A newspaper photo of Brad Nelson playing for the Huntsville Stars
After another busy summer--teaching two college classes and taking two classes online--I was ready for a pleasant getaway. I knew that would be the case well ahead of time, and I had been planning since March to make another trip to see the former student of mine who is playing professional baseball. I wasn't sure at that point just where Brad would be playing, so I hedged my bets when I found an incredibly cheap airfare to Cincinnati--close to midway between where the AA and AAA teams would be playing. As it turned out Brad Nelson would again be playing AA ball. It's not that he hadn't played well enough to deserve a promotion (indeed he led his team in almost every category), but pretty much no one in the Milwaukee system got an August promotion this year. Moreover the AA team in Huntsville was in a pennant race, which the AAA team wasn't, and it made sense to keep a team that was doing well together. While I always want to see Brad advance, I must say it was good to be returning to somewhat familiar territory.
For the most part I just waited around most of this day. I had arranged to start this trip by visiting my brother Steve and his wife Terry, and I would actually like to have gotten down there earlier. Unfortunately I placed an order with Amazon.com, and UPS was supposed to be delivering the package today. UPS requires that the recipient sign for every package, so I had to stick around home until it arrived. I had done some serious cleaning in my apartment last week, and I really didn't want to mess anything up. So, I didn't do much of anything all day long--just watched some TV and did a little bit of work on the computer. It was mid afternoon when a brown truck finally pulled up outside my apartment. I signed for the package and left without even opening it.
The left rear tire on my car has had a slow leak for some time, probably going back to last summer when I returned from a trip with the quiz bowl team to find that tire flat. The tire was repaired, but it has had problems on and off ever since then. I didn't really want to leave my car at the airport and come back to find a flat tire. So I stopped at Casey's before leaving town and slightly over-filled the tire with air. I also got some juice and then set out on my way precisely at 2:30pm.
It was very windy as I drove southward on highway 69. I set the baseball theme of the trip by listening to a new audiobook I had bought (another purchase from Amazon.com) called The Oldest Rookie. The book is the autobiography of Jim Morris, the son of a Navy man who was drafted by the Milwaukee Brewers out of high school (sound familiar). He later played in the White Sox system. Unlike Brad, Morris was a pitcher and also he was also a low-round pick who didn't represent much of an investment on the team's part. He made his way through the low minors, playing midday games in the heat of a Phoenix summer, freezing through a Beloit spring, and choking on smog in small towns in California. Like Brad, Morris was injured while playing in the California League. He had what is now known as Tommy John surgery (done by the same surgeon who pioneered the method on the famous pitcher for whom it was named). A series of further injuries seemed to essentially end his career. More than a decade later Morris found himself teaching biology and coaching high school baseball in a small town in west Texas. His players were impressed with Morris' pitching ability, and they made a deal with their coach that if the team made the playoffs the coach would go to a professional try-out. The team did make playoffs, and almost on a whim the late '30s has-been joined a bunch of 18-year-olds at a try-out for the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. He had apparently fully recovered from his injuries, because the Tampa Bay scouts were impressed with his 97 mph fastball. In a Cinderella story he quickly made it through Tampa's minor league system and eventually went on to pitch in the big leagues. While he was not, strictly speaking, the oldest rookie ever, he was the oldest in many decades--closer to my age than to Brad's--and his story is rather inspirational.
The book gives a fairly honest account of life in professional baseball, and it tells how things have changed in the last twenty years. Morris' experiences when he returned to baseball were remarkably similar to what Brad described, while the early experience was more like the primitive conditions portrayed in Bull Durham. There is also a major undertone throughout the book telling how different levels of players are treated by their teams. Brad is definitely lucky that while he may not be the Brewer's top prospect, he is on a short list of players who are essentially being groomed to play in Milwaukee. He had a horrible season following his surgery last year, but there's no question that he's still on that list. The Brewers have a sizeable amount of money committed in Brad ..., and the only way that investment will pay off for Bud Selig and his friends is if Brad makes it to the majors. Because he's a prospect, Brad could have a couple of bad years in a row and still be given the benefit of many doubts. Other players, though, can have outstanding seasons in the minors, but because the big team doesn't think of them as "real prospects" they just flounder in anonymity. If you've seen Bull Durham, the two main male characters there provide a good example of this--a young prospect who almost overnight is rocketed to the big leagues and a veteran who holds the minor league record for career home runs who's proudest moment was spending two weeks in the "show". On this trip I'd get to meet some of each type of player from Huntsville's team, and it really is sad just how much real talent is wasted. A pro sports career is a long shot, though. Of the fifty players drafted by a team each year, only ten or fifteen will ever make it any higher than A-ball, and on average just two of those fifty ever make it to the majors. Somehow six levels of minor league teams have to be staffed, though, and the teams count on the veterans to stick around and fill out the rosters in AA and AAA.
