When Pam and I became empty nesters permanently back
in July, I immediately began to plot and scheme for ways to stay close to our
children. Yes, I did say children, because although both of them are fully
grown adults, they will always be our children. The fact that I am no longer
able to use them to help lower my tax burden does not diminish their value. The
fact that I no longer am responsible for their care and feeding, does not mean
that I no longer wish to ever feed them again. I have invested too much time
and money in the two of them to simply let them waltz away to Columbia, South
Carolina and Nashville, Tennessee without so much as a whimper of protest.
So, I pulled out a map of the United States and drew
a circle around our three cities, then tried to find a spot on the map that was
equidistant for all of us. The closest point of reasonable interest happened to
be the Pigeon Forge area of Tennessee, in the midst of the Great Smoky
Mountains, aka…Hillbilly Vegas. So, I got online and began the search for a
cabin to rent and an agreeable long weekend. When I extended the invitation,
both of them jumped at the chance to get away and spend some of Dad’s money.
Pam and I arrived around 4 or so in the afternoon
and instantly fell head over heels for this place. For one thing, it was clean
as a pin and decorated beautifully. But the view off of the three decks from
each floor is a stunning panorama that stretches out for miles. The leaves are
near their peak. We are at a high elevation so we can see the tops of shining
yellow and bright fiery orange trees far below us. Once the sun set the vast
valley lit up in a sea of lights stretching to the end of the horizon. Now, we
just have to wait for the kids to arrive and hope that A. they can find this
place at night, and B. they don’t drive off a cliff in the process.
Earlier this evening Pam and I came down off this
mountain to get something to eat in Pigeon Forge and then pick up some
groceries for the weekend. We chose a place called “No Way Jose’s” Mexican
Cantina, only because the place next door that claimed to serve the “best ribs
in America” had a thirty minute wait.
When we were preparing to leave No Way Jose’s, a family of 15 waddled
past us on their way to a table in the back, all 15 of whom tipped the scales
at a minimum of 250 pounds. None of them were much taller than Pam. This is
when I knew that I wasn’t in Short Pump anymore.
This being my third
trip to the area, I have been looking forward to some major league people
watching in perhaps the best spot in America for such a purpose. You see it all
here. For example, when Pam and I were pulling out of the No Way Jose’s parking
lot we noticed a juxtaposition of two businesses that I feel certain one would
never find anywhere else on the planet. There was a Birkenstock store right
next to an Elvis Museum. ‘Murika.
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