Front yard borealis

I’m sure I’m not the only one who had loosely held dreams of trekking northward in the depths of winter to experience the Northern Lights. Wistful mentions of Fairbanks, Nome, and Iceland would float through travel conversations, always abruptly arrested by shivers of imagined ungodly frigid temperatures.

You might notice that that last paragraph was in the past tense. Because last night, along with millions of now-sleepy people across the northern hemisphere, I got to see the aurora borealis! And…without leaving my front yard! And while wearing shorts! My mind is still blown.

Looking northwest from our driveway

LOVE the pink and green

The roof of our porch

Between this and the total eclipse...science,
nature, and creation are INCREDIBLE

My friend Linda traveled to Norway earlier this year to see the Northern Lights from a cruise ship. She said they were really pretty, but very oddly NOT what she expected. She was grateful that a naturalist onboard her ship warned the sky gazers that what they would see with their eyes would NOT be the incredible greens and purples and pinks that we have all seen in photos. Instead, they would see sort of milky white clouds and streaks, perhaps with tinges of colors, but really mostly whitish. Linda was understandably a bit miffed that this little tidbit was not part of the sales brochure.

Linda told me she was startled to find herself looking at an interesting but not utterly remarkable sky and then leaning over to look at someone’s digital camera to discover the dazzling beauty captured by long exposures.

I was so confused! How had I never heard about this before? Was it really true? Was it an unspoken agreement among Northern Lights viewers not to admit that the only way they saw the spectacular colors was via cameras?

Apparently yes.

We had some friends over last night, planned before the Northern Lights forecast popped up (with an unheard of 9.00 Kp on the Planetary K-index. Yeah, I have no idea either…). They arrived at 8:00pm for dessert and left sometime around 12:30am. We sat on our north-facing porch with frequent checks upward as the night sky darkened. I told them about Linda’s discovery. They shared my confusion and suspicion and hopes that maybe that was just a Norwegian thing.

Somewhere around 10:30pm, Rob saw something. He summoned us to the driveway. The sky definitely looked different. And it was definitely not green or purple or pink.

Over the next few hours, we stood in our driveway and eventually spread out beach blankets on our front grass to ease the neck pain. We watched as whitish streaks of light drifted around the sky. Most of the streaks were vertical, but some were horizontal, and others were arcs. Most were ahead of us from the horizon to maybe half way up. But some were directly above us.

We watched in amazement as the streaks moved. They appeared to be alive, like an amoeba in a tide pool. They did not move like clouds; instead, they often looked more like rain showers, with subtly more density and force. They sort of looked like a clotheslined bedsheet fluttering in the breeze. We would occasionally see short bursts of particles, making streaks appear for only seconds. At times, the particles would fill the sky, obliterating stars but pierced by the lights of an unusually large number of airplanes flying around. The moon was just a sliver, but the lights of the aurora borealis filled the sky as if the moon were full.

The colors, though. That’s what is still so bizarre and unexpected and, honestly, disappointing. The colors in those photos above? Yeah, not AT ALL what our eyes were seeing. In fact, not even what my circa 2020 iPhone’s camera was seeing. Grateful for friends with newer phones (this is the first time I have ever had Cell Phone Envy), the above photos were taken by Ali’s Circa 2022 phone with a night setting and automatic exposure and aperture adjustments. My phone…used while sitting right next to Ali on the blanket…took photos like this.

I was tempted to at least brighten
this so you could see something, 
but that sort of misses the point of
showing the importance of
having a good camera for 
moments like these

I discovered that I could edit the exposure settings after the fact and get something closer to Ali’s.

Much better! But still fodder for
much Camera Envy

Meanwhile, I found a photo on a local Facebook page posted by someone I don’t know that captured more of what I was seeing with my eyes.

Thank you, Person Whose Name I
Can't Find Now Because There Are
THOUSANDS of Photos on Facebook
From Last Night

We could see colors, but they were just tinges. We could see green and pink and magenta in the streaks, but they were all “ishes.” Greenish. Pinkish. Purpleish. We would see the ish and then snap photos to see what we were really seeing. It was bizarre to rely on a camera to reveal reality.

I tried taking a few photos with my mostly-abandoned, higher-quality digital camera, but they all came out as black blobs.  It wasn’t until it was too late that I remembered it has a nighttime setting. DOH!

So with five hours of sleep (thanks, hungry cat who had plenty of food but not The Right Food…), this morning I am a mixture of grateful, amazed, disappointed, confused, and full of wonder. Being able to see the Northern Lights for 4 hours from the warmth and comfort of my front yard while wearing shorts and a light jacket was not something I ever imagined would be possible. And I was enthralled watching the night sky dance in front of me, with life and energy and unpredictability. But I expected the Northern Lights would be a dazzling display of colors filling the sky, not the screen of Ali’s cell phone.

