The Maul

After three weekends of adventure, I decided to stick close to The Noog this weekend. The only time I went out was on Saturday, when I rode with a bus full of students (mostly freshmen) to the Hamilton Place Mall. Beware.

It was only November 7, and the mall was already decorated for Christmas, carols were playing, and Santa Claus and the Salvation Army were there already. (Since I want you to come back and read me again in the future, I will spare you from knowing which Christmas song is stuck in my head, lest it become stuck in yours, too.)

It's kind of nice that the school runs a bus every Saturday to take its boarding students (and staff) to the mall, the local movie theater, and Wal-Mart. (Yes, even kids whose parents can afford to send them to boarding school shop at Wal-Mart.) That means I can still make my monthly trek for protein bars from GNC, but I don't have to deal with parking -- especially if I go back next month. (There are other locations in or around The Noog, so I might skip the mall location altogether in December.)

Uphill Both Ways

I think I've figured it out. You know, when the old man tells the spoiled child that, when he was his/her age, he had to walk uphill, both ways, in the snow, to get to school? He doesn't tell the child the whole truth. He never says that it's uphill the entire way. That's because it isn't.

I walk uphill both ways to and from work each day. In the morning, I walk uphill a couple of blocks, across a block, then downhill two blocks. I end up at a lower elevation than my apartment. In the afternoon, I walk up then over then up some more. I walk uphill both ways, too.

I just hope it snows as rarely here as they say it does.

The devil went down to Georgia...

...but I didn't see him there. Or does that mean I'm the devil? I couldn't tell you, since I didn't look into any mirrors or particularly reflective windows on Saturday, but it was Halloween, after all, so you never know.

Yes, I visited Georgia on the weekend, yet again. It's not that I have a particular compunction to see the place. This time, it's where the train took me. I took the Autumn Leaf Special down to Chickamauga (the town named for the Civil War battle).

Excursions like this are sponsored by the Tennessee Valley Railroad Museum. I chose this particular weekend for my trip using a highly logical method. The house where I grew up had a Sugar Maple tree in the front yard. Every year, at Halloween, my mom would make me rake its leaves off the sidewalk. "But, Mom," I complained, "kids like shuffling through the leaves." Her point, however, was that someone might slip and fall and get hurt and then his/her parents might sue us. (And this was in the 1970's, before the U.S. got lawsuit-happy.) Ergo, if the maple tree in NJ turned pretty colors around Halloween, then the trees in TN, farther south, wouldn't turn color until at least that weekend. Given that this autumn has been colder than average, according to my coworkers, I was spot on for the date.

The trip wasn't as pretty as I would have liked, since the railroad tracks were lined with naturalized Privet shrubs (which are evergreen), and the trees along the tracks were pretty good at obscuring the view of anything more than 10 to 20 feet away. There were some spectacular individual trees, though.

It was also the slowest train I've ever been on. We departed the station, on time, at 9:30 a.m. We passed a part of The Noog I remember driving through once. After a while, we passed a part of The Noog a couple of miles from my house. After a while, we passed a part of The Noog I drive through every Friday on my way to and from my weekly cheesesteak (and discovered that those railroad tracks I cross over aren't abandoned after all). After a while, we passed a hardware store where I once got some supplies for work. I finally looked at my watch. It was little more than an hour and a half since we left the station, and we had just reached the city limits! No, the city is not that large.

I had no seatmate for the trip, so when the train made occasional stops (to allow a crewman to get off the train and run up to the crossing to signal for cars to stop, since they don't have the budget to fix crossing signals as rapidly as they'd like to), I entertained myself with a book. I had no seatmates in the dining car, either - for a while, anyway - and I was wishing I had brought the book from my seat. It turns out that the mismatched couple (short woman of Oriental extraction and tall, Anglo cowboy with leg braces and crutches) sitting in front of me in the coach car joined me after I had finished my tropical fruit salad. "Those who are late do not get fruit cup." (Can you guess from which movie that line is?) I mentioned that my friend Gimpy has cerebral palsy and walks with crutches, so we ended up discussing how the cowboy boarded the train, and how the modified steps that the railroad thinks are more accessible because the risers are shorter actually are next to impossible for the cowboy and Gimpy to use because they have no hand rails. We assumed that, since the railroad can't afford to fix all its crossing signals, then they weren't about to retrofit historic train cars with wheelchair lifts.

