When God made me, he gave me all the feelings poets have: the melancholy, the weeping at beautiful things, the sliver of real estate between hope and despair to dance upon, and the ability to find metaphors in mundane things. But then he gave me a storyteller's hands. So I'll sit down with thoughts, feelings, joys, and sorrows, and out comes something about Jimmy Buffett, Tennessee football, or East Tennessee.
And I've tried writing poems. They're… something*.
I've already written about Jimmy Buffett and Tennessee football, so I'll just talk about East Tennessee.
I'm from just shy of the Blue Ridge Mountains, where the Great Appalachian Valley meets the foothills. Driving on certain roads is like watching a story through your windshield: the curves will hide the mountains behind a hill, a warehouse, or a forest. Then, up ahead on the road, you see the light breaking out of the shadows, which means an opening. You'll come around the bend, and there are the mountains again, somehow, more beautiful for having been hidden for a while.
I'll tell you about one of my favorite story roads: Start in Greeneville, Tennessee. It's about 30 or so minutes off of I-81, I'd say. Main Street will do. Right in front of the courthouse on one side and the old Capitol Theater on the other.
We're going to head Northeast. This isn't as relevant to you, but I'm from Northeast Tennessee and now live in Knoxville. So, heading Northeast is heading home for me (I hope you have a place and a direction that makes you feel like you're going home).
Follow Main Northeast until we run into 321, the Andrew Johnson highway, and turn right. Drive past the Ingles, the Hampton Inn, and the Fatz Cafe, and you'll see Pal's on the left. Turn in and order a sauceburger, a frenchie fry, and a Sweet Tea. You're welcome.
Turn left out of the Pal's (heading Northeast again, my heart). A mile up the road, we're going to turn onto 107. It's called the Tusculum Bypass but will become the Erwin Highway.
You've had glimpses of the mountains, I know. But trust me, these views are like a cast-iron skillet. They’ll keep getting better with time.
Drive a mile up the road, and you'll pass a pedestrian bridge and there they are. The locals call the big one with the fire tower Viking Mountain, or at least my grandfather thinks so. I’ve also heard it called Camp Creek Bald (balds are God’s gift to the Southern Appalachians, I’ll talk about them another time). The rest have names like Wilson and Gravel Knob, Rich Mountain, Short Mountain and Buzzard Roost Ridge.
Yes, they're smiling at you. You couldn't see them like this for a while, but they haven't gone anywhere. Whether you're a native or not, they're saying: "Welcome home." I hope you hear it.
We've made it easy for you to pay attention: the furniture store on your right is called "Mountain View Furniture." That's our way of saying, "Look up at them pretty mountains, you big dummy!"
And since I'm a poet at heart, here's your metaphor: a lot of things in life are like the road. And a lot more are like the mountains.
*Roses are red, violets are blue, my poems are bad, and so are my poems.**
** See? Told you.
My favorite line: But trust me, these views are like a cast-iron skillet. They’ll keep getting better with time.