Our Visitors

The Lynchburg Gazette Writers from Small Towns

I Hate Football

By Sheila Moss

Yes, that was me at the Titans’ opening game last week. So what? That does not mean that I do not hate football. It is just that I had not done much of anything for a long time and I really needed to get out.

We got there early to find parking, but still had to walk for miles to get to the stadium. We were looking for a place nearby to eat breakfast, but couldn’t find one. I was starving. No wonder I hate football!

Okay, so I ended up eating popcorn for breakfast. So what? You eat corn flakes all the time and think nothing of it, don’t you? Is that much different from popcorn? I’ll admit the diet coke was not my usual choice of a breakfast beverage, but I had to drink something, didn’t I?

It was a hot day. It was a really hot day. Okay, it was sizzling. It definitely was not football weather. When I think of football, I think of shivering and drinking hot coffee to keep warm while my toes freeze off. It was much too hot a day to be playing football. As I sat there sweltering in the sun with perspiration running down my back, I hated football more than ever.

When the game finally started, the Titans didn’t play worth a hoot. They got so far behind by halftime that I figured they didn’t have a chance of winning. After every play, somebody was lying on the field injured, and it was always Tennessee. Titans were dropping like flies.

I was getting sunburned and wanted to leave. My friend, of course, was enjoying the stupid game. He bribed me with one of those $5 cokes to get me to stay, and didn’t even care about how much I hate football.

As I looked around the crowd, I noticed that most everyone was wearing Titan colors. As usual, I was out of fashion. It seems the big thing now is to wear a jersey with the name of your favorite player on the back. I wonder how much those jerseys cost? I do sort of like them, even though I hate football.

As the game began again, the repugnant college-age commentators sitting behind us got wound up on beer and began spouting their opinions of each play. Why do these obnoxious people always seem to show up at ballgames? And why do they always have to sit behind me?

But the game was staring to pick up now and the Titans were making a comeback. Yes, I was screaming and yelling. I figured I might as well join in and cheer since everyone else was – even though I hate football.

As the excitement level in the stadium grew, the yelling was so loud that my eardrums were vibrating, especially when the other team was trying to make a play. They tell me that fans yell loudly so the opposing team can’t hear the directions for their plays. Seems like cheating to me, but the fans didn’t care. Obviously, they don’t hate football like I do.

By the last of the fourth the enthusiasm was intense. Yes, I was starting to enjoy the game. Hard to believe, I know, but you just had be there to understand. I was almost having fun yelling and screaming for every 10 yards gained, and trying hard to hate football.

When the Titans scored that final touchdown the crowd went wild. Fireworks exploded and the stadium pulsated with noise. We win! And this is only the first game of the season! Talk around Tennessee is already about the Titans going to the Superbowl this year.

Hate football? Me? Oh, yes, I almost forgot.

Used by Permission

The House that Spoke Spanish

By Aprill Jones

I guess we should not have expected a house built in Mexico to speak English. Oh. Well don’t be surprised. Houses do speak. You know, like at night, when houses talk to you. Well, they don’t always talk. Sometimes it’s just like they kind of have comments.

Like back at home in the States when this tired Tennessee girl finally got a chance to close her eyes for the night. As my head hit the pillow, I could hear the house sigh. When I rolled over, it creaked in response. As I entered my REM cycle, it mumbled, groaned, and maybe even giggled a little over the crazy Technicolor movie behind my eyelids.

When I would be home by myself, trying to get to sleep while my husband traveled, the house stood at the ready, and jumped noisily at every leaf drifting by the window or bunny nosing its way under the fence in the heavy deep of the night.

That was an English-speaking, Southern house – a solid, middle-aged brick house built in the boom of the 50’s, settled in and comfortable with its plain face. A very steady and true house, surrounded by neighborhood aunt, uncle, cousin, brother and sister houses all obviously from the same family. Their only comments were soft whispers among the oaks of the same age, the same family, and the same language.

Then, on a campus of a children’s home, on the Mexican Baja, on the busy Tacate Highway, we suddenly find ourselves living in a Mexican house. And just when our heads hit the pillows here, believing our day’s work of learning another language is over for a few blissful hours, the house starts in on us.

My eyes begin to get heavier and heavier. My mind has finally stopped its race toward home, its flashing pictures of my family in Tennessee, its panic over the future, the thousands of questions the day brought. Sleep, oh, good. I firmly plan to dream in English –with a southern accent. A plan that evidently displeases the Mexican house because it stomps in disgust. I jump in reaction to the loud sound. “Yes,” my brain must now tell my pounding heart, “it is the HOUSE, and not a PERSON stomping into the doorway.”

