karen rutherford, freelance writer

A funny (well, it’s really not so funny) link a dear friend sent me this week: http://aclu.org/pizza/images/screen.swf

I recently participated in an Untours scavenger hunt. The contest was pretty easy – just find things around their Website and submit via email for a chance at the prize of $200 off a future trip.

I, along with some others, won the prize. I’m grateful and all, but unfortunately, that $200 doesn’t put a dent in the inflated prices they charge single travelers (this practice is rampant and hasn’t caught up with the demographic shift of the entire world yet – why should it, after all, when it can make a fortune off of us).

They suggest we singles hook up in the Café and travel together, allowing us to take advantage of the “normal” prices.

Good lord. <shivering> I’d sooner travel with a spider monkey than a complete stranger.

So, hold on, the World's Greatest Railway. Save me a spot in decade number two. I’ll be there.

“Which floor?”

“Thirteen, please.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. Pray for me.”

“Oh my. I didn’t know hotels did that anymore.”

“The Hiltons have total disregard for their customers' safety.”

“You probably could get a different room.”

“I suppose I could. But apparently my laziness outweighs my better judgement.”

“Hopefully, you’re not staying long.”

“Just tonight.”

“Well, that’s good.”

“Yes, a comfort, really.”

DING.

“God be with you.”

“Thank you. And with you."

I tried not to stand too close to the glass windows. I was careful to steady myself in the bathroom at all times. I moved everything out of the path to the door.

I made it to the morning and got out alive.

I’m not a horse person. I don’t dislike horses, I just don’t know any. I sometimes nod at things my friend, Lisa, who is a horse aficionado, tells me just so I won’t look so stupid.

Between Louisville and Lexington on I-64, there are not quite 100 miles of horse farm after horse farm. All the same. One after another, after another. Rolling fields, pastures I’ve heard, covered in snow after the weekend blizzard and corralled by low, dark wooden – I think – fences. An occasional barn. Some as big as houses. A horse here. A horse there. Nothing remarkable once you’ve seen the first ten or fifty.

And then.

At the end of the trek, right before the nirvana of Lexington, is the “Thoroughbred Retirement Home”. Huge happy bright green sign. Barn? Looks like a clubhouse. Brick. Crowned with gables. Country club lighting. Swimming pool? Maybe horsey hot tubs.

Deliberately lined with trees. Impeccably spaced and manicured. Letting in only the perfect mixture of sun and shade. Every so often, buckets of sorts. Actually, they look more like oversized loving cups. Full of something cool to drink. Filtered water, perhaps?

Higher and possibly heated ground. Not a speck of snow in sight, yet in any other direction, there is tons of it. Greener pastures, as it were.

I see cables. Not yet underground utilities? Lights to read by? Outdoor space heaters? Stereo? Intercom system? To call for dinner in the dining hall. Or to the parlor when family comes to visit.

The equine retirees gather in groups. So much to talk about after all. Such full, happy and productive lives.

Lone - and probably bitter - horses on the outside stare longingly in the Home’s direction. I wonder if they’ve ever tried to jump the fence. Only to hang their heads in shame at being returned to their subsidized homes where they belong. Probably only do that once.

If only they’d performed better. Saved more. Made better choices. Had a better start in life. Had more talent. Were encouraged by their parents to pursue said talent.

Somebody got mad at me last week for comparing human beings to animals in our survival of the fittest instincts. Hrmmmph.

Knoxville. The drive was beautiful. The hotel room view was beautiful. Room service was beautiful. And Tom Jones. As he puts it, he’s just “200 pounds of heavenly joy.” Then. And now.

Back home now. And so sad. I know why, of course. I count twelve reasons. Unrelated to each other, too. Oh wait, thirteen reasons 'cause I know I'll probably never make it to the people version of the Thoroughbred Retirement Home. :)

Could this be a sign? Austin is going to Galveston the first week of April for his last High School Spring Break. It dawned on me that I might go somewhere, too. So, where do I look first? Tom Jones’ Website, of course!! (Seeing him LIVE is tops on my life's to-do list.)

