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.