The audiobook made time pass quickly as I made my way down to Ft. Dodge and then east to Webster City. Because of the wind I chose not to take I-35, but instead headed down US 69 for a more leisurely trip to Ames. On a whim I stopped for lunch at a Panera bread franchise in Ames. I have seen those elsewhere, but never really knew what they were. Having eaten at one, I can't say I'll be rushing back. I had French onion soup in a sourdough bread bowl together with a salad. It was overpriced and under-seasoned.
I hit Des Moines right at rush hour, but traffic moved along fine. I made my way down highway 163 and arrived in Oskaloosa around 6:00. There appeared to be no one home when I got to my brother Steve's house. Surprisingly the dogs let me in and didn't even bark too much when I sat down and made myself at home in the living room. Terry apparently was resting upstairs, and before too long Steve came back from shopping at Wal-Mart.
We spent most of the evening just visiting. We also got to basically solve some brain teasers. Terry, who is a legal secretary, has been taking a series of classes for certification as a paralegal. She presented some of the case studies that she had been given in her studies, and we had fun discussing them. Before long it had gotten quite late, and it was time to go to bed.
I was up earlier than I had been most of the summer, but still later than I usually sleep while traveling. I joined Steve for a trip to Jaarsma's, the Dutch bakery that shows off Oskaloosa's heritage. Oddly, the place doesn't open until 7:30am. We arrived around 7:25, and we actually had to wait for them to unlock the door. (Can you imagine a Krispy Kreme or Dunkin' Donuts not taking advantage of the morning commuters?) We went back to Steve's home and enjoyed snacking on Dutch treats (in particular a delightful frosted apple bread) as we watched the Today show on TV. Someone at the network must have goofed, though. In their second hour they gave a promo for what had already been shown in the first hour.
I left Oskaloosa around 8:30. Even stopping for coffee at Hardees, I managed to get to the Des Moines airport by 9:45. With the security level again raised and an unusual ticket (that the airline had involuntarily changed), I heeded the advice to check in early. Needless to say that was unnecessary. It took no time whatsoever to check in at Midwest Airlines, which gave me more than two hours to kill on the incredibly concourse at DSM.
I continued the baseball theme by reading through the book Moneyball, which I had picked up at a Borders store on a recent trip to Minneapolis. Moneyball made quite a sensation in both the sports and business worlds when it came out a couple years ago. The book looks inside the offices of the Oakland Athletics. In spite of Commissioner Selig's constant whining that only rich big-market teams like the Yankees and the Cubs can afford to field winning teams, the A's have consistently won with one of the lowest payrolls in baseball. The book looks at their strategy of running baseball like a business--using computers to determine the monetary value of every player and then drafting and trading in a way that uses their money most efficiently. The A's had come to realize that many of the skills that baseball "insiders" value highly (most notably running speed and the ability to steal bases) have almost no monetary value in that they don't really contribute much to winning games. What they determined did matter for hitters was on base percentage and the ability to draw walks. They also went against the established method of grooming prospects in the minors and instead looked at the stats of those veterans that were languishing and promoted them based on merit. The A's pay almost all their staff the minimum salary (then $150,000 a season, now $300,000). When the players reach free agent status they happily trade them to owners who are willing to pay more. The book was an easy read; in about six hours of traveling I finished all but the last two chapters--and I spent a lot of that time doing other things besides reading. I can't say this book presented any great revelations about either baseball or business, but it was an interesting way to kill time.
