The Fly in the Ointment (Blog #570)

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This morning I woke up at four-thirty in order to come back home to Arkansas after spending the lion’s share of this last week in Tennessee on a travel writing trip. Holy crap, y’all–four-thirty is not my finest hour. It was all I could do to pour a cup of coffee and pour myself into the mini-van that took me and another journalist to the Nashville airport at five. Even with the addition of caffeine, I was moving with all the agility of a three-toed sloth as I navigated airport security then went in search of breakfast.

If I haven’t explained it before in writing (and I don’t think I have), travel writing is a job. The way it works is that a business–usually a local or state tourism department–contracts with a public relations (PR) firm in an effort to promote their product (in this case, a particular area of the state and its included businesses). Then the PR firm gathers journalists from around the region or country, flies them in, arranges their lodging, and busses them around to various and sundry restaurants, activities, and tourist attractions, many of which donate their food or service in exchange for exposure. The understanding, of course, is that the journalists will write an article for their respective publications based on their honest experience. To be clear, there’s absolutely no pressure from the client or the PR firm to include every business visited or activity completed in your story, nor is there any pressure to say or focus on something specific. Indeed, many travel writers ONLY write about beer and wine or outdoor adventures, and some ONLY write personality profiles (like, about a local craftsman or artist), although they experience MUCH MORE while on “press trips.”

Here’s a picture of our group from this last week (along with some of the trip organizers/sponsors), minus one journalist who left sooner than the rest of us. Our group included writers from Virginia, Texas, Kansas, California, Minnesota, Alabama, and Arkansas (me).

I say all this for context, since someone watching a travel writer’s social media posts could easily get the idea that it’s all fun and games (look at me on the lake!) and that there isn’t any work involved. But there is work involved–it’s up early every morning, and then it’s go-go-go. And whereas a short hike and a glass of wine with a reasonable meal sounds like a good day and absolutely nothing to bitch about, travel writing is all of that IN EXCESS. Yesterday we visited two state parks, a beer festival, and a privately leased lake. Two days before that we visited three wineries and one state park. At each stop, someone wants to share their story. So you have to pay attention. You have to remember names. You have to cultivate relationships. Even when you’re tired or your back hurts, you have to be pleasant. Then later, you have to sit down and sort through all your photos and notes, not to mention the six-inch pile of pamphlets, brochures, and business cards you’ve been handed throughout the week and miraculously managed to cram into your already overstuffed suitcase. Eventually you have to somehow make sense of the whole mess. Long after the good times are over and your memories have faded, you have to write a coherent story.

This is us working–taking pictures–at Standing Stone State Park.

Here’s a picture of the area we traversed this week, the Upper Cumberland in Tennessee. The Upper Cumberland is between Nashville and Knoxville. Every pink highlighter mark is somewhere at least part of our group went. Every circled city is somewhere I went personally. Reasonably, a person would visit one or two cities in a week. Maybe three. If I counted right, I visited thirteen. This is why my brain is currently mush.

All that being said, I’m not grousing; TRAVEL WRITING IS FUN. This last week I got to experience half a dozen state parks and many, many good meals that I never would have otherwise–essentially for free. The entire time, I only paid for one thing–a glass of wine (because alcohol, as a general rule, isn’t included with meals.) So that’s pretty fucking great–five days of lovely lodging, five days of being chauffeured around, and five days of adventures and excitement–all expenses paid. As they say, it’s nice work if you can get it.

So get this shit. After five days of the royal treatment, this morning at the Nashville airport I had to pay for my own breakfast. Like, my waitress brought ME the ticket and wouldn’t let me leave until I’d reached into my wallet and given her fourteen dollars and eighty-seven cents (plus tip). The nerve!

Harumph.

This was a serious reality check. A definite departure from Fantasy Land back into The World of Normal. As if that weren’t enough, on my first flight I ended up in THE MIDDLE SEAT (I HATE the middle seat) between TWO DUDES, one of whom was TWICE MY SIZE in height and girth and–I think, technically speaking–took up his entire seat and twenty-five percent of mine.

Just before the plane took off, I texted my friend Marla, “What did I do to make Jesus mad?”

Marla said Jesus was doing me a favor, easing me back into the life of living with my parents and watching Days of Our Lives.

Folded on top of myself and starting to break a sweat, I thought, This is the lord’s definition of easing?

Since this guy had the aisle seat, for two hours I tucked my elbows into my ribcage and leaned toward the window–into the other dude’s space. Now I’m pretty sure I have scoliosis. On top of that, this man (who did seem nice, by the way) FELL ASLEEP, which meant–because I’m a Southerner and didn’t want to disturb him–that I couldn’t ask him to stand up so I could use the bathroom. Which I really needed to do.

So I just held it.

This was ANOTHER reality check. Today’s proverbial fly in the ointment of this last week.

That Jesus–always looking out for me.

Now it’s 11:35 at night, and I’m home and settled in. All told, it took nine hours to make it back to Fort Smith. My Dad picked me up from the airport, and after we went out for Mexican food (I had to pay for that too!), I came home and took a three-hour nap. When I woke up, I unpacked and reorganized my things. This process took two hours, since I went straight from house sitting to this travel writing trip and therefore had multiple suitcases to sort through. Then I started laundry. I’m on my last load now. With any luck at all, I’ll be back in bed within thirty minutes, will sleep through the night, and will wake up tomorrow morning ready to face reality and whatever new adventures come my way.

Ugh. Even if I have to pay for them.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"We were made to love without conditions. That's the packaging we were sent with."

Richer (Blog #569)

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Today in a nutshell–

1. Standing Stone State Park

This morning our travel writing group toured Standing Stone State Park. Honest to God, I have no idea where it was–somewhere in Tennessee, obviously. Today I learned that since Tuesday our group has visited ten cities in six or seven different counties. We’ve been all over God’s green earth, bussed around in mini-vans like soccer-playing, ballet-dancing children of suburbanites. It’s been amazing, of course, but also disorienting. Every hour I’ve ask, “Where the hell are we now?” Anyway–back to Standing Stone. It was built by the Works Progress Administration in the 1930s, and I learned today that the WPA was a lot like the CCC (Civilian Conservation Corps), except the WPA employed older, married men, and the CCC did not.