Rumors are that the lights will be putting on another show tonight. While tempted to rush to Verizon to finally take them up on their copious upgrade offers, I will probably spend some time today refamiliarizing myself with the settings on my dusty digital camera. I might even dig out the tripod.

Turbo Annoying

A number of months ago, we had to replace our washer and dryer. It is the third set we have had in our 34 years of life together. I had a few requirements. Most importantly, the appliances needed to be front-loaders on pedestals, as that is the only way my back can safely participate in laundry chores.

Yes, I know. A smarter woman would insist on bendy-over top-loaders and then opt out of all laundering while pointing sheepishly at her achy back. But Rob beat me to that sneaky punch very early in our marriage.

We had just returned home from our honeymoon. Rob was still wooing me, so he washed all our clothes, efficiently putting a creamy turtleneck purchased specifically for our December nuptial getaway in with some jeans and other darkish items. When the cream emerged from the dryer a dingy grey, I proclaimed two (printable) things. First, I was buying a replacement turtleneck posthaste. Second, Rob was henceforth and forevermore banned from doing our laundry. Rob admits this was one of his most brilliant oopsies ever.

So, front-loaders on pedestals. Plus an easily accessible filter on the washer, and satisfactory reviews by Consumer Reports. That was pretty much my list of washer and dryer needs a few months ago.

We ended up with an LG set that comes with an app and songs and steam and some sort of turbo wash thingy and promises of mold-resistant innards. It has proven to be a pretty sturdy set with one huge surprise: the turbo wash thingy – which looks like an optional setting but actually isn’t – apparently means our clothes are washed super duper fast. Like 20ish minutes for a large load. Is that normal these days??

While I should be excited that I can now whip through our three standard loads of laundry before lunchtime, I am actually rather annoyed. Doing laundry used to be a leisurely chore. It was something I could feel productive doing while mindlessly scrolling through Facebook, catching up on “The Masked Singer,” blogging, and staring at the cat.

While I might have looked lazy all sprawled out on the couch, I justified my repose by the fact that I Was Doing Laundry. I was accomplishing things! I was very busy being available to spring into action when all the buzzers buzzed. It could take most of a day to do laundry, what with all the sorting and loading and waiting and switching and waiting and unloading and folding and putting away and waiting.  It was enough to justify not making dinner. It was lovely.

But now, thanks to stupid technology, I barely get under my cozy blanket before I have to get up again to tend to the blasted clothing and linens. Up and down, up and down, up and down. Just when I get the last pair of clean socks tucked safely in their drawer, the cloying, electronic little ditty summons me to the laundry room once again. Laundry Morning – which used to be Laundry Day – is now punctuated by my repeated “How can it be done already?!?” “Why is it SO FAST?!?” mutterings as I stomp back and forth across the house. It’s not leisurely. It’s not relaxing. And it’s not an excuse to go out to dinner. Fie on you, TurboWash 360® Technology with Built-In Intelligence. You sounded so ambiguously helpful when I brought you home…

I just noticed there is a Speed Wash setting on the other side of the dial that I never use. Unless I want to relocate the couch to the laundry room, that little feature will remain a mystery.

I had to take the photo quickly, before one of the
cycles ended. Because the minutes indicators LIE.

Eclipse Chasers

When totality ended on August 21, 2017, Rob and I looked at each other knowingly.

“When’s the next one in North America?”

“April of 2024.”

“We’re going.”

Nearly 7 years in the making, and with precise travel arrangements over one year old, Rob and I trekked to Texas a few days ago to experience totality in a solar eclipse once again. Decidedly a bit further than the Oregon-Idaho state line we staked out in 2017. But unquestionably worth every hotel point, travel dollar, and moment of meteorological panic to see the world go bizarrely and breathtakingly dark again for just a few minutes.

Our plan was to fly to Dallas and drive to a Totality Town south of Waco to avoid crowds. We would stay in a hotel and enjoy the comforts of their reserved parking lot and proximate facilities. No frantic scurrying about trying to find The Right Spot, no dehydration concerns from not drinking any water for fear of no potty, no traffic jam to head “home.” It was going to be super civilized and worry-free.

When we checked into the hotel in Temple-Belton two days before E-Day, our excitement was stoked with offers of Commemorative T-Shirts and promises of snacks and fanfare during the Big Event. It sounded lovely.

