I Checked Again, I’m Definitely Still In The South

Due to popular demand and a never ending supply of material, I have decided to continue the “Definitely In The South” series on an irregular yet consistent basis, diligently cataloguing the southern lifestyle in Gatlinburg, Pigeon Forge, and Sevierville . Basically, I’m gunna write ya’ll when I find some thingie er place that makes me hoot and holler like I just sat my behind down on a pile of those firey ants, tell you what. Bless your heart if you can’t read that.

So here are some more southern quirks that make this place what it is.

The Phrase “Bless Your Heart” Now as any good southerner knows, this phrase gets used as much as butter in these parts. At its best, it can make you feel like you’ve bested some moiling and herculean task: “Oh look at that, he’s carrying all those groceries for his momma, bless his heart.” Strangely though, if attached to the end of an insult and complimented with a big smile-and-nod, the blow of the insult is significantly softened. “You are so ugly, bless your heart!” What? Southerners are just nicer!

Life Stories There is no filter of waspish proportions in this part of the country. No, no. The best filter you’ll find between the brain and mouth of most people from East Tennessee is single ply toilet paper. You might get a coffee filter if it’s really early in the morning, but that’s just because the hangover hasn’t been shaken off yet. I sat down at Olive Garden last night and met four people while eating dinner! Now, when I say “met” I don’t mean that I remember their names, I mean that I remember their children’s names, from their first marriage (which lasted 22 years) with Harold, the balding emotional idiot/insurance agent who never properly communicated his feelings.

Southerns have a long tradition of talking your ear off, which I think might be the direct result of one factor: Porches. It goes like this: God, Family, Dog, Porch Time. Look at the facts, the weather here is nicer for longer, southerners actually own land they can look out over, and this is a group of people that historically loves nothing more than being outside.  So, since only a few people put TVs on their porches, southerners just get a lot of practice talking. It makes sense in a cultural evolutionary kind of way. The nice backhand side to this characteristic? They have just as much practice listening.

Well that’s it for now. But never fear, there might be more material here than calories in Dollywood’s cinnamon bread. You haven’t had any?! Oh, bless your heart.

Until the end, the Mended Blend.

Exit Waiting and The Escape Code

There is one thing you can count on when you come to Gatlinburg or Pigeon Forge: you will wait in lines. Like sheep being herded off a mountain, people spend a majority of their time here just waiting. We wait with excitement for a roller coaster. We wait with wonder before the circus. We wait with frustration for the person in front of us at the buffet to step away from the macaroni and cheese we’ve been thinking about for four days. We wait and we accept that we wait. It is a part of life.

The tourism and attractions in Gatlinburg provide a main stage for the dance of waiting, putting it on display like a show. It’s unavoidable, seeing just how much we wait when you live in a town with filled with queue rails, riddled with traffic. But Jesse, what’s the big deal with lines? And haven’t we all read this column before? In about five hundred other places? What’s that you’re beating, Jesse? Is that a dead horse?

It might be, if I hadn’t gotten stuck in line for an hour and a half trying to get a trolley home from seeing the Elkmont fireflies. Fireflies are great and all, but, seriously, tectonic plates have moved faster than that line. Irritated at the Never Ending Line Of Glacial Speeds, I let my mind wander a little bit. Why was I so mad at this line? I just spent seven hours waiting in line to see the fireflies, and now I feel like I’d rather mulch in the rain than wait another hour. The logic didn’t make sense.

Could it be that the only thing we pursue with more vigilance than our own amusement, is a quick way to leave that amusement. Fans leave football games early to beat the traffic, despite waiting in line outside in the parking lot for hours. Throngs of people all pour out of venues, pushing each other rudely, all the time getting grumpier and grumpier, in the hopes to leave before everyone else. Valet was practically invented to fulfill this need.

Am I missing something? Does the person who leaves the earliest get a trophy or something? I don’t think so, otherwise I’d have at least two for the times I tried to go see Paul Haggis movies. Blech. But why, then, do we leave so rapidly and get so frazzled when we are forced into Exit Waiting.

