I’ve been going to the Carter Fold just across the Virginia state line from Kingsport almost as long as it’s been in existence–a one-of-a-kind acoustic performance center built and run by the First Family of country music. From the start, audience members have been welcome to get up and clog along with the songs. For years, people danced in whatever shoes they had on–sneakers, cowboy boots, work boots, and you name it. Now, however, cloggers are showing up with tap shoes designed to make as much noise as possible. Finally, a band said “Enough!”

The band that night was Hunter Berry and Friends. Hunter is a gifted fiddle player in Rhonda Vincent’s band, and he’s her son-in-law as well. His friends that night were a collection of talented pickers who delivered a wonderful show–when they could be heard.

Every time a fast song came on, the cloggers wearing shoes from hell came out on the concrete floor in front of the stage and began their racket. Overweight women clacked and clattered and displayed flapping chests that looked possessed. I have nothing against clogging groups with taps. Dancing in rhythm, their use of taps allows them to demonstrate their synchronization and talent.

But there was no such synchronicity at the Carter Fold. Every time a remotely fast song came on, the music had to compete with an industrial sound that transformed “Angel Band” into the “Anvil Chorus.” Hunter Berry, brave soul, asked the cloggers to hold off during slower songs so that the audience could hear the lyrics. You could tell that the noisemakers weren’t used to hearing that, but they began to back off. Later in the evening, a grey-haired woman took it on herself to walk out onto the floor and ask cloggers to sit down during the quieter songs.

Three cheers for Hunter Berry and his faithful companion who tried to keep the focus of the Carter Fold on where it ought to be: the music. Cloggers should leave their rackety taps at home.

President Holt would drive all over Tennessee to make speeches, and he drove a car that had air conditioning at a time when riding along in cool comfort was very new. It seems he was on some back road on a warm day in late fall when he saw a farmer trudging along the road. Andy stopped the car and offered the man a ride.

The farmer got in and the two talked about crops and UT until the man’s destination came into view. As Andy slowed the car, he asked the farmer, “What are you going to do for the rest of the day?

The man replied, “Well, I was going to fix some fence, but it’s turned so cold I believe I’ll kill hogs.”

I got a call the other day from a perky and friendly woman in New York City asking for advice about Tennessee. This made everything else I was doing leap to the back burner–I was all ears. She told me that she had tracked me down through this blog–O Bliss–and needed help. Even better. She later sent me an email, so I’ll let her tale her tale in her own words:

My name is (out of mercy I will not name her) and I work for (Cheap Bastards) Entertainment, an Emmy award-winning television production company that produces programming for networks such as PBS, Discovery, History Channel, National Geographic, A&E and many others.

We are currently producing a new non-fiction television series about archaeological discoveries across America for the Discovery Channel. Our show is hosted by two young professional archaeologists/anthropologists who will meet with individuals who believe they’ve found objects or sites of historical, cultural or scientific importance. These scholars, both professors at major universities, will help participants and viewers better understand the significance of these discoveries (either through authentication, historical research, or other scientific methods), as well as the correct and ethical ways to approach potential sites and artifacts. We are really excited to bring our series to Tennessee – and we need your help!

We are interested in hearing from members of the public about interesting discoveries or sites. Whether it’s a guitar owned by Elvis Presley or a relic from the Civil War – we want to hear about it! As this show is about archaeological and anthropological science, we are not interested in talking to individuals who have obtained artifacts illegally or those who have been involved in the intentional looting or destruction of archaeological sites.

Any other ideas for other leads would be very welcome!

I told her that the best place for this sort of thing might be the many small museums across Tennessee–often housed in dusty courthouse rooms or in a storefront on the main street of a town that has been Wal-Marted. I told her that I could check my files, make some calls, and otherwise dig around. All I asked for this investment of time and sharing of knowledge was a credit on the show. I knew they would never shell out any money.

That’s when things went South. She said she would have to check with her producer, we exchanged a couple of emails, and the line went dead.

You gotta love it. You load 16 tons–researching and writing four editions of a guidebook, putting up a blog and website–and what do you get? Another day older and deeper in cynicism.

It doesn’t rhyme, and Tennessee Ernie would have had a hard time singing those words, but the role of coal miners in his time and content providers in our Brave New World aren’t that far apart.

The 50th anniversary of the publication of To Kill a Mockingbird is upon us, according to an article in The New York Times. This book has to be on anyone’s top ten list of Southern novels, and the reclusiveness of its author, Harper Lee, and her Truman Capote connection make it all the more intriguing.

Then there’s the movie. Released in 1962, it is remembered for great performances by Gregory Peck, who defined the Atticus character forever, and a young Robert Duvall, who played Boo Radley. The late playwright Horton Foote wrote the screenplay, the film won three Oscars, and was ranked number 25 on the American Film Institute’s list of top 100 movies.

I watched To Kill a Mockingbird a while ago for the first time in decades and, while again impressed by Gregory Peck and Robert Duvall, I found myself cringing at the awful performances by the child actors. Compared to, say, the superb youthful role-playing in the Harry Potter movies, the parts of Scout, Jem, and Dill come up far short.

It’s time for a remake. I would cast Tom Hanks as Atticus and, for old time’s sake, Robert Duvall as the judge. The other roles should be parceled out among the talented young actors of our time. Maybe Harper Lee could be enticed into a cameo.

A new cinematic To Kill a Mockingbird would make this wonderful story more approachable to modern viewers, would reinterpret a classic Southern novel, and get more people thinking about the timeless themes in the book.

The New York Times reports that there is a shortage of the specialized yellow and white paint that adorns highways. A lack of methyl methacrylate, an evidently vital ingredient in the paint, is the culprit.

