2013: Oh, the Places You'll Go!

"You're off to great places! You're off and away!" - Dr. Seuss, Oh, the Places You'll Go

For the first two-thirds of my life, I stayed close to home and on the ground. The furthest afield I'd been by age 25 was an 8th grade car trip to Washington, D.C. for National History Day. Because I'm cool like that. But somewhere along the way, I got on board with the friendly skies and found myself dropping pins in the map well beyond the Georgia borders. Last year - yes! It's last year now! - was no exception.

January
Honolulu, Hawaii
"It's opener there in the wide open air." - Dr. Seuss
Every map of the U.S. you've ever contemplated has misled you - Hawaii is way out in the Pacific Ocean. Way, way, way out there on a 10-hour non-stop flight across four time zones. Good thing the Pacific is a beautiful clear blue expanse and there are acres of leafy forest worthy of Jurassic Park to wander through in search of waterfalls and hibiscus and giant ferns to ease the jet lag. And there, tuna really is the chicken of the sea - it's the only thing that's not outrageously expensive in paradise, so I ate my weight in it. I had cocktail hour in a hotel suite featured on Lost, drank my first mai tai (not my jam), and stiffed a cab driver for the first time in my life. And I fell. More on that later.

February
Absolutely nowhere fast
"Out there things can happen and frequently do to people as brainy and footsy as you." - Dr. Seuss
Footsies can befall terrible fates in paradise. I took a tumble my first full day in Honolulu. Not deterred by this little sprain, I limped a half a mile to a pharmacy to purchase an ace bandage and proceeded to tour myself on foot through the island's botanical gardens, hike up the side of its volcanic crater Diamond Head, and traveled clear across its length to stand on the North Shore and watch the surfers tackle the waves at the birthplace of American surf culture. But I spent all of February off my feet and on crutches to boot when, upon my stateside return, I learned that  my pesky sprain was actually a broken ankle.

March 
"You'll come down from the Lurch with an unpleasant bump. And the chance are, then, that you'll be in a slump." - Dr. Seuss
Somewhere in early March, I was freed from my boot and set back on both feet and told to resume my wanderings as I pleased. It was a short slump in my wide world of travelings, but I stayed mostly grounded and close to home. I did make the journey to the wilds of Marietta and then on to another world entirely where sparkling fairies ran free and a very special one got a pink unicorn for her 4th birthday.



April
Durham, North Carolina
"You'll get mixed up, of course, as you already know. You'll get mixed up with many strange birds as you go." - Dr. Seuss
In tobacco country, I reunited with my best friend Nikki - a fellow strange bird -  for a long weekend in the Triangle. We connected points in downtown Durham, Duke's fantastic Gothic architecture and the Sarah P. Duke Gardens where we were able to picnic with the Longerbeams and their new puppy - because the more strange birds, the merrier. And while Nikki and me planned to recreate some of the epic moments from our 5K training, we drank beer and photographed graffiti instead.

May 
New York, New York
"You're on your own. And you know what you know. And YOU are the guy who'll decide where to go."
While my traipsing has led me to the west, the mountains, the Midwest and furthered my adventures in the southeast, New England remained elusive. And while it's a little hard to believe, May brought my first bite of the Big Apple. A day in Manhattan doesn't afford much time for seeing the city that never sleeps, and neither, for that matter, did getting caught in an 18-block torrential downpour without an umbrella until 12 blocks in when I doled out $5 to a street vendor. But rolling soggily solo (and with a little help from Google maps), I made it to Times Square, Rockefeller Center, Central Park, Radio City Music Hall, and most importantly, the New York Public Library where even the water fountains are beautiful and bookish. Oh, and I saw Naked Cowboy. Mark that one off the bucket list.

June
San Diego, California
"With banner flip-flapping, once more you'll ride high. Ready for anything under the sky." -Dr. Seuss

Mid-year, it was back west for a whole week on the California coast. Things were a bit wild there - a trip to the famed San Diego zoo and up the coast to La Jolla to bark with the seals. But best of all was the chalice of sangria at Casa Guadalajara in Old Town. It was so good, we went there twice. And in between visits, we hit the deck of the Midway and found our way into a narrow speakeasy with walls covered in golden skulls and a ceiling that  bore eerie vintage portraits whose eyes seemed to watch the revelers below. And before I left, I managed to squeeze in a look at the bar boasting to have hosted the sleazy bar scene from Top Gun. It would seem they've lost that loving feeling.

