The irony was, I was running late because I was reading. Late to a Literary Festival because I had my nose buried in a book. Not even an approved good book. Just some mindless blip. I finished The Stand Friday. That’s right. I read it in less than two weeks, with another book knocked out in two days for book club. I would like my medal now. Please make the ribbon red for victory. If you can find me a riser and podium I’ll be glad to make a speech of encouragement to the rest of you lackadaisical commoners. I might need a crown, too. My current one isn’t quite ostentatious enough. 

But I’m getting ahead of myself, as usual. The Sevierville Chamber of Commerce puts on a Literary Festival once a year called Rose Glen. I’m not qualified to tell you about the history, but I found these two videos enlightening. They’re each about ten minutes long. Rose Glen Videos <—-If you think they’re not worth your time, or you’re just lazy (hey, I’m not here to judge, I have a hard time committing to anything over 30 seconds), let me just tell you so you’ll know-Rose Glen is that old house next to the Walter State Campus in Sevierville. You know, I always thought it was part of Johnny King’s property, because he kept cattle there, but evidently not. Anyway, so now you know. But the videos truly are fascinating, you really should watch them. I have wanted to attend this particular shindig for many years, but I used to always work on Saturdays so I wouldn’t have been able to attend, anyhow. Somehow it slipped by me last year and I had to hear about what a great time was had by all about a week after the fact at the board meeting. Which is disappointing. I mean, does anybody love Southern Literature more than me? I think not. I should be the Chair on this! Or at least a consultant. The chair would be too big of a headache. I’m not that organized. And I hate asking for donations.

Once I arrived and located my good friend (and, shall I mention, Director of the Sevier County Public Library System) just where she said she would be, we made our way to the festivities. We stopped many times as we made our way past tables fronting local authors and their wares. We were stopped by friends of Rhonda’s, contacts of mine, and many mutual acquaintances. I was lit up like a Christmas tree and beaming stupidly at everyone and everything. It was enthralling. I had agonized over how dressy an affair this was, but decided since it was in the middle of the day and was hosting a bunch of local flavor, I decided I could get by with jeans. Let’s face it-writers are eccentric and it wouldn’t surprise me a bit to find more than one in clothes they’d had on for three days, with facial hair to match. I did refrain from wearing my honeybee shoes, though. I didn’t want to embarrass Rhonda. I should have worn a tank top, shorts, and flip flops because it was one hundred and twenty-six degrees in the convention center, but too late. People kept hugging me and all I could think about was how damp I must feel. Ew.

When we sat down for the luncheon, I noticed how many of us were sporting glasses. Lots of glasses. I don’t know if my fellow readers didn’t approve of contacts or if they just didn’t like the trouble of taking care of something else. It’s pretty easy just to grab your glasses and go. Or maybe they’re like me and can’t bear the thought of touching their eyeballs. I get it. Spectacles till the end of my days. It’s nice to be in the company of others who share similar interests, whether it be just the love of reading or fashion. Not that anyone would accuse voracious readers as having much of a fashion sense. But there was an author there sporting a fox around her neck. She was perfectly fabulous. I wanted to buy her book: here it is, The Gatekeeper but I waited too long and she had a cluster of women around her so no book, and no picture of me with an author wearing a fox stole. Too bad.