The house now begins to speak Spanish, rapidly so that I can’t always understand. The stomp is followed by a pounding fist and heavy grunt as I toss into a new position. Now I’m wide-awake, disgusted and frustrated with the interruption in the unrecognizable language of the new Mexican house, built with steel trusses that have expanded and contracted in the heat of the day and cool of the evening.

As I think of how awake I feel now and how early the children here will begin their excited talking right outside my window, I will myself to understand the house and go to sleep and stay asleep.

Then, a quick tap-tap, and I’m sure that someone has the wrong house in the middle of the night. I’m just not sure if that person is the stranger, or the stranger is myself.

I listen to a soft shhh in the short attic, and I wonder if one of our resident rattlesnakes has found its way in, or if the house is only responding the roaring motor brakes of the semi trucks on the Tecate highway within view from the house. Shhh.

The wooden doors of the house, built with wood that must have been too green, crack, snap, and pop in their effort to adjust to their new life. It’s a sound reaction I can relate to. I understand the greenness, the hardness of being made to do something you aren’t comfortable with, of being so far removed from where you came from.

I turn over, hot, then bothered. The language of the house makes it feel so foreign here, and the sounds of the thoughts in my head make it hard to sleep.

This house needs to be settled, so that it won’t feel the need to be so loud and talkative, running a commentary the whole night through like a pushy waitress at an all-night truck stop on I-40. But I know the steel trusses won’t ever stretch, and the tile floor will always echo. It will forever, feel strange, odd and foreign.

But right now, my husband is here, and that means this is home, and as we settle here, or wherever, he’s speaking my language. We both speak Tennessee English, and for now, the familiar sound of his voice comes in louder and clearer than the sounds of the house that speaks Spanish.

Hitting the Sauce

Barbecue that is

By Harvey Gardner

You've heard the saying; "You have to be going there on purpose, because it isn’t on the way to anywhere. " That’s certainly true of Lynchburg, Tennessee (Pop. 361).

Lynchburg, however, is a place you may just want to visit on purpose.

Life in a town the size of Lynchburg isn’t that much different from many small towns in America. People get up with the sun, work hard for a living, and relax with their families at the end of the day. They greet their neighbors with a wave and are never too busy to stop a while for some friendly conversation. They enjoy life leisurely.
    The tiny town of Lynchburg is the county seat of Moore County, Tennessee's smallest county. Moore County has been home to the Jack Daniel's Distillery since before Mr. Jack received his license to distill back in 1866, but it’s a dry county and has been ever since Prohibition. You’ll be served some cool lemonade during your tour of the distillery.
    The centerpiece of Lynchburg, like most county seats, is the courthouse square. You can’t miss Lynchburg Hardware & General Store, where you can still buy a Coke for a dime. It’s also a good place to get the latest news, swap a good story, pet the town dog, or just sit down for a game of checkers.
    Many other fascinating businesses around the square can keep you browsing for hours. The Moore County Jail and Museum is an interesting place to see.

The most famous business in Lynchburg, besides the Jack Daniel's Distillery, is Miss Mary Bobo’s Boarding House, just off the square. It started in 1867 as a traveler’s hotel, and Mr. Jack took his lunch there.     Miss Mary Bobo ran the boarding house until her death in 1983, just a month short of her 102nd birthday. During her day, most of the boarders who lived and took all their meals there were old bachelors and the federal agents assigned to Lynchburg to regulate the distillery.
     Since 1984, Jack Daniel’s great-grandniece, Lynne Tolley, has been the proprietress. It’s no longer a boarding house, but it’s a great place for a real home-cooked meal and for experiencing Southern hospitality at it’s finest. You’d better call ahead for reservations, but it’s worth the little extra effort.
     There’s no better way to start your day than with a good country breakfast, along with a cup of fresh hot coffee. The place to do that in Lynchburg is the Iron Kettle. Coffee in Lynchburg, some people claim, tastes better than coffee made anywhere else. But maybe you ought to be the judge of that yourself. While you’re deciding, help yourself to a plate of biscuits with cream gravy and some country ham on the side.
     When you see the sign on the highway that says, "WELCOME TO METROPOLITAN LYNCHBURG, MOORE COUNTY TENNESSEE," you know you’re in for a good time.
     Lynchburg has many special weekend events throughout the year. Why don’t you plan on making a "pit stop" in Lynchburg for the Annual Jack Daniel's World Championship Invitational Barbecue in October? It's the one day of the year when everyone in Moore County hits the sauce--the barbecue sauce that is.