He’s performing at MGM that week. I calculated about $600 to get there and stay for one night. Plus the $100 for the ticket.

Then………….and luckily...…

I spotted an article or a review or some cyber thing-a-ma-jig that said he was touring the country!!

So, I delved a little deeper….

St. Louis!! 4 hours away!! An arena, though. Did I want to see Tom Jones in a hockey rink? Not so much.

Prairie Some Place, Iowa. For Tom – the first entry on my life’s to do list? Apparently, not so much.

Knoxville!! 5 hours away!! In the Tennessee Theatre where their symphony plays. Row L. Close to aisle. Not bad. Hilton 3 blocks away. Coupon. Done.

I’m a lady with chills and fever who feels the green, green grass of home.

And I don't mind if I do help myself to a lil’ puppet man.

A quick shout out to the Hampton Inn who so kindly put a full-length mirror on the outside of the bathroom door! The door opens in to the bathroom. If you’re a lone traveler like me, you, of course, don’t close the door to tinkle. So, before even thinking, you sit to take care of business and look in front of you at a full-length, up-close, birds-eye view of your entire self sitting on the toilet.

I could’ve died a happy woman NEVER seeing this. I wonder if I have a lawsuit on my hands here. I certainly feel scarred for life. That’s got to be worth something. I’d complain for a complimentary free night’s stay, but I’d have to pee again and relive the horror.

Maybe I’ll just start closing the door. And I leave tomorrow anyway - for Memphis! I’ll stop by and say a few words to my dead. I’ll drive by my grandmother’s house. I’ll remember and smile and feel a little loved.

The Welty Symposium! At first, I was a little disappointed. It was in Cochran Hall this year, not the historical and traditional Poindexter Hall I loved so much.

Cochran Hall is a dormitory and certainly didn’t have the atmosphere to fit the event. The events were held in Cochran’s ballroom, which is a recent room addition to the front of the building connected by one set of doors like an adjoining hotel room .

It didn’t feel Southern, it wasn’t old, and I didn’t feel any ghosts. Not to mention the constant slamming of doors from student traffic to and from their rooms. It was frustrating that nobody in charge ever thought to close the ballroom doors to muffle the noise.

But the authors who spoke and read made up for most of the logistics. Nan Graham, Rilla Askew, Ellen Douglas, and Karon Luddy were my favorites. I’m so glad I came, as usual. I feel special every time, like I’m part of a secret club. To hear Southern women writers read their own stories and talk about their writing lives is like a long, slow, warm enveloping hug.

I will always regret missing the 2002 Symposium. That year, Jeanne Braselton, Rome, Georgia author of A False Sense of Well Being, read. She killed herself the following Spring.

With any luck, I'll be back next year. Not to the Hampton, of course. I couldn't take that again.

It’s true what they say. You can’t go home again.

Most of the drive here was beautiful! The leaves in the mountains of Kentucky, especially. Not quite at peak, but enough for my foliage fix. With the good, comes the bad. I had to drive through Alabama this time. Alabama is not my favorite state in the union. In fact, I don't think they realize they actually ARE part of the union. Being raised in Georgia, I'm obligated to live my life according to the unwritten state law that requires participation in at least ten Alabama jokes every year. Despite moving away from Georgia eight years ago, I have yet to have a problem meeting quota.

So, I was driving toward the Alabama/Mississippi state line on Highway 82 when I came upon an unexpected sign: TOLL AHEAD. It made no sense. I was in the middle of nowhere. There were signs about Tuscaloosa, but I never saw any signs of it. When I reached the booth (of course there were no exact change lanes), I asked, “Collecting for what?” 

She opened her mouth, as if she might speak, but let out what can only be likened to a monkey giggle.

I repeated (because it’s kind of fun and you just can’t help yourself), “Seriously, where do the funds go?” She said she didn’t know. I’d like to think she went home and looked it up or made a mental note to ask a co-worker, but <imagine sound of me snorting> the likelihood of that is as remote as she was.

