It’s tobacco harvest time. There’s an air of anticipation every minute of every day out here right now for me as I drive through the back roads and look out at the fields. The tobacco looks good – giant broad-leafed dark green plants. I wonder what a tobacco field smells like.

I’ve thought about just walking into someone’s field and checking it out, touching the plants and getting some good pictures. And I’ve gone so far as to drive deep into the country in order to do just that. I’ll find a good field and then realize that I cannot just traipse into someone’s field and start fondling their crops.

I tried to meet some farmers and go out into the fields with them as I am fascinated by seeing the tobacco harvest come in. But something in my gut says to let it go. The men who work these tobacco fields, at least the ones I’ve met in the only local bar for 20 miles in either direction, have their own culture and pace and ideas about things. I’ve met many kind souls and I’m not trying to say otherwise – it’s just that they simply don’t understand why in the world I’d want to come to the fields and see what it is they are doing. So I don’t press the issue.

And apparently, lots of illegal immigrants come here to work the fields, so if I showed up with a camera, everybody would disappear because they don’t want their pictures taken. No, you just don’t go around shooting snaps in the fields around here. So, I’m watching the tobacco harvest come in from an outsider’s perspective as I drive past in my car. One day a field I’ve been watching will be full and the next day, just bare red clay. Trucks loaded with crews amble down the back roads with sticks of tobacco leaves tied and stacked. Then they hang the tobacco up in barns to dry and smoke it.

As I drive along, I know when I’m coming up on a barn - I can smell it before I see it.

Welcome to country life!

We are lucky that we live next to Mr. Joe. He’s like the honorary mayor of Adairville. He’s 80 years old and has lived here his whole life. Everybody knows him. The first thing anyone asks when they meet us is “Ya’ll ain’t from around here, are ya?” The second thing people ask is “Where do ya’ll live?” Then we tell them that we live in the house just past Mr. Joe’s.

It’s like Mr. Joe is our ticket to being an insider. Any air of suspicion that we are regarded with melts away the second that they hear we live near Mr. Joe. They just nod their heads and say, “Oh yeah, I know where that is!” Suddenly, it’s like the locals know we’re all right. We’ve passed the first test.

So this morning we were in town, searching for internet options. We decided to hit the drive-thru at Arby’s and ask them, my logic being that some Arby’s restaurants do have Wi-Fi. “What’s tha-a-a-t?” exclaimed the girl on the drive-thru headset. She actually thought we were trying to redeem a coupon.

There’s alot going on out here and alot of nothing all at the same time. I won second place at the Tenn-Tucky karaoke contest last week despite the fact that I haven’t had much of a voice since arriving here due to going out every night and yelling and screaming and smoking. This is tobacco country. Everybody smokes. It’s just what you do here. But Baby Got Back won me second place and $50 bucks.

We hang out alot at the local cafe where coffee is only a quarter. A quarter! Then there’s always burger night at the Truck Stop. Don’t let the name fool you, like it did me. This ‘Truck Stop’ is a tiny little restaurant with one gas pump that just happens to also offer diesel and a roof over the pumps that’s tall enough to accomodate a semi. But I’ve never seen a trucker there.

I’m finally beginning to get into a rhythm. I’ve kind of been a beer-guzzling sloth lately and catching up on sleep the past couple of weeks. But within the past few days, I’ve found out who is in charge of the barn art I’ve been seeing in Adairville and I’ve actually been commisioned to do a piece, which I’m very excited about.

It’s about the beginning of harvest time. They’re starting to cut the tobacco and hang it in the ‘baccer barns. After it hangs for a couple of days (?), then they smoke it. I’ve seen several smoking barns within the last few days. The smell of the tobacco wafts across the fields and is the herald of autumn. I’ve driven around with the hope of getting pictures, but people here are very guarded. I don’t blame them. It’s difficult to just rock up and start snapping pix.

The fresh food we’ve been getting is divine! Our neighbor Joe gives us a bag of tomatoes just about every day. Some one down at Tenn-Tucky gave us two boxes of fresh corn. Cantaloupes and peaches are in season right now . . . as well as zucchini and cucumbers.

I’m having fun using the clothesline.

Word about everything gets out quick around here.

Somebody said the quilt-pattern art on the barn at the Tenn-Tucky Tavern was a swastika. Within days the owner of the place heard that word in the hills was that she was running a Neo-Nazi biker bar, so the art, even though it was just a quilt pattern and not a swastika, had to come down. Tenn-Tucky is a real community resource for us. One of the bartenders made a crock pot full of gumbo for us. The Kentucky side is dry and we’re in the middle of nowhere, so everybody comes by to nab $4.95 6-packs of Busch to go. We’ve met half the town with the hours we’ve logged in there.