I had an overpriced but really rather tasty ham and cheese sandwich from the snack bar on the concourse. I also had some vending machine coffee. It came out of the machine in a very pale yellowish, beige color (looking more like something that should be at the opposite end of my body from my mouth). I was expecting it to have no flavor whatsoever, since the water appeared to have barely touched the grounds. It was surprisingly strong and tasty, though--in spite of what it looked like.
Around noon it came time to board flight YX 2162. The plane was a small jet, the same kind of plane that flies to Mason City. In Minneapolis they connect jetways to those planes, but here in Des Moines we had to walk out to the tarmac and then ascend the stairs. Once on board we got a rather apologetic announcement from the young pilot: there would be a delay. This wasn't because of any problem with the plane or a back-up on the runway or even a passenger who hadn't shown up yet. No, we had to wait because Dick Cheney wanted to fly. The Vice President had spent the morning campaigning in Des Moines, and he was apparently now leaving the airport. (I had seen an enormous military jet while I was wandering around the concourse earlier, and that was almost certainly Air Force 2.) The FAA closed the airport, allowing no take-offs or departures for about a 45-minute period to make sure the air space around Cheney's plane was clear. Those 45 minutes just happened to begin almost exactly when we were scheduled to take off.
Those who know me well know that I don't care much for President Bush and I care even less for Dick Cheney. I'll save any cheap shots, though. It certainly makes sense that the Vice President should have special security, even if it does inconvenience other travelers. It surprises me, though, that he doesn't fly into a military base (like SAC in Omaha) rather than a commercial airport. I'd hate to imagine the ripple effect if they had to shut down O'Hare for 45 minutes because of a politician.
The pilot gave us the choice of sitting on the airplane or going back to the gate area. The majority chose to go back, so we again walked out on the tarmac and then went back into the terminal. Everybody checked that their connections would be okay. Some would be tight, but it appeared that everyone would be able to make it.
Once the Vice President was safely aloft, they called us back out to the aircraft. We had to wait a bit because someone had left the gate area and had to be tracked down and brought back to the plane before we could take off. In the process of waiting for her we lost our place in line for take-off, so it was about an hour late when we finally took off.
I was flying on Midwest Airlines (formerly Midwest Express), which I had chosen because back in March they offered a ridiculously cheap fair from Des Moines to Cincinnati. (Had I followed the original routing, I would have stopped in Louisville on the way to Cincy.) Midwest is an interesting company. It was originally the aviation division of the Kimberly-Clark Corporation-the company best known for brands such as Kleenex, Scott, Kotex, Huggies, and Depends. The company headquarters are in Appleton, Wisconsin, but they operate paper mills in just about everywhere in North America that there's a forest nearby (I remember a Scott tissue mill that "perfumed" the air in Hattiesburg when I was in college). Corporate executives needed to fly to inspect plants in places from North Carolina to Washington state to Quebec, and the aviation division maintained a large fleet of small jets to shuttle the big wigs around.
In the early '70s Kimberly Clark realized that as long as they were flying into all these little mill towns anyway, there was money to be made in offering commercial service. Using Appleton as a hub, K-C Aviation used those corporate jets to fly scheduled service into towns like Rhinelander, Cheboygan, and International Falls--plus a lot of places you've never heard of. For most of these places it was the first air service they ever had. When airline deregulation came in the late '70s, they expanded service to include more traditional destinations and moved their hub to Milwaukee. In the '90s the airline was spun off from Kimberly-Clark. Today they bill themselves as a "luxury, no-frills" airline (leather seats, but no meals and no first class section), and they're one of the few airlines that's actually making a profit. Because Milwaukee is an underutilized hub, virtually all their flights are on time (except those, like this one, which are delayed at their origin)-another big selling point.
Like most airlines, Midwest contracts out most of its short-distance flights to smaller regional carriers. Technically YX 2162 was on "Midwest Connect, operated by Skyway Airlines, Inc." Ours was a short flight (an hour on the schedule, about 45 minutes in the air), but they managed to provide very pleasant service in that time. Midwest prides itself on serving freshly baked chocolate chip cookies (baked on board the aircraft, sending a delightful smell all through the plane), and we I enjoyed one of those together with orange juice and coffee (which looked much more natural than the vending machine version). Otherwise I read some more of Moneyball,. We had a wonderfully smooth flight, and before long we were beginning our descent.