With the option to fly just about anywhere within the Totality Path, Rob and I picked Texas because we believed it had the best probability of clear skies in early April. That and we didn’t want to go to Mexico. Probable: “supported by evidence strong enough to establish presumption but not proof.” We were about to learn a hard lesson in probability.

About 10 days before we left for Texas, Rob gently hinted that the weather forecast for Eclipse Viewing in our chosen spot was not ideal. Each day, the pit of disappointment in my stomach grew a little bigger. Clouds, lots of them. Maybe some rain. Maybe thunderstorms.

I pep-talked myself into being OK with experiencing that strange darkness under cloud cover. Surely that would be a unique and memorable experience, right? Then Rob floated the idea of perhaps driving a bit the morning of the eclipse, in search of a better forecast. Totality would be at 1:44pm, so we would have time to chase clear skies. Assuming there were any within several hundred miles of Temple-Belton.

The night before the eclipse, Rob and I were propped on our hotel bed, busily working our laptops. Between us we had a couple dozen tabs open searching road maps, weather maps, radar maps, hotel room availability, and UTC conversions. For a brief moment, after declaring Little Rock too far away, we were going to pack up quickly and immediately drive to Oklahoma where there was one smoky hotel room with double beds of questionable comfort available for just under $200. Saner heads prevailed just in the nick of time.

Nevertheless, jetlagged but determined, we stocked our newly acquired Buc-ee’s Cooler Bag with provisions from H.E.B. (we did Texas, y’all) and set our alarm for 5:00am on Eclipse Day. We were on the road, in the dark, heading northeast at 6:05am. Destination: Idabel, Oklahoma.

We were also told to "Arrive Early, 
Stay Put, and Leave Late" It actually
worked!

We took highways, byways, country roads, and crawled through tiny rural towns to avoid meeting their Buford T. Justice. The roads weren’t very crowded, but we pretty easily spotted other Eclipse Chasers. Usually 2-4 people in the car, nerdish, at least one baseball hat, apps open (presumably on weather sites), and driving cars with out-of-state plates. When viewed outside the car, Eclipse Chasers were also noted for their sturdy footwear and safari vests and/or pants with multiple pockets. When later spotted at DFW post-eclipse, they were also proudly wearing commemorative Totality in Texas t-shirts (I brought home two different versions).

We started to see people gathering in yards and public open spaces around 10:00am. We finally rolled into Idabel at about 11:00am. The tiny, sleepy town was overrun with Eclipse Fever. We saw a TV news crew out of Oklahoma City set up on a platform as if commentating on a parade. There were crowds gathered in parks and parking lots, sitting in lawn chairs, picnicking, playing frisbee and cornhole. Food vendors were set up, there were porta-potties-a-plenty, and music was playing. T-shirts, eclipse glasses, and parking spots were all advertised for sale on quickly fashioned cardboard signs.

As we drove around town, the sporadic sunlight disappeared behind some thick clouds. We regrouped in the parking lot of a smoky, tribal casino (not quite the scariest restroom I used that day – I’m looking at you, 76 station in Malakoff). The schizophrenic clouds and the height-of-capitalism vibe of Idabel just didn’t feel right.

TV crew was to the right, multiple satellite
trucks were in a parking lot across the street

“I liked that baseball field back by Clarksville,” Rob offered. Back to Texas we went. Thankfully, we had plenty of time.

We finally set up camp at a community baseball field. Rusty bleachers, chain-link fencing, lots of grassy parking, about 30 eclipse tailgaters already assembled, and one appropriately respected and appreciated porta-potty. It was perfect.

The sky was not clear by any stretch, but at least there were frequent pockets of bright sun and dark shadows. Many people had camp chairs; one family had a picnic blanket. There were several campers and RVs, and most cars had their trunks open for food access. Strangers chatted, sharing stories of the 2017 eclipse and eerily similar decision-trees to have ended up at the Red River County ballfield that morning.

And then it started.

It's hard to take a selfie when you 
have exceptionally dark sunglasses on

Donning the eclipse glasses, the ballfield murmured with excitement as we all saw the tiniest chunk of the sun disappear. Then more. Then more.

At about half-way to totality, I recognized that strange golden light emerge. Almost like Golden Hour light, but somehow more subtle and a bit muted. Sort of the Golden Hour at 60% saturation.

As we inched towards totality, the clouds came and went. None lasted for more than a minute or two, giving us hope that if a cloud did cavalierly pass in front of the total eclipse, it would not be there the entire 4 minutes and 20 seconds of totality. Spoiler alert: we were right. HALLELUJAH!