I’ve met some interesting characters. I had to tell the girl at the coffee shop the other day, bless her heart, that her continuing references to church were making me uncomfortable. A mexican farm hand tried to openly buy me by asking and offering money to my boyfriend. There’s the self proclaimed heavy metal guitar player from hell who quickly added in that he believes in god. And I can’t wait to try the “Okra Man’s” pickled okra.

I’ve been noticing nature, too. Finding snake skins, spying deer in the front yard and noticing that when the lightning is crackling before a storm that the lightning bugs flicker at twice their normal speed. We were flying down a back country road the other day and I almost ran over about 20 wild turkeys. That was cool. I’m trying to get tours of local dairy and tobacco farms with some of the farmers I’ve met at Tenn-Tucky and planning on reporting fully.

So, I’ll admit it.

I glamourized the country life just a little bit in my head. I am having a great time out here, I love it. I love walking through the soybean fields, seeing the new plants poke up from the wheat that was harvested last month. I love the solitude. The old house I’m staying is like a grandiose time warp, the calendar in the kitchen is dated August, 1963. I can be as loud as I want. I love the fact that I am reposing in a part of the country that’s so unique and that few people ever get to know about. But . . . there are a few shortcomings to country life that I hadn’t thought of til I got out here.

Fuel Dependency is a big issue. You pretty much have to have a car to leave the property. I thought I’d be able to walk to town and putter around. Town is only a few miles away, but the main problem I have with using my ambulatory abilities is that every neighbor has at least one mean farm dog. I get to the end of the lane and they are already barking and tearing across the nearby property, heading my way. I carry a tobacco stick for protection, but I don’t want to take on three strange dogs by myself.

And oddly enough, safety is a bit of a concern. Not a worry, so much, but a concern. I was walking through one of the fields the other day, when I noticed a car coming down the road. Whoever was in the car saw me and then slowed waaay down. I didn’t like that. Also, I’m not the kind of person who is intimidated by going anywhere by myself, but I can honestly say that around here, I feel safer when not alone. There are alot of drunk, obnoxious men with an air of lawlessness in their eyes who don’t know how to act when they see a hippie girl in flowery dress and floppy hat who is obviously not from around here. (Whoa, just wait til I roller skate the square in Adairville.)

A friend asked me today what happens when the newness of living in Tenn-Tucky wears off and we all stop having a good time. And honestly, that’s part of the reason why we’re all leaving when it gets cold. It’ll be time to move on. And I’ve been meeting alot of locals around here who very much feel stuck. They regard us as novelties - as much as we regard them in the same way. So, this is a great adventure for me, but this place is a bit like summer camp as I know it will have an end. And that makes any short-comings bearable.

I’m eating tons of bacon and drinking PBR daily, so when you get right down to it all of my complaints about country life have to do with my magical expanding ass coupled with a lack of viable exercise. I might have to (gasp!) start doing yoga or some such shit. Sigh. I suppose them’s the brakes. Bacon is worth it. So is beer.

I drove 20 hours straight from ABQ to the farm in Kentucky to live with my new boyfriend Matt and his friend Hardy. I don’t think that driving 20 hours straight was the smartest thing I’ve ever done in my life, but I wanted the experience. Plus I was paranoid that someone would see all the boxes in my car and try to rob me. And the bulk of what I had with me was every shred of writing I’ve ever done in my whole entire life, so it was more important to me than anything and I didn’t want to chance losing any of it.

While on the road, I encountered two dudes who were robbed at gunpoint and their truck had two bullet holes in the driver’s door. They got held up in Oklahoma City. It made me feel like my choice to drive all night long was a correct one. Arkansas smells. Stinks like a combination of manure, moth balls and skunks. My arrival in Nashville greeted me with rain and crazy fast drivers during morning rush hour. Perfect and typical Nashville greeting. I got to the farm just when the rain started to fall really hard on the tin roof of the farmhouse. Perfect.

I don’t have internet on the farm, but plan on trying to update this blog at least twice a week. So stay tuned!

So last week after we got back to the farm from our Memphis excursion, we decided to check out a bar in Springfield, Tennessee that the locals call the ‘Stop ‘N Stab.’ We’d heard lots of tales and warnings, but wanted to check it out for ourselves.

We couldn’t find it at first and stopped at a local liquor store to get directions.