Apparently all planes landing in Milwaukee enter from the east. We flew right above I-94 over the city and then looped far out over Lake Michigan before doing a U-turn and heading back over the south end of the city. As we flew over the lake, one of the most prominent things I saw was a sewage outlet. Milwaukee's sewage was very much in the news a few years ago when some of it found its way into the city's drinking water, sickening thousands of people and killing over twenty. Milwaukee both takes water from and discharges sewage into Lake Michigan, unlike Chicago where a marvel of 19th Century engineering allows the city's sewage to drain away from the lake into the Mississippi. The discharge and intake pipes in Milwaukee are well separated, but under certain weather conditions accidents can happen. Since the tragedy they've completely redesigned the system. Now even storm run-off receives a complicated waste treatment before it is discharged. The "sewage" coming out east of the city today could legally be called potable water. They also moved the intake valve even farther out (it's something like 50 miles out in the middle of the lake), and they now chemically treat all their water before it enters the distribution system.
Once we passed over land again, we flew over what was really a very attractive residential area. Milwaukee's south side is made up of century-old brick homes on surprisingly spacious tree-filled lots. There's nothing luxurious about the place, but it looks like a good solid middle-class neighborhood--and it's certainly more attractive than the endless warehouse strips that surround most airports.
We arrived in Milwaukee (which locals seem to pronounce muh-WOKE-ee, with a bad slur and no "L" sound whatsoever) around 2:50, having made up about 15 minutes of the time Dick Cheney stole from us. I rushed off the plane and down the concourse, because I knew I had a fairly tight connection. We arrived on the "D" concourse (which appears to be exclusively used by Midwest), and my plane for Cincinnati left in less than an hour from the "C" concourse. Something really annoying about the Milwaukee airport is that to get from one concourse to another you have to leave the secure part of the airport and go into the main terminal. Then you go back through security to enter the other concourse. There's no "cut-off" like they have at O'Hare or Minneapolis to avoid having to go through the terminal.
Since I was in the main terminal anyway, I chose to check in for the second flight at the ticket desk. There was quite a wait at security, but it moved along efficiently, and I ended up with about 15 minutes to wait before the second flight boarded. I took that time to call Steve and let him know I had gotten safely this far and to share the amusing anecdote about the Vice President delaying my flight.
My original reservation had been an e-ticket to fly from Des Moines to Milwaukee and then to continue on Midwest on a flight that went to Cincinnati, stopping in Louisville en route. (That there was an intermediate stop and that it was all on small planes was probably why this itinerary was 30 - 50% less expensive than any other.) For good or bad, in mid-summer Midwest dropped their Cincinnati service. They contacted all customers that had reserved on that route and arranged to re-book them on similarly scheduled flights on Delta airlines. Delta had a flight that left Milwaukee slightly earlier than mine was originally supposed to leave. Since it was non-stop, it arrived in Cincinnati almost an hour before I would have otherwise. There was a similar available flight on the return trip. Midwest booked me on them, and issued paper tickets to me for the trip--which is kind of annoying, because check-in has to be done in person when you don't have e-tickets. I could tell from how the trip was pro-rated on the receipt that they were probably losing quite a bit of money in the deal. After paying off Delta, the ticket left a grand total of $18.00 for the round-trip between Des Moines and Milwaukee. I doubt I could drive from Des Moines to Milwaukee and back for that little, let alone fly.
I had never flown on Delta airlines before this trip, but I had heard lots of bad things about them. My most recent experience was when my brother flew back from Florida in June. He flew via Atlanta and was supposed to arrive in Des Moines mid-evening. The flight was delayed and delayed until it ended up arriving around 2am. I had heard of bad delays from other people as well, plus horror stories about dirty aircraft and rude, indifferent service.
