A Tennessee sidewalk – when you can find one that is – is not all that different from one in New York City when you come right down to it, at least where its physical asphalt attribute is concerned. Until recently, it never dawned on me just how important a sidewalk can be. Like its counterpart, the road that often runs right alongside, sidewalks too can take you anywhere. I remember hearing a comedian quip one time that ‘everywhere is within walking distance; it just depends upon how far you want to walk.’
I love to walk. I do my best thinking when I’m walking. Often, I find my mind in overwalk as the miles accrue. It’s amazing how many great ideas come as I breathe in and subsequently go on the exhale, each one an endorphin wafting away on the wind.
Wait! Here’s one that I managed to hold on to. Dodging the oncoming Dodge. There are a lot of pickup trucks down here. Granted, not every make is a Dodge, but I do digress.
Driving is different down here. Actually, it’s a lot like boating. I’m not talking about the insane rain that comes, causing widespread flooding, but more the smiling and waving that comes from the unwritten maritime law. Boaters are exceptionally friendly folks. They wave to everyone, whether it be other boaters or maybe landlubbers along the shoreline, maybe some who long for sidewalks.
Tennessee drivers do that too, at least where passing pedestrians are concerned. Driver’s wave to me all the time. ‘Hey, thanks for walking on this scenic, winding country road,’ they tell me with a smile. ‘With little room for error for both of us,’ they warn already in passing, but I don’t hear that part. I’m too busy reveling in the glow of southern hospitality of which I am convinced really does exist.
Tennessee traffic lights are equally friendly. Here I am, driving down a country road and just ahead, the light is red, yet as I approach, this friendly little signal changes to green, almost like it knew that I was not from around here. ‘Welcome, to Tennessee, Tom from New York,’ it tells me with its brightest smile. I have never seen a traffic light smile, but what do I do? I smile back and utter aloud a heartfelt, “Thank-You.” I love Tennessee traffic lights.
A hawk hovers high overhead and I pause in step to admire its effortless flight. Where Hawk sightings were more of a treat in my former New York City area home, here they are in abundance. Admittedly, in the past, I rarely noticed, or maybe never took the time to admire something as simple and majestic as a bird in flight, but now in my quieter country surroundings, I slow down and bask in the moment of that beautiful sight.
And then I take a second to think to myself that maybe I am just growing old. After all, in my younger years, the only time I had probably taken note of any type of fowl was when I was wiping away the foul excrement dropped from above. Take note, by the way, that the ancient adage of good luck coming from this unfortunate incident is more likely legend.
Like the Old West.
Yes, I have taken another pause to ponder a moment from my unlikely sidewalk vantage point. I’m standing in what I might perceive as the center of Historical Downtown Algood. This tiny part of town reminds me a little bit of the old west. There are no stoplights here, only two stop signs. The main street aptly called Main Street bisects a raised walkway on each side. This elevated portion runs only a few hundred feet and is lined with a number of buildings that have obviously been around a while. Here is where you can feel maybe a tad of the history in historical. Most of the businesses appear mostly vacant most of the time with the exception of Red Oak Roasters, a trendy Starbucks like store that does a robust business. There is also the almost ancient Algood furniture store – housed in two separate, sizable structures – which does not. I admire the perseverance of
the proprietor, however, a kindly white-haired gentleman who is open for business six days a week; he smiles and waves at me each time I amble by. An infrequently used train track runs parallel behind the buildings on the south side before curving slightly east where it crosses over Main Street at an actual railroad crossing sans the safety crossing gates one from, say a busier metropolitan area might expect. There are red lights that blink and a bell that sounds to warn
drivers of an oncoming train. I’ve seen and heard this many times in my short time here but have yet to see an actual train. I don’t get it. Maybe it’s sort of a railroad version of the Emergency Broadcast System, the clanging bell tolling, ‘this is a test. This is only a test. Had there been an actual train coming…’ I shrug, and move along thinking that the only thing missing here would be hitching posts for horses. That would be a sight to surely complete my urban east coast take of the old west.
Just a few klicks north as the horse trots, alongside State Route 111, the great Davy Crockett once hosted a real life base camp. Personally, I always pictured the King of the Wild Frontier residing a bit further west of here. Looking across this parcel, one can almost imagine the rugged hardships he must have endured.
I can’t.
There are too many houses around.
Instead, I picture the humble man with the coonskin cap ringing a nearby doorbell. Having removed said hat, he then says something like, ‘pardon me, ma’am, but might I trouble you for the use of that there electric stove to heat up this ol’ possum.’ He holds the dead thing proudly before him. Mr. Crockett is smiling; the woman is screaming and the rest as they say is history.