Perhaps it’s in our human nature, to escape. Perhaps there is a code nestled in our cranial folds that forces us to flee as soon as we have satiated whatever particular thirst was tickling us in that moment. The Escape Code. We run from stadiums or blinking fireflies, and we do so with such vigor that any impetus results in flares of frustrations and rage. Unfortunately, the catch 22 is that the entertainment that draws that largest crowds also draws the largest exits.

There is only one way to avoid the horror of Exit Waiting. Be that guy who is always last to leave. People will think you’re annoying as gnats, but at least you’ll be happier.

Until the end, the Mended Blend

It’s Been A Month, I’m Definitely In The South

So I’ve been here for about a month now and as is customary with all milestones, I’ve begun to look back at my time here. Before moving, my thoughts were centered around the differences that would exist between my current cities Sevierville, Pigeon Forge, and Gatlinburg and my old cities Bowling Green and Nashville. Do I even need a joke here?

I would say the regions are apples and oranges but that doesn’t really reflect the spirit of the South. So, I’ll say that the regions are like okra and pickles! They’re completely different things, with different colors, tastes, smells, and appearances, but when you get down to it they’re both green veggies that taste delicious when fried.

Sevierville, Pigeon Forge, and Gatlinburg are among the most southern places I have ever encountered. It might be the fact that the tourist industry advertises “The South!”so all of the other industry here plays into that role too, but it’s hilarious all the same. How is this place more southern than Bowling Green and Nashville? Here’s a quick list.

Nascar Has A Theme Park – Yup, it’s got about ten different tracks with varying karts and cars. If you’re not shocked by that then be shocked by the fact that I’m  secretly dying to go.

Moonshine – Gatlinburg officially made itself the most country city in Tennessee when it allowed the first legal moonshine distillery to be built and opened in 2010. They claim to want change the stereotype surrounding moonshine, that it’s made in the hills by rednecks. Ironically, I got my first taste of moonshine from a redneck who made it in the hills.

“Hello!” – It’s a phrase that some parts of the country have completely forgotten, but you it’s nigh impossible to walk by someone on a path without getting a smile and a greeting. Strangers here feel like friends in New York.

The Food – You get a lot and it’s freaking delicious. Dinner shows offer entire chickens, you can fry anything, and the popcorn/candy stores have about 150 different types of popcorn. Have you ever tried Dr. Pepper popcorn? What about the 20 -spiced Slap Yo Momma popcorn? I bet you haven’t. Do you like cane sugar Coca-Cola? I did.

Paper Fires – I don’t know if this is a mountain thing, a southern thing, or a southern mountain thing, but people love to burn their paper waste in a fire pit while sitting in a lawn chair in their back yard. And here I thought paper fires were strictly a homeless thing. Yeesh.

I have a feeling this might be an ongoing series. More southern specific columns to come.

Until the end, the Mended Blend.

Fireflies Like Flashbulbs Part Three

Where were we? Right, Gatlinburg. Sugarlands. Trolleys. Elkmont. Crossed a river. First firefly sighting.

I jumped back across the river, ecstatic to see the light show that had eluded me for so many days. I may have been too excited because on one of my more daring feats of river navigation, I slipped and fell into the river, butt first in between a few rocks. My foot slammed into a rock when I slipped, an excruciating pain throbbing from my big toe. I tried to shake it off because, well, I was sitting down in freezing mountain river water getting wetter and wetter every second. I stumbled not so gracefully back to the other side of the river, missing my sandals by a good twenty feet. Limping barefoot through the forrest, hoping none of these little green plants just happen to be poison ivy, I thought about how stupid the phrase “Walk it off!” was when it applied to foot injuries and then I made my way back to my shoes and then back to my camp.

