 7 year aged and then 12 year. Pretty yummy by the time you get to the last one.
Then, Valhalla! The tasting room. We got to taste both the younger and the older bourbons and smell some eucalyptus and lemon in between so we could train our noses. There is no question that you want the older one. But don’t you dare mix this with Coke. This is a “sipping” bourbon that you drink with a few drops of branch water on the porch with a cigar. In order to make the experience replicable at home, they use WalMart water. They use limestone water for making the bourbon because it has no iron and does not turn the bourbon black. A good marketing move as far as I’m concerned. It probably also tastes better. I know the spring in my basement tastes better than other water. You can also drink it over ice, the bourbon that is, and it should take you about an hour to drink two shots. You should use the bigger lowball glasses so you can smell it. Please, please do not drink good bourbon before a meal. Everything will taste nasty, and it’s bad etiquette besides.
This is George in the tasting room. Note the barrel-like walls. The bar is made from some really old barrels, I think from 18 something.
I bought some good bourbon from him. This is single barrel bourbon so you can see the writing on the back that identifies the age and the exact barrel it comes from. Some are better than others but no one knows until you drink them. Some people drink a lot to find a great one. I like that.
On the way out I saw these made out of oak barrels. I also heard on the news that someone put scarves and legwarmers on the famous horse statues in Lexington, I think. Why didn't they think of me?
On the way out I saw these made out of oak barrels. I also heard on the news that someone put scarves and legwarmers on the famous horse statues in Lexington, I think. Why didn't they think of me?
Back to Bardstown for lunch. I actually have to make an effort to get there, unlike E-Town which effortlessly sucks you in. I ate at Mammy's. Fourth generation, but I suspect the "country" decor is more recent. Here are the cracking tiles in front of the door, and the cow in the window. I just noticed the pig, too.
Here are the waitresses. The one on the left was mine. She's the youngest generation but didn't want her picture taken because her skin is bad today and her hair not done. She said it would be okay if she could have the other girl with her. I snapped the other one when she wasn't looking.Mammy's had chicken and dumplings. Yum. Also banana pudding for desert. They had coconut pie, too, but I asked her to bring me whatever she thought was best. She went to look at them. This is a good sign because it means they are homemade and differ from day to day. They had no wafers left, but she mashed up some graham crackers real good and put in a lot of butter. You could tell.
Time to go onto more bourbon (yes!). There are many distilleries on the Bourbon Trail (that's official, since they named it 70,000 to 90,000 people come here). There is a Bourbon Trail Passport that you get stamped at each distillery. If you get them all, you get a t-shirt. They'll exchange it for free if it doesn't fit, and you can't buy it anywhere. I really wanted to go to Woodford Reserve, but it's a long way away. I heard that Maker's Mark is a good one so I went. These are the guys with the red stuff dripping down the bottle.
Driving in Woody, I have the guts to go where I would never had otherwise. At Maker's Mark, I bypassed the tour option and drove right around the hill to the distillery proper. The buildings are this off brown/black/grey color that identifis Markers Mark. Their rick houses are this color, too. All the accents are red, and the shutters have a cutout of the bottle shape. Anyhow, I drove down to the real deal. This is who I met:
So far, this is my favoritist picture of the trip. I didn't put my imaginary boyfriend in it because this is too cool solo. Each man introduced himself to me. They said my name is [insert name here] and they call me [insert nickname here]. From the left we have Chilly, Tick (I wonder if he works the ricks), and the other guy. He shook my hand and said, I'm Jim Heel. They call me Jim Heel. I'm not sure if this is Heel or Hill. Probably the latter.
The tour was pretty cool because they were "cooking." This means the yeast is eating the little shards of corn (rolled here, not hammermilled like other places), and farting. This makes the stuff bubble and get hot. You know, like when you, well whatever, in the bathtub. Here are the tubs. They're wood are from 18 something. If they catch fire, they are fixed. Other places use stainless steel. Note the red floors, consistent with the rest of the decor.