On one of my longer walks, a five mile trek to nearby Cookeville, a quasi-college town that is home to Tennessee Tech, I make a pitstop at Books-A-Million, a Barnes and Noble type true book emporium. There is nothing really remarkable about this sort of superstore that I would consider to be noteworthy with the exception of an entire section devoted to Westerns. I am an avid reader, one who proudly boasts that I read everything from Steinbeck to Star Trek. This includes westerns, one of my favorite genres and one that is often overlooked in the New York City area. On more than one occasion, I would find myself in a Big Apple bookstore asking someone where I can find the Westerns. The reply always came with that confused puppy look, the tilted head that shows that they are really making an effort to comprehend. One college kid thought long and hard, stroking his chin with professorial expertise before asking me, ‘Dude, do you mean like Western Philosophy?” I sighed, shook my head and responded, ‘no, I mean like cowboys and Indians. You know, Yee-haw,” I screeched in my best cowboy dialect. ‘Yippe Kai Yay, Git Along, Little Doggies.’ It was at this point that I was about to raise my flat palm to my lips and offer up my best Indian part of the impression before I steadfastly stopped myself, erring on the side of politically correct caution in these super sensitive times.
I am still getting used to this idea of living in the country. Sometimes, I find myself feeling like a tourist. I was headed to work one morning when I found myself stopped beneath the overhead highway behind an oversized (maybe a Dodge) pick-up truck hauling a livestock trailer. What do I know about livestock trailers? I have passed them on an interstate more than once or twice on assorted road trips, I’m sure, but never took true notice. While waiting for the light to change, my eyes widened with such wonderment that only a kid at a circus might display. In that very trailer, a bull eyed me warily.
Well, this is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen, I shined with delight.
The bull thought otherwise. ‘You’re not from around here,’ his wide oversized eyes beginning to squint in derision accused.
I looked myself over.
My wide eyes of glee told me, it’s time to flee.
I stammered, make that whined, “It’s the red shirt I’m wearing, isn’t it?”
He nodded, the eyes thinning even further. He may have snorted too. He stomped his front right leg and began sliding his hoof along the metal floor of his temporary mobile housing. I was frozen in place, Carl Denham staring upon the great Kong tearing at his chains. I contemplated running the light, my love affair with Tennessee traffic lights now short-lived and finished.
And that was when it hit me.
I pointed forward. “The light, the light is red too, you stupid bull…oh, not stupid, I didn’t say stupid, who said stupid? Maybe it was the person behind me,” I pointed back with my thumb, risking the quickest glance at the woman in my rearview mirror.
She was putting on makeup.
Wow, I thought. People here do that on the morning commute too.
Something boomed.
I screamed.
The rest, however, was not history, but only a truck roaring past on the highway above, having hit a bump or pothole. It didn’t faze the bull though. He remained poised and ready. No southern horsepitality here.
The light turned green, truck and trailer turned left to enter the highway and I continued on to my posting of the day at a local elementary school as a substitute teacher. This is a new thing for me. My background as a production person in media back in New York is pretty far removed from the idea of now being an educator. Granted, my title comes with the caveat of uncertified, yet, I am so excited and grateful to stand before a classroom of kids and just be me (while I am trying to teach of course). It’s a learning process for all of us, teacher and student, though, I am sure that it is me doing most of the learning. Every day is different. Every school is different. At this point, I have reached the conclusion that being an uncertified substitute teacher is the same thing as being an uncertified farmer. Walking into a classroom for the first time seems to me the equivalent of showing up at someone’s farm for the first time. The farmer greets me with a smile, saying little more than, ‘thanks for comin’. Here’s the keys to the tractor. It’s right around back there,’ he points. ‘You can just take it on up to the field.’ Gracious, he nods and I’m left standing there with a blank stare and two words upon my lips.
‘And then?’
If I ever decide to write about my ongoing substitute teacher vocation, be it temporary, or maybe something more permanent, I am convinced that the title of the tale would simply read, ‘And Then?’.
Winding down the end of another long walk on another winding road, I decide that maybe a pit stop at the trendy coffee place in historic downtown may be in order. The window boasts fresh baked goods, and having hit the pavement for many miles and several hours, I have earned my reward in some form of confectionary delight. My feet may be growing tired, but my mind continues along its similar circuitous path and spins out another random musing. The New York contingent that I left behind has tried to convince me that there is no doubt that I will miss the two most basic elements of my former metropolitan existence, Pizza and Bagels. This is probably one of the oldest and overused axioms in the book of leaving New York. In the several months that I have been here in Tennessee, I have managed to sidestep this particular culinary cliché. Perusing the disappointingly limited array of bakery choices within Red Oak Roasters, I approach the kid behind the counter who is more than friendly enough and really wants to help me make an informed and satisfied decision before leaving. I sigh, already knowing the answer to the question that I am about to ask.
“You wouldn’t by chance have any Linzer Tarts, would you?”
He tilts his head, that confused puppy look etched so evident on his face, lifts his right hand to his chin and begins stroking it with professorial expertise thinking long and hard.
“Do you mean, like…from the Italian Renaissance?” he asks.
A Tennessee college kid is not all that different from one in New York City when you come right down to it.
Random thoughts on roaming walks.
Sidewalks not required.
