So Close to Semester's End

I am quite literally counting the hours until the end of this semester.  With major papers at least drafted, ready for final revisions and submission, I can almost taste my freedom.  That I have survived this semester at all seems a miracle to me. I'm tired, cranky, and ready to hop the next flight to Sacramento.

I can't honestly complain too much about the semester, truth be told.  I loved my TA assignment.  I worked, along with three other TAs, in service of Dr. R.'s Early Western Civilization class.  As I hadn't taken a western civ class since my days at American River, it was a nice way to reconnect with this amazing history.  As Dr. R. included lots of yummy cultural stuff, I felt I got in a little art, architecture, and literature as well as the standard history.  In fact, that's the best part of a western civ class--the culture.  Getting to talk to my students about what its really like to see Michelangelo's David in person and sharing the story of Yvette, the Uffizi Museum in Florence, Botticelli's Birth of Venus, and a pesky alarm lent a personal flavor to my teaching. Sorry, Yvette.  You took one for the team.

Dr. R. and his Amazing TAs

My seminars weren't all bad, although I did my fair share of struggling.  I don't know what my grades will be, but I have some hope for a decent showing.  My next hurdle will be passing my fourth-quarter review, which allows for a committee of instructors, chosen by me and my adviser, Dr. F., to review my major projects since my arrival here at UTK and decide whether I'm qualified to move forward to preparing for comprehensive exams. This is a new process this year, and it scares the dickens out of me.  I did poorly that first semester here, and I don't know how much that will be held against me.

Another worry concerns funding for next year.  Rumors are swirling that funding to the History Department will be sharply cut, meaning fewer students will be funded.  So, who knows.  It could be that I move back to California next summer without a Ph.D.  If there's a way to stay here and continue on to that degree, however, you can bet your boots I'll do my best to find it.

Gotta go.  Tess is here....

I'm Been Busy

What can I say?  I've been so f'ing busy this semester that there hasn't been time to update this poor excuse for a blog.  But I'm taking an hour or so off from my schoolwork today to catch up.  This is really for you, Trishter and Sharon Brown--my most faithful readers.

For those of you concerned, yes, I'm still at the University of Tennessee, still working toward my Ph.D.  My tiny flat in Knoxville is the domain of Smoke Stewart Dias Herbon.  I saw a meme the other day that showed a kitten and said "whatever a cat sees belongs to that cat."  Nothing could be truer.  Smoke has dozens of toys, yet he finds great joy in pulling my clothes off their hangers.  He has a lovely scratching post, yet his favorite claw-sharpening instrument is my school backpack.  He's a mystery, a joy, a problem, a lover, a fighter, and the best companion I could ever hope for.  That's the story of Smoke.

As for school, this semester is kicking my bodacious ass.  The class that begins my week takes place on Monday afternoon.  Literacy in the Ancient World drives me crazy.  It is so heavily theory-driven that I cannot easily grasp what we are required to read.  The teacher is a fantastic guy who studies ancient China, so there is a lot to learn from him and from the class.  It's just tough sledding intellectually.

The next class of my week takes place on Monday night.  Just having a night class again is tough.  We don't get out of there before nine, by which time my brain has been fried because I spent the afternoon with Ancient China and literacy.  This Monday night class is on the Atlantic World, a broad subject that focuses on the connections between the various nations that ring the Atlantic.  It's geographical sweep means we get a lot of variety that way, but a lot of the theory and analysis seems to be pretty standard across the field.  The teacher is fabulous, though.  She's young, she's very knowledgeable on her subject, she's relaxed and open with us all, and I am enjoying the class very much.

Then comes the redoubtable Dr. H. whom you may remember from last fall.  Yes, I rushed right back into his classroom, in spite of the terrible time I had with him during my first semester here.  Happily, this semester he's teaching nineteenth-century historiography.  The books he has selected for us represent some of the best in the field, and I'm learning so much more about that time period than I thought possible.  The downside is that he assigns two books a week, and we have to write nine book reviews over the course of the semester.  I'm down to only two more reviews to write--and I'm very anxious to be done.

So, that's really all life is about these days--school and Smoke.  With everyone so busy, there hasn't been much time for partying.  Friends Chantalle and Ryan have discovered a new place to play pub trivia, a British pub in the Old City.  While they play every week, I try to get there every now and again.  In fact, I'm going tonight.

Over the summer, Maddie came to Knoxville for a visit, and we had a terrific time.  She and Smoke fell so much in love that he kept looking for her a week after she'd flown back home to California.  While a credit card issue kept us from doing any traveling, just to have my baby with me for a week was fantastic.  She and Chantalle (who was staying with me while waiting for her new apartment to be ready) and I did take a trip up to Gaitlinburg and Pigeon Forge--quite eye-opening.  If you picture those spots as cute little pieces of Appalachia, think again.  They're just the mountain folks' Vegas.  Hideously commercial, there is nothing quaint or Smoky Mountain-ish in that area.  That does not mean, however, that we didn't have fun. Moonshine tasting proved delightful, although we all got a little tipsy afterwards.

Last month, Mom and Dad paid a quick weekend visit after my Dad's ship reunion in Nashville.  We didn't do a lot, but we did get to the Lincoln Museum at Lincoln Memorial University and to the Cumberland Gap.  I've gotta say, looking out over the Gap makes you really feel like Daniel Boone.  Its a gorgeous view from the pinnacle, and I did get a little patriotically verklempt when I thought of all those pioneers who poured through that break in the mountains to get to new lands in the west.  I'm such a historian!

Of course, this week has been pretty exciting--for most Americans--seeing as we just elected a new president.  Emotions are running high here at UTK.  As for me, I'm going to wait and see how things play out.  I, too, have experienced a wide range of emotions, but I'm ready to let the system do its thing.  My faith in America and Americans has not wavered.

Oh, I just got called in to see the professor of the Literacy in the Ancient World.  Guess I'm going to spend the rest of the afternoon re-writing my last paper.  Grrrrrrrrrr!!

This will be a shorter blog than I anticipated, as I've got other writing to do now.  Damn, grad school is HARD!!

Enter Smoke!

I guess I'd better start with the end--of Sister History Geek Week. After we satisfied our inner-12-year-old-girls in Missouri and Alabama, Tricia stayed on in Knoxville and made use of the guest accommodations here in the Tiny Flat. We did a bit of shopping while she was here, the most important of which was an outing to Lowe's where I got a fantastic deal on a washer and dryer. No more toting that heavy laundry basket to the apartment complex laundry room!!  We bought other odds and ends for the house, including a smart TV for Mad when she comes back here for a visit in August. 

Tricia and I also enjoyed the pictures and texts from Joe-Man as he travels around Europe to celebrate his graduation (like the Grand Tour of yore).  And, of course, I took her to my favorite History Geek hangout--Calhoun's on the River. 