July
Athens Regional Urgent Care Clinic
"I'm sorry to say so but, sadly it's true that Bang-ups and Hang-ups can happen to you." - Dr. Seuss
First there was my birthday and the Hang-up of the Plumbing Apocalypse. But after that, there was a Bang-up of a more physical nature. My nickname isn't Smash for nothing, and  my right foot fell victim to my smashing in late July. In what could only be described as a freak accident, I caught my toenail on the  back of Mom's shoe in a parking lot in Atlanta and divorced it from the nail bed. And from there, I was sped back home with my foot propped on the dashboard wrapped in mounds of snowy white gauze to the urgent care where my toenail was surgically removed. And then sewed back on. Let me repeat that. My toenail was totally removed from my foot. And then SEWN BACK ON. Hello, Frankentoe. And may I say, this trip is one I hope never to repeat.

[Picture omitted to spare the faint of heart. Those with a stomach for the grotesque inquire within.]

August 
Nashville, Tennessee
"You'll find the bright places where Boom Bands are playing." - Dr. Seuss
As you may recall, I've been to Music City before, but I mostly cavorted with the historic and the six-feet-under. This time around, I hit the honky tonks, including Legends Corner. And I can neither confirm or deny that I did my best impression of clogging to a cover of Alabama's "Dixieland Delight." A woman thankful to have both feet in working order should follow the impulse to dance when it comes.


September 
Indianapolis, Indiana
Oddly, I've flown to Indianapolis before, but it was to rent a car and head directly to Kokomo, Indiana. No, really. Kokomo, Indiana. It's not what The Beach Boys promised.

This time, I spent a couple of days in the home of the Colts and found it to be utterly Midwestern. Like, it's just so. very. Midwestern. In fact, the restaurant we ate at was Midwestern nouveau cuisine. I mean, I can't make this stuff up. So essentially, Indiana is the state that's home to things so utterly true, they cannot be fabricated. Like this dessert. It's called a barn-raising. Cross my heart.

October
Richmond, Alexandria & Charlottesville, Virginia
"You have brains in your head and feet in your shoes." - Dr. Seuss

Outside Monticello

Mom, Dad and I took a week in October to drive the Ford King Ranch up to the state that's for lovers and dead presidents and nerdy folks like us. From Richmond to Alexandria to Charlottesville, we saw two historic houses, four presidential residences - and a bonus presidential grave to bring our grand total to five (six if you count Jefferson Davis and his temporary presidency over the Confederate States) - one ancestral resting place, an old train station and the state's botanical gardens because I need more pictures of orchids. For the record, the founding fathers are fascinating and flawed and knew how to pick properties with killer views of the Potomac and the Blue Ridge. And also, to the Kroger in Charlottesville, I am really sorry about breaking the quart of chocolate milk all over the deli floor. And, if you want the whole 66-page photo essay novella, check out Spare-Time Shooter.

November
Lookout Mountain, Georgia & Tennessee
"On and on you will hike and I know you'll hike far." - Dr. Seuss

Lover's Leap

Continuing travels back into the past, I cajoled my dad into driving us to Lookout Mountain where he grew up and spinning a few old family yarns for cataloging. Aside from setting eyes on the famed Kendrick's Switch where moonshining ancestors had a shootout with local deputies and seeing the grave of great uncle Nepolean (apparently the Southern spelling), we also visited Dad's childhood home and the Lookout Mountain Golf Club where Dad caddied back when it was Fairyland and you could hit a long drive clear off the mountain if you weren't careful. We saw Seven States and the innards of Rock City, and points of personal interest like the curve where Charles Bracewell thought he could beat the cops to The Tubes but took the curve on Bailey too hard and broke both axles on the shiny Corvette he drove. Bet your tour guide didn't show you that.