I mention all this because I was quite pleasantly surprised with Delta. Both this flight and the return one were some of the most pleasant flights I've had. Flight DL 1144 was on a Boeing 737. I usually think of those planes as old, but if this one was it had been immaculately maintained. The plane was also only about half full. I had a window seat, but with no one in the center I didn't feel cramped at all. There was a minor delay on take-off, but the pilot kept us informed of its cause and duration. The flight attendant was pleasant, and she was willing to refill drinks--something they made a point of not doing when I flew United two years ago. The flight was absolutely smooth; even the landing was barely noticeable.
The flight from Milwaukee to Cincinnati is not long, especially in a bigger plane. It's 55 minutes of flying time, with the scheduled times including generous padding for take-off and landing delays. We arrived at the gate well ahead of schedule, shortly after 6:00 Eastern time.
CVG (the initials supposedly come from "Covington", the Kentucky city that is the nearest place of size to the runways) is a nice airport. It's clean and bright, easy to negotiate, and (unlike Milwaukee) big enough to have a wide range of amenities. The only amenity I took advantage of tonight was the restroom. I then followed the signs to "ground transportation" and immediately on leaving the door caught the shuttle bus for Alamo car rentals.
There were somewhat more questions at the counter than on other occasions when I've rented a car, but it was still quick and easy. The biggest difference was that here they wanted proof of insurance, while in California and Florida no one seemed to care whether I was insured or not. Once they were satisfied that I had substantial insurance, everything else was a quick formality.
Rather than being assigned a car, they gave me my choice of any of those that were parked in the "compact" section. Detroit's idea of compact these days is quite a bit larger than mine. The only cars that I would say vaguely approached "compact" were two Chevy Cavaliers. One was silver with Ohio plates, the other blue with Illinois plates. (It was interesting that while CVG airport is in Kentucky none of the cars bore Kentucky plates; it must be cheaper to license them across the river.) For no reason other than that it was prettier, I chose the blue Cavalier. I also figured I was a tourist, and with Illinois plates I'd certainly look like one in Dixie.
On leaving the rental lot, most traffic goes straight ahead on the I-275 beltway. I instead turned right and followed Donaldson Road, a very pleasant two-lane "back way" into the airport that is probably what most of the employees use. Donaldson Road leads to the town of Erlanger, a combination suburban strip and old hick small town. I was pleased to pass the motel where I'd be staying the final night of this trip and find that it was easy to get to. I also noted the price of gas ($1.78) and was pleased I had opted to return the tank full rather than pay a higher rate to have Alamo fill it.
Before long I turned south on I-75, which bills itself in brochures as "Kentucky's Main Street". Unless you live in Louisville, it is. 75 connects Cincinnati and Lexington, plus about a dozen places each the size of Mason City or Burlington-all in less than 200 miles. In "Northern Kentucky" (which everyone seems to call the Cincinnati suburbs) it varies between eight and ten lanes, and it is deservedly six lanes wide in even some very remote areas.
I drove about twenty miles south through the mess of suburban sprawl that is Northern Kentucky before pulling off for dinner. I stopped at a branch of a Cincinnati legend, Skyline Chili. I'd heard about Skyline on the Food Network cable channel and read about it in travel magazines. The original Skyline was founded by an immigrant family a century ago and named because of the view their rowhouse business had of downtown Cincinnati. It's grown into a big regional chain, and it's apparently the place to eat in Cincinnati. It was interesting to see what the fuss was about.
To a casual visitor, Skyline looks and operates a lot like the Steak & Shakes you see all over Illinois. You can either use the drive-through window, or you can sit down at padded booths for waitress service. The principal item on the menu is chili served over pasta-something else they have in common with Steak & Shake. You can order 3-way, 4-way, or 5-way chili. 3-way includes spaghetti, chili, and a ton of grated cheese; 4-way adds onions, and 5-way adds beans. They also serve chilidogs (which they call "coneys") and a wide assortment of salads and low-carb "wraps". I had 5-way chili, a delicious salad with parmesan peppercorn dressing, and iced tea.