It was about that time that I realized my shoe was very wet, specifically underneath my searing toe injuring.  You may have thought I was being dramatic about the toe. Nope. I looked down to see my big toe nail cracked in half, right down the middle making two cabinet doors out of my toe, blood spilling out onto my shoe and the path. I was leaving a small bloody trail. It was at this moment that I imagined a large bear twenty miles away, deciding he could use a snack after getting a whiff of that human that just slowed himself down. But Jesse, bears don’t just attack people! Um, have you seen The Edge??? If you haven’t, you should. Alec Balwin. Anthony Hopkins. A guy from Lost. Man-eating Kodiak bear. Brilliance.

Anyway, one of my friends saved the day with some BandAids and a pack of ice, so all was well as I finally sat down in my chair to see the show. It was about 9:00 in the middle of June and it was starting to look like Christmas. Five lights blink six times, all at the same time, floating just above the river, dancing will-o-the-wisps. Looking across the path I see four or five more of the flies, bobbing through the vegetation, blinking a dim blue light so faint it might not even be there. Like a wish forgotten.

It was then that the flashlights came back in the form of five ten year-olds, lying on their backs staring into the trees, lights pointed up like spotlights. I now have an undying hatred for flashlights that may never subside. You see, their pesky gazing flashlights kept falling, beams of red light assaulting my vision every ten seconds. I’m lucky I don’t hate ten year-olds now.

One of the girls in my group decided to be my hero and play light police, as she strolled over and politely asked them to turn their lights off or stop shining them in our faces. They actually stopped too. Who knew the best way to get a ten year-old to do something was to ask nicely?

When their lights finally clicked off, the fireflies were full swing. With this particular breed, the females sit on the ground, watching the sky for the best and brightest, quite literally. See, the males fly around above, flashing like an organic telegraphing system, blinking quickly six times in a row before disappearing into darkness for eight seconds. That’s what makes these fireflies so synchronized. The males all blink their six blinks at once, and then for a short time, the forest is empty in darkness. Not a light or a flash.

Then, like firing neurons, the forest is ablaze with sparkles and stars. Like looking into space, at lights so wondrous you ask yourself if they are even really there. The flies bounce like celestial yo-yos, kissing the world, gushing their pheromones into the damp and electric air, each fly competing for a nod from the female audience under the canopy. A morse code of awe, thousands of fireflies linger and gesture lambently.

Then, like it was never even there, it stops. Eight seconds of anticipation fill the space and you can almost forget there is a forest at all. You can sit there and stare into the darkness with such a rich and bridled expectation that you lose sight of the environment entirely. All there is, all there can be, is waiting. Waiting for the flashbulbs because for one second, when the first light flickers, signaling all the others to commence their illustrious illumination, it is possible to forget everything but those lights. Like cameras in an arena, they explode all at once and they are all that is. There is no worry, no concern, no anxiety, just unadulterated organic beauty at its best and most unleashed. Unfettered and free, this phenomenon is beyond any individual, forcing out any ego, driving out any semblance of self, making room for a honest out-of-body humbling.

It is among the coolest things I have ever done and I will never forget it.

Until the end, the Mended Blend.

Sevierville and the 18th Century: Not Always So Different

There are moments in this strange little city in which I am reminded of a different time. A better time. A time with carriages and oxen and open markets. A time that looked a lot like the game Oregon Trail. Only with less dysentery. The rolling hills dusted with evergreen colors seem wild and untouched, something that could also be said about the people here. Seviervillians are trusting and kind, willing to help at a moment’s notice. What’s wrong with them!?

Everyone is too nice! Too nice I say! I need sirens and hatred, but all I see are smiles and unlocked doors. Canadians keep their doors unlocked! Am I in 18th century Canada?!?! (I imagine 18th century Canada would have been a lot like 18th century America…only less war.)

Where is the anger and the yelling? Where is the disrespect so commonly associated with the American people? Don’t these Seviervillians know anything? I mean, I actually saw an owner to a grocery store barter with a customer for Dollywood tickets. 60 bucks of groceries for three Dollywood tickets. BARTER! What century am I in over here?!

First, I thought only students bartered. Generally, students are the poorest people with the largest amount of random useless stuff. They do a lot of trading. But I have never actually seen someone barter while inside the store that usually only sells for dinero, with customers waiting in line and watching, during business hours! Second, do I really live in a place where Dollywood tickets have a better exchange rate than the actual dollar? I suppose I do. Wow, times is hard people. Times is hard.