Then the stuff is piped to the still. It is distilled twice to get the nasties out of it. The stuff that results is White Dog or White Lightning. It is clear. In college, we used to drink that stuff out of mason jars, making it impossible to know where you are going to wake up. And wake up not knowing where the hell you are. I learned to eat oysters this way. The still is the copper thing in the back. It's pretty. As usual, to show up the other distilleries, theirs is the only one that is still copper. I forget what the other ones use. The still works non-stop (the overtime must be killing the budget), except for repairs. Scheduled maintenance, they said. Of course, it would never break. That would be a darn shame. No one around here curses. Anywhere in Kentucky as far as I've noticed.
Here's the assembly line for bottling. The complete assembly line. The workers are dipping the bottles into that red stuff. The label printing press is from the early 1900s. There used to be one from the 1800's but it was hard to get parts for. We were very lucky to see some "odds" being bottled. These are errors that they then charge a ton for because they're rare. These labels have been printed cockeyed. I tried to buy one but they wouldn't let me.
Our guide (no George, but then he gives written directions on a little Makers Mark pad) then took us to the bar and VERY large gift shop. I bet they make more off this gift shop than by bottling. We got to taste the regular and the 46 bourbon. The 46 had extra pieces of wood in the barrel so that they can charge more, uh, it tastes better. You caint get this most places. In Pennsylvania, we have state controlled liquor stores (i.e., price-gouging). We never get anything good. So I bought three bottles of 46, one for me and 2 for the guys who looked at my car before I left. Also, they make premixed mint julep. It has green drips instead of the red, and was a commercial failure. I bought a bottle of it. I do know, however, that all this stuff has been aged a maximum of seven years, making it A-OK for drinking with Coke. I hope George never knows I bought any. By the way, I was joined on the tour by four good old boys, but the civilized ones that look like Coach Taylor on Saturday Night Lights, possibly the best TV show ever. Well, except for The Tudors and Dexter, and maybe Big Love. Two of them tried to pick me up (together!). Felt good.
Here's another guy on the road who wanted to see the engine:
Debated whether to stay in Nashville or go on to Sewanee. The latter is a nice town, and I need a two nighter to clean the car out. Probably no locksmith, though. Also, I forgot to email college boyfriend about having lunch in Nashville where he is a muckity muck public servant. Set out for Sewanee. Frickin freezing cold again. Put hood up on long down parka. People think I'm nuts when I go into a restroom bundled up like this. It is my own Iditerod. I am hoping this is my personal best and I don't have to do it again. See billboard for radio station in Nashville: Putting The Dumb Into Random. Too many lights on highway and big city. Didn't I listen to my note to self? No more big cities.
Poor innkeeper has to wait until 9:45 until I get there. Room is really nice.
P.P.S Also first sighting of See Rock City signs.
On Mt. Kilimanjaro there is a route that all but guarantees that the tip-gorging tourists will summit. It is called the Coca Cola route. I took the Coca Cola route today, lots of switchbacks, getting somewhere eventually.
In the morning, I had to deal with the iPhone problem. The girls at AT&T were very nice and since all my photos are on my phone, not my SIM card, they suggested I email them to myself. Fab! I know own my third iPhone 4 (one lost at jury duty, one broken). And a new two year service agreement. This is what Woodie looked like after my errand:
I now know that Elizabethtown is commonly known as E-Town, possibly because no town should be saddled with five syllables. I know this because I have asked for many directions today.
I decided to go to the Coca Cola Memorabilia Museum. It is directly next door to the Holiday Inn Express. It wasn't there when I left the hotel this morning. I swear. While I write in depth in another post, suffice it to say that recommendation from the museum to go to Visitor's Center was, well, misguided.
I was planning to go to Bardstown, the center of the Bourbon Trail. It's supposed to be a cute town, with nice restaurants and B&B's. It's pretty easy to get to from E-Town. 26 miles to the east on Route 62. I wanted to see if I could get a room at a B&B, so I asked the Visitor's Center lady how to get there and if there was a Visitor's Center there. She pulled out a map of E-Town. Nooooooo! No more E-Town. I explained I wanted to go to Bardstown. So she reluctantly pulled out a map of Bardstown's center. It showed Route 62 going right into the center of it. But, no. She said the road was too hilly and windy. I should take the West Kentucky Turnpike, but really the easiest thing is to go on I-whatever. There will be an exit right there. Okay, I like small roads, and I don't care about hills. She brushed her hand across the desk saying Route 62 is right there. You can just take it that way. Okay. I set off. Remember, this is 26 miles.