Granny’s Sweet

Potato Casserole
Kathy Hardy Rhodes

I don’t remember the year, but Granny’s youngest two grandchildren were a good bit shy of twenty-one. One of those, a long, lanky, blue-eyed, blond-haired lad, belonged to me. The day was festive—a fresh-cut bouquet of mums and daisies, white tapers, white tablecloth, crisp linen napkins, fine china, and sparkling silver. The air was thick with scents of freshly baked bread, sage, cinnamon, hazelnut coffee, and onion and apple stuffing. People with busy hands scurried about, interacting boisterously, against a backdrop of an oven door creaking, ice cubes clinking against crystal, spoons clanking, and an electric knife purring.
    At noon, we all circled the long dining room table, the whole family, gathered to do what all southern families do on Thanksgiving Day—stuff themselves with turkey and all the trimmin’s. We piled our plates high with slices of roasted turkey, cornbread dressing, giblet gravy, mashed potatoes, corn puddin’, green beans with canned French-fried onions on top, and sweet potato casserole. And after grace, we dug in.
My long, lanky, blue-eyed, blond-haired lad must have been building with Legos the day I tried to teach Tact & Manners, for he certainly didn’t exercise either that day. “Mama,” he blurted out, words shot out of a cannon, booming through the air, bouncing off the high ceiling, echoing off the white walls, and hovering over the heads of aunts and uncles and siblings and cousins. “Did you put whiskey in the sweet potatoes?”
    I knew full well that Granny brought the sweet potatoes. As I glanced across my glass of sweet tea, I glimpsed Granny shrinking, folding up, like a turtle drawing in its head. Her eyes fell, her head sank, her shoulders slumped, and she inched down until her chin was even with the tabletop, silver hair shining under the chandelier. Her face, barely visible, mirrored her holiday burgundy blouse. Very meekly, Granny defended herself, squeaking out a weak, “Well, the recipe called for it.” There you go. It was written down on paper, so it was okay.
    With her admission of guilt, young bodies bolted forward, all the grandchildren at once, those over twenty-one and those under twenty-one, surged for a second helping of Granny’s whiskey sweet potatoes.
    Seems that Granny had gone on a trip with the Methodist Church XYZ Club—or Xtra Years of Zest Club—to Lynchburg, Tennessee, home of the nation’s oldest registered distillery and Jack Daniels Tennessee Whiskey. Even though there were a few Baptist and Church of Christ folks along, the XYZ-ers toured the distillery. And Granny bought a ni-i-i-ice cookbook, whiskey being the common ingredient in all the fine southern recipes from cakes to casseroles. Granny couldn’t buy whiskey at the distillery to put in her recipes, for Lynchburg is in a dry county. They only make it, bottle it, and ship it from there. But Granny slipped away from the other XYZ-ers in another county and bought herself a bottle of the “Old Time, Old No. 7 Brand Sour Mash, made and mellowed, distilled and bottled in Lynchburg, population 361.” “Whiskey made as our fathers made it for 7 generations.”
    Granny sat low in her chair the rest of the meal, for she knew she put a generous helpin’ of whiskey in her sweet potato casserole. And although all good southern cooks know that the alcohol cooks off and only the flavorin’ is left, the grandchildren were not allowed to drive the rest of the day.
     In the spirit of tradition, every Thanksgiving, the grandchildren still ask far in advance, “Are we having Granny’s Sweet Potato Casserole?”

Kathy Hardy Rhodes is a published author of creative nonfiction. She writes humor/personal essays that reflect the Deep South—warm observations about family, place, and southern culture. Born and raised in the Mississippi Delta, she now lives in Franklin, Tennessee.

Alumni Returns

To Haunt School

Martin is where they're from and they have returned to find and re-live old memories. As they make their scenic tour of the old town, recalling those "good ole days" many will realize for the first time. Dear Ole Martin High School is gone, replaced by a new modern type school. It's not even a high school. It's called primary school (what does that mean?)

.Honored guest might include some of our favorite teachers such as: Opal Kenny, sorry we were so hard on you, but you were so gullible; Mrs. Rowlett, who swung me around by the hair of the head, I promise I have never stolen a chicken leg since; Lyrl Kennedy, what can I say except you did kick me out of your English class for a good reason; Zorabelle Lovelace, did you know how I aced the final exam in chemistry,

Phil Hodson, thanks for the history lessons but I think you made most of it up; Donald Wertz, who came to our aid when Tommy and I took off our usual Wednesday after-noon, went to the woods only to be greeted by Dondo who guided our lost soles back to school.

Mrs. Wiles and Ed Turney, thank you for your time and efforts to help me see the possibilities out there for me. You were really my best teachers.