2. Blues and Brews

Next we went to Blues and Brews Craft Beer Festival, an annual fundraiser for Cookeville’s PBS station. Y’all! They gave us VIP passes, which allowed us not only to listen to live blues music, but also to sample from eighty craft beers and eat all the tacos, nachos, and chicken wings we wanted. THIS WAS MY FAVORITE ACTIVITY THIS WEEK BY FAR, HANDS DOWN, AND WITHOUT A DOUBT (for sure). Seriously–free beer. What’s not to love? Marcus was one happy camper! And the best part? I worked the line with my friends Steve and Annie, and since Steve is HILARIOUS and Annie knows A LOT about beer, I was both entertained AND educated.

That’s Steve, Annie, and me in today’s featured photo.

Here’s a picture of Eric Matthews, my friends Tom and Jen, and me. Eric is a famous kayaker that several of our journalists met earlier this week and that I just met this afternoon. He gave me a pretzel. (Don’t be jealous.)

3. Edgar Evins State Park

After the Blues and Brews festival, we traveled to “yet another” state park–Edgar Evins. And here’s something fabulous–Edgar Evins is known for their lake–Center Hill Lake–which means we got to go out on a pontoon boat and toodle around the waters. Talk about a great way to relax after an afternoon of drinking! Plus, by this time the sun had come out (it was cloudy all morning), so the weather was just perfect.

Here’s a picture I took from the boat. I know, it’s ridiculous.

Here’s a picture of a sign I saw on the boat dock when we came back to land. It says, “Life doesn’t get any better than this!” When I first saw the sign I thought–You’re right, this is fabulous, and tomorrow I’ll be back in Fort Smith talking about Days of Our Lives with my parents; Lord, take me now!–I also thought, Well that’s not very optimistic.

I mean, who wants to believe, It’s all downhill from here?

4. Sunset Marina

Our final activity–both for today and for the trip–was dinner at Sunset Marina on Dale Hollow Lake, where Luke Bryan filmed his music video for “Sunrise, Sunburn, Sunset.” Ugh. It was so cool–the owner fed us dinner on a two-story house boat (that sleeps twelve and includes a hot tub on the roof of the second story), then we ate dessert and drank coffee while the boat (well, technically the driver) took us around the lake. Next to the beer thing, this was my other favorite activity, since it was so chill–we had a couple hours just to visit. There really is nothing like being around like-minded, creative people.

Here’s a picture of me and my friend Robin. We had the best conversation tonight. I’m SO thankful for her.

5. The hotel

After our farewell event, we were all dropped off at our respective hotels. Everyone flies out tomorrow. Anyway, when we got back, my friend Tom and I sat down to discuss swing dancing, writing, and life. Tom says “we went to different high schools together,” that we’re on the same conveyer belt (in other words, we have a lot in common), but he’s just farther down the line than I am. Again, what a delight to be around people who instantly accept you with open arms. From day one, Tom’s literally put his arm around my shoulders. “We’re brothers,” he says.

This is no small thing.

Now it’s 10:49, and as much as is possible, I’m already packed, since I have to be out of my room and ready to go at 5:00 in the morning. Yuck. But still, all I have to do is drag my ass to the car, let someone else do the driving, scoot through airport security, and make my way onto the plane. Well, two planes, but then I’ll be home. And whereas I’ll mostly like be worn to a frazzle and LOOK worse for the wear, I won’t be. Indeed, I’m already better for having been in Tennessee this week. I’m richer both in experiences and in relationships. My heart’s more open than it was before.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We're allowed to relabel and remake ourselves.

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In Stride (Blog #568)

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Today’s adventures in travel writing–

1. Grinder House Coffee

This morning officially started at 6:45, at which time I checked out of the cabin I’ve been staying in since arriving in Tennessee and met the other journalists and staff for breakfast at Grinder House Coffee in Crossville. What a delightful way to start the day. It was probably the coolest coffee shop I’ve ever been in, and both the staff and the food (I had a lemon zest waffle) were delightful.

Delightful, I say.

2. Cane Creek Falls

Our entire group spent most of the morning and part of the afternoon at Fall Creek Falls State Park, Tennessee’s most-visited state park and home to several waterfalls. Y’all, it was gorgeous–like something you’d see out of a movie–literally. The 1994 version of The Jungle Book was filmed at this park! Check out the below picture of Cane Creek Falls, the waterfall Mowgli jumps into in this scene of the movie. It’s 85 feet from the top of the falls to the bottom. (Apparently King Kong and The Pink Power Ranger–or at least their stunt doubles–have also jumped off this cliff.)

Here’s a picture of me and three other journalists–my friends David and Kay (they’re married) and Annie–at the top of Cane Creek Falls.

Here’s a picture of me and my friend Tom at Cane Creek Cascades, which is just above Cane Creek Falls. A cascade is a waterfall that descends in steps or intervals; a plunge waterfall–like Cane Creek Falls–is one that descends unimpeded.

Notice the swinging bridge above the cascades in the above photo. This bridge was also used in The Jungle Book, although the movie-makers covered it in vines and leaves for the film. Here’s a selfie I took just before walking across the bridge. (I ran back. Then I read the sign that said, “No running.” Thankfully, neither of the two rangers who were guiding our tour gave me a hard time. Phew. That was close. I’m such a law-breaker.)