And no trip across country is complete without a visit to Cracker Barrel....

After Tricia took off to catch her flight home to California, it was a little lonely back in the Tiny Flat. After all, I'd just spent six weeks surrounded by other humans. I needed to recover with some good ol' fashioned cave time. 

Yeah, that lasted for less than a week. Then it was time to give myself a little gift, something I'd wanted for almost a year. A roommate. 

My first stop on this quest for companionship was just down Kingston Pike, the Humane Society of the Tennessee Valley. The parking lot was nearly full, but I sort of made my own spot and went inside. Very nice fellows directed me to where the cats were, and then a distracted teenage girl helped me select a beautiful little girl by the name of Tiana (you can bet no cat of mine will ever be saddled with such a name). I reckoned she'd have to be spayed before I could take her home, although I'd brought my cat carrier in the car just in case. Yes, I'd already bought everything for a dainty little girl kitten, right down to pink carrier and collar. 

After handing me quite an extensive application form, the teenager wandered over to where a couple was adopting two kittens. I watched as she--and the only two other employees in the cat adoption area--dropped from the designation "distracted" to "moronic."  All three of the nitwit females surrounded the kitties going home with the couple, snapping selfies and offering kisses and hugs to the cats. It was over 10 minutes before the couple could get out of there with their adopted pets and the girls could stand around tittering about them. The lead nitwit than deigned to accept my application and told me she'd "get around to it" when she could. I had to pass a background check before I could adopt a cat, of course. At that point, I was dismissed. 

Well, in the words of the great Pauline, "fuck that noise."  This was on a Friday, so on Saturday I ventured further afield to the local animal shelter. Here, actual adults were employed. I hemmed and hawed and looked over the kittens up for adoption, finally deciding to see if a little charmer named Rosemary might be "the one."  Rosemary and I spent about 15 minutes getting to know one another in a little separate room. Before I knew it, those gorgeous Bette-Davis-blue-eyes had ensnarled me. Rosemary was "the one."

So, I filled out an application and paid the fee. There was no home visit required or a call to my complex to make sure I could have a cat (yes, I'd already made that arrangement). I just needed to wait a few days for Rosemary to be spayed, then I could take her home. 

I left the shelter absolutely overjoyed. And when the Humane Society called on Monday (a haughty teenage boy this time) to tell me I'd been deemed worthy, I told him that I'd already adopted a cat so no thanks to Tiana (who I hope finds a happy home). 

Tuesday afternoon was when I could expect to bring my new baby home from the shelter. The  phone rang that morning. Again, a teenage girl, one who sounded a little frightened this time. 

-  Mrs. Herbon?

-  Yes?

-  This is (name forgotten) from the Young-Williams Animal Shelter. 

-  Hi. Is Rosemary OK?

-  Well....yes....but we found out something during the initial exam. 

-  What's that?

-  Rosemary is a male. We mis-identified her as a female. 

The girl sounded terrified. I, in that first second of surprise, thought "my cat is transgender." This caused an involuntary fit of laughter on my part. It was so 2016!  The young lady paused and then laughed hesitantly. 

-  I guess it is sort of funny. Do you still want the cat?

Note:  Here I must fast-forward in time to when I regaled Heidi with this tale. As I told Heidi what the girl had said, Heidi exclaimed, "You are going to take him, right?  Don't judge him, Mom."  Again, I was laughing. I'm sending "his" cute little pink collar with the bow on it to Heidi for Panda Face--who is all girl. 

Of course I took him. I decided to name him Smoke Stewart Dias Herbon. I took his cute pink carrier to the shelter that afternoon to pick him up. An older lady, probably a volunteer, brought him out to me in the lobby. Unfortunately, she was still under the impression that Smoke was a Rosemary. She wished Rosemary and I good luck in our new relationship. 

With the false sexual identity and the pink carrier, I worried that Smoke might be a little gender-confused. He has, however, taken it all in stride like the 21st century confident male he is. Auntie Chantalle came to have dinner with us on Smoke's first night home, and he immediately loved her. Thank goodness, because, unbeknownst to Auntie Chantalle, she's his "emergency contact" at his vet and the shelter. 

Smoke is turning out to be a great roommate, although he did walk on the cable remote and nearly bought a pay-per-view movie. He's a total cuddler, and he's equally at home in an empty Amazon box or chasing one of his myriad toys (and one hair tie) around the wood floor. 

I've found me a wonderful roommate. 

Knighty-Knight from Knoxville. 

Sister History Geek Week, Part II

Hmmmmm. Where did I leave off?

When last we left them, the adventurous Dias sisters were spending the night in Truman, Arkansas, the Buttonwillow of the South. Up at a reasonable hour, breakfast consumed, and Stella with a full tank, we headed south toward the Shiloh battlefield via Corinth, Mississippi. 

The transition between Arkansas and Mississippi was like traveling into a foreign country. A third-world foreign country. What is wrong with this state?  Dead animals litter the roadway. Even the wooded areas look creepy--like the trees have been cursed by an evil wizard.  Alongside the highway were rusting manufactured homes, junk yards, and the ubiquitous Dollar General stores. What the hell is up with these stores?  There is one at every wide spot in the road. The only thing more common in this part of the country than Dollar General stores are churches and junk yards. There are two dead cars for every live car and a church for every six Christians. 

One particularly interesting Mississippi sight was that of an African American young man, riding a horse along the highway median, and staring down at his cell phone. A modern cowboy sans cows!

We were just reaching Corinth and ready to turn toward Shiloh when we spotted a sign pointing the way to Tuscumbia, Alabama. Suddenly, the Shiloh battlefield had no interest for me--not when Helen Keller's birth place, Ivy Green, was just ninety minutes away. I made a good choice!

Ivy Green turned out to be a delightful place, and the historical tingle was there in full force. The house, built by Helen's grandfather in 1820, looks smaller than it was portrayed in the film version of The Miracle Worker. Inside, the nicest lady gave us the tour and seemed extra excited when we identified ourselves as being from California. Unlike the Laura Ingalls Wilder home, we could take photographs of the rooms and in the little museum. 

The guide told us that 85% of the objects  on display in the house belonged to the Keller family. These were enhanced by various items and photographs related to Helen, Teacher (Annie Sullivan), and secretary Polly Thompson. All three women are buried together in the National Cathedral in D.C., where the girls, Yvette, and I saw them several years ago. 

It was amazing to see the closet in which Helen locked her mother and the dining room where Helen and Teacher duked it out over table manners. I must have seen The Miracle Worker with Anne Bancroft and Patty Duke a dozen times, plus reading all kinds of books as a girl about Helen and Annie. It all came to life!

For me, the best part of the site was the famous pump where Helen Keller first understood that the signs Teacher had been making in her hand meant something. The fact that you could touch that pump just boggles the mind. Talk about history tingle!