Anyway, the closer I got to Columbus, the fewer cars I saw, even though it was prime 5 o'clock traffic time. I counted two cars and NO trucks in my rear-view mirror when I made the Military Road exit.

But this morning, from 5am to 7am??? All I have heard is truck after truck after truck after truck. At times, it sounds like they’re coming in the room. How can that be? Maybe they’re all heading further west, where I wouldn’t have seen them driving into town? It makes sense, because East is Alabama, after all, and nobody in their right mind would purposefully head in that direction.

There is also a critical gas station/convenience store next door to the hotel. So, I hear lots of air brakes (isn’t that right?) followed by backup beeps followed sometimes by idling or sometimes full-blown re-start-ups.

I keep telling myself to be thankful for the trucks in this world. They bring us stuff. Apparently, Columbus needs lots of stuff or has lots of stuff that needs to be taken to other people first thing in the morning.

But, it’s all trivial and laughable, really. Austin is safe and had a good report from the doctor yesterday, and, despite renting a hearse, I must have driven in-between all the terrible storms yesterday.

And at last night’s opening ceremonies, Ellen Douglas read from her books and closed by saying, “Thank ya’ll for being so proud of me.”

That was worth the 5am wake-up call. That, and there’s a Waffle House (the real kind, not the kind north of the MD line) down the road.

I’ve been home for three days now from my long-weekend getaway to Tulip Time in Holland, Michigan and I’m really regretting not taking pictures. Not because it was beautiful or memorable, but because it’s already funny.

I want to remember the hotel in the middle of a strip mall parking lot. I want to remember the hotel room next to the elevator (it was in the wall in front of the bathroom). I want to remember the yellow laundry baskets that the housekeeping staff continuously banged against my door at 7am. I want to remember the Dutch Village, which was advertised as a quaint little shopping and learning experience of all things Dutch, but was actually a refurbished putt-putt golf place. The castle towers on each side of the driveway connected by an arch with paper letters. The highway on one side. The tire/muffler shop on the other.

And the Art Fair in the downtown postage-stamp-sized park. It was obviously the only thing to do in the entire state of Michigan that day, because I’ve never seen so many people. And they appeared to be folks who had saved their loose change all year, brushed a tooth or two, and donned their best overalls just for the event.

Ahhh, and the tulips. Couldn't see any at the Art Fair - too many bodies. Saw a few driving by the putt-putt-dutch place, but I see more in my neighbor's flower beds. I saw a few lined up single file on the edges of a few downtown streets, but I didn't find any beds or fields or congregated tulips anywhere. I tried again Monday thinking I had to be missing them. But it was trash day in Holland, so there they were again - single file and at attention - but this time separated by big city trash cans. Ten little tulip soldiers…..big city trash can…..ten little tulip soldiers…...big city trash can, after another, after another, after another. This vision I want to remember most.

I have to give credit to a few positives, though. I was given a free rental car upgrade because they were out of the cheap model I had reserved, so I enjoyed playing with all the buttons and gadgets. I drove (figured staying in the car as much as possible was the best option) to Grand Rapids, which was the nicest and cleanest downtown I’ve seen in a while. I saw Lake Michigan and got a much needed, but too brief, Cancerian water fix. And I did dine alone three times peacefully and proudly, until lunch at the last restaurant where an old man stared at me over his wife’s shoulder the entire time. I tried to eat with my mouth open, I tried blowing my nose at the table more than once, I tried staring back to make him look away first, which he never did. I thought about unleashing a boob and plopping it on the table, which as luck would have it was at just about the right height, but he was eating his lunch and I didn’t want him to lose it over my naked boob. That’s how I am: still trying to be kind even when staring old-rude-man adversity in the face.

This was my second and, I feel confident saying last visit to the West coast of Michigan. It will just have to carry on without me from now on. So, so long Michigan!! I know you’ll miss me as much as I’ll miss you.