When I was a kid, we studied all 50 states. We were taught – and tested on — all 50 state capitals, and in some cases, we also learned the nicknames, birds, flowers, trees, and mottos of neighboring states or other states deemed important by our teacher. Having lived in The Lone Star State most of my life, I can point to a Mockingbird, a pecan tree, and a field of bluebonnets in the blink of an eye, and sing at least the first stanza of Texas Our Texas with confidence and pride. As a Californian by birth, I made it a point as a teen to learn the California motto, bird, flower and tree (Eureka!, the quail, the poppy, and the redwood). I had imagined the state song would be Good Vibrations, by the Beach Boys, but it is “I Love You, California,” which I promise I’ve never heard to this day.  And now that I’ve transplanted my roots in Tennessee dirt, I feel it’s time to return to my mental classroom and learn about my new home.  

Actually, my friends JoAnn and Chris helped me get a head-start on that the last time we were together in Texas.  With trusty Mr. Google at our fingertips, I learned everything I needed and more almost instantly, but more on that in a minute. What gave me pause is how much I didn’t know about Texas! For example, there’s a state soil, state dog, state large mammal, state dish, state grass, state cobbler, state cooking implement … the list is pretty long, but if you want to explore, check out this website: https://www.tsl.texas.gov/ref/abouttx/symbols.html 

So, back in Tennessee …  here’s what I’ve learned just talking to people I’ve met since arriving: the state flower is the purple iris (my friend JoAnn’s favorite), the state insect is the lightning bug (I can attest to their abundance as they practically light the path for my evening walks with Buddy), the state bird is also the Mockingbird (although I haven’t seen one yet — since arriving I’ve seen bluebirds, cardinals, robins, hummingbirds, woodpeckers, eagles, ospreys, hawks – too many different kinds of birds to name here – but not one mockingbird. Go figure.  Anyway, here’s an exhaustive list, in case you are dying of curiosity:  https://www.tn.gov/about-tn/state-symbols.html 

As I was watching the grand parade of the World’s Biggest Fish Fry last month, I struck up a conversation with the fellow next to me and I mentioned I was from Texas. “Oh, the Lone Star State’, he exclaimed. That’s right, I told him. Then he quizzed me about Tennessee’s nickname and I surprised him by saying it’s the Volunteer State. He said, “That’s right, and you know, that’s important for you as a Texan to know that. You know why?” I think if he had been wearing dentures, they would have dropped out as I didn’t skip a beat and answered that it was probably because more men from Tennessee than from any state other than Texas volunteered to fight at the Alamo and died defending it, that Davey Crockett himself led the volunteers to Texas , and that this was probably the beginning of Tennessee’s long history of military volunteerism. He decided I was probably smarter than I looked and we kept up a spirited running dialogue as the beauty contestants, marching bands, and other floats passed by.   

I had to leave the parade early to get to work on time, so when I turned to him to say goodbye, he asked if  I had volunteered anywhere yet. I was dumbstruck that he ended the question with the word “yet,” as if it were a foregone conclusion that I would be volunteering somewhere for something. As it happens, I was able to answer quickly that, yes, I volunteer at the Tennessee Wildlife Refuge and I have the badge and tick bites to prove it.  

But it did get me to thinking about this particular spirit of volunteerism that I have definitely noted in the people I’ve met here.  When I push my shopping cart toward the store after unloading my groceries, there is almost always someone nearby who volunteers to take it back for me. When I unzip my wallet to pay the convenience store cashier, it seems someone behind me is always quick to offer the change from their pocket to keep me from breaking a dollar. I don’t think I’ve had to open my own door to any restaurant, doctor’s office, or office building since arriving. I haven’t forgotten that Texas is known as the Friendly State, and certainly we are all that and more.  I’m just sayin’ the Tennesseans I’ve met appear to embrace their motto as well and in a way that is both refreshing and prevalent.  The love affair continues. :o) 

They don’t believe in letting you go hungry in Tennessee. Not far from Paris is a little town called Como. It is so small that it didn’t participate in the latest Census, according to my research, and draws its data from Paris, which is a megalopolis by comparison at roughly 10,000 population. Other than a few outlying farms, a post office and a couple dilapidated buildings that don’t appear to have a useful purpose, I can’t see much reason a stranger would even slow down while passing through. But those in the know – and thankfully my aunt is one of them – know to take the first turn after the post office. Destination: Carmack’s Fish Barn.