The gardens around the home are gorgeous, with several memorials established by Lions Clubs. Behind the gift shop, an outdoor theater hosts the original play The Miracle Worker every Friday and Saturday night throughout the summer. 

NOTE:  As I explained to my father after Tricia and I got back to Knoxville, seeing the sites linked to Laura Ingalls Wilder and Helen Keller made my 12-year-old-self very happy. I've been to the Anne Frank house in Amsterdam, so now the only thing left on that little girl bucket list is to locate the home of Black Beauty. 

Back to my story....

Leaving Ivy Green, we drove around a little to see the town. While the outskirts of Tuscumbia weren't that nice, the city center was absolutely adorable, right down to the columned courthouse with the Confederate statue dedicated in 1911 by the local UDC.  I could soooo live at Helen's house!

It was time to start back toward Knoxville. So we headed out across the top of Alabama. Hungry after our sightseeing, we stopped at a Huddle House diner in Scottsboro for a bite. While Tricia settled for a nice chicken sandwich, I went for the smothered biscuits. Smothered indeed!  Biscuits, gravy, hash browns, bacon, eggs, and cheese--OMG!

While having our lunch, we were treated to a little bit of "Southern color," courtesy of the man and woman behind us. 

Man:  When I feel low, I think about my wife and son. 

Woman:  You don't have a wife and son. 

Man:  Yeah, but I think about what I would do if I had them. 

Following this exchange, there was a lot of talk about a milkshake and whether it had been paid for. The man told Tricia that he was "just a cut-up," but we were both pretty sure something more (or perhaps less?) was going on there. We got back into Stella and hightailed it out of Scottsboro. 

One of the unexpected highlights of taking our particular route back to Knoxville was that our highway passed right next to the Davidson Center for Space Exploration, home of one of the space shuttles and the famous Space Camp. We saw a sign for the Von Braun Museum, but that will have to wait for another day (or when Reiner visits). 

We reached Knoxvilke by about seven. A quick run to the store for ice cream, and we were in for the night. Today was spent running errands, driving around the campus, and doing some shopping for the apartment. We had lunch at Cheddars, where Tricia delighted in her Monte Cristo sandwich--it reminded her of the old Mansion Inn and a sighting of one of the Hudson Brothers. A nice dip in the complex pool, and now I want to finish this blog and get some food. 

Tomorrow, Tricia is driving down to Atlanta to visit friends, while I stay here--and I'd better use that time for some Feller reading. But, for now, it's....

Knighty-Knight from Knoxville. 

Sister History Geek Week, Part I

This unusual sisterly holiday began on Tuesday when the Southwest flight from Oakland arrived in Nashville. Stella and I were waiting, and we picked up passenger Tricia Dias Martucci. Soon we were screaming down the highway toward Paducah, Kentucky. 

Paducah?  Yeah, well, it was on the way to our ultimate destination. We stayed at a fabulous Best Western there and had a hearty Southern dinner at O'Charley's. Oh, the cherry pie was divine. Tricia fell in love with the chicken pot pie soup. 

Into the car this morning and headed toward Poplar Bluff, Missouri. OK, so this trip isn't making a lot of sense, is it?  Well, it would make sense if you were SpringLea Henry and Tricia Martucci. Apparently, Poplar Bluff plays a prominent part in Days of our Lives. Yes, the soap opera. For me, it represents the home town of Sugarbaker's secretary Charlene Fraiser from Designing Women. No, we didn't drive across Kentucky to Missouri just to visit a hole like Poplar Bluff. Seriously, that is a plug-ugly little town. The decorative theme for the city seems to be "as much urban sprawl as we can get."

Soon we were out of Poplar Bluff and screaming down the highway. We were laughing about soap operas when I checked my rear view mirror and exclaimed, "Oh, fuck!"  Yes, one of Missouri's fine state troopers was finding fault with my driving!  

Actually, the guy was both nice and handsome. I was not wearing my seatbelt correctly (those of you who have driven with me know that I put the shoulder strap under my arm). So, he taught me how to adjust the strap to be more comfortable--and correct--and then returned to his car to write me a ticket. It seemed like forever before he came back to my window. But when he did, it was with good news--a $10 seatbelt ticket and only a warning on the speeding. Yay!  Thank you, Trooper Vaughn!

Soon we were proceeding in a law-abiding fashion down the road. Our true destination was found in the Ozark Mountains outside the town of Mansfield, MO, in the Land of the Big Red Apple (well, that was its name in the 1890s, although no signs of orchards can be seen now). Believe me when I tell you, the Laura Ingalls Wilder Home and Museum was worth every mile driven and even my seatbelt ticket!

First, the Ozarks are gorgeous. Not mountains the way we think of them back in California in the Sierra Nevadas, but rolling green woodlands and meadows. As we came nearer to Rocky Ridge Farm, the home of Almanzo, Laura, and Rose Wilder, Tricia and I could understand just why Laura found the area so delightful. 

We parked across the street from the house itself, then walked to the Museum just a hundred yards or so away.  It's less than a year old, replacing a much smaller structure right next to the house itself. And the Museum does not disappoint. Objects familiar to readers of Laura's books are beautifully displayed--Pa's fiddle, Laura's bread plate, examples of Mary's beadwork, quilts and clothing made by Laura, and Rose's desk. All the stories came roaring to life when I looked at these things that are as familiar to me as things in my own parents' house. 

Next was the tour of the house itself. OMG, we walked in the steps of Laura herself. It's exactly the way it was when Laura died there in the late 1950s, right down to the wax fruit in a bowl on the sideboard in the music room. When Almanzo died, Laura couldn't bear to part with his things. The house still includes the box with the medications Almanzo was taking at the time of his passing. 

I wish we could have taken pictures in both the Museum and the house. Laura was far shorter than I realized, only 4'11". Almanzo was only 5'4". And the kitchen was made especially for them, so the counter tops were very low. There was an electric stove, a gift from Rose, but Laura kept her wood-burning stove in the kitchen because food tasted better when cooked on it. 

The whole house was warm and comfortable. Remember in my last blog when I complained about having no "historical tingle" at Chickamauga?  Well, the tingle was totally there in the farmhouse. Seeing rugs and pillows made by both Laura and Alamanzo (he did something like a latch-hook), their books on the shelves, and their everyday dishes in the cupboard--it was amazing. I'm getting a little verklempt just writing about it. 

Perhaps most surprising in the house was the pieces of furniture made by Alamanzo. He made special wooden chairs with really wide arms for Laura to use when reading and/or writing. He also made lamps and carved himself various canes. He was really a talented craftsman. 