3. Fall Creek Falls

Next we saw Fall Creek Falls–the state park’s namesake–first from above, then from below. And whereas you can’t tell from the below photograph, Fall Creek Falls is over twice the height of Cane Creek Falls. It’s 256 feet high, the largest plunge waterfall east of the Mississippi. Check it out. (There’s not a lot of water because it’s dam-controlled, and the dam is currently being repaired.) Notice the orange patina on the rocks. Basically, it’s rust, the result of naturally occurring iron oxide mixing with an abundance of water. One more thing about the picture, for scale–the thee non-orange rocks to the left of the pool of water are people. There are actually five people in the photo.

After seeing Fall Creek Falls, we ate a sack lunch then checked out two overlooks in the park. Here’s a picture from the second overlook of what our guide told me is one of the most photographed trees in Tennessee and maybe America. I said, “I had no idea I was standing RIGHT NEXT to a celebrity.”

4. Ozone Falls

Next we went to Ozone Falls, which is another plunge waterfall (in a different park) and 110 feet high. Again, we got to see it from above and from below. Well, we had the option to see it from below, since it was a bit of a strenuous hike to get down there. And whereas I ripped up part of my left boot while navigating rocks to see this feat of nature, it was more than worth it.

It’s just a boot.

5. Black Mountain

Our last outdoor stop today was Black Mountain. And whereas the other places we visited today were all over God’s creation, this one was back in Crossville, one of the two towns we’ve been back and forth between all week and the one in which (until tonight) I’ve been staying. Anyway, check out this spectacular view.

Here’s a picture from Black Mountain that includes me and one of the other journalists, my friend Jill.

6. Forte’s

For dinner tonight we ate in Crossville at Forte’s Restaurant, an Italian place. Y’all, it was the perfect thing–wonderful food and delightful company. This is a such a terrific group. We’ve shared stories and jokes all day long. We’ve laughed, laughed, laughed. At least I have.

7. One other thing

Despite it being a wonderful day, I’m exhausted on every level, since today was a lot of being in the sun, a lot hiking mountains and valleys, a lot of go-go-go. And one other thing–just before dinner I took a stroll around downtown by myself, and some guy in a truck drove by and yelled, “Queer!” And I don’t know, it was–uh–unsettling, since it was the first time in my entire life that’s happened. Strange, I know–so many gays have much worse experiences way before they turn 38. Anyway, that was it. It could have been better, it could have been worse. They kept driving, and I went back to the restaurant. Still, I’m not sure where to put the experience other than in the “shit happens” drawer.

After dinner we drove an hour to Cookeville, where I checked into The Towneplace Suites, and the front desk employee said, “Two double queens?” and my first thought was, Is it THAT fucking obvious?! And NO, asshole! If you MUST know, I’m a SINGLE QUEEN. But then I realized he was talking about the beds in my room and said, “That’ll be fine, thank you.”

Now it’s 11:13, and I have a headache. I keep staring at the beds because I’d rather be there than here. Isn’t that so often the case, not wanting to be where we are? We hear a good joke or have a good day and want it to last, last, last. But this isn’t life. Sooner or later someone or something almost always comes along to spoil the fun. This morning at breakfast my friend Tom said, “A tourist comes to see what they expect to see; a traveler comes to see what he sees.” For me, this is another way of saying that we’re happier when we accept whatever comes along, when we take all of life–the good and the bad, the mountains and the valleys–in stride.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Damn if good news doesn't travel the slowest.

"

What We Don’t Know (Blog #567)

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What a wonderful life.

Yesterday after I posted the blog, my small group went for a hike. This is something I don’t do nearly often enough, get out in nature. It was so gorgeous, so invigorating. Then we watched our guide feed the owls, the birds they’ve rescued and are nursing back to health. Oh my gosh, y’all, they feed them dead mice. (GAG!) I joked, “Do you buy the mice from Amazon?”

“From the pet store,” our guide said.

Hum. What can you say about watching an owl systematically tear apart and choke down a small rodent? It was fascinating. It was powerful. It was gross. It was bloody. It was both terrific and terrifying.

It was life.

After watching the owls eat, we explored the dam I mentioned yesterday that was built by the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC). That’s the back of it in today’s featured image. Here’s a picture from the top, looking over the other (front) side toward Bird Lake, which we kayaked yesterday morning.

For dinner last night we all met up in Cookeville and ate at a local pub–Father Tom’s. Since the inside of the restaurant was full, I ate outside on a heated patio with several other journalists. Y’all, it was the perfect thing, this delightfully laid-back evening filled with darling conversation and much-needed laughter. So perfect, in fact, I forgot to check my phone for messages or take any pictures.

This is how I know I was in the moment.

Yesterday after I posted the blog, I took a nap. Then last night I was in bed by 10:30 (and up this morning at 5:30), so I’ve been better rested today. Like, capable of coherent conversation before sunrise. Which is good–when you’re travel writing, at least with this group, there’s always something going on and something to talk about, so it’s a plus to be both vertical and alert.

Our first stop today was a local coffee roasting business–Broasters. The owner was just like everyone else I’ve met here–warm, open, kind, and enthusiastic. On top of that, his store’s drip coffee was SO GOOD. I’m really not a coffee snob, but after this morning, I think I could become one. I even got to try–for the first time–cascara tea, which is cherry-flavored drink made from the hull of the coffee bean. It was fabulous.

Better than any relationship I’ve ever been in.

See, Marcus, good things CAN happen before noon.

Since leaving the coffee shop, I’ve been on a wine tour with several other journalists. I think there are nine of us–journalists and staff together–doing this, while the rest of the group does outdoor stuff like I did yesterday. Anyway, currently it’s 1:00 in the afternoon, and we’ve already been to two local wineries and are now on our way to the third. (I’m blogging in the car; we’re about thirty minutes away from our destination.)

The first winery was DelMonaco. It was gorgeous, like something you’d see in a movie, and the owners welcomed us like family. The wife, who poured all our samples, used my name every time she spoke to me. This is no small thing, to look people in the eye and make them feel important.

And it doesn’t hurt to get them tipsy either.

Here’s a picture of several of our group in the DelMonaco elevator. (Elevators are great places for taking random pictures.)