Some of the games we played included harassing parkers at Sand Hill especially those partaking of certain drinks. They would hide out at the bottom of the hill only to find the way back was blocked with trees, rocks and junk.

Drag racing on that famous quarter mile strip, Bo's to the bridge. Two boys would stand toe to toe and exchange blows till one or the other lost their balance and of course there was always Mumble Pig.

Reelfoot Lake - Our favorite Sunday afternoon gathering place.

The Rock'n'Roll

Pilgrimage

By Sheila Moss

"I’m tired of staying home all the time," I proclaimed. "I wanna do something this weekend."

"Well, what do you want to do?"

"I want to go to Memphis and see Graceland," I said. "I’ve never been there." I was halfway joking.

"Okay, let’s go!" said my honey. "We could do it. It’s not that far."

The previous week was the anniversary of Elvis’ death. Guess that is what gave me the idea. Everybody that wants to go has already been, so it’s a good time - no crowds.

I thought, "Why not?"

Graceland is the final and ultimate exploitation of Elvis. Parking across the street, we are told to follow the red awning to the ticket office, offering a variety of Elvis attractions, complete with a mini mall of restaurants and assorted gift shops with Elvis related items, from records to coffee mugs, all in a theme park like atmosphere.

A shuttle bus transports us across the street to the "mansion." Actually, Graceland is much smaller than the vast southern mansion I have always envisioned. The old home seems tired and weary as bus after bus pulls up, and load after load of tourists pour through the front door. We are given tape players and head sets for a pre-recorded guided tour.

Graceland décor is frozen in the 50’s, a time when Elvis was at the peak of his popularity. I had heard that Graceland is tacky – Elvis being notorious for his flamboyantly bad taste. Still, the reality is nearly overwhelming.

Old and worn, the white furniture of the main living room seems not quite clean. A large gaudy stained glass archway dominates the living room and looks like a relic from an ancient church. This is an Elvis addition, as are the televisions sets located in almost every room of the house.

There are many small rooms, each decorated differently. It must have been crowded when Elvis was at home with his entourage, the "Memphis Mafia." The game room with it’s faded fabric-covered walls and pleated ceiling has long ago seen it’s better times.

Other rooms in the converted basement are also very unusual. One has a dizzying decor with a bright yellow color scheme and mirrored squares on the ceiling, reminiscent of a pimp palace. Green shag carpets decorate the floor of another room – as well as the ceiling. That was the style in the 50’s the tape recorder told us.

The real shocker, and granddaddy of all bad taste, is the infamous "jungle room" filled with burl oak furniture and carved wood. Elvis supposedly spotted the furniture in a store window and bought it all for Graceland because it reminded him of Hawaii. We are told by the recorded message to take as much time to look as we want. Thing is, we don’t want much time. Unable to control my urge to laugh, I am more than happy to exit out the back door.

Numerous other buildings are located on the property; one has been turned into a "trophy room." Another was a racquet ball court during Elvis’ life, but now has its walls covered with gold and platinum records. It is quite awesome. Elvis is buried out in the back yard by the pool along with his beloved mama and his daddy. The graves are covered with floral tributes from the various Elvis fan clubs worldwide.

Shuttled back, we tour the automobile museum and see the pink Cadillac as well as Elvis’ other cars, golf carts, snowmobiles and assorted wheeled vehicles that are favorite playthings for the filthy rich. His airplane, the Lisa Marie, named after his daughter and customized to his orders, is on display. Yet another museum holds his famous jeweled jumpsuits, and one of the TV sets he shot with a pistol in a fit of rage.

Well, it is an experience, I must admit. Graceland is the most visited home in America, after the White House. What I will always remember most about it is the sight of all those gold records. Elvis had 149 top hit songs. He sold a billion records. Tasteless, wealthy, eccentric, extravagant, and generous are but a few of the adjectives that are used to describe him. He is a strange man with a strange legacy.

All the gold records, all the platinum records, so many of them. That’s what Graceland is all about and what Elvis is actually all about too, I guess. That is what makes him the biggest recording artist of all time, and forever the King of Rock’n’Roll.

"So, whadda ya want to do next week?" asked my honey.

"I’m hanging up my blue suede shoes," I replied.