Next stop was the Rock House, built in 1928 by Rose Wilder Lane for her parents. No tingle there. While the house was beautiful and had all the modern conveniences (well, as far as 1928 was concerned), there was a cold feeling in it. Laura and Alamanzo lived there for only eight years, moving back to the farmhouse as soon as Rose moved to Connecticut. The Rock House was a nice attempt by a daughter to care for aging parents, but it was way too fancy for a little girl from the prairie. 

By the time we were done with our visit with the Wilders, we were hungry, having eaten nothing since our breakfast in Paducah. We looked around Mansfield a bit, but it had nothing to offer except a brightly painted Mexican place. Tricia has put a moritorium on Mexican food for this trip. She did not come to the South to eat food she could eat in California. 

So we continued our trip heading east and south. Happily, we found a burger joint named Jack's in Mountain Grove--and damn, that was a good burger. Tricia had something called sidewinder potatoes, which she loved. 

Some observations about this part of the country. Nearly every tiny town has the same components:  three old-car graveyards, three churches, and a Dairy Queen. One special town had something like a half acre of old Coke vending machines in a dirt lot right off the highway!  It's the churches that really stand out, though. They're everywhere!  Church after church after church. These people are, as Maddie would say, full of "religiousness."

On the road and down into Arkansas, to the town of Truman where we are right now. Staying at a weird little Days Inn, we walked to the nearby McDonald's for ice cream (no other ice cream to be found in this Buttonwillow of a town).  Do you think they were trying to tell us heathens a little something?

Hope I don't get struck by lightning!

Civil War Historians

This past weekend, I attended the Society of Civil War Historians' conference down in Chattanooga. The experience was something of an eye-opener and still more of a disappointment. 

I began by driving down early. After the month in Sacramento, I really wanted just a little pampering time. I checked into the beautiful Chattanoogan Hotel on Wednesday afternoon. My room on the 5th floor had a gorgeous view of the north end of Lookout Mountain. More importantly, it had a nice bathtub with endless hot water. After dinner and a couple of beers in the hotel bar (and a disappointing loss for the San Jose Sharks), I submerged into that tub and got through another chapter of Jacobson's Barbarian Virtues. The bed was quite comfy, and I turned down the thermostat so I could snuggle under the big white comforter. 

The next morning, after sleeping in deliciously late, I boarded the bus for the conference's special tour of the Chickamauga battlefield. The guide was a guy named Jim who was the spit-and-image of the great Chuck Roebuck. It was uncanny. Sadly, he did not have a beach ball like Chuck, but you can't have everything. 

The tour was amazing in terms of its comprehensiveness  Jim, along with a guy from the conference, took we tour participants through each day of the battle. I liked the way that Jim used the people on the tour as props--and I'm glad I was always a part of Union troops. Throughout the tour, the sound of thunder stood in for the sound of cannons, and we stood in the rain at various stops as we moved along chronologically and spatially through the battle. 

Jim apparently does a lot of work with the Army, teaching officers the history of the battle as a lesson in what to do--and not to do--in similar situations. I learned that although the Rebels won militarily (they captured the battlefield), the Union was actually the strategic and tactical victor (they held Chattanooga, which was  their actual objective). I also learned that Rosecrans suffered from exhaustion and made mistakes because of it and that Bragg was just a dumb-dumb. The Rock of Chickamauga, Gen. George Thomas, did not actually start the brave Yankee stand on I-forgot-the-name Hill, but he did get up there eventually to oversee things. And, finally, I learned that the men of Thomas' corps were very loyal, even 30 years later. When the battlefield was preserved and monuments were built, the various regiments who served under Thomas made damned sure that they were remembered as his men, not Sherman's who later incorporated Thomas' corps into his army. The regiments did so by putting acorns as design features in the monuments, an acorn being the symbol of Thomas' corps. 

There was one thing that disappointed me on the tour. Not once, no matter where we went on the battlefield, did I get that tingly history feeling. One of the joys of going to historic spots is that feeling, that emotional connection with people of the past. But that didn't happen here. I don't know why. 

The tour, as it turns out, was one of the high spots of the conference. At the opening plenary session, the initial speakers were all terrific, especially F. Brundage, who spoke on the Confederate memorials still being constructed in North Carolina to this very day. But, when the floor was opened to questions and comments, the discussion disintegrated into two main topics. The first was on how to teach grade-school and undergrad students their Civil War history. The ideas mostly focused on tying the war to recent history--like Ferguson. Apparently, students can't learn history for its own sake and post hoc ergo proctor hoc is the rule of the day.  The second path of conversation focused on how to get people of all kinds  to understand that good things came out of Reconstruction, that it wasn't all corruption and carpetbaggers. The general consensus seemed to be that nobody has come up with a satisfying narrative arc for Recon. This caused a guy named J. Downs to hop up and down in defense of his mentor Eric Foner, who did write a wonderful book on Recon. This same Downs fellow would show up at two of the panels I sat in on the next day--and he couldn't get over the presumed slight to his idol. 

The panels were OK, but many papers presented were unremittingly dull. Dr. H. actually gave a good presentation, mostly because he's a dynamic speaker. Another guy on his panel also gave w good presentation on the way in which the town of Alton, Illinois, remembered the life and death of an early abolitionist in their midst. 

This brings me to the critiquing part of the conference. Damn, these people probably eat their young. Some people, especially a certain elder stateswoman, critiqued everybody's work that happened on her path!  The arrogance was nearly suffocating. I know that's how these things are supposed to go, but some of the commentators seemed just mean-spirited and way too sure of their own infallibility. To his credit, Dr. H. took his criticism graciously--his arrogance actually seemed diminished in this setting!  Seriously, I couldn't believe my eyes and ears 

The highlight of the conference for me was the grad student luncheon. The attendees were seated at tables headed by scholars who represented various themes in Civil War history. I sat at the memory table. Not only did I sit at the same table as the great C. Janney, but I sat right next to her. My fan girl crush was only increased by seeing her in person. She's completely gorgeous as well as sweet, funny, and wicked smart. The conversation at our table was very stimulating, probably the most stimulating piece of the conference.

So, this blog has been a bit of a downer, but the point of this blog is to record my journey through life, particularly as I work toward the goal of being an historian. And, in this instance, the experience was not wholly positive. However, tomorrow Tricia comes to Tennessee, and we head off on a mini road trip. And I've got to clean the Tiny Flat because there no way Tricia approves of dishes in the sink or an unmade bed. 

Getting my cleaning lady on....

SacTown Sojourn

As I awkwardly type these words using only my phone, I'm sitting in the Atlanta airport about to catch my connecting flight to Knoxville. Back home in Cali for over three weeks, it seems like I just passed through this airport yesterday. 