After following a winding road past farms, tobacco barns, fields of bright yellow flowers (canola, I’m told), and grazing horses, we came upon the parking lot, a gravel square in front of a building painted a sickly shade of yellow. On my way to the entrance, I stopped to say hello to a goat that might have been eating a patch of grass defiantly sprouting amid the gravel, or maybe an errant piece of catfish that fell out of someone’s to-go-bag. The goat didn’t look friendly, so I didn’t look too closely.

Inside, we were greeted by a chorus of welcomes and ushered to a booth by the window with a view of a stock pond and a bright red tractor. The place was huge – well, like a barn! Chairs were wood and the tables were Formica. Everything about the furnishings spoke of a utilitarian purpose – “you’re here to eat catfish,” it said. No comfy cushions, no table cloths, no vases of colorful artificial flowers. The walls were lined with old metal advertisements like those found in so many pseudo-nostalgia chain restaurants that litter the nation’s landscape. But the décor here oozed authenticity. While these effect at those chains can feel contrived and too carefully designed, the walls of Carmack’s suggest they are still works in progress and have been for the past 3 or 4 decades.

There isn’t much to the menu. There are the usual – burgers, cheeseburgers, steaks, chicken … but seriously, you come here for the catfish. Period. Your choices are pretty much fried catfish or grilled. If you choose grilled, the blackened or lemon-pepper. If you choose fried, then all you can eat or a single serving.

I was all too aware that ordering anything but catfish would draw snickers from the kitchen staff, so I had to tell the little voice reminding me that I hadn’t eaten anything very healthy in days to shut the hell up. We ordered our iced teas and catfish — fried for my aunt, lemon pepper grilled for me. They came with one side, we were told. She chose fried okra. I chose a green salad. Then our waitress said she’d be back with the teas and “the fixins’.”

And here it was …

Mind you, I took this photo BEFORE the catfish arrived.  My aunt tells me that no matter where you order catfish in this area of Tennessee, it always comes with white beans, cole slaw, and hush puppies. Go figure. But would you please take a look at the size of my side salad? And they’ll bring as much as you want!

As with so many dives across this great country of ours, whatever lacked in ambience was more than compensated for by the quality of the food. We tottered back to the car with swelling bellies and 2 weighty to-go boxes. I scanned the parking lot on our way to the car, hoping to get another look at grumpy Mr. Billy Goat. I thought I might feed him a little of our bounty, but he was gone. He apparently moved on to a greener pasture … or maybe just to the back door to the kitchen.

Postscript #1: I hit the Internet looking for a little more information on Carmacks and found they have a Facebook page (of course).
https://www.facebook.com/search/top/?q=carmacks%20fish%20barn&epa=SEARCH_BOX

Check it out  … because if you ever decide to come visit me here in Paris, it’s going to be one of those “must-see” stops on my official visitor’s itinerary.

Postscript #2: Although I ate at Carmack’s more than a month ago, I’m editing this the week after the Annual “World’s Biggest Fish Fry” in Paris — a 5-day gastronomical bonanza if you love catfish. I got to see the grand parade and the arts and crafts tent and also indulged in a funnel cake :o). Unfortunately, a part-time job prevented me from catching the Princess Hostess tossing out the first hushpuppy, the bed races, “small fry” parade, catfish races, demolition derby, three street dances, various concerts, the rodeo, the tiny-tots rodeo, the 5K hushpuppy dash, and — of course — the all-you-can-eat catfish (white beans, cole slaw, and hush puppies too). Guess I”ll have to stick around another year to catch “the one that got away.”