December
Grand Rapids, Michigan
"Waiting for...the rain to go...or the snow to snow." - Dr. Seuss
I started the month waiting through jury selection and subsequent trial. But when it came time for the holidays, I hitched a plane to Cleveland and the on to Grand Rapids for a yuletide celebration with Jason's family. We arrived to freezing rain falling in biting sheets, and we combated the cold the best way we knew how - with delicious food and bourbon. All that icy rain froze solid when the temperature plummeted, and we woke Sunday to a powerless winter wonderland. Pro tip: this is not the time to wash your hair if your hairdryer (like most) requires electricity. Good spirits could not be deterred, and we powered through with a well-built fire and Cuddle Duds, a fleecy winter hat, a very warm scarf and Thinsulate-lined gloves (thanks to Jason's mom for the #winterswag). It was the most snow I'd ever seen, and the most fun electricity-less day I've ever had. I suspect the very charming company had something to do with that.

I went some wonderful places in 2013, and a few places where I was "all hung up in a prickle-ly perch." Beyond all those points on the actual map, I charted a few important places on my personal map, leaving some places that were low and lonely and finding new ones that made my heart sing. I suspect Dr. Seuss would advise me in 2014, "You're off to Great Places! Today is your day! Your mountain is waiting. So...get on your way!" And I am on my way, already looking at 2014 as an amazing adventure waiting to be had. Onward!

Smashville

Early on in life, it was clear that I would not be known for grace.  By age 11, my sister nicknamed me "Smash" for the collection of bumps, bruises and scrapes that constantly marred my arms, shins and knees.  These injuries were of the sort one expects from a growing adolescent.  Problem is, I never outgrew them.

Something about traveling seems to inspire my gracelessness, and my latest business trip was no exception.  You may recall my 14-hour cross-country adventure or the time Captain Fail Pants went to Washington.  I kept the klutz alive with my recent jaunt to Nashville.

• The reserved rental car, advertised as a Chevy Impala, was a minivan, resulting in a confusing conversation about getting a car from another rental place in town and a cross-town drive to pick up said car.  So much for leaving on time.
• At 3:45, I tweeted, "Nashville-bound and stuck in maaajor traffic accident on 285 listening to Wheatus 'Teenage Dirtbag' and wishing I'd stopped for Combos."
• At 4:30: "Officially lost an hour on 285 and #sittingstill #swearingtomyself
• And at 5:15, when the standstill from the overturned tractor trailer blocking four lanes of traffic had stolen an hour and a half of my life: "This is the part where I start to lose it completely. Almost 2 hours lost. #iwillnotcry"
• I didn't cry.  I did eat two McDonald's cheeseburgers and an order of large fries, which fortified me until I arrived in Nashville, seven hours after departing from home.  
• The next morning, I discovered instead of shampoo, I had two shower gels, and so, I washed my hair with shower gel.
• The first pair of pantyhose I put on ran from top to toe.  But my awesome mother advised me to pack a second pair, just in case.  Mother knows best.  And knows that her daughter is a complete disaster most of the time.
• At the tradeshow set up, the literature stand was broken and the tradeshow floor was sweltering and I tried unsuccessfully for 10 minutes to get the TV working only to realize it wasn't plugged in.
• I finished the setup, stood back to admire my handiwork, sweating, and realized…that the materials that were urgently FedExed to my hotel so that I would have them for the tradeshow were, in fact, still at the hotel.
• At this point, a complete, swirling monsoon descended on Nashville.
• I forged across the street to the parking deck, holding my umbrella like a battle shield against the wind.
• In my hurry to get out of the rain, I tripped on the lip of the sidewalk and fell crushing my umbrella.  Literally broke it.  Bent the handle into a frown - which technically could've been a smile if turned the other way, but let's face it: that was a frown.
• Dude standing there says, "Are you okay?" and in total embarassment I popped to my feet and assured him I was fine.  Then I limped away, toting the ruined umbrella and cursing.
• Second pair of pantyhose? #totalled
• Both knees #totalled
• I pulled out of the parking space and came down the ramp...which was blocked by a paving machine.  I waited impatiently until one of the workers directed me around the mammoth piece of equipment.
• Turned the wrong way out of the parking deck and had to circle the block on one-way streets.
•  Drove back to my hotel, pulled into the turnabout, waved away the over-eager valet and ran inside, red-faced and sweating and asked for the package.  They asked for ID. I showed them my tradeshow badge like it was press credentials.
•  Back at the parking deck, I left the crumpled umbrella in the passenger seat and focused on getting across the street in one piece.
•  Inside, I stopped in the ladies' room, ditched my busted up hosiery, wiped the blood from my knees and took stock of my reflection - I looked like Gilda Radner working the Weekend Update desk.
•  Later that night, I tried to escape my luck with a nice dinner with my clients.  Instead, I got confused coming back from the restroom, and they caught me talking to myself - announcing that I'd taken a wrong turn - right beside our table.
•  And though the second morning went smoothly, by the end of the day, my high-heeled shoes had nearly crippled me.  Though I had planned to go back to the convention center to change clothes for the drive home, I couldn't bear the thought of another step.  Which is how I learned that desperation is changing clothes in a rental car on the fifth floor of the parking deck.
• Only later, closing in on midnight, exhausted from head to toe and fighting to stay awake, did I realize that desperation is really being willing to listen to "Candyshop" by 50 Cent on high volume.