The past few weeks have been terrific, but a special shout-out goes to all the good food I've eaten. My mom was my breakfast "enabler," bringing home donuts for me many mornings--ready and waiting when I dragged my late-sleeping ass out of bed. Heidi and Randi made incredible bacon-wrapped BBQ pork chops, which I enjoyed while sitting in their wet backyard. Yvette and I and Mom and I and Maddie and Randi and I chowed down at Plaza Del Sol, while amazing zucchini fries and pomogranite martinis served as the perfect accompaniment for court gossip at Jaime's surprise happy hour. Of course, the be-all end-all of dining came just two days before I left:  Reiner's mouthwatering spread for Indy breakfast. All that food and a win in the 500 by a rookie from Nevada City? Oh hell yeah!  In spite of all this food, though, the seat belt needed a little more tightening today. I'm not really sure what that was about. 

I did a bit of studying over my vacation, which Charlie Bucket supervised from the end of the chaise lounge in my parents' backyard. I didn't get as much done as I might have liked, but that's Heidi's fault for introducing me to a new game for my phone. I have no self-discipline. 

Lunches and happy hour with the Princess were, of course, all about laughter and talking and eating and talking some more. Can't wait until December when we take Tahoe by storm. 

Along those same lines, Yvette and I did a lot of talking, eating, and laughing as well. I especially liked the way we, along with Kimber, sidestepped an awkward social engagement with a little help from Mother Nature. And it was great to see Phebes, the Trishter, Jaime, Alice, Kirstin, Sally, Shawn, Monica, and Megan as well. 

A highlight of the trip was watching my nephew Joe graduate from high school--WITH HIGHEST HONORS!!  He was simply too cool for school during the ceremony, not even acknowledging the roar of his many fans as he passed by where we were sitting. Tricia and Brian then hosted a yummy taco bar lunch, after which Joe and I went to an auntie-nephew celebratory (and conspiratory) dinner. 

Conspiratory, you ask?  Yes!  Since Heidi and Mom came to Knoxville for spring break back in March, a prank had been in the making. The target originally was just Tricia, but it expanded to include Dad when he mouthed off one too many times about how he hates tattoos. The idea was for Joe to appear at Indy breakfast the morning after his graduation with a brand-new tattoo of the Mercedes symbol. Maddie's artwork with Sharpies was beyond realistic, right down to the slight reddening around the symbol. Sadly, Joe's poor performance in the starring role did not let the prank go on for too long, but my loving father did believe it long enough to threaten my life. 

And now it's back to Knoxville. I'll get home late tonight, and the plan is to sleep late tomorrow. Not too late, though, because I have to get up, repack, and head out for the Society of Civil War Historians conference in Chatanooga tomorrow afternoon. My life bears absolutely no resemblance to what it did a year ago. Even less to what it looked like five years ago. 

So, I'll say goodnight from the home of Scarlett O'Hara. After all, tomorrow is another day. 

The Wargasm

The semester is dying a slow death, ladies and gentlemen. Just when I think I've finished up all my obligations, another pesky thing creeps in that I have to handle. But, ready or not, I'm leaving for sunny CA the day after tomorrow. So, pesky things better get on board. 

Just a word about the last few weeks before I get to today's actual topic. I finished up all my final projects just in the nick of time, thank goodness. The beautiful and amazing Dr. N. generously gave me an A in the Japan class. The experience of learning Japanese history yielded unexpected results. I loved the subject matter and found a lot of theoretical methods I may be able to apply in my own research. Plus, Dr. N. provided a model of just what a good teacher can do in a grad reading seminar, just like Dr. P. and Dr. S. did last semester. Running neck and neck with Dr. N.'s Japan for best class is Dr. W.'s world history. I got completely caught up in my final project for her, a syllabus for a world history upper division course based on world's fairs and expositions. No grade from her yet but many encouraging words. Sadly, the course in African American history did not go as well as I would have hoped. No grade for that class yet, but I'm not expecting much. Just glad it's over. 

On to happier subjects. Early in the semester, Alicia suggested a day trip to the Bell Witch Cave just north of Nashville. We planned our trip for the end of the semester, and spots in my car were quickly claimed by Adrien, Minami, Chantalle, and trip sponsor Alicia. I rounded them all up this past Sunday morning and off we went in Stella down I-40 west. 

Just getting to the entrance to the Bell Witch site proved tricky. Sudden stomping on breaks, reckless turns, following Internet instructions, and a couple of close calls with beavers and turkeys--all to learn that the cave and "museum" were closed. We'd all been hoping for a scary encounter with a witch who, according to legend, had a presence so powerful that she frightened Andrew Jackson off the Bell property. Andrew Jackson!  And he was Ol' Hickory!

Now, a normal group of grad students would have given up, had lunch in Nashville, and driven home. We are not a normal group of grad students. 

We decided first to head over to the Hermitage to say howdy to Ol' Hickory. On the way back in that direction, we stopped at the Bell family cemetery to pay our respects to the nice people whom the Bell Witch had haunted. 

While heading toward the Hermitage, Alicia had yet another flash of inspiration. We would go to Franklin, Tennessee, not too far from Nashville and indulge in a delicious Civil Wargasm. 

First, Franklin is an adorable town with a Main Street lined with shops and eateries. Gorgeous houses, lots of brick. Lots of people milled about enjoying the beautiful Sunday as we drove past. Without getting lost, we found our way to the Carter House, a.k.a. the House of a Thousand Bullet Holes. 

The Carter House stood pretty much dead center in the Battle of Franklin on November 30, 1864. Touring the house, we learned the story of the Unionist-leaning head of the household and his Confederate sons, one of whom died right in the hallway from wounds received in the battle. The family and a few neighbors, including several children, stayed in the house's cool, dark cellar for twelve hours until the battle was over and it was safe for them to emerge. We stood in that cellar and found it easy to imagine the footsteps of soldiers in the house, the creaking of the floor overhead, the shouts, the smells, and the hand-to-hand combat that took place right on the back porch. The bullet holes peppering the house and a few of the outbuildings tell the story of how fortunate the family was not to be included in the battle casualties. 

Also as part of our tour, we learned that the Carter House and the Battle of Franklin Trust that funds it, have been successful in acquiring a bit of the land of the original battlefield, land which until recently held modern buildings. It was heartening to see a town like Franklin working hard to preserve its Civil War history. 

Back into the car, and we headed to the sister site of the Carter House, Carnton  Plantation. Like the Carter House, this home had also been on the front lines of the battle, on the eastern flank. The house served as a hospital for Confederate casualties of the battle, with the lady of the house serving the wounded with such dedication that she was still remembered fondly at the time of her death in 1905. The plantation is home to a Confederate cemetery as well as the family cemetery. 

Here was our only supernatural occurrence in the trip. As Chantalle stepped out of the family area and into the Confederate part of the cemetery, the camera on her phone went a little crazy and added weird colors and lines to her photos. For a group anticipating a scare from the Bell Witch, this would have to suffice. 