With about 5 minutes to go, Rob and I decided to walk over to some lonely bleachers, hoping to be on the other side of some suddenly appearing clouds. Nobody was within a hundred yards of us.

The sun was behind clouds just as totality was to begin. And then, as if by answered prayer, the clouds parted just enough. A perfect hole in the clouds broke through to reveal the dazzlingly white diamond of light on the ring of light around the moon. The white intensity sparkled as a cloud passed in front of it. Then the clouds parted again, allowing me to stare in awe at the bright corona of flames dancing mesmerizingly behind the moon.

Cheers filled the baseball field. Awe-filled, “OH MY GOD!”s and repeated proclamations of the ethereal beauty we were witnessing. There was also some gleeful applause. I absolutely loved being alone with Rob on the bleachers while at the same time having a shared experience with equally enthralled strangers.

I felt a surge of gratitude – for nature, for creation, for God, for science, for retirement, for an able-enough body, for radar and weather maps, for time with my best friend, for moments of clear skies, for these minutes. These incredible, mind-bending, touched-by-God minutes. And that’s when I started to cry. Good tears. Such very good tears.

As the clouds passed in front of the astronomical show yet again, I looked around and tried to take in the darkness. It wasn’t dark like at night. Our sun is incredibly bright. Just a sliver of it is enough to cause photocells to turn off. A ring of it leaves enough light to be dusk-like, but not. The darkness of a total eclipse is like no other. It is filtered darkness, it is partial darkness. It is sunset without the oranges and reds. It is still and eerie and quiet, but with the sudden confused noise of birds and bugs and awe-struck humans. It is otherworldly and surreal and addicting.

Click here to watch a short video taken during totality

Totality lasted over 4 minutes. We probably saw half of it in bits and pieces. It was not nearly enough but honestly, I’m not sure even hours would be enough to gaze at a total eclipse and try to comprehend its beauty.

It felt like it had been about 30 seconds when the 4 minutes were over and the sky started to brighten. I was both exhilarated and incredibly disappointed. I truly wanted it to never end.

The best I could do with a 2020 iPhone
And honestly, I didn't want to spend
much time taking inadequate photos for fear
of missing the experience of being there.

We were back on the road at 2:10pm. We collapsed on the hotel’s bed at 8:25pm. Rob drove 611 miles to experience 4 minutes of wonder. It was worth every mile and minute.

Over the course of our 4 days of Texas, we visited a childhood home (mine) and commiserated with the current owner about the clearly memorable 53-year-old wood paneling. We deemed Texas-made wine unique unto itself. We got indigestion from surprisingly good brisket at a Texas-sized truck stop featuring a beaver wearing a baseball hat. We pulled over on the side of the road to wait out rain that proved too fast for the windshield wipers. We survived the panic of repeated and unnerving weather alerts of heavy rain, severe thunderstorms, flash floods, lightning strikes, and tornadoes (GRATEFULLY after the eclipse!). We welcomed a new nephew into the world (can’t wait to meet him!) and will forever look at him with awe that he got to come home from the hospital during an eclipse. 

I had my 4th birthday in that house!
And remember being afraid of the backyard
because there was NOTHING around -- not
even the trees.

The best part about the winery was the view. 
Out of frame: cows.

If the eclipse had happened one day later,
we would have been stuck in our hotel room
watching it on TV live from some non-Texas location.
Visibility could have been much better...and MUCH
MUCH worse. So grateful we got to see what we saw.

My Portland TV station app proved both handy
and terrifying by knowing my exact location

Lightning strike map. We drove
through that....

The next total eclipse in North America is in 20 years – August 23, 2044 – viewable in Montana and Canada. It’s already on our calendar. I’m hoping our new nephew will be willing to drive his late-70s aunt and uncle to experience the incredible wonder of totality once again.

Taken just after totality ended
and high-fiving that we actually 
got to see it

 

 

 

 

Not too close for comfort (phew!)

Yes, despite appearances, this blog is still alive! It’s just been…resting.

I have been writing, just in other places. Most notably, I am now the monthly restaurant reviewer for a "senior" (50 and older) local newspaper. I was offered the gig while being interviewed about my book. It’s just hobby writing, but I am having a blast with the super fun gig that almost literally fell in my napkin-covered lap. An excuse to try new food AND write about it?!?  Sign me up!

I’ve also been utterly distracted helping my church remodel two ‘70s-era restrooms. And by that I mean I am an administrative maven with a color-coded spreadsheet and a pile of reimbursable receipts. I am learning about toilet repair kits, powder-coated steel partitions, the many options for dispensing toilet paper and their seat covers, and the laws surrounding safely disposing of asbestos. Rumors are swirling that I might soon learn (from a safe distance) how to hang drywall. I seriously need to find myself a Tim Taylor tool belt. Grunt grunt grunt.