The second winery on today’s vino tour was Cellar 53, another family-owned outfit. What a treat! These folks really went over the top. Not only did they provide more wines, but they also partnered with a local restaurant (Ebel’s Tavern) and provided lunch–oysters, scallops, steak, asparagus, broccoli, and cheesecake. Delicious!

Here’s a picture of the oysters, the FIRST oysters I’ve ever eaten. (These oysters were baked; there were also raw oysters, but I didn’t try those. One thing at a time!)

Here’s a picture of the cheesecake. And I know you wouldn’t guess by looking at my rock-hard body, but this was NOT the first cheesecake I’ve ever eaten.

Hard to believe, I know.

2:13 PM

We just left the third winery, where we were pressed for time because we apparently ran late at the last place. Anyway, this spot was Highland Manor Winery, Tennessee’s oldest winery.

“How old is old?” someone asked.

“38 years,” the owner said. “We started in 1980.”

So that felt good. (1980 is the year I started too.)

Anyway, check out Highland Manor’s cool basement.

4:53 PM

Well shit. I lost internet for a while, then got swept up in our last major stop for the day (besides dinner)–the Alvin C. York State Park. Wow. I got quite the education. Alvin C. York was a war hero from WWI. At first a conscientious objector, he was drafted into the war and ended up almost single-handedly capturing over a hundred Germans. Like, he was a big deal. Hollywood even made a movie about him (Sergeant York) that starred Gary Cooper. Anyway, we got to meet one of Sergeant York’s daughters and his great-granddaughter, as well as tour his home and property (which were given to the state after he and his wife died). Also, we got to tour the school that Sergeant York started when he returned from the war and that his great-granddaughter is now working to have renovated and turned into the Sergeant York Center for Peace and Valor.

Here’s a picture of a map of Germany that’s believed to have been used by York during the war.

The last thing we did before leaving the park was tour a replica of a WWI trench that was dug out and constructed in what used to be Sergeant York’s backyard. (Sergeant York would have lived in such a trench while fighting the war in Germany.) The tour was given by park employee Joseph Gamble, who wore the traditional “dough boy” uniform of WWI. (The term “dough boy” was also used to refer to soldiers in the Spanish-American war and most likely derives from the fact that the soldiers were often so covered in dust that they looked as if they had flour–or dough–all over them.) But seriously–can you imagine wearing that outfit every day and eating, sleeping, and living in what essentially amounts to a hole in the ground?

I certainly can’t.

5:18 PM

Now we’re almost to dinner, and my brain is more fried than a piece of chicken. Whenever we’re done eating, I want to go to bed–and not stay up to blog–so I’m trying to wrap this up. How do you summarize a beautiful day? I haven’t even mentioned my new friend Tom, a journalist from California with whom I’ve been speaking on and off the entire morning, afternoon, and evening. Tom’s an old war-horse, a veteran in the travel writing world, and hosts a podcast called Journeys of Discovery on NPR. He’s SO cool–curious, kind, interested, and interesting. Tom says that as journalists our strength is rooted in what we don’t know, not in what we do. I think this is important, to keep an open mind, to always be willing to learn, to not assume you have the entire damn world–including yourself and your neighbor–figured out.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You've got to believe that things can turn around, that even difficult situations--perhaps only difficult situations--can turn you into something magnificent.

"

The Griswolds, Pirate Sam, and Devil Bullshit Ale (#566)

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Holy crap. It’s 8:00 in the morning, and I’ve been awake since 5:30. How did I get myself into this?

I should back up.

Yesterday I arrived in Tennessee for a travel writing trip, and after lunch in Cookeville was deposited in Crossville at Cumberland Mountain State Park. Um–y’all–the cabin I’m staying in is straight out of the 1930s. Like, I bet it was been THE SHIT back in the day. (The Griswolds would have loved it.) As it is now–well–let’s just say it’s rustic. And big–it’s way big. I’ve got the whole place–cabin 24–all to myself. Which is a little lonely. But hey, I can run around naked.

Don’t worry, Mom, I shut the blinds.

This is one of those “bring your own” places. What I mean is that it has a coffee pot, but no coffee. (Bring your own.) Likewise, it has plates, dishes, and cooking equipment, but no food. (Bring your own.) This is fine, of course, but after I went to the bathroom yesterday and wanted to wash my hands, I realized there wasn’t any soap–or shampoo or conditioner. (UH–bring your own.) That being said, I DID find a small bottle of Palmolive, which worked for washing my hands, but I thought, I DON’T WANT TO SHOWER WITH THIS STUFF!

Call me stuck up, but we all have standards.

Thankfully, the group that’s organizing this trip picked up soap, shampoo, and conditioner for me and the rest of the journalists staying in the cabins. (We’re in Crossville; some other journalists are in hotels in Cookeville.) So all is well.

Cookeville, which is an hour away from Crossville, is where most of our activities are taking place this week. This means that for us cabin-dwellers, there’s a lot of driving (or rather, being driven) back and forth. This also means we have to be ready to hit the road at 6:00 most mornings, since breakfast starts at 7:00. And whereas I’m not in love with the early-bird thing, it’s going to work out. This morning when my alarm went off, I got dressed, shoved a chocolate-covered donut in my mouth, then simply poured myself into a minivan and let someone else (who got less sleep than I did) do the driving to breakfast. In other words, it may be a tired life, but it’s not a difficult one.

One of the positives to being in the car so much is that it gives me time to blog, so there’s always a silver lining. With such a packed schedule, I’m not sure I could make time for it otherwise without giving up valuable sleep hours.

Last night the Tennessee Tourism Department hosted a reception for us journalists. (I think there are 12 of us.) Y’all, they really went over the top–the reception was in a huge barn, and there were about a dozen local vendors to welcome us–a barbecue restaurant, a coffee shop, a distillery, a jewelry store, an outdoors store, a yoga retreat center–you name it. There was even a pirate–Pirate Sam–who works with a canoeing group on the Caney River. He’s their mascot. Talk about cool.