These are things I saw:
- A sign for a propane store with a face made out of the bottom of one of the bottles
- Exhaust 'n' Hair (one sign, two services)
- Forrest's Calling Cards (what a nice tradition here is the outback; only later did I figure out that it was telephone cards, not social cards)
- Roof for Sale (once I could read the details, I understood that it was a roofing company for sale)
- A general store (wish I had popped in; guaranteed to have lots of gossip)
- Sally's Restaurant
True to my tractor test, there was a lot of agricultural machinery. Unfortunately for them, a lot was rusted from disuse. I saw tractors under carports. I saw tractors in front yards. I saw tractors driving on the road. I saw tractors in the ditch. I even saw tractors for sale. This has to be a really tiny town.
About an hour and a half after leaving E-Town, I no longer saw the Route 62 signs. I think I missed a turn. I went into a convenience store. Had to wait for the other girl because she is better at directions than the first one. Nowhere near 62. I turned back. Stopped at a BP (there are lots of them here). This one did not have a convenience store. It had an actual garage, you know, the place where they fix your car and don't charge you the dealer price. Three guys looked through the grubby window. After awhile, a huge one with Carthartt overalls came out. He looked exactly like Hagrid. Anyhow, I needed to go back by the Wal-mart. I still didn't quite get it. All the directions were taking me the wrong way. I finally stopped at a medical care place and there were three very nice, very literate women to help me. I brought in my map. I had to go back to E-Town. The bitch at the Visitors Center sent me the wrong way on Route 62. There were six inches of slush on the ground and snowplows out.
Returning to E-Town, I hit the I-whatever and went to find the Bardstown exit. I really need that bourbon now. Nothing. I finally could see practically nothing. My windshield wipers are weak, and with the ice, they are now completely stopped. It is so cold out and I am breathing, so the windshield is also foggy. The Rain-X is helping. The real problem is the trucks. I have been continually irked by cars who pass me and then do the exact same speed I am but in front of me. This seems to happen with one car passing another car passing another car until they are all in one big clump doing the same speed. With truck in snow, this is a nightmare. When a truck goes by, I am covered with slush, like a frosty in one of those car washes that scare the shit out of your kid when the black flapper things beat the roof. They drive about 15 feet in front of me, on my left, putting me in the perpetual 7-11 swirlie/icee/frosty/slushieBardstown tonight, but maybe I can have a nice breakfast there in the morning. I vowed to get off at the next place I could find lodging. The next exit has a Holiday Inn Express! I followed the signs the one mile to the hotel. And I kept on driving and driving and driving. The road was truly scary at that point, the winding through some kind of forest with NO shoulder at all. I couldn't pull over, never mind turn around. It turns out the Holiday Inn Express was not 1 mile away, but 10 miles (damn snow on the sign). I gave up and vowed to turn around the next place I could. There was an intersection with a traffic light and a MacDonalds. I was in Ft. Knox, home of the Patton Museum and it was 7:30 p.m. No museum for me. Guess what? You can't get to Bardstown from there. You have to go back to I-whatever.
I stopped in Micky D's parking lot. Guy pulled up. You lost? Uh, no. I'm never lost because I'm never going anywhere. He said he had pulled up to me before to take a picture. He couldn't believe that I was driving that thing (Woody gets no respect) in the snow. He has a 1948 Chrysler Town and Country in a garage just up the road. This is a very nice car. It looks like this===>While he got his temperamental phone (aren't they all) to display the picture, I was leaning into his open car window. He had a football on the floor and sports sunglasses on a croakie hanging from the rear view mirror. I told him I was getting snow in his car. He said it was alright, the car was his wife's.
Then I went to The Holiday Inn Express that just happened to be within eyesight (!). They could give me a handicapped room. Bad sign. I figured I'd just go for it and trace my tracks back to Bardstown.