The biggest change in my world over the past several months, though, is the local arrival of these two Very Important People.

Yes, once I got through adolescence,
my mom and I have often been 
mistaken for sisters

Thankfully right before winter travel over mountain passes got really dicey, my parents moved from Idaho to a town about 30 minutes from Woodhaven. Yes, for the first time since I left for college, my parents and I live in the same area code!

Truth be told (and yes, I know Mom and Dad are reading this), I was a little freaked out at first by the prospect of my parents living so close to me. While the benefits of proximity are obvious, I was a little concerned about how much life-interweaving would be expected. But all is good!  Our two households seem to have found a healthy balance of being in touch and seeing each other while also living independent lives with respectful boundaries. YAY ADULTING!

Although our houses are about a half-hour apart, we all do most of our shopping in a town in between. So I knew it was only a matter of time before I bumped into at least one of my parents while doing errands. My money was on the Walmart Pharmacy line.

Last week, while checking my mirrors before pulling out of my parking space at Albertsons, I caught a glimpse of my mom’s pretty distinctive car of the orangey variety. Confirming the twinning head of white hair in the driver’s seat, I put my car in Park and waited for Mom to get situated in a space of her own. Being careful not to be too stalkery, I slalomed around a couple of wayward shopping carts towards Mom’s car. Reflecting her character and approach to life 100%, Mom gave the stranger walking towards her a big smile that then burst even bigger when she realized the stranger was me.

We chatted for a few minutes, comparing errands and wardrobes and plans for the day. We caught up on husbands and doctor appointments and dinner menus. And we hugged. Several times. It was pretty dang awesome.

Although I’m quite used to running into people I know while out-and-abouting in my small town – and I knew it would happen eventually – I was nonetheless pretty stoked to have an impromptu breezy chat with my mom in a grocery store parking lot. We have never lived (as adults) in a manner that that was ever possible.  

Unplanned parking lot hugs from my mom? Definitely one of the benefits of proximity.

Swiftly off the bandwagon

About 10 years ago, I rather inexplicably bought tickets to a Katy Perry concert. Inexplicable because I only knew a couple of her songs and could not legitimately claim to be a KatyCat (this was well before Left Shark definitively wooed me to Katy's fanbase). I bought Katy's tour-promoted album to pre-game a bit, and quickly found myself tapping my middle-aged feet to pretty much every piece of bubblegum "PRISM" had to offer. Katy’s in-crowd dance party disguised as a concert ended up being one of the very most entertaining concerts I have ever been to (another contender: Pink Martini).

So it was with that spirit of pop music adventure that I announced to Rob that I wanted to see Taylor Swift’s “The Era’s Tour” movie documentary. This time, though, the desire was more explicable since Taylor is seemingly on the verge of ruling Planet Earth. Seems prudent to at least have a working knowledge of someone whose influence I’m not sure is escapable at this point.

With the ability to sing along to exactly two Taylor Swift songs, I sat next to Rob in seat G8 (since when must I choose my seat before entering a movie theater?!) and dedicated 168 minutes of my life to figuring out what all the fuss is about.

With apologies to the (admittedly younger) Swifties in my life: I’m still waiting.

I really wanted to walk out of the theater an in-the-know, gushing, glittery fan of Ms. Swift’s, all ready to learn how – and why – to make grade school friendship bracelets, and add the Kansas City Chiefs' remaining games to my DVR timers list.

Instead, I quickly remembered why I don’t see long movies in theaters (my back spasmed for about 3 days from all the squishy, cup-holdered sitting). And I was exhausted from all the active listening to decipher nearly 3 hours of songs that tell a Millennial’s life stories.

I had heard some screenings are like a modern-day Rocky
Horror experience, with movie-goers singing and dancing 
in the aisles. Alas, an afternoon show on a weekday yielded
less than a dozen viewers -- none dancing or singing.
Also, our tickets were "Child" prices. I didn't want to ask
if that was the matinee price or the senior discount.

Although Taylor’s music sort of bounces around genres, I determined that her songs have a bit of a formula which – sorry again, Swifties – got really repetitive and I found myself getting sleepy. I perked up at the 2-hour mark when she FINALLY played one of the two songs in my iTunes Library (“Shake It Off”). Never did hear the other one (“Mine”).  

I was also super surprised that her lyrics include cuss words. Now, I’m not saying Taylor’s a potty mouth; I was just startled to hear the f-bomb and poop word in songs worshipped by 9-year-old girls. Do their parents know? Do they care?