Here’s a picture of me and Pirate Sam discussing very serious pirate things. ARG. Buried treasure. Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum.

The craft beer people at the reception last night were with Calfkiller Brewing Company, and they told me they were recently voted the #3 worst-named beer brewing business in the US. (They’re actually named after a local river, not after animal-harming activities.) But I guess unique names is their thing. One of their beers is called Scorched Hooker, and another one, which I tried last night, is called Sergio’s Ol’ Evil Ass Devil Bullshit Ale. (Say that three times fast.) The company employees I spoke with said sometimes they just call it Sergio’s.

I wonder why.

Yesterday one of the other travel writers referred to Tennessee as The Swag State, meaning that the tourism department and businesses here are famous for giving away free shit to journalists. And boy was he right. Last night I walked away with half a dozen grab bags full of goodies (including the donut I ate this morning). When I got back to the cabin and sorted it all out, I found–among other things–hand sanitizer, a lint roller, coffee beans, a mug, a hand towel, three small travel bags, and several pieces of handmade jewelry.

And get this shit. Apparently Cookeville boasts a famous Crossfit athlete (Crossfit is, as one journalist said, “Where people workout and shit”), and he and his extremely-large-muscled friends were at last night’s event. Seriously, I’ve never seen so many bulges in all my life. Or felt so gaunt. One guy’s boobs were so big, I swear you could have balanced a dinner plate full of fried chicken on them. At least a saucer and a tea cup. (Imagine that–a tea cup on a d-cup.) When we first saw him, one of my friends said, “You know that t-shirt he’s wearing is a small.” No kidding! It was SO TIGHT. Anyway, the Crossfit swag bag included a postcard of the famous dude showing off his ripped abs and bare chest.

Oh-la-la.

[Note: I stopped blogging here for a while and picked it back up after lunch.]

This morning after an early breakfast at a coffee shop in Cookeville, another journalist and I, along with one of the trip organizers and a state park employee, went kayaking on Byrd Lake, which is part of the Cumberland Mountain State Park here in Crossville. And whereas I’d anticipated it being cold and miserable, it was truly delightful. Just the perfect, relaxing thing on a cool, sunny day.

Check this picture out. I love how the water reflects the trees and sky.

While kayaking, I learned that Cumberland Mountain State Park and Byrd Lake were built during the years following The Depression by the Civilian Conservation Corps, a government program created by Franklin D. Roosevelt as part of The New Deal in order to both provide for America’s single, unmarried men (and their immediate families) and conserve and expand the nation’s natural resources and parks. In fact, our last stop while kayaking was the local dam and bridge, which is the largest masonry project built by the CCC during its entire history.

After kayaking, we went to lunch. Now we’re on a break (back at my retro-fabulous cabin), which is good–I can finish this blog. Shortly, the same group that went kayaking and I will go for a hike, then tonight we’ll meet everyone else for dinner. So far, I’m having wonderful time. Everyone I’m meeting is super southern sweet, even those who aren’t from “around these parts.” In terms of food, I’m moderating more than I did the last time I went on a travel writing trip by drinking less beer, watching my portions, and not eating every damn dessert in sight. Plus, I’m doing the hiking thing. So that’s something–having caloric boundaries and exercising.

Woowho.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Suddenly the sun breaks through the clouds. A dove appears--the storm is over.

"

Another Way to Hope (Blog #565)

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This morning I went to bed at 1:00 and woke up 5:00 in order to fly out-of-town for a writing assignment. Thankfully I packed last night; I don’t function well at such an ungodly hour. Still, I managed to throw the rest of my things together, scarf down some leftover Mexican food that I mixed with two scrambled eggs for breakfast, and pour a cup of coffee down my throat before it was time to leave the house at 5:45.

My friend Bonnie volunteered–volunteered!–to drive me to the Fort Smith airport, which is further proof of her being a true friend. And whereas I got held up by TSA the last time I went through airport security because they wiped down every single one of my peanut bars in their relentless search for explosives residue, this morning I breezed through the entire screening process. Later I texted Bonnie, “No one wanted to touch my nuts today!”

Typical.

From Fort Smith I flew to Dallas, then to Nashville. And other than feeling like I was being herded on and off the plane, everything went fine. Well, wait–my luggage did get wet while it sat on the tarmac in the rain. But just my underwear got soaked, and they’ll dry out. Plus, as we’ve already established, nobody sees those anyway.

While flying, I finished reading the book by Richard Moss I mentioned yesterday about dreams, coincidences, and imagination. And call it a coincidence, but just as I was reading about coincidences, I saw a friend of mine from college at the Fort Smith airport. Then on my first flight I ended up in a window seat on aisle 9, which is cool because 9 is my favorite number. Then the man beside me asked me if I wanted to move to his wife’s aisle seat (also on aisle 9) so they could sit together, which I gladly did because I HATE window seats. (The wife said, “He didn’t ask ME if I wanted to sit by him.”) Lastly, on my second flight, I got another aisle seat, and this time there was an empty seat next to me. AH–room to breathe.

Thanks, universe!

Currently I’m in a mini-van with two other journalists and one of this trip’s organizers. We’re headed to Cookeville, TN, then–I think–Cumberland Mountain State Park, which is in Crossville. (We’re back and forth between these two places for a few days.) Honestly, that’s about all I know. At some point we’ll eat dinner, then it’s up early tomorrow for a full day of activities. I believe mine are outdoors. It’s cold here. Crap. I hate the cold (and window seats).

It’ll be fine, Marcus.

As my friend Marla says, “No whining on the yacht.”

In other words, “Shut your pie-hole, Coker, your life is pretty fabulous.”

In the book I read today in the section on imagination, the author says that imagination is a VITAL component in making your dreams come true. (The other vital component is hard work.) Personally, I don’t have a problem imagining all sorts of wonderful things, like a different career, a healthier body, or an age-appropriate partner who knows the difference between “your” and “you’re.” However, I often get hung up BELIEVING that these things can become a reality. And that’s scary–to have a dream you’re not fully confident in.