This brings to mind a story I’ve heard about Frank G. Clement, governor of Tennessee from 1953-1959 and 1963-1967. Seems that Governor Clement, who championed road-building, had a political crony who had bought too much of the costly road-striping paint and was whining about what to do with it. The governor, according to the tale, grew tired of the complaining and said something to the effect of “Hell, paint lines down the outer edge of the lanes!”

This was done all over the state, and soon Federal authorities noticed a sharp decline in single-vehicle accidents on Tennessee highways. This, according the story, is why most highways now have stripes on their outer edges.

Governor Clement is better remembered for a histrionic speech he gave at the 1956 Democratic Convention, which prompted a young Red Smith of the Times to write a wonderful lead: “The young governor of Tennessee, Frank G. Clement, slew the Republican party with the jawbone of an ass here last night . . . .”

But that’s another story.

Allison Glock reviews the new bio of Tammy Wynette, the country singer and antithesis of feminism, in the NY Times Book Review. While working through the antebellum mansions of Middle Tennessee, I came across the following Tammy Wynette story. From Tennessee Guy:

“While at Rippavilla, take the time to see Oaklawn (3331 Denning Ln.), which is just around the corner. It was in this brick home built in 1835 that General John Bell Hood spent the night when an entire Union army sneaked past him. The house was bought in the 1970s by country crooners George Jones and the late Tammy Wynette, who inflicted shag carpeting on the floor where Civil War generals had walked. To install the carpet, the bottoms of the 140-year-old doors were sawn off and put out in the trash. A sharp-eyed local woman retrieved the strips of wood and triumphantly returned them when the house passed into the hands of a more history-minded owner. Now properly restored to the way it appeared on the fateful night while Hood slept, the view of Oaklawn offers visitors very little of anything from the 20th century. To get there from Rippavilla, go south on U.S. 31 for 0.2 mile, then turn left on Denning Lane. A 2.5-mile drive leads to the mansion. Oaklawn is privately owned, so visitors should not invade the driveway.”

When I first heard that story, local tourism officials asked me not to publish it, which I didn’t until George and Tammy’s train wreck lives careened off in other directions.

This blog began after I wrote four editions of Moon Handbooks Tennessee, a guidebook to the state that, for the most part, comprised the the most fun writing project I have ever done. Tennessee Guy was to be the storefront for my website, Tennessee Guy, which contains almost everything from my most recent 500-page edition. I no longer write the guidebook and don’t update the website, and my visits to Tennessee anymore are mostly to Kingsport, where my parents still live, so I’ve decided to take this blog in a different direction.

In the Thunder Road days of moonshining, a bootleg turn was a maneuver done to elude pursuing law enforcement officers. It involved making a high speed 180-degree turn, usually on a dirt road, that resulted in the pursued car suddenly reversing directions and heading straight toward the police car, which usually did not have the ability to turn so quickly. The bootleg turn bought time, and thus the bootlegger got away.

I actually perfected bootleg turns when we lived in Massachusetts, and would delight my offspring–and annoy my wife–on snowy days by driving down our street, pulling up on the emergency brake, and turning the steering wheel sharply to the left. Our car would smoothly slide around. I would usually stop at 90 degrees so as to turn into the driveway, but it was just as easy–and a lot of fun–to do a 180.

I am planning to write a memoir about growing up in Tennessee, so this blog will now do its own bootleg turn. While I will still address the occasional tourism topic, I plan to use this outlet as a place to share vignettes of people and places from the past. I’m always eager to hear from readers, so stay tuned in coming weeks to see the first entries.

Sometime after Thanksgiving every year, my paternal grandfather would go to a grocery store and purchase an entire crate each of apples, tangerines, and oranges. I remember going with him once, and the manager of the store escorted us through the swinging doors at the back into the inner sanctum, a place I had never been, where Granddaddy made his selections. At the time, I thought this a most extravagant set of purchases. He would also buy peppermint stick candy and another kind of stick candy with the curious name of horehound. Thereafter, until these items were gone, every person who entered his and my grandmother’s farmhouse walked out with a bag–sometimes they called it a “poke”–filled with fruit and a bit of candy. The main portion of the house predated the Civil War and was made of logs covered with hand-planed boards and painted white. There must be hundreds of houses like this in Tennessee.

My grandparents lived much as their parents did in the 19th Century. The living room was heated with a fireplace that burned wood and coal. The kitchen was heated by a wood stove. The bathroom was heated by an electric heater, and the bedroom and other rooms weren’t heated at all. When someone came into the living room, he or she stood in front of the fireplace to warm up, rotating when necessary. When I was little, I would sometimes forget and let my pant legs get so hot that if I sat down I would leap back up.

Around Christmastime, my Grandmother would make an eggnog-like drink called Boiled Custard. She made it with milk from their cows and eggs from their hens, and would send it home with us in canning jars. I remember that one year she cooked an entire country ham, boiling it on top of the stove and then finishing it off in the oven. We must have eaten off that ham for weeks.

They’ve now been gone for over a quarter of a century, and their way of life, which seems so stark in the telling, I now remember as a constant and vibrant interaction with people–family and otherwise–who came and went from that house at Christmastime. I think of them a lot at this time of year.

Proust had his madeleine, but for me it will always be horehound candy.

Alert reader Mike sends in the above photo, which he says came from the papers of a deceased World War I veteran.

All over Tennessee you can spot ultra-religious women who believe that they should not cut their hair. This stems, so to speak, from First Corinthians 11:15, which says: “But if a woman have long hair, it is a glory to her: for her hair is given her for a covering.”

This stately dame is the most extreme example of fundamentalist hair I have ever seen. Here’s one more photo.