As unenthralled as I was by Taylor’s music, I am very much impressed by what appears to be her character. I remember hearing over the summer that she was giving extraordinarily generous bonuses to her road crew, as a thank you for all their work to pull off one of the most lucrative concert tours in history. I have also heard she is ingeniously re-recording a number of her albums in order to yank back control of them from a seemingly greedy and slimy record label. During her concert, she sprinkled words of gratitude and appreciation over her fans, dancers, and musicians. And although not as deftly as Katy Perry, Taylor also did an admirable job of making her adoring concert fans feel like they were in a special, elite club made especially for them.

But perhaps the thing that made me put the formulaic music aside and fall just a tiny bit in love with Taylor Swift was this:

Although it’s hard to see in the photo, the polish on one of Taylor’s fingernails is smudged. Big time. Like, I would have seethed a few of Taylor’s lyrics and grumbly redone that nail if it were mine. 

But instead, Taylor – who knew she would be on camera for the filming of the concert and no doubt oversaw the editing – didn’t fix her nail polish nor allowed it to be fixed in post-production. Nope. Taylor let her short, smudged fingernail grip the microphone and flash about in close ups. That one smudged nail made her so relatable. A busy young woman who wants to look nice but also has many things competing for her time, so some things just don’t get done...like her nails.  

Although I am not on the Taylor Swift Bandwagon – and am growing weary of her persistent presence in my newsfeed (serves me right for clicking on those two stories about her new boyfriend) – there could certainly be worse pop idols for folks to get all obsessed over. Taylor seems smart, savvy, gracious, and real. With a smudged nail and a few cuss words to prove it.

 

Waltzing through Tennessee

Next up on “Trips We Said We’d Take Someday”: Nashville!

Yes, Nashville.

I have wanted to visit Music City since the mid-90s when I saw it from a window seat on a very clear cross-country flight one October. My interest was stoked about a decade later when we had a Southwest Airlines layover and walked between two distant BNA gates. The live music, the friendly vibe, and palpable energy of just the airport alone made me want to check out what awaited outside Security.

Last week, Rob and I finally realized a decades-held dream and Did Nashville. With a side trip to Memphis. Because Elvis.

The Grand Ole Opry has been in this location
since 1974. The architecture told us that before
the brochure did.

Overall, I would say it was a very good trip but it wasn’t a great trip. I had pretty high expectations, especially since every.single.person I mentioned our travel plans to said, “I LOVE NASHVILLE!” I had no idea I knew so many people who had visited Nashville nor that I was so dang late to the party.

But, unfortunately, Rob and I weren’t at our physical best during the trip. We were both already exhausted by lots of activity and responsibilities at home (we absolutely suck at retirement), plus Rob was navigating a bout with vertigo. It was gone by the time we boarded the plane in Portland, but we didn’t know that for sure until days later. So we were rather tentative most of the trip and I did a lot more driving than I typically do.

Adding to the disappointment was the realization that tours of the Grand Ole Opry were cancelled for the week due to preparations for a People’s Choice Country Music awards show featuring very few people Rob and I had ever heard of. And that was the last little bit of rain on our Tennessee parade: we aren’t county music fans. Yes, we knew that. But I didn’t quite grasp how much not knowing Jelly Roll from a jelly donut would dampen our appreciation of All Things Nashville. But despite all that, we did have a fun time. I just didn’t fall in love with the city like I expected to.

The closest we got to the Grand Ole
Opry, as seen through a glass door.
Security guard out of frame to the left.

We were able to hit most of the Required Touristy Highlights including Opryland, the Ryman Theater, Music Row, the Johnny Cash Museum, the County Music Hall of Fame, Broadway and its Honky Tonks, and a trolley tour which took us by the Parthenon replica and Vanderbilt University allowing us to admire both from a distance.

An unplanned detour back to our outskirts hotel one night took us through a swanky neighborhood inhabited by Reese Witherspoon and Faith Hill and her husband (I only know Ms. Hill by her 1999 crossover hit “Breathe” – her husband is apparently also famous and wears a cowboy hat a lot? He, however, is NOT the guy married to Nicole Kidman who has a boy's version of Jennifer Aniston's hairdo. For some reason I always get those two dudes confused. Is one of them named Kenny??). That Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous interlude was sort of fun and once again proved the value of unlimited data allowing for on-the-spot critical research while sitting in the passenger seat.

The Opryland Resort reminded me 
of the Venetian and Parisian hotels
in Las Vegas, minus the casinos. Lots
of indoor plants and shops and restaurants
and walkways. And...boat rides. It 
was expansive and clearly best enjoyed
on a company expense account. SO
many conference lanyards!