Skyline serves Cincinnati-style chili, and I had heard and read that this is an acquired taste totally different from Tex-Mex chili. It is certainly different, but it was a taste I easily acquired. I liked it far better than the texture-less paste they tried to pass for chili in California. Cincinnati chili is rich and meaty, and it's spicy--though with different spices than most people would probably expect. There's not a lot of pepper or vinegar; instead it's brown spices like cinnamon and cloves that give much of the flavor. I always put in some cinnamon when I make chili myself (though I also include a lot of the more traditional flavors), so this didn't taste too far out to me. The meaty mass mixes well with the onions and cheese, and it really made for quite a delicious meal. The chili was quite inexpensive, though with the salad it definitely approached restaurant meal prices.
I continued south on I-75 to Lexington. Just south of there it began to rain hard. I was thankful this was a six-lane highway, so that the idiots that wanted to go fast could do their hydroplaning well away from me. It absolutely poured for the better part of an hour as I crept along at about 40mph. Finally, just one exit north of my destination, the rain let up.
My destination tonight was Berea, Kentucky. I still don't know if that's supposed to be pronounced "buh-RAY-uh", "buh-REE-uh", or even some other way, but one way or another, it seems like a pleasant little city. Berea is a college town, the home of Berea College, the first racially integrated school of higher learning in the South. Today B.U. offers a full-ride scholarship (with work required) to every one of its 1,000 or so students, and it enrolls exclusively students from low-income families, both from the nearby Appalachian back woods and from third world countries around the world. Right after I returned from the trip, Newsweek cited Berea University as one of the top colleges in the country.
I never saw the college, and I really didn't see a whole lot of Berea. I pulled off the interstate onto a suburban strip at the west edge of town and never went east of the interstate (where the real "town" is) at all. I did read through the local paper, though, and I sampled a couple of programs on the public access cable station.
I was staying at the Berea Econolodge. This, like most of my accommodations on this trip, was chosen because it was essentially free. Econolodge has a program where you can collect rebate stamps on cards and turn them in for a discount of $10, $25, or $50. Thanks mostly to having housed the quiz bowl team in an Econolodge in Arlington earlier this summer, I had accumulated two $50 cards and one $25 card. My room in Berea cost $26.75, plus tax, so I ended up paying around four dollars. The room I got was adequate, if in no way luxurious. I had a king bed, a large TV, and a tub with a shower massage in the bathroom. The climate control unit worked, so I had no complaints--and I wouldn't have even if I paid the asking price.
Mentioning the climate control unit brings to mind another thing I should mention in today's log. Here, as everywhere on this trip, the meteorologists were predicting record low temperatures. I began the night with the air conditioning on, but before long I switched over to heat. The low tonight was supposed to be around 45, and they said it might even hit 39 at places in the mountains. The weather men and the service people I encountered at hotels and restaurants always spoke apologetically about the weather, as if it were a bad thing to have chilly nights and days that were less than sweltering. I just reveled in the fact that for just about the first time I could remember in the South it wasn't ungodly hot.
I spent much of the evening sipping juice I'd bought at a nearby Chevron station and thumbing through the newspapers I'd acquired during the day. I was pleasantly surprised to read the name of the young man I was visiting in the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel I had bought while changing planes earlier in the day. It wasn't a major feature; still, I'm pretty sure it's the first time I've ever read about someone I knew in a paper that wasn't in their home town. In their Brewers coverage each day the Journal-Sentinel includes an "On the Farm" section that highlights recent minor league accomplishments. Brad Nelson was the only player mentioned in the AA write-up. They noted he had gone 2 - 4 with a home run, scoring the winning run in the Stars' narrow victory over the Carolina Mudcats. That was especially good news to read. Brad had been struggling a bit at the plate about a week ago. He had done better in the first couple of games at Carolina, and this confirmed that the slump was indeed over.
I turned the heat on low, set the sleep timer on the TV. I watched a bit of the Little League World Series and a bit of CNN. Then I fell asleep listening to background information about the Olympics. Apparently the sleep timer didn't work, because at one point during the night I woke up and the TV was still going.
I was up shortly before 6:00 this morning. After showering I quickly downed some stale doughnuts in the motel lobby and then set off for the day. I sped down I-75 for about ten miles, but then turned off at Renfro Valley and followed back roads most of the day. It was certainly not the quickest route to my destination, but it made an interesting drive.
