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....