Inside the Ryman Auditorium - the location of the
Grand Ole Opry from 1943 to 1974. It is actually 
a church with great acoustics - and old wooden
pews for seating. It had a very authentic feel.

The Microphone in the Ryman
-- also called The Pulpit

Minnie Pearl helped make the Grand
Ole Opry and the Ryman famous.
The actress who played her was very
highly educated, trained, and
generously philanthropic. 

My only photo from Music Row. This is an 
uncharacteristically professional building
for the street of recording studios. Most of the
studios were in small, old houses. It was
clearly an old neighborhood turned Street of Dreams.

I didn't take any photos in the Johnny Cash
Museum. However, highlights included
conclusively learning Johnny did NOT
serve any prison time, and deciding the
best format for music is vinyl at 78 rpm.
Very cool display with one of Johnny's songs
played on the various formats. CD was surprisingly
boring, and re-engineered digital was horrific. I
liked the depth of sound on the 78 rpm without the
staticy hiss of the slower speeds. 

There wasn't anything in the 
Country Music Hall of Fame 
that prompted me to take a photo.
However, one display for the 
lead singer of Hootie and the Blowfish
had a song playing that I liked. I 
asked Siri to identify it so I could buy
the mp3. I had no idea this was a cover of
a song originally recorded by Bob Dylan
in the early 1970s. Apparently I like old country music?

Broadway in broad daylight.

We enjoyed some decidedly regional cuisine. Our first dinner was at Hattie B’s Hot Chicken. This Nashville must-eat was apparently inadvertently invented by a pissed off gal trying to exact culinary revenge on her cheatin’ boyfriend. She made him fried chicken but doused it with every hot spice and pepper she could find in her pantry. Unfortunately for her, the jerk loved it and turned it into a livelihood.

Hot chicken, mac n cheese, and slaw.
Mmmm! One of the spices seemed to 
be cinnamon. I liked it but it was 
sort of odd mixed in with the cayenne and 
chili pepper.

My favorite meal of the trip was at Robert’s Western World – a fixture of a honky tonk on the very noisy and lively Broadway. Think Bourbon Street with cowboy hats. The street was loud and peopled enough at noon that we never felt the need to venture back after 10pm. Live county music, laughter, and restaurant clinking sounds came from every doorway and open window. The energy was pretty electrifying!

Ever the introverts, we snagged a table
upstairs so we could enjoy the honking
and tonking from a distance. We so
thoroughly enjoyed the Chis Casello Trio
that we bought their CD on the way out.
They were incredibly good and we had a
hard time imagining who might top them
later in the evening.  To quote Rob, "They ruined
live music for me forever." Truly, it was exactly
the experience I wanted -- very local food in a 
very local bar listening to very local music.

We decided on Robert’s for dinner because of a famed “Recession Special” – a fried bologna sandwich, a PBR beer, and a Moon Pie for dessert…all for only $6! Drawn much more by the redneckiness and less by the $6, I was thrilled to discover fried bologna on Wonder Bread is pretty dang tasty! Made even more exotic by the tiniest hint of horseradish. I already knew I didn’t like Pabst Blue Ribbon (an ironic favorite in Portland), but it did pair rather nicely with the lunch meat. The Moon Pie, on the other hand, was just gross. I was hoping for so much more. It was Peep-like marshmallow filling between two sawdusty cookies covered in a light film of cheap chocolate. The wrapper suggested heating it up in the microwave for “an out-of-this-world dessert!” I doubt it. The adorably named competitor “Goo Goo Cluster” impulsively procured at the airport was MUCH better.

Not the best photo -- the lighting was
challenging. But enough to get an idea
what a fried bologna sandwich looks like.
And is Gen X the only generation that sings
while they spell b-o-l-o-g-n-a?

As mentioned, we didn’t limit our Tennessee fun to Nashville. Nope. We also spent one VERY long day driving to and from Memphis (6 hours of driving) for All Things Elvis. While I wouldn’t call myself a huge Elvis fan, I do enjoy his music (especially the early stuff) and I respect his place in history. My most distinct memory of him is the day he died (I was 9) and being confused why so many grown ups were crying. After having now visited Graceland, I get it.

I had done very little research about Graceland, other than to buy tickets online for the self-guided house and airplanes tour. I was expecting a grand mansion tucked away on sprawling acreage with lots of security, and a properly appointed gift store housed in a garage or servants’ quarters. The private aircraft would be in a private hangar somewhere on the property. The décor would be expensive and flashy, sort of King-like.