The military part of the cemetery was divided by state. Large makers stood for each Confederate state with soldiers in the battle and each included the number of dead from that state. Then, each body had its own, smaller, often-unmarked headstone. For reasons unknown to me, pennies had been placed on nearly every headstone and state marker. Why on earth would Confederates want Abe Lincoln on their headstones?  I think Alicia did the courteous thing when she put a nickle on the market for her home state of Florida. After all, at least TJ was a fellow supporter of slavery. 

In front of one individual headstone, a wreath on a stand had been placed, probably around Christmas as the wreath seemed to have been composed of pine boughs. Across it was a ribbon that read, "We dared to defend our rights."  Yeah, right to own slaves!!  Grrrrrr....

If was a wonderful tour of the sites associated with the Battle of Franklin. We turned east toward Knoxville and chatted and laughed all the way back to town. An especially long, loud laugh came when we discussed which historical figures we'd like to have sex with. Little Minami, so sweet and gentle, chose Immanuel Kant with the ominous threat "I will crush him."  She's pretty fierce, our Minami. Kant in the afterlife might want to think twice when he's approached many, many years from now by a Japanese Ph.D. from UTK. 

Our final stop of the evening was the Cancun restaurant for dinner. Delicious food, margaritas, and fried ice cream polished off a day that was ridiculously fun from beginning to end. 

I guess that trip sort of sums up what I love most about my first year at UTK--the people. From the fifth-floor lounge and the party office to the many other offices and classrooms, from Calhoun's to the Downtown Brewery to Franklin, it's been amazing to meet and come to love the wonderful, talented people who make up the History Department at the University of Tennessee. While I'm anxious to go home to my loved ones, I'll also be anxious to come back here in a month to be with these special people again. 

A special note to Alicia:  You were one of the first people I met that awkward day of orientation. You've made me laugh and think and enjoy life in Knoxville. While you are off to grand adventures in the Peace Corps, I hope you know that you take a little piece of my heart with you. Good luck in all your endeavors. 

For anybody wanting still more of our Wargasm, Alicia posted an amazing video at http://youtu.be/qf4TGymz_wQ

Knighty-Knight from Knoxville!

The Whirlwind

As the semester winds down, the pace of my life seems to accelerate. Suddenly there are things to do and places to go--and a bunch of assignments for which procrastination is no longer an option. I'm livin' in the whirlwind, baby!

Among the many things to do, I gotta say that going to the many guest lectures offered by the UTK History Department is one of my favorites. At one such event, an historian (I forget where she's from) presented her in-progress research on the Indian chief Massasoit and his place in American collective memory. Massasoit was one of the Indians who greeted the Pilgrims upon their 1620 arrival in Plymouth. This historian traced the weird story of the statue of Massasoit at Plymouth and the copies of the statue that found their way across the U.S.  Of course, it's all about public memory, so I really enjoyed it. 

Another lecture I recently attended was on the subject of a woman named Merz Tate, someone who has sort of fallen off the historical radar. Tate was an African American female intellectual, educated at Oxford, and quite well known for her take on world affairs back in the 1940s and 1950s. The lecture was a good one, although the historian presenting was not a wiz at modern technology (PowerPoint problems). 

These lectures are a terrific opportunity to find out what is happening in the wider world of historical research. I try to go to as many as I can, and I wonder why ol' Sac State didn't have programs like this. 

Of course, my madcap social life continues, adding to the whirlwind. Calhoun's on the River seems to be home-away-from-home for my little band of classmates. 

As I have mentioned before, the weather has warmed and I've taken to hanging out by the pool again. Of course, Leatherback consistently makes his presence known. It's almost as though he were committing some slow form of suicide by actively courting melanoma. But that's not the worst of it. He's acquired something new since last summer....

Miss Two-Piece has entered the picture!

That's right, ladies and gentlemen. Leatherback has a sweetheart. I caught my first glimpse of this unusual creature while sharing a special birthday telephone call with my beloved nephew, Joe. I had just put some clothes in the washer when he called, so I grabbed a lounge chair in the shade and settled in for a nice gab fest. When Leatherback and Miss Two-Piece arrived on the scene, I was compelled to interrupt the conversation so I could describe to Joe the scene unfolding before me. 

The sunbathing couple was pretty disruptive upon their arrival in the pool area. They needed to move their chairs around, move one of the small tables to suit them, and generally get themselves situated for maximum exposure to ultra-violet rays. Then, as Leatherback turned on his little music-making device from yesteryear, Miss Two-Piece slathered herself with what appeared to be some sort of bodybuilding shiny oil. Leatherback took a couple of generic beers from the ever-present cooler and they each fired up a cigarette. While Leatherback is soft-spoken, Miss Two-Piece has a voice that, unfortunately, carried to the other side of the pool and washed over me. She has that harsh, Hillary-Clintonish voice with a just a hint of smoker's rasp to make it uniquely her own.

And that drawl!  I never realized until I lived here that there are two distinctly different drawls. There is the cultured, sweet-to-the-ears drawl of people like Tess, Matthew, Michael, and Liz. That kind of drawl says "welcome to the South" and "please enjoy our down home hospitality."  That drawl brings humor, wit, intelligence, and kindness with it. But that's not the drawl of Miss Two-Piece. Her's is the strident tone of someone living in a trailer park and wailing about someone prying their Confederate flag/assault rifle/girls' bathroom from their cold, dead hands. She could have been the woman on the bus tour Yvette and I took to Giverny years ago, the woman who, after an hour-long speech by the tour guide about the life of Claude Monet, got to Monet's house and inquired, "What did he do for a living that he could afford this house?"

And it wasn't just the voice of Miss Two-Piece. It was the constant stream of cigarettes moving to and from her drawling mouth. It was also the moment when she bent down in her two-piece swimsuit to smell some flowers and gave us all a good look at her covered-yet-robust behind. 

God knows, I have no room to criticize anybody's body shape. And Miss Two-Piece's is a far sleeker shape than my own. But for fuck's sake, woman, cover up that big white belly!  It's too much, I tell you!  

I am left to ponder how often Miss Two-Piece will grace the poolside with her overly exposed presence. I guess I'll find out this summer. For now, my focus remains on finishing the semester and, in less than two weeks, heading home to see my dingo, my babies, my parents, my BFF Yvette, the Princess, and so many others. 

For now, it's Knighty-Knight from Knoxville!

Silliness, Stupidity, and Syllabi

This past week has been quite the mixture of social-me and hermit-me. While I truly enjoy my "cave time," the good times and frustrating times of hanging with my fellow history grad students make life truly good in Knoxville.

First, the silliness....