The book asks, “How many people do you know who are in need of a dream?” Wow–what a great question. I guess we all know people who are stuck–who can’t imagine either themselves or their lives improving. Seen from this perspective, I realize now how important it is to be able to both dream AND believe in your dream. Because you’re gonna believe in something; it’s just a matter of whether what you believe will happen is positive or negative. And surely we could all use a positive dream to cling onto. For me, being able to imagine a better life and hold onto that imagination is simply another way to hope, to have faith that your cold days will turn into warm days, that life can move you from the window to the aisle seat.*

[*If you have a different seat preference, change this metaphor accordingly.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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As the ocean of life changes, we must too.

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What Dreams May Come (Blog #564)

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Currently it’s 10:30 in the evening, and I have to be up at 5:00 in the morning in order to go out-of-town for a writing gig. I just ate dinner and am “almost” done packing. I hate packing thick, winter clothes, trying to cram everything into my little carry-on. But I also hate freezing my ass off, so I’m trying to take everything I own. My friend Marla suggested dressing tomorrow in layers, walking into the airport looking like the Michelin Man.

Sounds like a plan to me.

This morning I was up early to meet some handymen who are working on the home of my friends who recently moved. Well, they were working–they finished everything today. Anyway, while they worked I tackled a couple projects I’ve been putting off forever. First, I finished adding all my favorite “Quotes from CoCo” to the blog. When I started this task last week, I was over a year’s worth of quotes behind. Now it’s done. Phew–what a load off. Second, I color-coded the over 250 digital post-it notes I have on my phone. Now everything is categorized (Dance, Writing, Medical, To-Do) and easy to find. Lastly, I combined my digital dream journals. Previously, they were all spread out–in my phone notes, in my laptop notes, in Microsoft Word. But now they’re in one place, organized by date.

Eeek. I just love having my ducks in a row.

Recently I’ve been reading a book called The Three “Only” Things: Tapping the Power of Dreams, Coincidence, and Imagination by Robert Moss. The premise of the book is that we often say, “It’s ONLY a dream,” “It’s ONLY a coincidence,” or “It’s ONLY my imagination,” but these three things are actually powerful sources for our personal and collective knowledge and growth. So far, I’ve ONLY read the dream section, which explains that dreams can help us solve our problems, improve our relationships, heal our bodies, and feed our creativity, and this was part of my motivation for getting all my dream logs into one spot. This way, I can easily search for common themes and symbols.

The author of the book says that dreams about shoes are often insightful because shoes have soles–or souls. Thus images of shoes can communicate where part of our spirit may be lost or where our inner being wants to go (or travel). Fascinated by this concept, I searched my dream journal for shoe dreams, and here’s what I found.

In 2014 (before I started therapy), I dreamed that I had a pair of purple shoes on but put on another, more “masculine” pair over them. (Purple is the flagship color of homosexuals, Mom.) Later that year (after I started therapy), I dreamed that I was lining my shoes up on a fire-place. (Perhaps I was “warming up” to the idea of being more myself.) In another dream that year, I had my shoes in bag. (Again, getting ready to put them on.) In 2015, I dreamed that I was in a church I used to attend with friends I rarely see anymore and was wearing shoes that were too small for me. Then I dreamed that I got new shoes for Christmas. (In this dream, someone had been murdered, indicating that a no-longer-useful part of me had died.) In 2016, I dreamed that I was taking off my shoes to put on thicker socks. (I haven’t figured out my socks dreams yet, but my guess is they have to do with being comfortable in my shoes/soul/body.) Finally, in 2017 (after starting the blog), I dreamed I was putting on my socks, my shoes, and a dress shirt.

Since I took a long break from dream journaling, these are the only dreams I have recorded about shoes. However, to me they show a clear progression. At first I hid my true self, then I started thinking about being me, then I discarded the ideas and parts of myself that no longer “fit,” then I made some more adjustments, and finally I fully presented myself.

Often I’m baffled by my nightly dreams. Many mornings I wake up and think, What the hell did I eat last night? But by looking at my dreams OVER TIME, I see clearly that some part of me is speaking a definite, intelligible language, and it’s simply up to me to learn it. For example, I have A LOT of dreams about cameras and taking pictures. And even though I’ve never quite been able to figure them out, I keep having them, so it’s obvious it’s a symbol my unconscious likes to use. Well, last night I had ANOTHER dream about taking pictures and actually figured the camera thing out (I think). Cameras for me are about memories and PERSPECTIVE. (COINCIDENTALLY, perspective is one of the categories I used MOST on this blog.) When I use a camera, I decide what to zoom in or focus on and what to crop out. The takeaway then is that I have this same power with my memories and experiences. Like, Am I going to make a big damn deal out of this or focus on something more positive?

Now the dryer is buzzing, and I still need to take a shower and get to bed. Honestly I can’t wait–not just for my trip tomorrow–but also for what dreams may come tonight.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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There is a force, a momentum that dances with all of us, sometimes lifting us up in the air, sometimes bringing us back down in a great mystery of starts and stops.

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This Thing Called Life (Blog #563)

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Ten years ago my friends Gregg and Rita helped start The Oklahoma Swing Syndicate, a group that hosts a weekly swing dance in Tulsa, and yesterday was the organization’s anniversary celebration. Ten years–that’s over 500 community dances. Anyway, Gregg and Rita have always supported my dance endeavors, so last night I drove to Tulsa to surprise them. Y’all–talk about a good time. Not only did I get to see Gregg and Rita, but I also got to see a number of dance friends I haven’t seen in years. Plus, I got to see my 96-year-old friend Marina, who absolutely makes my heart melt both on and off the dance floor.