Instead, Graceland was a total 1977 time warp situated on a busy street (named Elvis Presley Blvd) with neighbors just over the fence. Although the house itself is over 17,000 square feet, it did not feel even half that. Of course, the public is not allowed upstairs where the bedrooms and bathrooms are. There were a couple of outdoor buildings serving as an office and a gym and racquetball court. There was a small reflecting pool “Meditation Garden” where Elvis, his parents, his daughter, and a grandson are buried. And there were some horses and stables. So yeah, typing all that it does sound like an extensive and extravagant lifestyle. But it just didn’t feel like it. It felt homey and kitschy and very personal. It felt “of the people” – like a small-town boy hit the jackpot but kept a sense of where he had come from. Graceland was probably the most iconic home I have ever been in and it was so incredibly unique that I fell in love with it purely for what it represents. And the monkey.

Pretty much the whole house, minus the basement.
Piglet on steps for size reference.

I was both stunned and delighted to see this kitchen.
It took me right back to the '70s. I'm certain there
is Tupperware in the cabinets. I was struck by how
middle class it looks. Not at all what I expected
royalty to make banana and peanut butter sandwiches
in (I had one for lunch in one of the themed restaurants. I
liked it but I did NOT like the bacon grease it was
fried in. Eeeew. A local gal absolutely could not believe
I don't have a jar of bacon grease for cooking. I
explained that would require me cooking bacon, which
I don't. I'm pretty sure her head is still shaking.)

I think my mouth literally fell open when
I entered The Pool Room. The ceiling and walls
are covered in very carefully folded fabric in a
vortexy pattern. Oooh, vertigo.

The TV room, with a bar out of photo range.
Elvis loved watching football and had 3 TVs
so he could watch multiple games at once.
There was no explanation for the monkey.

Called "The Den" by Elvis and "The
Jungle Room" by the media, this room
was a trip. The brick wall is a waterfall.

The ceiling was carpeted. It deadened
noise so well, Elvis recorded an album
in here. Can't imagine where he sat -
absolutely none of the seats looked sittable.

As for the aircraft and gift shop, those were across the street in a Downtown Disney-like campus of restaurants, stores, and exhibits. Merchandised within an inch of its life, each aspect of Elvis’s life had its own gift shop. One focused on movies, another on his airplanes, another on his car collection, and oh, right, one focused on his music.

Two-story exhibit walls displayed awards – probably not all of them. There was one room dedicated to showcasing Elvis’s stage jumpsuits. Another room had lots and lots of boxes in locked display cases, all numbered and categorized in the archives. Some items were out of their boxes, giving a highly unique peek into The King’s life. It was a trip and I was fascinated.

Just one wall of several.

Just one wall of several. I LOVED
this room and how the iconic costumes
were displayed. I also learned that when 
Elvis played Vegas, he wore only white
jumpsuits so the lighting techs could
switch colors on him without him 
needing wardrobe changes. Brilliant!

Of note: Elvis had his own fountain drink
dispenser. Also, Tab.

I guess when you are a legend, even
the most mundane items are worth
archiving for posterity.

That time Elvis didn't like what was
on TV.

As I mazed my way through the exhibits and artifacts, my appreciation for Elvis’s place in history grew. I found myself marveling at the impact of a single man – on music, on people, on the world. Indeed, there was an entire exhibit of clothing and instruments belonging to other musicians with plaques expressing how Elvis inspired and influenced their lives and music.

We had started our tour of Memphis at Sun Records – the recording studio where Elvis recorded his first of many records on the label. Like Graceland, the studio was a time warp. Unlike Graceland, it is still in use with recording artists using the studio and its assortment of instruments in the wee hours after the tourists have left.

Unexpectedly small and modest.

The Sun recording studio was a small, linoleumed, unassuming space steeped in rock-n-roll history. Our tour guide was a musician who could barely believe her day job was to hang out in The Place Where Rock Began. I could barely believe I was allowed to stand there without glass or ropes and try to soak in the significance of the room. Between Sun Records and Mission Control in Houston, this has been quite a year of historic rooms!

Pretty much the entire room where
music history was made.

When we learned the Grand Ole Opry was closed for the week, and Rob was only at about 60% capacity, I assumed we would be making a second trip to Nashville someday. But, honestly, I think we did and saw and ate all that we really wanted to and could appreciate. I apparently know a lot of county western music fans.

Actually, I CAN envision a perfect return to Nashville: a concert by Darius Rucker in the Ryman with a 2-night stay at the Opryland Resort paid for by someone else. With a fried bologna sandwich for dinner, hold the Moon Pie.