And so, I arrived home, once again riddled with bruises and scrapes, with a dilapidated umbrella in the front seat and a new appreciation for gangsta rap.  And a host of reminders that Smash lives.

Parting is Such Sweet, Sweet Sorrow, 2010:

And I mean, that.  The sweetness of your departure cannot really be amply expressed.  It's the 365th day of you, 2010, you wretched beast of a year.  The very last day of what seemed to be an endless hit-parade of trials and tribulations.  The best I can say about you in retrospect was that you were unerringly efficient - with just 12 months to work with, you managed to pack a veritably bruising punch.

You took great delight in raising my hopes by delivering a price drop on the house I'd been pondering, and by the end of February, I signed on the dotted line.   And while all that was very exciting, you jerked the rug out from under me before I could get a stick of furniture moved in when Kudzu got sick just a week or two later.  That was a long and winding and emotional road to Tragedy Town.  Hours upon hours at the vet hospital.  Tests with bad results.  With no results.  With murky results.  The hope that he was getting better; the realization that he was not.  By the time Kudzu slipped away, I'd very nearly lost my mind.  His death left a terrible hole in my heart.

But I had to go on.  And you went on, too, taking another dear friend just weeks later.

There were less drastic measures in your arsenal - the 14-hour trip to San Diego and the $800 water bill from the running toilet at the house I didn't live in.  The occasion upon which I was mistaken for a pregnant co-worker.  A mistake that could arguably have been caused by my weight that yo-yoed between grief-stricken skinny and grievously chubbed.

Nashville nearly burned us to death.  And the burning question on everyone's mind was why, oh, why don't you live in your house yet?  At first, I was bothered, but as the year wore on, I became so accustomed to being asked that my hide toughened to the point that I had a pachydermal tolerance for it.  And I decided I didn't give a fig what anyone thought.  That's right.  I'm crazy - so what?  I do plan to finally move into the house, but that's to be filed under resolutions in a letter to a different year.

We started demolition on the kitchen in November - a process that seemed like it would be seamless enough.  But you, 2010, have managed to muck that up, too, and even as we speak, there's still work to do.

In addition to those things happening to me, you attacked the periphery - dear friends who lost brothers, grandmothers, grandfathers in sudden and terrible ways, leaving chasms in other hearts.  There were near misses, too, thwarted by surgical precision and medical miracles.  But at every turn, you were certain to point out to me that life is a desperately fragile thing.

You broke my heart, 2010.  In so many ways.  And so I find myself on New Year's Eve - chubby, single, cat-less and crazy.  You broke my heart.  But not my hope - I will ring in the New Year, a toast to your departure, filled with anticipation that your successor will bring better days.  Thanks for setting the bar so ridiculously low it's very nearly subterranean.

Good riddance,
Ash

The Old, the Dead and the Hot as Blue Blazes: Day 3

If possible, the next morning was even hotter, as though Nashville gave up even pretending to fight the heat and just gave into the scorching inferno that swamped everything.  We decided to start the day on a high note by going to, um, the cemetery.  Call me morbid, but I love cemeteries.  I love the various shapes of headstones and the pithy sayings that play tribute to those who've passed - like the one pictured here - and the statuary that graces the particularly old ones, like the Nashville City Cemetery.  Our first challenge was to find the cemetery.  Funny, but the addresses for those sorts of things are not to be found in the visitor's guide.  We actually had to call the visitor's bureau to get an address for Mathilda, and even though the woman was very polite, I wondered if she thought us a bit bizarre.