But I’ve drifted. Back to lunch. Everything was going swimmingly, two children’s authors had joined us and I was trying to be cool and act like I dined with celebrities all of my living days when this couple from New Jersey joined us. Sigh. I immediately lost interest in them as the husband began griping about tolls up there, and how the state government charged him $6,000 to move and how he could have gotten out of it had he known ahead of time and yada yada yada. Yankees ruin everything. He should have followed the lot of them on down to Florida. Finally, the presentation began and we directed our attention to the speaker. Wiley Cash was eventually introduced, and he made some quip about how we were locals, but we weren’t really from here, though, right? I tried not to take offense, but I felt the steam build in my ears. I knew of a handful of folks in attendance that yes, we sure were. But turns out, he was looking at the bigger picture, from six and seven generations back. Ok. Wiley was a terrific speaker, and it was obvious he had done his research for his latest book. I was a little disappointed that I had purchased it a month prior on my Kindle. And I didn’t want to plunk down thirty bones on an older work that I could get for five on Abebooks. I listened to his clear voice reading a passage of his novel and I could see the landscape. I knew about poor. I saw it every day. On my way in, I had flown along the back roads, from the Boyds Creek valley, cutting through the hollers of Indian Gap and not taking much time to note the houses that were one step away from being condemned. Probably already would be, if the county officials would take a closer look. And where would you put them? These people don’t want to be in government subsidized housing, living right on top of people they don’t know. No, better to scrape by out here in the boon docks, carrying wood in to feed to the stove, and recycling worn out shirts into han’kerchiefs and sheets into curtains. Better to hang your clothes on a line than go to the laundry mat. Better to shoot a few squirrels and fry them with last spring’s crappie than to use the EBT card. Better to plant by the signs than by the weatherman. Better to read the Bible than surf the web.

I write of the old whitewashed shacks that lean just a hair too far to the left, with warped steps coming up from a worn path through the scruffy yard. The cinderblock houses with chickens pecking out front, mingling with dogs on chains. The trailers that were old in the ’80s, out by the lake, with three styles of bicycles in the yard, abandoned where the children outgrew them. I’m talking about the cabins tucked up in the wood line, letting all the vegetation to encroach-the better to hide behind and keep nosy people out. Air conditioning would be nice, but a fan does the trick, it’s not so bad of the evening when you can open all the windows and let the breeze come through. These places have gravel driveways, pockmarked with ruts that catch water, or maybe there’s just a wide spot by the road to pull into. There’s wildflowers and clover, no zoysia grass here. If there’s a fence, it’s barbed wire, and rusted, and the tree closest to the road has a No Trespassing sign nailed to it. And they mean it.

Some of the homesteads are proud; they’re small, but neat. They have sweet tea brewing on the sun drenched step and a porch with a swing. Most will have a garden off to the side, brimming with tomatoes, crowded with corn, and decorated with a scarecrow in holey overalls. Daffodils provide a cheery welcome near the mailbox.

And one more thing: they don’t think they’re poor. I guess because they have what matters: peace of mind.

And some are trash, people with no respect for their home, their lives, or their family. These dwellings have rubbish piled high, fifteen cars that don’t run scattered about in waist high weeds. You can almost see the snakes crawling.

These places aren’t far off the main road. Five minutes from any spot on Highway 66 I could show you three dozen.

I drifted back.

The keynote speaker was mentioning the mill ladies, and his grandmother who carpooled to get there. And I remembered my own great-grandmother, who carpooled with her sister and another lady to get to her mill, Bike Athletic Company. And when I have her story wrote, I’ll add a link here.

So yeah, Wiley Cash, I know what you’re talking about. And I absolutely could not wait to read his book. {Things didn’t turn out the way I expected, read my public amazon review RIGHT HERE.}Ok, I shared the link to my blog review, because the Amazon review will move around as he gets newer ones.}

After the question and answer portion, we were dismissed, and my partner in crime wanted to see about wrangling him for a book signing and speaking engagement at the library. She bought the book as a means to pave the way (read: suck up) and we stood in a mercifully short line to get it autographed. Faced with Mr. Cash, all I could think to say was, “I love your name,” like a starstruck idiot. “I’m pretty jealous.” Then I began to worry that make me sound like I wanted to be Mrs. Wiley Cash, but it was too late. He pushed his glasses up endearingly and told me he heard that pretty frequently. Whew. I mean, but really. Wiley CASH? #awesome

So, to recap, it was a great day, spent in the company of a good friend and piles of books. Although I didn’t buy a single one. That’s self restraint right there. I rarely venture out from my hermit life on the weekends. This was so worth it.

And as I headed home, winding my way in my old pickup, I took note of the many tin roof homesteads, tucked away from prying eyes and flashy neighbors. You’d have to pay them a sight more than $6,000 to move. And I smiled. I know where I come from. And dang right I’m proud.