The dance itself lasted until after midnight, and since I’m house sitting for friends this weekend, I drove back to Fort Smith between one and three in the morning. And whereas the entire affair went well, I was exhausted both physically and emotionally by the time I got back. This morning I slept in, which helped, but today has nonetheless continued to be–well–a bitch. This last week presented a number of internal challenges–some of which I wrote about and some of which I didn’t–and I guess they all caught up with me. To put it simply, I’ve been in a foul mood–worried, nervous, tired.

For most of the afternoon, I tried all the tricks I know. I stuck my nose in a book. I tried being grateful. I went for a run. I ate a piece of cake. And whereas it all helped, it didn’t push me over the ledge into The Land of Contentment.

Sometimes you just don’t feel well.

Last October I was in Carbondale, Colorado, for a spiritual retreat of sorts. Exactly one year ago tonight I started feeling poorly. I didn’t write about it that night, but I did write about it the next morning when I woke up with what would turn out to be the beginning of a several-month-long sinus infection. For over a hundred days, I felt like shit. There were good days here and there, of course, but it was honestly the most challenging and emotionally taxing health situation I’ve encountered in all my 38 years. Even after I finally got my sinus issues under control, I got slammed with the flu twice in the span of six weeks (I think). It was one damned thing after another.

During this time, I was fortunate enough to get a new primary care physician, who–over the course of many months–put me through a series of tests, some of which were run by other doctors. And whereas it’s been a bitch of a year, things are MOSTLY figured out. My sinuses are still a little snotty, but I haven’t had a sinus infection in over six months. (I haven’t been able to say this in over twenty years.) Thanks to upping my Vitamin D and B12 and getting more consistent rest, my energy levels are better. Not “perfect,” but better. Recently I worked for ten days straight backstage for the national tour of The Wizard of Oz, and I never once worried whether or not my body would be able to “make it.” In other words, we’re learning to trust each other.

This is no small thing.

Whenever I blog and am particularly “impressed” with something that makes its way onto the page, I copy that sentence or paragraph and put it in a separate digital notepad with the intent to add it to the “Quotes from CoCo” box you see at the bottom of each post. However, I haven’t added any new quotes to the website in essentially a year. That is, until a few days ago, when I determined to get “caught up.” And whereas it will probably take a week or two to do this, I have started the process. At first, the thought of this task was daunting, but it’s turning out to be a fun, encouraging thing, going back and re-reading the highlights and self-issued hope from this last year. Today I was reminded that “No one is immune from life’s challenges,” “You’re exactly where you need to be,” and “A storm can leave your life just as quickly as it enters it.”

Our struggles unearth our strengths.

I say all this because it’s easy for me to forget how far I’ve come. I have one bad afternoon, and it feels as if I’ve gotten nowhere. But we’ll ALWAYS have bad days and we’ll ALWAYS have challenges–because this is how we grow. If I were designing a universe, I’d come up with a different method for personal improvement, but this is the way it works in this universe. Our struggles unearth our strengths. (I should add that to the quote box.) Also, I think they help us connect with others. All day I tried to get myself out of my own head. I kept telling the universe, “I want to feel better.” Then tonight my friend Marla called out of the blue to discuss a writing matter. And simply because Marla’s Marla–not because she knew I felt bad and needed cheering up–she made me laugh, laugh, laugh.

And just like that, a cloud was lifted.

It seems that this is how the universe works. It answers our prayers and cries for help, but rarely does so in the manner in which we think it should. Usually, there are other people involved. Not that your own intelligence and good graces can’t carry you so far, but when you solve all your own problems, not only do you set yourself up for pride, but you also isolate yourself. My friend Kim says, “We’re made for community,” and this is a lesson I’m learning. This last year has been an amazing journey; I’m the first to admit how much I’ve grown and how much I’ve worked my ass off to do so. But it wouldn’t have been possible without the help and support of my family, friends, my therapist and my doctors, and everyone else with whom I have the privilege of dancing through this thing called life.

For all of you, I’m extremely grateful.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Obviously, God's capable of a lot. Just look around."

On Practicing Gratitude (Blog #562)

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It’s eleven-fifteen in the morning, and I woke up with a crick in my neck. Consequently, I’m getting a slow start to what promises to be a long day. Every so often I’m stopping whatever I’m doing to stretch, trying to work out the kinks. I’m house sitting for some friends, and when I first got up, I stood in their hallway, reached my arms out wide on an angle, and rolled my neck around. As my arms fell to my sides, one of my friends’ dogs came over and pressed her wet nose against my fingers–as if to say, “I see you have a free hand there.” It was the sweetest thing, this moment of–connection.

Currently I’m listening to an album by Carter Sampson, a local red-dirt/folk artist from Fayetteville. I met Carter when I interviewed her for a magazine many, many years ago. She’s fabulous, and for whatever reason, her music is the perfect thing on this slow-start, crick-in-my-neck, overcast Saturday morning. It’s funny how the right lyrics show up at the right time. Last night I cried like a child while writing yesterday’s post. Today I feel lighter. I have the biggest smile on my face. As Carter says, “I washed myself in the water, and now I’m finally free.”

Yesterday while my friend was in traffic court and I was stuck in their car because their alarm system kept going off every time I took their key out of the ignition, I read another chapter in The Tools by Phil Stutz and Barry Michaels, a self-help book I mentioned a couple days ago. The chapter dealt with gratitude, which the authors present as the go-to tool or solution for what they call “the cloud,” that dark thing that surrounds you every time you begin to worry, obsess, or stress about whatever.

You know–THE CLOUD–There’s not enough money, nobody likes me, and I probably have cancer.

It’s enough just to be here.

Of course, gratitude is not a novel concept, but I love the way Stutz and Michaels present it–as that which CUTS THROUGH the cloud and reconnects you to something bigger than yourself. I like this idea–that being grateful isn’t just a “good-feeling” thing to do, but is also something powerful that quickly bypasses the dark cloud of worry. Because God knows WORRYING and OBSESSING about my problems has NEVER made my day any brighter. But even in this moment if I simply think about my nephews, I’m overcome with warmth and the feeling that life is all right. Because of them, it’s enough just to be here–overcast day, crick in my neck, and all. I’m reminded that I’m part of life, that life is good, and that life mysteriously works out.