It was extremely foggy as I drove along Kentucky highways 461 and 80, US 27, and Kentucky 90. The roads wound through mostly rural area, up and down hill after hill in the foothills of the Appalachians. I was struck here by something I had also noticed last summer. Most of the industry in Kentucky tends to be located out in the country, usually miles out of town. At morning rush cars were headed from the little towns out to the middle of nowhere, where people went to their jobs in enormous assembly plants. It's similar to the factories in Spain-all well away from the towns that serve as their addresses. I suppose they must locate out in the boonies because land is cheap there. Perhaps they can get away with fewer pollution regulations, too. Whatever the reason, it makes things look sort of inside-out in Kentucky.
Another familiar sight in Kentucky was school buses. Just like last summer, school was in session. In fact much of Kentucky had started school a week and a half ago, August 2nd. Everywhere I went on this trip children either were already in school or would be starting next Monday at the latest. Our school start is later this year than it normally is. We don't begin until August 25th, when many of the kids down here have been at their desks for almost a month.
Just north of Albany, Kentucky I turned onto U.S. highway 127, the road I would be on most of the day. Highway 127 runs halfway between two major interstates (65 and 75), so it doesn't really lose traffic to either of them. It's also one of those roads that hasn't really been modernized since it was built decades ago. I was taking it mostly to avoid the congestion of Knoxville and Chattanooga, but I got plenty of congestion from the endless small towns that make up the Tennessee hill country. I've mentioned in other travelogues just how populated Tennessee is. Towns that look to be ten miles apart on the map in fact string along the road so that one is indistinguishable from the next. Combined with the rugged terrain, I almost never made it above 40 mph. Thank goodness Tennessee is really quite a narrow state north to south; I kept trying to imagine what it would be like to traverse the 450 miles east to west on a two-lane road.
The strangest thing about highway 127 was that all the way across Tennessee it came across as one big endless yard sale. Everywhere I went people were having yard sales. Some were small one-family sales, basically a bunch of junk piled out in the front yard. Almost all Southern homes have junk piled on the lawn; only "for sale" signs and a tent where the proprietor sat to guard her stuff indicated that this was a commercial enterprise. Every few miles there was an established flea market, an utter tent city to which people had brought junk from miles around. I might have expected this on a weekend, but it amazed me to see so many people selling stuff on a Wednesday when school was in session.
Tents seem to be required for yard sales in Tennessee. Whether individual or in groups, everyone had those big half-tents (roof with no sides) that cross-country teams use to mark their territory at meets. The student council helped Garrigan's cross-country team buy their tent, so I have an idea of what those things cost. Unless the yard sales are basically permanent (which they seem to be), I can't imagine anyone would make any money with such a big up-front investment.
Actually it's hard to believe anyone makes much money at this stuff, period--the possible exception being whoever leases out the land where the big flea markets are held. I got the feeling that most of the people involved in this process are retired. They seem to use the yard sales as a prime means of socializing. They drive from one sale to the next, eventually making it back to their own yard where they probably just put out the same junk they just bought elsewhere. I didn't stop at a single one of the places myself. I've got a house full of junk already, and I certainly don't need to augment it with other people's cast-offs.
It intrigued me that virtually everybody I saw in Tennessee was white. There were a fair number of other races (especially Hispanics) in Kentucky, but pretty much all the Tennessee hillbillies were white. On other trips I've seen a lot of black people in Tennessee's urban areas, but I'm not sure I saw a single black face as I made my way down highway 127.
After about three hours I stopped for breakfast in Crossville, Tennessee, a small city located where U.S. 127 crosses interstate 40. I had ham and eggs at a Waffle House. The food was good, but the waitress was downright rude. I made my way past more yard sales and flea markets, eventually turning off onto state highway 28 for the last few miles of Tennessee.
I also bought gas in Crossville. The car didn't have the economy of my Metro, but it didn't get bad mileage. I didn't ever formally calculate things, but I could make pretty good estimates and I figured out it always got at least 30 mpg, and that it would do 35 on occasion. It was also an easy car to drive, and just might be something I'd look at for my next car. The main problem with this particular car (the specific vehicle, not the model) was that starting today and continuing through the whole trip, the "CHECK ENGINE" light was on. I know from experience that that almost means a minor problem with the emission control system. Almost never does it involve a problem that would actually keep the car from running. Still, even though this car ran fine through the whole trip, seeing a light on always makes you wonder.