Mom and I trudged through the mid-morning light, growing more clear and hot by the moment, while Dad trolled around in the van, stopping periodically to read his book.  I took 50 or 60 shots before I succumbed to the heat, thinking that I knew exactly how the Wicked Witch of the West felt as she melted.  My cheeks were blazing, the sweat rolling out of every pore, and any semblance of makeup I might've put on that morning was pooling somewhere along my collarbone.


The twenty-minute ride across town gave Mom and me time to return to an acceptable temperature below the blood-boiling point, so that we didn't collapse immediately on the lawn of the Belmont Mansion when we arrived.  Although it would've been a nice place to collapse, because Adelicia Hayes Franklin Acklen Cheatam liked statuary...a lot.  So we would've been in good company among gods and goddesses and some very sweet looking sleeping lions. Adelicia, often referred to as Tennessee's real Steel Magnolia, was a charming, pistol-toting millionairess who hollered "we want pre-nups" long before Kanye penned "Golddigger."  She married well the first time to a man roughly 30 years her senior and held onto her wealth through two more husbands and died, as all women dream of doing, while shopping in New York City. 

With one old home and a morning with the dead behind us, we left the Nashville city limits bound for The Hermitage, home of President Andrew Jackson and his wife Rachel who had no children but managed to have many people in their house over the years also named Andrew and Rachel.  It would really make historic house tours a lot easier if someone was just willing to go out on a limb with "Jeremy" and "Samantha."  I digress.

By the time we pulled into the parking lot at The Hermitage, it was truly hotter than the blue blazes.  The sun charmed serpents from the asphalt, and they wavered upwards coating us in incendiary heat.  We were told at the ticket window that I couldn't take in my camera bag because it might snag the old wallpaper.  So I trudged back across the parking lot, tossed my camera bag in the van and stashed my camera body and two lens in my purse, which made it weigh approximately 27 pounds.

Once inside, we watched a short film on Andrew Jackson, and I gotta say - that guy hired a good PR firm posthumously.  Reading between the lines, it sounds like the he was a bit of a jerk.  Granted, he lived a rough life, serving in the Revolutionary War at 13 and emerging from the conflict an orphan whose other siblings didn't survive the battle.  And while it's amazing that a man from such mean beginnings rose to the highest office in the country, the short film glossed over the early years of his marriage to Rachel when she was (OOPS!) married to two people at once.  It did, however, note the raucous nature of his inaugural ball which got so out of hand, he had to be escorted out the back of the White House by security.  Party in the U.S.A., indeed.

The museum held some interesting relics, including replicas of the garments worn by Rachel and Andrew to the ball held in New Orleans to celebrate victory in the War of 1812.  For the record, they were essentially Jack Sprat and his wife.  Andrew was 6'1" and weighed about 130 lbs., while Rachel stood just over 5' and weighed in around the same as her husband.

While contemplating that skinny men no longer give fat women a second glance, we made our way from the museum to the house.  The thick air barely moved as we cut through it, and within seconds sweat was omnipresent.   We waited outside for the next scheduled tour and chatted with the poor fellow robed in 18th century garb clear up to his neck.  It made me hotter just looking at him.

Once inside where the fine folks of The Hermitage thought well of keeping things all 1836-style except for the addition of A/C (thank heavens), we were treated to some very special Greek-themed wallpaper which was all the rage in Nashville, apparently, because it was at Belmont, too.  Also notable was that Andrew Jackson died at home in his bedroom that's pretty much just as he left it.  Except for the bedding which deteriorated and had to be replaced.  Thankfully, in 1998, the company that made the original was still in business and had the original order.  Kind of made me feel better about all the things I keep in case they come in handy a century or so later.

Like I noted with Belle Meade, it's the random little trivia facts that stick in my brain.  Like The Hermitage's smokehouse processed about 25,000 pounds of pork each year.  That's a whole lotta pig.  Also, while in office, President Jackson read 15 newspapers and kept them in giant leatherbound volumes.  The only other sitting president to read the newspaper so prolifically was JFK, an accomplished speed-reader.

All too soon it seemed, we were back outside again.  The disappointment was somewhat offset by the beauty of the gardens.  Apparently, Andrew hired a hoity-toity British landscape artist to create a classic English garden behind The Hermitage for his lady love.  It was here that Rachel and he are entombed.  She died just prior to his inauguration.  It's said he walked out to the monument every evening at sunset as long as he could do so.