Postscript #3: I quit my part-time job … now, there’ll be plenty of time to drive back down to Carmack’s!

Today is April 1^st. It appears that Punxsutawny Phil has played a trick on us after all. Last night the outdoor temperature hit 28. This morning, as I let Buddy out to pee, poop and chase a squirrel or two, my breath formed a wispy vapor cloud and my nose stung slightly as I stepped from the ambient warmth of my aunt’s country kitchen to the crisp new day outside.

Now, nestled back under 2 quilts, with Buddy curled beside me, a hot cup of coffee on the bed stand, and the  glorious sun streaming through the window, I’m contemplating how to spent my second week in this new paradise.

Not everyone would use that term to describe my new temporary/perhaps semi-permanent home. Here, at my aunt’s house at least, along with no central heat or AC, we have no wifi and no means for streaming Netflix, Hulu, or any of the dozen or so other services that previously lured me with promises to numb my senses and make me forget about my sad little life. We have space heaters and a real cool gas fireplace that heats up almost the entire downstairs with the turn of a knob. We have opportunities to quilt, crochet, needlepoint, reminisce, and – well, just sit still and let the mind wander.

I’ve been fairly “unplugged” since arriving, and that in itself has been my own special brand of paradise. Practical considerations aside, I’ve rather enjoyed relinquishing the ability to easily send and receive over the Internet. A week after my arrival here, my brain is finally starting to think for itself, to be less influenced by the barrage of information, misinformation, and generally mundane and occasionally antagonistic bullshit that was streaming at me 24/7 over the Internet.

When I first arrived it was with “get internet installed” at the top of my to-do list. Then I discovered that my Sprint phone hardly got 2 bars. I panicked. On my second day I went to Verizon — which I was told was practically the only game in town — because I had convinced myself there couldn’t possibly be anything more important than getting plugged in immediately – as in yesterday, as in why the hell hadn’t I thought about this earlier, OMG?!? How was I expected to learn the latest life hacks? Improve myself? Repost clever memes? Stream endless episodes of Law & Order? Read the musings of people who think just like me?

When I came back from buying my new phone with its crystal-clear reception and a decent data plan I could afford in my current unemployed state, my aunt told me the neighbor said I could use her wifi and handed me the account name and password. Hooray! Civilization! Savings! I got on my laptop and gingerly tapped keys that would once again send me into the electronic euphoria I felt sure I needed. Tap tap tap … nothing. I checked my settings and tried again. Tap tap tap with a bit more force and intent this time … nothing. Three or four attempts later, I felt the heat of impatience rise up and threaten to overtake my calm. It was a vaguely familiar feeling, but I couldn’t remember feeling it since I started this journey north.

I called the neighbor and asked if I could come over. Sitting in her living room with her 3 chihuahuas climbing all over me and crochet projects littering her coffee table, I felt relief wash over me as I saw those magic words “You are connected to the Internet.” I then walked out her front door and down the street with the laptop still open in front of me to see how far the signal would carry me (yes, I’m stubborn, but you can substitute the word “tenacious” if you prefer). I must have looked awfully silly  balancing the laptop in my arms as I walked down the street toward my aunt’s house, eyes transfixed to the screen, holding my breath for the dreaded “no longer connected.’ The error message popped up as soon as I opened the storm door on my aunt’s front porch. I groaned. I frowned. I wondered how long it would take to get an appointment with Spectrum.

Defeated and deflated, I closed the laptop and joined my aunt, who set aside her quilting and invited me to watch one of her favorite game shows on TV.  We drank iced tea and I solved the riddles before the contestants did. I railed at the TV because the contestants were slow and stupid. She interrupted a half dozen times to tell me one story after another. I made a mental check of my impatience and set it aside. She told me stories of growing up with her brother (my dad) on a small farm in Oklahoma. I learned the easiest way to pluck a chicken for dinner and how to make buttermilk from fresh cow milk. I learned how my aunt and uncle stretched a dollar in their early years of marriage and why my cousin never realized his dream to be a professional ballplayer. I found out why my other cousin never picked up a smoking habit and how my aunt’s friend who raises chickens managed to store 75 dozen eggs in her fridge. I learned that my aunt plays the dulcimer and my grandmother had a cruel father. I learned I could (probably, maybe) live a while longer without an Internet connection at home. I learned that just to be truly, physically present for someone and for that person to return the favor was vastly more satisfying than watching the little cursor wheel go round and round.