Okay, back on I-whatever. Heading north, looking for exit. As usual, I have to pee, so I creep my way off on the next exit. Two truck stops. The one on the left has a MacDonald's (they seem to be my beacons today). I go there. I can't figure out how to park. Finally I get in and make a mad dash to the potty. Fuck, I'll just eat a quarter pounder with cheese as I haven't eaten since toast at breakfast. I'll pretend I didn't eat. Number 20, your shower is ready. Use stall 6. Number 20, your shower is ready. I was reminded that this was a truck stop, a busy one at that. The little cooler at the cashier that encourages you to buy a drink as you're leaving, was stocked with those mini bottles they serve on airplanes. It was a good time to not be driving. I asked some of the guys if the weather was going to let up. Between 10 and 12, and then flakes again. You should go north, it's better up there. I did not want to go to Louisville. I did not want to go to Elizabethtown. I wanted to go to Bardstown where the bourbon is. And, I wonder why the other truck stop that looked really nice and clean had no customers. Prostitutes at the first one? I didn't see any, but I guess the point is to be in the nice warm truck cabs with paying customers.
Now, back on I-whatever to Elizabethtown. Route 60 has been sending smoke signals to Elizabethtown. It is a black vortex, sucking me in. For the third time today, I have come back to E-Town. Time: 8:30. Total mileage today: 300. This is the 26 mile trip. I pulled off the highway exactly at the Visitor's Center and hurled invectives.
I couldn't bear to go back to the Holiday Inn Express that disappointed me so much last night, so I tried the Ramada. My family always used to go there on car trips when we were little and it was swanky. Gary was a vision.He put me on the first floor and gave me a 10% off coupon for Indian food (!). Namaste delivers right to your room. Woody is in sight and I have curry-scented hair. Sure beats eau de petroleum. Here is the handsome delivery guy. He beats his uncle who did the delivery before mine. I saw him in the lobby.
I had a delightful Tikka Masala. They actually asked me if I wanted it mild, medium or hot. I've never had that choice before. Very cool because the hot goes with the hot bath theme. The basmati had actual cloves and cardamom that you can see. The mango lassi is a milkshake, if you ask me, but if it counts as a normal beverage, I feel better. I am still pretending I didn't eat that Quarter Pounder with cheese a half an hour ago. Anyhow, that was lunch.There is a bathtub. There are no bathtubs at the Holiday Inn Express. I was so happy to soak in steaming water that I felt obligated to clean the tub afterwards. Hey, I told you I have a hygiene thing. They also had the shower curtain looped through the soap dish so you could sit in your little cabana and not have the nasty thing in the tub with you.
On the downside, there is no special germ-free remote. And the phone is one of those tan lightweight plastic jobs that turns kinda green over time. It sometimes doesn't have a dial tone. I know this because I had to call Gary for a knife and fork. They do have a cable lineup on the TV. Would have been useful when I couldn't find the Super Bowl channel. The sink isn't cracked and the countertop is granite. It is still impossible to open the soap. I think the motels have some incentive plan based on how little soap the guests use. As I said, it is never possible to have too many scissors.
Verdict: When in Elizabethtown, you must stay at the Ramada. Sorry, my Holiday Inn Express.
But check it out! As I came dashing in looking like something the cat drug in, a kind of cute twenty-something said I like your car. Do you like younger men? Before I could think, I said as a matter of fact I do. He asked me for drinks or dinner. I am such a slut (no, I didn't go, he was heartbroken). Note to self: don't brush hair.
Lost:
- My way to Bardstown
- My way back to E-Town
- My way to Bardstown
- My way back from Ft. Knox and the Patton Museum
- My mind
- A new bruise. Old one is yellow-green one next to it. I think I know where these are coming from. I have been very close to actually being stuck in the car. I mean panicking being stuck. One way to get stuck is to twist around in the front seat to get into the back seat. If you are in the driver's side, you will get stuck under the steering wheel kinda sideways. You really have to yank to get out. War is hell.
- Ramada Inns
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