At this point, with the headphones and digital recorder from the audio tour feeling like they weighed 10 pounds and my purse with the two camera lens weighing three times that, I could've happily departed from The Hermitage.  But Dad wanted to take the trek through the woods to get a better view of the farm land and the remains of the slave quarters, plus the added bonus of emerging from said woods into the backyard of the original Hermitage log cabin.  Oh joy.

Despite my protestations, there were a few very good things about this 2-mile path:
1) It ran alongside the creek fed by the spring whose water stayed at a constant 58 degrees.  Yes, I did dip my toes in presidential waters.
2) It was a wild experience in which we encountered this very brave rabbit who was totally unconcerned by our presence and a more cautious wild turkey
3) No one else was as stupid as us to want to plow through the woods with a 100-plus heat index, so we were blissfully alone

By the time we wended our way along the path, had close encounters of the animal-kind and sweated darn near every ounce of moisture left in our bodies, my plunge into the presidential crick was a distant memory.  So was my patience.  So was my enjoyment.  So was my desire to read all the little tiny signs inside the original Hermitage.  While Dad carried on with his headphones on listening to all manner of educational musings, I removed my headphones and digital recorder and threw them in the grass.  My purse hit the ground next and then my camera.  I took off the necklace I'd been wearing.  I was hot.  I was hot. IwashotomigoshIwashot.  Mom laughed at me while Dad continued his exploration of the archaeological findings and I continued my disenchantment with history, audio tours, presidents and the month of July.  "Dad," I said.  "It's a log cabin.  It's hot.  Let's go." 

As we trekked back to the museum - do you notice how much walking is involved in this blazing hot day??? - I contemplated how it must've looked then: wild with just the beginnings of civilization carved out.  This is me - hot and contemplative.

Dinner that evening was at Margot, a local-to-table restaurant with a rotating menu.  The homemade bread was to die for, and for dinner I had this refreshing red snapper in a corn salsa.  Mom, Dad and I split two desserts: a cherry clafloutis and chocolate mousse.  I could've had a gallon of the mousse.  And if I weren't trying to maintain what little dignity I had left with my sweaty hair plastered to my head and my makeup melted away, I would've licked the inside of the bowl.

We let Mathilda take us back to Carole's Yellow Cottage one more time.  One more time, we arrived crusted in salt, smelling slightly like yesterday's dirty socks and so desperate for a shower, we would've hosed off in the backyard.  And yet, we couldn't have possibly had more fun spending quality time with the old, the dead, and...well, let's be honest...I could've done without the hot as blue blazes.

The Old, the Dead and the Hot as Blue Blazes: Day 2

After a breakfast of waffles and fresh strawberries, we embarked on day two of the Nash-cation.  Mathilda guided us to Belle Meade Plantation, the great, great-granddaddy of American thoroughbred race horses.  Legendary champions like Seabiscuit, Secretariat and Smarty Jones can trace their bloodlines back to Belle Meade and the Hardings' prize-winning British stallion Bonnie Scott.  Lucky for us, we could still trace their scent in the air as we toured the carriage house and stables, which both felt to be in close proximity to the inferno.  Time outside: 25 minutes.  Pounds of water sweated: 25.  However, the exterior tour was not without merit, providing a glimpse at the reconstructed Victorian sleigh with super-funk looking lion detailing and a country coach that was essentially an 1800s Escalade.

We were welcomed to the house by a be-braced and freckled 14-year-old junior docent whose well-practiced speech and accompanying hand gestures made me want to hug him and suggest that he pursue a career as a flight attendant.  Particularly when he stepped between the front columns and pointed with both hands in unison, index finger and middle finger together, the bullet holes resulting from a Civil War skirmish (and serving as the emergency exit rows).  [Enlarge the picture to see the bullet wounds.]

The interior of the house reminded me a great deal of Oak Hill in its layout, although the furnishings were far more grand than Martha's well-worn divans and foyer table.  Plus, the Hardings were green before green was green, using methane gas from horse poop to light the interior.  At a low level, mind you, around 40 watts, so as not to get heavy handed with the air light but fresh.  The tour followed four generations of people who all seemed to have the same names - like wandering through Wuthering Heights, really.  I tend to only glom on to the bizarre and useless facts that stick like glue in my brain, including the doctor's recommendation that Selena Harding "exercise" her lungs by smoking to improve her asthma.  Umm, medical FAIL.