Yes, that's me with powdered dye all over me. My partner in all this mayhem is none other than the irrepressible Alicia. This was technically an occasion to celebrate Holi, the Hindu spring festival held in India and Nepal, also called the festival of colors. But Alicia and I used the occasion to celebrate her completing her MA exam. Chantalle, who elected to maintain the purity of her clothes, acted as camerawoman not only for Alicia and I but also for several other UTK students wanting to memorialize the event. Everything was fun and frolic until the water guns were loaded up. The cool weather simply did not lend itself to the shot I took to the back. 

People who know me must realize that I've never done anything even as remotely insane as this (well, maybe back in my Job's Daughter days). Now I see what's been missing in my life--powdered dye!  While said dye came out of my hair and skin, my Hermitage tee, a pair of jeans, hard-to-reach spots in my wristwatch, and my formerly white bra will serve as reminders of the day I celebrated a friend's accomplishment by being decorated like an Easter egg. 

The evening after celebrating Holi, Adrien and his "honeys" met at Waffle House for a much-needed breakfast-for-dinner. It was waffles for Alicia, Chantalle, Minami, and me while Adrien bucked the trend with a breakfast sandwich. With much merriment, we stayed long at our table in the fairly deserted Waffle House. Conversation grew so lively that Chantalle felt no compunction about stating quite loudly that she'd gladly prostitute herself in order to visit Rome. Adrien immediately shushed her:  "You can't talk like that in Waffle House."  Waffle House is at once a sacred place and a place where lonely truck drivers might want to help Chantalle earn her plane ticket. 

This past weekend was given over to cave time. While the weather was nice, I chose to do some reading by the pool. Guess who is already working on his tan?

It's Leatherback!  He has a new cooler for his generic beer but he still stays entertained with weird music from what appears to be a little radio (hell, it might be an old cassette tape player!)

By Japan class on Tuesday I had recovered from the early Leatherback sighting and was ready to get down to business. But the need for social interaction was strong--and not just for me. At break, I checked my FB and saw that Dr. Bob had inexplicably posted a photo of nefarious historical figure John C. Calhoun.

Chantalle, always looking for an excuse to go out, suggested that dinner at Calhoun's on the River was now in order. Next thing you know, Chantalle, Nick, Tess, Michael, and me were tucked into a booth for some delicious Southern cooking. 

But the dining out experiences were not yet complete. 

Enter the stupidity....

In this instance, the stupidity came in the form of a surly little blonde waitress named Yvette. (Apologies here to the "real" Yvette--this girl brought no credit to the name you share.). 

Wednesday class being horrific as ever, it was decided that between the end of class and Minami's kendo demonstration at the International House on campus, a group of us would dine at Cracker Barrel. Michael and Nick provided chauffeur services for Alicia, Chantalle, Tess, Catherine, and me. First, a Cracker Barrel was chosen that was actually quite some distance from campus. Poor choice. Upon arrival, drinks were ordered--which order Yvette promptly got wrong. The next ordering process, that of food, seemed especially difficult for Yvette to manage, considering that her order-taking notepad was wet and she seemed oddly clueless. Somehow she managed. I mentioned to this dimwit that we were in a hurry, but those words were either: (1) incomprehensible to her; or (2) seen by her as an opportunity to delay us as much as possible. It was forty minutes before we saw Yvette again, in spite of a light crowd in the restaurant overall. Changing the orders for Alicia, Michael, and Chantalle to take-out (oh, I cancelled my order altogether--no way was I going to spend money on this shitty service), Yvette decides at this point to bring the food out for those at the table who were staying. Once again, however, she got the order wrong (Tess' cheese omelette came with a long slice of bacon in the middle, which Yvette informed her was the "standard omelette.")  

I was so angry by this time and so concerned that we would miss Minami's demonstration. Michael drove like a cautious-but-crazy man to get us back to campus, right in the nick of time. Or so we thought. 

Racing in to International House, we breathlessly asked for directions. That's when a big Australian guy lying on a couch in the reception room advised us that tickets were necessary AND that tickets were sold out. The vein in my forehead began to throb. 

Into Stella to dejectedly drive Chantalle and Alicia to their apartments. Leaving Alicia's, I was unsure how to find the freeway (shut up, I've only been here for eight months). I asked Siri for directions home, and that helpful electronic miss began to guide me. It wasn't until I was well north of town and she told me to "continue on this road for 165 miles" that I realized something was wrong. Yes, that bitch Siri was directing me to the town of Home, Minnesota. 

So many iterations of the word "fuck" were used when I corrected direction and drove home that I'm sure some of them must have been new to mankind. 

Finally, syllabi....

Syllabi is the word of the semester. I must develop one for my African American seminar and one for my Teaching World History class. For two long days, I have worked on my African American assignment, putting my nose to the grindstone with such ferocity and focus that today I found a note on my laptop. 

Guess it's time for more social-me!

Knighty-Knight from Knoxville....

A Scholarly Scholar

Over this past ten days or so, I have enjoyed a roller coaster of emotions. Being already one who vacillates between happiness and profound self-loathing, you'd think this wouldn't be anything new for me. Ah, but you'd be wrong. This time I did it like a scholar.

First, it proved very tough to get over the fact that my houseguests went back home to Sacramento. So, I was a little blue. Into town, though, came the great and powerful Kenneth Pomerantz. And I was happy--like a scholar. 

My love for Dr. Pomerantz began in the MA program at Sac State, where the admirable Dr. V. assigned The Great Divergence to my World History reading seminar. After having read the exclamation-point-happy, self-citing Andre Gunder Frank the week before, Pomerantz was like coming up for air. Plus, I wrote a fabulous book review which garnered a grade that finally(!) surpassed that of my school-husband Tim. So Pomerantz has long been the source of a happy CSUS memory for me. 

Pomerantz in real life did not disappoint. He met with grad students and faculty before lunch on my first day back after break. He was so friendly to everyone, and he answered all the questions the grad students asked him. It was amazing to get to quiz the prior president of the American Historical Association on the state of our profession. In the afternoon, he gave a lecture on farming society and economic relationships in China. OK, so it's not exactly in my field (or remotely close to my field), but the guy sure seems to know his stuff. 

Dr. Pomerantz was kind enough to take a picture with me, the camera wielded by Dr. W.  I posted this on Facebook quite proudly, causing Dr. Bob to proclaim upon seeing it, "Lorraine had her picture made with him."  People in the South don't "take" pictures. They have them "made."

Even with that sunny beginning to the week, I still suffered over Tuesday with quite the malaise. I simply didn't want to do any work. So, since our Japan class didn't meet, I used Tuesday to be a slug. Wednesday, though, was upbeat because I met with my advisor, Dr. F.  I have not yet left a meeting with that guy without feeling better about myself. We plotted out, well really, the entire next year. I'll be staying busy this summer doing a directed readings with him as well as working on typing and organizing my notes from this past year and studying for my foreign language exam next fall. I'll be taking three classes, of course, in the fall. In the spring, Dr. F. thinks I'll be ready to take my comprehensive exams. That seems sooooo fast to me, but he thinks it's doable. Yikes!

