Monday, May 25th

Holiday

It was wonderfully quiet at nine this Memorial Day morning. There was hardly a car about. Only a few cars sat forlornly on the giant Target parking lot. I left town eastbound on a road with plenty of empty lanes to choose from. Although the sky was overcast and still angry, the air had a pleasant and air-conditioning requiring 74 degrees Fahrenheit.

The landscape was still very flat. There was a bit of a hill to the left, but that turned out to be the city’s landfill and may not have been there fifty years ago. To the right appeared a Nestle factory for one of their brands called Stauffer’s. I had no idea what that would be, but my guess was plenty of corn starch and not much else. Unilever, not to be outdone, had a factory just next door, keeping quiet about the brand of product they were making. Next was a private air strip with a cute little orange aeroplane waiting to be taken out.

That was rather unlikely, though, on this sober holiday. At the entrance to the next town, three man were walking with flags and sashes, protected by a car from the local fire department. I had read about these walks. Two former soldier had started them a few years ago as their way to remember their fallen comrades. Seeing these lonely three walk along the wide, barren highway, somehow the day became real. The way America glorifies her armed forces even in everyday life is bewildering, particularly to a German, and the media coverage of Memorial Day amplified this glorification. But the day wasn’t about that. It was about woman and man who had seen their lives utterly changed; normal people who struggled with their memories and their losses.

I came through Blytheville, another town where the houses were too small and too close together and in dire need of a new coat of paint. I had to detour north a little, since the only bridge across the Mississippi River, not just a few miles to the east, was that of the Interstate motorway. The Michelin atlas claimed another river crossing at a place called Heloise, but both the online maps and aerial imagery disagreed. There might have been a ferry, but I didn’t want to waste time on finding out and rather choose the detour.

Probably in a bout of envy for the mad border lines other countries have, the north east corner of Arkansas actually belonged to Missouri, so I had to return to that state for a little while. There, the detour needed a detour of its own, as the access ramp from the northbound to the eastbound motorway was closed.

Eventually, though, a giant grey girder bridge appeared at the horizon, a sure sign of the impending river crossing. It was yet another border crossing, too, as I entered into Tennessee, the Volunteer State. The Welcome Centre was only a few miles beyond the state line for once in a chic stone building surrounded by a pretty little park and probably staffed by volunteers.

I left the motorway at the next exit and drove into Dyersburg. It struck me as rather more affluent. There was more green, the homes were slightly bigger and looked slightly more cared for, even in the obviously poor parts of town. The centre was really quite pretty, too, even though it wasn’t much different from the others I had seen. Somehow it just looked more appreciated. Perhaps the state’s motto wasn’t so wrong, after all.

Being back east of the Mississippi, the land was back to rolling hills with a mix of forests and grass land. Until Trenton, first of a string of pretty little towns with lively, tree-beset main streets, village followed village. After, the usual arrangement of village-free plot after plot along the road returned.

Most houses had large, inviting front porches, but some had forgone this pinnacle of civilization, perhaps in favour of an entrance with columns or just a simple front door. How could one have a house in the country and not have a porch with a rocking chair or two and a bench and a table with a carafe of sweet tea on it? How would one spend their afternoons upon retirement? Where to sit and shoo them darn kids off one’s lawn?

As if in response to the rant going off in my head, a green sign by the road simply proclaimed ‘Jesus!’

Milan was next, Main Street running one to the left of the big highway and ending in a white, towered palace that, no, it wasn’t the court house, but merely a bank. It was home to the Milan Army Ammunition Plant, an endless, somewhat deserted areal after the city. Dozens of rail tracks crossed the road, one even had a locomotive hiding in the bushes and whistling startlingly at me. A sign by an entrance with a gatehouse warned of ‘explosive trucks.’ Towards the end, there were some barracks with a drill square, too, just in case someone wanted to make a proper movie.

Within the boundaries of the plant, the road had travelled fairly straight. But now it started to twist and wind like there was no tomorrow. Yet there was not a single sign suggesting speeds for these bends. There just was a general speed limit of 55 and drivers had to figure out the rest. I was outraged: poor Butterscotch. Which goes to show that whoever claimed that America doesn’t have any wickedly curvy roads (that recently fired middle-aged English bloke) just wasn’t looking in the right places.

The mad road ended at a lake and dam and a major east west route. There also was a town which started out looking like small resort village. But it went on and on, passed ever more regular enterprises. Even when eventually the road did return to quieter schemes had I not the faintest idea that this city had in fact been Lexington, population seven-and-a-half thousand.

The landscape acquired a decidedly mountainous feel, even though Lexington only was at an elevation of five hundred feet. At a place called Perryville it changed its mind and presented a marina by a lake. The road climbed up onto a bridge and over a wide river. A sign proclaimed it to be the Tennessee. This was, in fact, the river I had crossed on the motorway late on the first day. A venue of vultures was sitting on the bridge enjoying some delicious road kill. It must have been good, since they only flew away the last possible moment.

On the more human yummy front, all restaurants here seemed to specialize in oysters and shrimp. Were they living in the river? I always thought them to be sea creatures. But then, a biologist I ain’t.

Another bridge and another river a little onwards. Disappointingly, none of the bridges west of the Mississippi had been girder bridges but rather heartless modern concrete contraptions. The Walmart in Hohenwald surprised, too, by having a different layout with the restrooms to the far left.

More surprises, of the good kind, in Columbia. It positively drowned in green. On the road in, large homes were set back in little parks. Even the smaller homes further towards the centre were hidden behind trees. The parking lot of the Columbia Plaza: a fluke. Then it was back to tree lined streets all the way to the giant white courthouse in the centre with its tall proud bell tower. The central square was surrounded by no less proud three-storey brick buildings.

A sign had proclaimed Columbia home of James K. Polk, eleventh president of these United States. Not, though, as it turns out his boyhood home. He was born in North Carolina and one moved to Tennessee at the age of twelve.

Onwards, another Shelbyville. The road doesn’t swing around this one, although maybe it should have: characterless shoe boxes and traffic lights.

After, it was decision time. There was no obvious road further east. They all seemed to radiate out of Chattanooga to the south east, a busy city with its associated sprawl. I could avoid it along minor roads, but that would have meant another two hours until the next motel-likely town. Trouble was, Eastern Time was looming and I would have turned eight before I would have arrived. So, the motorway instead.

Meanwhile, it started raining again. In Tullahoma, the rain became stronger and there was some lightning. In Winchester the centre had a strange one-way street arrangement around the central block. By now it was late and I was a little tired. It took me three attempts to navigate through.

The motorway, when I finally reached it, was quite busy. The rain became stronger, too. Upon reaching Chattanooga, traffic would get a lot worse, since three motorways met there. This wasn’t the weather to endure that. Conveniently, signs promised accommodation for the next exit.

Gladly, I turned off.