At South Pittsburg (just west of Chattanooga) I joined a familiar highway, U.S., 72. This four-lane follows the Tennessee River across northern Alabama and then cuts straight across extreme northern Mississippi to Memphis. I followed it last summer when I saw the cave at Ruby Falls. The part of 72 just south of Chattanooga is one of the most scenic highways in America. It slices through some really quite rugged mountains, the sort of terrain that looks like it belongs where they'd grow potatoes rather than cotton.
My next stop was at a point of interest I had visited last summer, the Unclaimed Baggage Center in Scottsboro, Alabama. I had purposely packed less than the clothes I'd need for this whole trip, figuring I'd enjoy browsing through other people's abandoned possessions and find something interesting. Indeed, I did. I found two designer shirts that I'd have never been able to afford had I seen them at Marshall Field's. Here, though, I got those, plus three lesser items--all for about $30.
I also stopped at a Dollar General Store in Scottsboro to pick up some beverages and thus save myself paying motel vending machine prices. This chain (which is also in little towns around Iowa) is absolutely everywhere in the South, usually locating in a cheap location on the wrong side of town. A couple weeks ago I had seen the controversial film Fahrenheit 9/11 (a film I'd likely have never known existed and certainly wouldn't have thought of going to--that is, until the conservatives made it forbidden fruit), and I was reminded here of something from that movie. In making the point that the poor bear a disproportionate burden fort protecting our country, director Michael Moore noted that military recruiters almost always focus on "the other mall", the place poor people go to buy necessities rather than the trendy mall out on the edge of town. Scottsboro Plaza Shopping Center serves a multi-racial clientele that is almost exclusively poor. In addition to Dollar General, a small grocery store, a Rite-Aid drug store, a fabric store, a senior citizens center that looks like it used to be a small department store (probably one of those stores Wal-Mart abandoned as they expanded), and recruiting stations for three branches of the armed forces.
After browsing through Dollar General at Scotsboro Plaza, I made my way east to the nice shopping development that is trying to put "the other mall" out of business. Centered on a Wal-Mart super center, east Scottsboro features a strip of brand new mini-malls and "big box" stores that string along highway 72 for over two miles. The mostly white shoppers here can choose from the same assortment of businesses you'd find west of Mason City or at the east end of Mankato. I couldn't help but notice that nowhere on the nice strip was there any military recruiting station.
I had lunch at a Krystal restaurant in the middle of the strip, the exact same place I ate at last year when I had come through Scottsboro. Just across the parking lot from Krystal was a large store called "Shoe Dept." that stocked close-outs of major brands of shoes. I spent more money than I should have but managed to stock up on footwear that will hopefully last me at least through the coming school year. (The trick would be finding a place for it in my luggage for the trip home.)
I had a pleasant drive down the rest of highway 72. Again things looked familiar--the lovely vistas of the TVA reservoirs, the "Vulcan" convenience stores, and even the permanent construction zone at the east end of Huntsville.
Once in Huntsville I exited onto Memorial Drive and drove past Joe Davis Stadium to verify when tonight's game would be. The electronic sign in front (with dreadful lime-colored letters on a black background) confirmed a 7:05 start time. I then did a U-turn under Memorial Drive and exited onto University Drive, the endless strip where Huntsville goes shopping.
As far as I can tell, University Drive goes nowhere near a university. There are a couple of colleges in Huntsville (Alabama A&M and U of A--Huntsville), but both are quite a ways from the street that seems to have assumed their name. Once it gets past a public housing project on the edge of downtown, University (which is the route of US 72 through Huntsville) becomes a six-lane express street, with stop lights about every half mile. The South's lack of zoning shows in an eclectic combination of widely spaced businesses, separated by the entrances to gated condo developments. I drove west a couple of miles on University to an area just north of the enormous NASA facility that serves as motel central for the tourists that are here to visit the city's major attraction.
(CONTINUED IN PART 2)
The background music on this page is Christopher Cross' "Ride Like the Wind".