I guess I’ll just have to try to cope with all of this niceness. I guess I will just have to smile a little bit myself and try to resist the urge to feel like a better happier person. I can hope, but I already feel my lips begin to curl into a helpful and welcoming smile. Ugh.

Until the end, The Mended Blend

Dolly Parton Flashback: Nine to Five (1980)

I had never seen Nine to Five. Please don’t hurt me.

The Colin Higgins 1980 film is not at all what I expected it to be. It started off like an episode of Mad Men, quickly shifted into what looked like Kevin Lima’s Enchanted, and then turned into an hilarious slice of good ole comedy of errors. Lily Tomlin and Jane Fonda are wonderful as always, but Dolly Parton lights up the screen with her first film role ever as Doralee Rhodes. She evokes a bounciness that has eventually become her trade mark.

Yes, the actresses were immortally talented and the comedic timing wonderful, but the film certainly has its drawbacks. First, there’s no resolution that follows any semblance of logic. Some Dues Ex Machina arrives and solves all the problems in the last four minutes? No thank you, Mr. Higgins, I don’t like poor storytelling. No ending could ever feel more tacked on than a dues ex machina. Also, I wasn’t aware that getting promoted would keep a man from calling the cops on the women that kidnapped him for over four weeks. Perhaps Mr. Hart and I just don’t think the same, or perhaps Nine to Five just doesn’t make sense. Then again perhaps I should be blamed for seeking logic and realism in a movie where people mix up sweet and low with rat poison and steal bodies with no consequence. Anyway, it dragged in the middle and the end disappointed, but I still got to watch Dolly Parton, Lily Tomlin, and Jane Fonda get stoned. Hilarious.

My mother would love this movie. If she doesn’t already.

Until the end, the Mended Blend.

Behind The Scenes With Dolly Parton: The Teleprompter, The Sequins, The Shoes

I had the pleasure of sitting in on a rehearsal at Dollywood featuring the one and only Ms. Dolly Parton herself. She looked exactly like what I thought she would look like except shorter. She was wearing some black pants and a tight black blouse, both of which had gold sequins sewed up, down, and across them. Her hair had more weight than she did, and her four-inch heels brought her up to about 5’5. The woman is small. I mean, in some ways she’s very large (hehe), but for the most part she’s the tiniest.

I think anyone who meets Dolly would tell you that she’s nothing but lighthearted. She jokes about absolutely everything. Her clothers, her boobs, her shoes, everything. Engaged in small talk, one of the directors of Dollywood Entertainment said something like Well it’s never easy to walk in someone else shoes! So naturally, Dolly lifts her toothpick leg into the air, teetering on her remaining limb, while raising her four inch heel to the face of the director and laughing “Ha! Just try walkin’ a mile in these shoes!”

See, Dolly Parton thinks Dolly Parton is the funniest. I mean, she’s right, so I don’t think it’s snobbish at all. She follows every one of her own jokes with a hearty laugh and a huge smile. She might be the happiest person I’ve ever seen.

Something else to know about Dolly. She doesn’t know the words to any of her songs. And she admits it. While waiting on her teleprompter to be fixed (her teleprompter by the way is a 12-foot movie screen), she walked backstage to talk to some of her chorus singers, specifically the four children who sing in her chorus.

“Well hey there! Do you know your part today? What you’re singing? I bet you do! I don’t know my part and I wrote the damn thing!”

Everyone laughed, Dolly laughed the loudest.

“I mean if I don’t have my teleprompter I’m hopeless. I mean back at the beginning of my career I could remember the songs but as you get older and your mind, you know, and they’re just so many songs! I need my teleprompter.”

She knows who she is and she doesn’t care. I mean why should she? She’s royalty in these parts. She’s given this town an economy and thousands of people jobs. She’s just one of those good people. The type you don’t meet often enough. It was a joy.

Until the end, the Mended Blend.