Back outside, I took photos (surprise!) and we made our way to the front lawn for the noon cannon demonstration.  A gentleman in period dress explained the duties of the four-man artillery unit, prepping a replica cannon that he noted was smaller than those used in Civil War combat.  Seeing as how I've never had the occasion to be in close proximity to a cannon firing, I thought I would take a very exciting picture of the gun exploding.  However, as a first-timer in close proximity to a cannon firing, I was completely unprepared for the tooth-rattling, soul-shaking, palpitation-causing BOOM that filled the air in what had to have been a square-mile radius.  A thick, almost tangible sound that nearly made me drop my camera and definitely made me drop my breath.  According to our guide, the average large-scale Civil War battle had nine of these big behemoths on either side of the line of scrimmage.  Forget gun fire - the mere sound of the cannon would've caused me to drop dead.

Following my near-death experience, we traveled southward to the suburban town of Franklin.  It came highly recommended from a number of people, and we were ripe for some indoor activity like antiquing.  The truth is, though, that we Harps aren't truly looking for antiques per se.  We're looking for old junk that we like.  Unfortunately for us, most of the shops in Franklin were a bit high in the instep for our tastes.  I mean, yes,  your little wooden side table is lovely.  But it isn't $300 lovely.  We paraded in and out of stores looking for some treasured trash to no avail.  Into the air conditioning in shops crowded elbow to elbow with people trying to escape Yhe Heat, which met you ever so politely on the sidewalk as soon as you departed.  Out of the frying pan and into the fire.  We made it up both sides of the main street this way, until the fluctuating temperature had me crying uncle.  It's entirely possible that we left the grandest Antiques Roadshow find in the world in Franklin, TN.  But it was that or I was going to puke on the sidewalk.

We opted to drive up the Natchez Trace Parkway for a piece.  Our visitors guide listed it as a scenic byway, and having traveled the Blueridge Parkway a number of times, we were all for scenic beauty viewed from the safety of our air conditioned minivan.  About fifteen miles down the parkway, Dad noted that the unending stretch of grassandtrees and treesandgrass didn't really afford all that much scenic delight.  But we also observed that we couldn't see another car, and after the time spent in close proximity to too many strangers in Franklin, a sort of bland abandoned stretch of road seemed just the ticket.

A sign on the right side of the road proclaimed a historic site ahead.  We dutifully turned off at the appointed marker.  Unfortunately, the site provided little in the way of sight.  A small rounded stone wall marked...well, I'm not even sure what.  It was thrilling, though.

On our way back down the trace and ready to declare Franklin a total wash, we decided to attempt to find something for dinner instead of heading back into the city.  We stopped at an antique store on the fringes of Franklin - the kind that looked like it could have some junk in it alongside the real-deal oldie goldies.  And it did.  After browsing as much as we could in our tired, disheveled state, we asked the proprietor for a dinner recommendation, which lead us to Saffire at The Factory at Franklin.

For whatever reason (perhaps because we wreaked of sweat?), they put us in the air-conditioned, windows-on-three-sides patio room.  All. by. ourselves.  Heaven.  I had a yellow tomato, mozzarella and basil salad, followed by shrimp and grits.  Dad also ordered shrimp and grits but started with a gumbo, for which he received this tiniest of tiny Tobasco bottles.  So cute!

And then...then there was dessert.  When you put something on a menu called "Chocolate Sin," just know that you might as well put my name down next to it.  Chocolate Sin did not disappoint - a warm, spongy, chocolate cake resting in a sweet creamy butter custard drawn through with a slight bit of raspberry puree and garnished with fresh real whipped cream and piece of almond brittle.  Are you drooling yet?  Because when you cut into the cake, a warm gooey rich chocolate pudding flows like molten decadence on your plate.  Instead of a calorie count, this dessert might ought to come with some Hail Marys.

And all of this was made even more enjoyable by the fact that the little theater in the same complex was featuring a production of Beauty & the Beast, so while we dined, we watched Lumiere, Cogsworth, Belle, and a horribly uncomfortable looking Mrs. Potts march too and fro pre-show.  It was like free dinner theater.  And we could heckle from behind the safety of glass.