First, we inquired about Firefly Sweet Tea Vodka. I’m here to tell you that it’s the BEST stuff. It’s made in South Carolina and kind of hard to find outside of the extreme Southeast. We’re running low and need to special order some more. Then we also asked for directions to The Piggy Pit - the real name of the ‘Stop ‘N Stab.’

The liquor store saleslady’s eyes got really wide when we inquired and she said, “Oh, I’d never go there unless I knew somebody. People die up there. People get shot and stabbed ‘n stuff.” Perfect! That’s just what we heard too!

“Well,” we said, “we want to go anyway.”

“Hey Mike!” she screamed to the back of the store to the her manager, “How do you get to that shootin’, stabbin’ place? They wanna know!”

We got directions and headed out. I’m not gonna lie, we were scared. We were even worried about where we parked. But when we got inside, it was just another normal community beer joint. People didn’t smile at us. They looked at us. We looked at them. I think we were lucky because it was still daylight. We ordered one round and then left. The place is in a bad neighborhood, so I could see how it might get rough at night.

Ha! We’re going tomorrow.

I flew back into Albuquerque yesterday. Someone told me the other day that I’ve got more tour dates than a band. I thought that was an exciting way to look at it.

Last night I picked up my car. Today I packed all my stuff from the storage unit. Tomorrow I begin my drive to Kentucky. I’m couchsurfing tonight with an awesome lady who took me to see foreign projected movies with a whole big bunch of her Latin friends from all over Mexico, Central and South America. We ate the best tacos because they know which taco truck is the best. They are a great crowd and I am very excited that I got to hang with them tonight.

I’m dirty, tired and in the same clothes as yesterday. The same clothes I will be in tomorrow. I’ll be back in ABQ someday and next time I know some solid people to hang with. Tonight as I laid on the deck, the movie playing in the background, I felt the soft warm wind come in and the stars were twinkling above me and there were pinkish clouds hanging in the night sky and everything was effortless and easy. It was a nice feeling . . . a necessary feeling.

Yes, as in also.

Trust me on this . . . 5 bucks and a 6-pack of Coca-cola gets you a lifetime membership. Oh, and the stain, ask about the stain. Make sure you see Elvis’ report card from where he failed Music class. Holly Springs, Mississippi - Graceland Too . . . if you are ever remotely near Memphis, you have to go . . . and preferably with a whiskey buzz.

This Temple dedicated to The King is open 24/7 and is known 100% by word of mouth. We rode up to the mansion built in 1853, turned all-time #1 Elvis Fan shrine, all excited and between the four of us we had two cases of Coca-cola. With it’s rows of barbed wired cement lions covered in white rope lights, the place did indeed look strange enough to be the final destination for our goofy pilgrimage . . . We knocked on the duck-taped door. No one at home. So, we decided he must’ve walked down to the Piggly Wiggly for groceries and that if we waited around awhile, he’d be back around nightfall.

We went up to the square and found a little diner. When we asked the waitress about Graceland Too, she just smiled and said in her Southern motherly voice, “Well, now, ya’ll will have a good time, no doubt. I mean, I’ve never been myself, but I cannot guarantee that every little thang that comes out of his mouth is the truth . . . He’ll be back prob’ly after ya’ll have time to eat dinner. I bet he walked down to the Piggly Wiggly.”

Two elderly ladies with canes came up to our table and said, “We saw ya’ll standing outside of Graceland Too. Neither of us has ever been, but he sure is an interesting fella. You’ll have a good time.”

We went back, just as a carload of frat boys pulled up too. This time he opened the door. Every surface of every wall and ceiling are covered with some sort of Elvis picture or printed out comment from people who’ve visited. He tells lots of tall tales, but I can’t remember most of them because I was so fixated on his floppy false teeth slipping around in his mouth. I do remember that he named his own son Elvis Aaron Presley McLeod and is absolutely convinced that Elvis and his son Elvis look 100% alike. He sang for us, told lots of stories and after the first room, we were all openly cracking up at him, not with him - but the best part is, he doesn’t care!

He’s a dirty old man and says that Cokes make him horny. He has a pink Cadillac and lots of other strange items, like a fake electric chair and fake ball and chain props made with black spray-painted basketballs. He talks about raking in the money and shows pictures of a rake and alot of money (I saw 1’s and 5’s in with those 100’s) taken from his front porch. Most All of the stories he tells are about himself, but it’s a trippy little delight.

I think Elvis would be proud . . . and really that’s all that matters. And don’t forget to ask about the stain.