It’s going to be a challenge to be a Realtor without home Internet. But when it’s critical, I learned I can sit on the front stoop and still borrow Becky’s wifi. I imagine myself when the weather gets better sitting on that stoop, laptop balancing on my knees, shaded by towering trees, birds chirping and flitting about, Buddy chasing squirrels. I imagine sipping lemonade while my files upload and marveling at it all. A bit idyllic, to be sure, but hey, this is my paradise.

Till then, I’ll pull out my laptop, write my entries offline, turn on the hot spot on my cell, and press “send.” Or, since it’s still too chilly for stooping, maybe I’ll take a cup of tea and settle on the floor just inside the storm door. I checked; if I inch up real close to the door, I can still catch Becky’s wifi. Or, as my aunt reminds me, “They have Internet for free at McDonald’s.” Either way, it’s all good. Yes, all good for the time being here in my aunt Mary’s house in the woods.

 

Yesterday afternoon at 2 p.m., I embarked on a journey north, thus the title of my blog, Texas in My Rearview Mirror. Although I’m still in Texas (hey, we’re a BIG state over here!), my journey to “leave Texas behind” began more than a year ago, the evening when I found out that my husband of 13 years had been unfaithful. On that horrendous night, my world as I knew it changed so dramatically and so quickly that I entered that classic “fight or flight” response. I chose to fly.

It sounds more therapeutic than it was – to “fly,” as it were, from the biting pain of betrayal, from the howling angst of my breaking heart, from all that I held dear threatening to implode and leave me bitterly alone and desperate. Aside from throwing my keys at his face and slamming a couple of doors, I didn’t put up much of a fight. And after we retreated to separate bedrooms that night I lay in bed wondering why I didn’t. In subsequent evenings I continued to ponder why I didn’t and wouldn’t fight for my marriage.

For 6 more months we lived the lie. We slogged through a wedding anniversary, a hurricane, both birthdays and 5 national holidays without joy. On the best days, I felt ambivalence; on the worst days, pure hatred. On no day whatsoever did I feel a burning desire to fight for my marriage. It was over. Only now, a little more than a year later, can I admit when I knew then: It was dead on arrival.

When Greg and I met, the attraction was instant and intense. The courtship was also intense. And there was drama, to be sure. Being together meant moving mountains – BIG mountains. I left my marriage; Greg left his relationship. I quit my job and took a new one in my hometown, a place that Greg never left. We moved into a mobile home together with little more than our clothes and a couple boxes of miscellaneous personal stuff. We married too quickly, bought a home too early, and settled too amiably  into a pattern that would be our undoing. Destination: Failure.

Looking back through the lens of regret, I see with laserlike clarity now what I saw more obliquely then: I married an alcoholic in the making … again. Apparently, I haven’t been a very observant student of my own past. I had already married two other men with drinking problems. What made this time around different? I had previously married “happy drunks.” This time I had fallen for a drunk with a dark side. Ten years later, I learned quite painfully how deeply I had fallen into that fine hell.

But let’s stop there.  This blog is about leaving that hurt behind. Oh, I know I’ll dip back into those black waters every now and then – when I’m down on myself or questioning my resolve to move forward. And if you’re reading this sentence, then I thank you for getting to the end of this first blog entry of mine. I hope you’ll stay and slog through the self-loathing entries as well as the ones that won’t be all about poor little long-suffering me. ;o) 

My real purpose is to journal about my new adventure in Tennessee and environs and to take you on these adventures with me via journaling, photographs, and who knows what other creative means will occur to me. Hope you’ll bookmark my blog and check in every now and then. From the eastern edge of the Great State of Texas, I declare, “Onward!”