The Old, The Dead and The Hot as Blue Blazes: Day 1

As a general rule, we Harps are not intrepid travelers.  Not a one of us has a passport, and the most exotic locations any of us has traveled is...Montana?  But every once in a great while, we load up the minivan and head to uncharted territory like...Nashville?

Mom, Dad and I headed northward on Thursday for a little escape from routine but certainly not from the heat because it pursued us clear across state lines.  We tootled down the snaking black asphalt, high up into the Georgia hills where we made our first stop just beyond where we lived when I was born.  Ostensibly, we were getting ice for the cooler.  But we left the grocery store with a four-piece pack of deli fried chicken that originated from the renowned operation of the Grand Poobah of Poultry himself, my dad.  It was our first taste of the of the kind of high life you live only on vacation: fried chicken enjoyed in classic Southern style on the blacktop parking lot of a Food Lion just over the Tennessee border.  That's how we roll, folks.

On our way again and trading the Peach State for the Tennessee hill country, Dad attempted to chart the location of old Highway 41 running alongside I-75 and pointed out from time to time locations of note.  For example, the overpass under which he picked up a hitchhiker in a sleet storm who sold him the Gibson Les Pauls off his back for bus fare - a tale in such long-standing that I half expected a bronzed thumb to be marking the site.  After much reminiscing about "Old 41," we exited onto that hallowed highway and continued our way upstate as Mom and Dad argued over whether Mom remembered the scenery - he said she did, and she said she didn't.

And soon our wild adventure made its second stop in Murfreesboro, home of Middle Tennessee State University, institution of matriculation for both of my parents and the blossoming beginning of their 40-plus year companionship.  This resulted in a lot of conjecturing about where they first met (was it the library?) and which dorm Mom lived in while they were dating (Felder?) and the revelation that they were in a cemetery when they first "got serious" about the topic of marriage.  Not to mention the story about Dad watching rich kids in a convertible drive through leaf piles one fall to the annoyance of him and his friend who solved the problem with a well placed concrete block in one pile of leaves.  In the (few) years since graduation, Murfreesboro has changed a fair piece, leading to a great deal of confusion over where local dives and hangouts were or would be if they were still standing.  And for the record, the City Cafe and Pastime Billards were, in fact, still in business.  Guess Dad left them well fortified.

Back on the highway, we pulled out Mathilda, a.k.a. my Garmin, and directed her to Carole's Yellow Cottage, where we would be staying.  Plans were to meet our gracious hostess around 5 o'clock.  Nascent travelers that we are, we forgot to account for the central time rollback and arrived at the house with a pink door(!) just ahead of the appointed time...Eastern Standard Time.  Did I mention the heat?  Well, we bravely parked the minivan, stashed Mathilda in the console and took a (sweltering, oppressive, sweaty) stroll around the block, admiring the historic homes and trying not to stand too close to one another.  When we finished our loop with 15 minutes to spare, we did the wise thing and parked it on the stoop hoping the wind didn't blow our fresh scents toward each other.

It wasn't too long before our hostess arrived to show us to our accommodations, which were made all the more wonderful by two sweet letters - A and C.  With all our treasures toted in and the perspiration dried from our brows (however briefly), we headed back out to continue our adventure with some local eats at the Rose Pepper.  Hello, fish tacos and delicious sangria.

Sated with libations and provisions, we let Mathilda direct us to Cheekwood Botanical Garden to view the exhibit by glass artist Dale Chihuly.  There's something about sangria that makes you say, "90 plus degrees outside?  Bah!  Staying indoors is for sissies!"  We trekked through the park after dark to view a dozen or so glass installations throughout the gardens.  I snapped pictures alongside others - and secretly scoffed at their iPhone attempts.  Until about halfway through when my camera bag was threatening to smother me with its non-breathable polyester surface, and then I wondered if the iPhone photogs were scoffing at me with my sweat-drenched shirt and ruddy cheeks, my hair stuck to my forehead and neck.  By the time we reached the car again, we were all in a state beyond sweaty in which we had become humidity itself.  I might've heard among Mathilda's instructions to turn right and exit left to "for the love of all that is decent, take a bath."

Perhaps this would be the dirtiest and sweatiest and most disgusting we would be.  Or not.  Day two's adventures include equal amounts if not more of sweat, plus horse breeding, cannon fire and desserts so good you'll need to repent afterward.