A bunch of stuff happened this past weekend. I left on Friday morning with my father–given we hadn’t done anything together in a really long time, I figured it’d be worth its weight in gold and memories if/when things start to go downhill with his health–and drove eight hours through the south of Illinois, some of Kentucky, and then all of Tennessee to a little town called Cosby.
A few months ago (December), while I dated someone, I made the decision to rent a cabin via Groupon. She laughed and said I was sooooo daring or something. We broke up. I expected us to. I went on the trip anyway.
The cabin was a 16 mile drive from any major road. It nestled among a few other cabins on a mountainside, had a precarious driveway (all wheel drive recommended on good days, required on bad), and all the amenities you’d want from a cabin: rustic look, jacuzzi tub on the inside AND the outside, a fully working kitchen and fridge, and central heating/air. Haha I wouldn’t say we roughed it.
Judicial use of wasp nests for decoration aside, this cabin had all the charm of a romantic getaway. It worked great for the two of us. Plenty of space to hang out by the fireplace, or outside, or in the kitchen. I brought books but didn’t read anything. I’m glad I skipped the tablet. It woulda stayed in the backpack.
We visited a great little winery (oldest in Jefferson County. Established in 2011) that imported grapes from Canada and specialized in european-style wines. Not only were the wines incredible, but they used no sulfites to keep the reds longer, thus removing that pesky headache some people get while drinking reds. I bought a port (which isn’t a true port, he explained: you can’t alter the wine with more alcohol, so he double-distilled it, doubling the alcohol content to around 18%), dad bought a pair of whites and his own port, and we jawed about all sorts of local flair.
I picked up the accents immediately. In fact, talking the way I did in front of people embarrassed me sometimes. I didn’t even recognize it. I never seem to.
So day one was establishing ourselves, day two was a winery and apple-orchard and a picturesque hike down two miles of mountain to a rushing river, and day three was Bass Pro Shops and some huge Tennessee knife exhibit. We drove five hours, stopped in Lynchburg beside the Jack Daniels Distillery, and took a tasting tour. I bought 750mL of the Single Barrel and a bottle of Green Label, and dad got some Single Barrel. We drove back last night.
A couple things happened this weekend.
1) I realized the Bible Belt is a whole different culture than mine, but not my father’s. He loved the “southern hospitality” everyone showed him. He knew what “chow chow” was. He felt entirely at home. In the south (at least where I was,) Tennesseean men look you in the eye when you walk by. Aggressively. Like, “Hello, friend. RIGHT? FRIEND!? JESUS LOVES YOU!” Women don’t say more than they must, which left me with a sour taste in my mouth, as if I did something wrong by saying hello. “It’s a wonderful, blessed day! How ‘bout y’all?” Follow-up questions like “How was your weekend?” or “What would you recommend from the menu?” were met with glazed eyes and distant stares, as if I just blew their minds wide open. Also, the only way for a person to get ahead in the game is to have Jesus plastered everywhere. They were kind people, respectful as all get-out, but overall uninspiring. Maybe because of my bald head (there’s a lot more emphasis on hair down there), or my lack of southern accent, something happened that made people equally disinterested in me. Odd place for me to be.
2) I dreamed something ferocious. I only remember one, and that’s only because I told my father the moment I woke. I was an extra in a movie about 1930’s gangland activity, walked around in Newsie-esque wool clothes, and had a few lines. Because I impressed the movie star and director, I was given a much larger role and was the life of the party. But I didn’t go to this movie to act. I went to this set to protect. Before the movie scene, I hunted spirits. I do this quite often in my dreams. This time, though, I protected the extras from a spirit moving about like a tiger. I knew she wasn’t a tiger. I even knew she wasn’t a tiger spirit. She was what I called a kraken. She killed a few extras, delivery people, set people, here and there. Everyone grew terrified. I kept trying to throw her off. Distract her. Keep the others alive. Then, somewhere in the snow, somewhere in the craggy landscape of a mountainous region, she hunted me.
She had two cubs, strangely enough. They followed behind her, and she was fiercely protective. She eventually found a way to single me out and hunt me separate from the others. She thought she was too strong for me. I kept trying to run. Then, she dove on me, threw me to the ground, and said something along the lines of, “This isn’t personal. This is a good death.”
I grabbed her paws and she struggled to get away, all the while changing from a tiger into something menacing: purple-black skin, ragged wings, disconcerting facial pops, the whole nine. I rolled her over onto her back, her face frozen in terror, and she whispered, “Kraken!”
“Bring your children to me.” One by one, I cut their throats with a long claw-finger. They bled out into the snow, two baby tigers. “You did well. But I knew how to hunt you.” I cut her throat, and she choked to death while I held her down.
Then I woke up. It reminded me of another dream I had around five years ago, where I stalked a great armored white panther. Same rocky-snow setting and everything. When I found it, I kneeled before it.
I guess not this time. The dream had an intense South/Chinese feel to it. It will find its way into a story somewhere.
3) There’s a lot of discarded, dilapidated barns out there. Picturesque, enchanted settings–I understood why Washington Irving loved the Appalachians for his setting. I found so much inspiration out there, I could easily see taking a laptop up there for a week to write. It simply saturates you, fills you to the bone with age and culture.
4) I discussed finances with my dad. There’s a lot going on with estates and things that I knew nothing about, and his discussions with me brought me at least partially up to date with things. My grandparents had a lot of property in the farmland of Missouri (and by a “lot,” probably not half as much as you’d expect). My father’s stuck in a strange tug-of-war with several other people, and if something were to happen to him tomorrow, we’d be woefully unprepared. But. We started the talks. And talks about camping. Outfitting. Boundary Waters and Arizona Diamond mines and Oregon cabin-building. It was a good trip. A needed trip.
Chris
Loading comments...