I left Dr. F. feeling like a scholar with a plan. Unfortunately, I had African American history that very afternoon. I NEVER leave that class without feeling like a loser. And that loser feeling lasted all weekend, right up to Sunday night.

Sure, some of that was missing Easter with my family and the traditional slaughter of the lamb....cake. But I was just not feeling the papers I had to write for this week. I was deep in the depths of scholarly despair. 

Ta Da!  In steps Yvette the Magnificent. We propped each other up via text messages and came up with a joint plan to get our shit together for Monday. And damned if we didn't. I put in a good day's work on Monday--then I did it again today. Whoo Hoo!

Tomorrow is African American class again, so I expect I'll be contemplating shaking off this earthly coil by this time tomorrow night. But Thursday will see me make another comeback. Time to start wrapping up the semester. Time, as Yvette would say, to finish strong. 

Uh, apropos of nothing, I tweeted during Sunday's NASCAR race that actor Eric Dane gave an excellent command to fire engines. AND HE LIKED MY TWEET!  That's right, world, McSteamy liked my tweet!

On that note, I'll finish up here. I've got a chapter to read for next week's Japan class before I'll let myself fall into bed and watch The Young and the Restless. 

What wickedness is Victor up to now?

Spring Break 2016

Don't expect to see pictures of girls gone wild in this blog. It wasn't that kind of spring break. My spring break took place in and around Knoxville and involved three generations of Stratton women engaging in various combinations of mother-daughter bonding. Amd it was fabulous.

It began last Saturday when intrepid travelers Punky Dias and Heidi Herbon landed at the Nashville International Airport. I was right there to meet them and soon had them bundled into Stella for the ride to the tiny flat in Knoxville. After a long day of flying for them and a long day of driving for me, I ordered in Chinese food, an astonishing innovation for Mom who can get nothing but pizza delivered to her humble Sacramento home. 

An early night was called for, so Mom was installed in the plain-but-serviceable guest room while Heidi settled down on Lovie the loveseat. I was nicely asleep in my gorgeous big bed when a figure appeared in my doorway. Just like when she was little, Heidi wanted to sleep in my bed. Nothing could have made me happier. Of course, I paid for it the next day because Heidi and I stayed up talking into the wee hours. But it was worth it. It was sooooo good to have her to talk to!!

We decided to just take it easy the next day, so we grabbed what breakfast we could from the larder. Then back into Stella for a drive to campus. I showed my guests the construction nightmare that is the strip and the long stretch of Lake Avenue that I climb up each morning. We went into Dunford Hall, but Mom and Heidi did not seem too interested in my unadorned office or the plain little lounge where I spend a lot of my time. We went next door to the library--so they could see a little of it and I could return some books. Back into Stella and up to the hill, the only part of campus worthy of a photograph. 

Leaving campus we meandered over to Market Square. Peeking into the shops and eating frozen custard made for a very nice visit. 

Being good NASCAR fans (except Heidi), we came back to the tiny flat to watch the race--boring without my beloved Smoke. For dinner, Mom had to please her youngest daughter by having Southern food. We went to a place called Aubrey's just a few minutes from the tiny flat. God, it was good, especially the banana pudding with macadamia nuts. 

On Monday morning, Heidi and I left Mom at the tiny flat with a refrigerator of food, a book, some knitting, many blankets, and the TV remote. Heidi and I then headed off to the West Town Mall for some pretty serious shopping. My bank account took quite a hit but we had a blast. Thank goodness Heidi came to Knoxville with an empty suitcase.

We even got all the items necessary to finally decorate the guest bathroom. 

Monday night was time for more Southern food, so we went to Calhoun's on the River. Not only did we enjoy a delicious dinner (fried okra!!!) but Mother Nature gave us a terrific rain storm followed by a rainbow. As it was 3.15, we got key lime pie to go. 

Tuesday meant it was time for some shopping and some more Southern cooking before we began our  sightseeing. We began our day by running to Joann's for fabric for me to recover my desk chair and buttons for a baby sweater Mom is making. Buy Buy Baby was also on the agenda (a little something for the future granddaughter of pal Marijo). We needed sustenance by this point so we had breakfast at The Egg and I, a spot discovered by Yvette and Maddie last August when we first got here. Then it was off to the Knoxville Zoo.

Now, sadly, Heidi was not a big fan of the zoo. Too many children and too many BIG BLACK BEES!!  While they didn't sting, they really managed to freak out my youngest daughter. 

To help her recover from her near-BEE experience, Heidi and I went over to Super Cuts for trims and bangs. While that helped, it wasn't until she had some decent Mexican food that Heidi truly recovered. 

Wednesday morning was our last day for real sightseeing. Into Stella and off down Highway 40 east to Greenville, Tennessee, home of our seventeenth president, Andrew Johnson. First stop, though?  Cracker Barrel--Heidi's first time. 

For those readers unfamiliar with my madre, she has a passion for all things First Lady. Andrew Johnson and wife Eliza can now be added to the list of presidents she has visited. 

Now here's a little review of the Andrew Johnson State Historic Park. While it's a nice place, well kept, excellent NPS ranger for a guide, the overall narrative of Johnson is a little lopsided. In his Staye Historic Park, this AJ is remembered as a fierce defender of the Constitution, not as a guy that allowed himself to be flattered and cajoled into pardoning Southern leaders. Amazingly, in a little ballot box in the museum, visitors were encouraged to vote whether AJ had been guilty in his impeachment. Hands down, Trump style, people found him not guilty. I wonder how such a vote would turn out in a Charles Summer or Thaddeus Stevens museum?

No visit to a president is complete without a pilgrimage to his final resting place. This AJ got a nice spot on the top of a hill. 

We drove back from Greenville along some back country roads, getting a real feel for just how rural life is outside of the towns and cities of Tennessee.

For our last dinner in Knoxville, we enjoyed a fancy meal at Copper Cellar. Early to bed for everyone as we wanted to make an early start back to Nashville in the morning. 

As the flight back to Sacramento was until late afternoon, we had time to visit the Ryman Auditorium before heading to the airport, fulfilling my mother's wish to see the Grand Ol' Opry. 

A snack at the Ryman, then off to the airport to send my visitors home. As these were my first house guests, I sure hope they had a good time. It's funny, but on Thursday I couldn't wait to have my flat to myself. I woke up on Friday to wish they were still here. May seems a long way off.

Well, that's the story of Spring Break 2016 and the Great Visitation of Family from Sacramento.  I spent yesterday recuperating, and today Annie and I went for a short walk along one of Knoxville's many beautiful walking/riding/skating trails.  Then, I did something that will slow the pace of Annie's academic endeavors--I introduced her to Ancestry.com.  God have mercy on her soul.

Knighty-Knight from Knoxville....