Used by Permission

Read other stories by Sheila at http://www.southernhumorists.com

12 Month The Annual Light Bite Club

Jack Daniel's Distillery Tour Finds

Southern Hospitality at it's Best
By JIM SCHUH of The PC Gazette www.pcgazette.com

     For over 30 years, Martha and I have traveled to her home in northwest Alabama several times a year to visit relatives and friends. At first, we'd drive through Chicago, and pick up I-65 in northwest Indiana, and head south - through Indianapolis, Louisville and Nashville. About 50 miles below Nashville, there was a sign inviting us to visit the Jack Daniel's distillery in Lynchburg, about 40 miles to the east. We never took that side trip.
     We now take a shorter route through the center of Illinois, into Kentucky, Tennessee and into northwest Alabama. So on our most recent trip, a Jack Daniel's visit was far from our minds.
     But when we arrived in Alabama, we found that Martha's cousin and college roommate, Ann Battcher, had made arrangements for us to spend part of a day in Lynchburg - including reservations for a midday meal at Miss Mary Bobo's Boarding House, and a tour of the distillery.
     We arrived at Miss Bobo's about 40 minutes before the 1 p.m. seating - as the folks who operate the place had suggested. The restaurant is quite popular, so it's difficult to obtain last-minute reservations. Ann had phoned a few weeks earlier and took advantage of a cancellation to book us.
     Miss Bobo's is a block off the town square. As guests arrived at the old white building, they gathered in sitting rooms, awaiting the call to dine. When our turn came, the hostess ushered us into an adjacent room, where we took seats at the long table set for 12. Joining us were couples from Los Angeles, Scottsboro, Ala., the United Kingdom and a young couple and their three small children from Nashville. It made for interesting conversation.
     At that point, proprietor Lynne Tolley joined us. She's the great-grandniece of Jack Daniel, and operates Miss Bobo's for the owner, the Brown-Forman Company of Louisville. The gracious Miss Lynne outlined the day's menu of home-cooked delights served family-style, including a wonderful light meatloaf, delicious chicken pastry, tasty fried okra, pinto beans topped with sweet bell pepper relish, creamed corn, a cabbage casserole, baked apples (containing a smidgen of Jack Daniel whiskey), fluffy cornbread muffins and a scrumptious chocolate pie. "Please pass the ______," was something we heard frequently. The menu changes daily - except for the okra.
     The only irritation was the entryway music box that played a one-minute version of Lara's Theme from Dr. Zhivago over and over during the 30-minutes we waited for our call to dine. I don't want to hear that song again for a while!
     The fascinating distillery tour took just over an hour. We saw the iron-free water used to make Jack Daniel's whiskey flowing from a cave. Our guide showed us huge vats of bubbling mash, and smaller charcoal-filled vats in which the whiskey is clarified while passing through. He noted bars on the windows of the first two floors of several multi-story buildings in which the whiskey ages and colors in row after row of barrels. He reasoned that anyone who wanted to steal a 600-pound barrel of whiskey and managed to get it out of a third-floor window was welcome to it.
     You might think guests would gather to sample the product after a tour, just as they do at the Point Brewery. But not in Lynchburg or Moore County, which have been dry since Prohibition. Instead, the distillery offers complimentary lemonade.
     Later, I mentioned to our guide that I was a Tennessee Squire, and he directed us to a special room, where Squire Lady Irene Matthews greeted and entertained us with stories about famous people who took a fancy to Jack Daniel's whiskey. Irene was a most gracious hostess, and fulfilled her responsibility of promoting the Jack Daniel aura.
     In 1989, a friend had nominated me to become a Squire. I received a fancy membership certificate, and deed to a one square-foot plot of distillery land. Ever since becoming a Squire, I've received occasional humorous promotional letters from Jack Daniel representatives on the status of my land and their efforts to maintain it.
    As we sat in the paneled Squire room, Irene told us that President Harry Truman was fond of the product, and so was Frank Sinatra. She presented us with a gift box of Jack Daniel highball glasses.
     I was relating some of this information last week to the fellows who gather each Thursday morning for breakfast in downtown Stevens Point.
     That's when Mark Makholm mentioned that he, too, was a Squire. There may others around here.
     If you have time, you'll enjoy a visit to Lynchburg. To dine at Miss Bobo's, call a few months ahead at (615) 759-7394 for reservations.
     While the Jack Daniel employees display a wonderful down-home, folksy demeanor, don't let that fool you. Jack Daniel's ranked seventh in worldwide liquor sales in 1999, grossing $1 billion, (that's with a "B") 265 million. Those Tennessee hill folks know exactly what they're doing..
     You may reach Jim Schuh at The PC Gazette, or by e-mail at jpschuh@excite.com.

Visitors from England rest on Lynchburg Hardware Antique Truck while making the tour at Jack Daniels Distillery

"The Red Hat Mommas" a chapter of the "The Red Hat Society were observed sampling the "Tippsy Cake" last Friday on the Lynchburg Square. They were sent to the Courthouse where questioned and then sent on their Merry Way.

Pfaelzer Brothers Specials Top Selling Products