The authors of The Tools say that gratitude is something you have to practice in order for it to have a powerful, lasting effect. In my experience, this is how worry works too. In other words, it’s a habit. And whereas being grateful does require diligence, it doesn’t have to be complicated. Just start with five things, five simple things that open your heart (even a little). For me–today–I’m grateful for a place to sleep at night, my friends’ dog and her wet nose, Carter Sampson and her music, my nephews, and my body, which not only lets me experience all the things I love, but also allows me to stretch, to cry, to smile.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Healing requires letting go of that thing you can’t let go of.

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69 Months and Oh-So-Many Miles (Blog #561)

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Currently it’s seven in the evening. I’m been up and functioning since three-thirty this morning. I’m not kidding. Consequently, I don’t feel like writing. I’d rather be drinking a Budweiser and eating a bag full of chocolate-covered donut holes. Or sleeping. Sleeping would be nice. But instead I’m writing.

There’s not a donut hole in sight.

I should back up.

Last night I went to bed at eleven-thirty and got up four hours later in order to go with a friend to court–on the other side of the state–for a minor traffic violation. Well, for the accusation of a minor traffic violation, since America and innocent-until-proven-guilty and everything. Anyway, that’s their story.

This is mine.

After getting up, getting dressed, and scarfing down two scrambled eggs, I walked outside at four this morning to look for my friend. And whereas I didn’t see them, I did see the constellation Orion. And not that I’d wish anyone out of bed that early, but you should have been there. Around one in the morning Orion’s just on the horizon, but at four–wow!–he’s directly overhead. And whereas I’m dreading the impending winter, I’m looking forward to seeing this unmistakable figure–The Hunter–make his march across the heavens.

Oddly enough, my friend’s court appearance was in Forrest City, the same city in which my dad spent several years in federal prison. (He was a pharmacist. He gave some drugs away without prescriptions. That’s not allowed.) Anyway, he was originally sent to El Paso, so our visits were few and far between. But when he got transferred to Forrest City, that was only four-and-a-half hours away (228 miles in one direction, exit to exit), so our visits increased. I can’t tell you the number of times as a teenager that I got up by myself or with my sister at three-thirty, got dressed, scarfed down two scrambled eggs, and pointed my Honda Civic down Interstate-40 East toward Forrest City–

To go through a metal detector and see my dad in a visitation room.

I think the last time I actually stopped in Forrest City was that day in April 2001 when Dad was released and my mom, my sister, and I drove to pick him up. It’d been 69 months since he walked out our front door for El Paso. 69 months since he’d started teaching me to drive and someone else had to finish the job. 69 months and oh-so-many miles. How do you even describe such a day, a day you thought would never come? I can’t. All I knew and felt was that my dad was coming home.

Somehow–finally–Forrest City was in my rearview mirror.

Seventeen years. That’s how long it’s been since I last drove to Forrest City, much less at four in the morning, much less for anything related to breaking the law. (Um–for an accusation of breaking the law.) Anyway, this morning brought up a lot of memories, a lot of–um–uncomfortable feelings. On the one hand, I was quite aware–I’m thirty-eight now. There’s nothing intimidating or embarrassing about walking into a courthouse or going through a metal detector. But on the other hand, I felt like that teenager, the one who was in that courthouse the day 12 jurors all said, “Guilty,” the one who used to get up at four in the morning to walk through a metal detector and see his father sitting in a visitation room dressed in all forest green.

It’s funny how time can collapse so quickly. One minute you’re an adult standing next to Orion. You feel–free. The next minute you’re a teenager standing next to a guard with a gun on his belt. “Who are you here to see?” he says. You drop your head and say his name. You feel–intimidated.

This morning I was fully prepared to walk through a metal detector and sit in a courtroom with my friend, but something–heaven?–intervened. “The courtroom is full,” the disgruntled courthouse employee said. So I waited in the car and read a book. Part of me–honestly–was relieved. I hate courts, hate confrontation, and I knew my friend would be contesting their ticket. But then after I saw several people leaving, I thought, There’s more room now. Go inside, Marcus. This isn’t your fight anyway. But again, something intervened. The car alarm went off. Every time I tried to remove the key from the ignition–HONK, HONK, HONK.

So I stayed in the car.

Things worked out for my friend. Today was only an arraignment. Anyway, when my friend got back to the car, they fixed the alarm, but we discovered the battery had died. So we asked a couple for a jump, and they gladly said yes. The man helped my friend with the cables, and the lady sat in their car and pumped the gas. Personally, I did nothing–just stood outside the car, scrolled on my phone, and tried to look as if the whole affair weren’t my fault. Then just as the couple started to drive off, the lady smiled at me. Like, I don’t know, life was all right. I hope I never forget it–

That smile in Forrest City.

I’ve said before that I wouldn’t trade any of my challenging experiences. I mean that. Even the ones that were agonizing, embarrassing, or intimidating–I wouldn’t trade them even if I could. Because this is my story. This is my march across the heavens. (Hum.) Sometimes people tell me that I have a lot of courage–my therapist says I have big balls–to put my insides on the internet, or to dare to live life on my own terms. And whereas I’m not saying my current life is easy–fuck–it’s a chocolate-covered donut hole compared to those 69 months and oh-so-many miles, those 69 months and oh-so-many miles that still manage to suck me in after 17 years sometimes, but for which I am also mysteriously and profoundly grateful. Because of them, today I am strong beyond measure. My head is lifted. I can see the stars. People smile at me, and I smile back at them.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Some days, most days, are a mixed bag. We cry, we laugh, we quit, we start again. That's life. In the process, we find out we're stronger than we thought we were, and perhaps this is healing.

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