The lunch was nice: beef (I think) vegetable soup (heavy on the tomatoes, with nearly no distinguishable meat whatsoever), smoked turkey and Swiss on a croissant, cole slaw, crinkled potato chips, and a slice of devil's food cake for dessert. Was it worth $20? Maybe, for the experience of trying to eat soup on a moving train. However, if you come visit, I'll say let's save our 20 bucks apiece and try out the pizza place in the middle of the quaint, touristy, gewgaw shops in Chickamauga.

On the return trip, the train stopped at the Chickamauga Battlefield, where passengers could disembark and either climb a tower to look out over grass and trees or listen to some shmoe in a replica Confederate uniform drone on about the battle. Yes, you guessed correctly; I stayed aboard the train with my book.

The trip was nice, even though I wanted the train to move faster. I figured it out, though. The longer they took, the cheaper it was per hour, so I got my money's worth.

The rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.

My mom called last night. She said I received a letter in the mail from the Gerber insurance corporation. (They have insured me since I was a baby.) The letter, addressed to me, thanked me for notifying them that I had died and expressed their condolences.

Excuse me?

Obviously, she's going to write back and tell them that they are mistaken. It didn't help that the letter arrived on the third anniversary of my father's death. I had a bad enough day at work, but to find out that I had died...

And on the seventh day, God went bowling.

Finally, I found something to do in The Noog on a Sunday! You can even eat a meal or drink beer while doing it! (Although I didn't.)

I participated in a bowling tournament, and I met a team (literally) of interesting people. Before I get too deep, though, I'll forecast that some of what I say might be misconstrued as insulting. It isn't intended to be so, but my wit is so anhydrous at times that some people consider me an extremely serious person.

The tournament was a benefit for the Chattanooga Locomotion, a full-contact, women's football team.

Um, yeah, you read that right, and you're probably thinking I spent the afternoon surrounded by large, sturdy, almost masculine women. (You'd be right). A couple of them wore makeup.

Ahem. Sorry. See what I mean? I will not, however, make a joke with the song lyrics, "Everybody do the Locomotion". (Oops.)

The woman who invited me said to be at the bowling alley at two o'clock. I hung out with the few token men, making small talk for half an hour, as the team chowed down on pizza, burgers, fries, etc. from the snack bar. After a comment about how we were told to show up half an hour before the real start time, one of the men said it was "lesbian time". He wasn't being negative, though. Some of the small talk was the story how he met his husband (his word).

I was teamed with two team members. I didn't talk much to Denisha; when she wasn't bowling, she was on her cell phone or bouncing around the lanes, chatting with everyone. I tried to chat with A.J., but she was too concerned about how poorly she was bowling and how she was trained for basketball but she made the team anyway. I couldn't ask her about the team, though, since she had just made the tryouts the day before. She reminded me a bit of the actor who portrayed the football-playing son-in-law on the former sitcom Reba. (But the actor is prettier.)

So what did I get for my tournament fee? Three games of bowling, a small water bottle with the team's logo (I do like the logo), and a season ticket to the Locomotion's home games. Anybody interested in watching a bunch of burly broads bash into each other during summer Saturday evenings?

That's Y'all, Folks!

Yesterday, I attended a weed/insect/disease diagnosis seminar, put on by several cooperative extension agents. Afterward, my coworker and I went to lunch with them.

Once the University of Tennessee football team talk was through, we got on to more interesting (to me, anyway) subjects. One of the agents mentioned he was glad the Phillies had won the first game of the World Series, not because he was a fan, but because he hated the Yankees.

He wasn't from The Noog, but it reminded me (through a stroke of coincidence, months in the making) of the Bugs Bunny/Yosemite Sam cartoon "Southern Fried Rabbit", where Bugs and Sam are in the South during the (U.S.) Civil War. Here's a transcript of the closing scene, courtesy of the folks that created the web page.

An injured messenger approaches the house on horse back (it is Bugs, disguised again) then crawls up the steps to the house
Bugs: Colonel! The Yankees! The Yankees! They’re in… Chattanooga!
Bugs pretends to collapse, too injured to continue.
Sam: Chattanoogee?!?!
Martial music plays.
Sam jumps on the horse left by the ‘messenger’ and rides away.
Sam: Chaaarge!

A ballpark. A sign saying “Exhibition Game – Yankees vs Chattanooga”
At the Yankee dugout, Sam is holding the players inside with a shotgun.
Sam: The first danged Yankee that steps out of the dugout gets his head blasted off!

Incidentally, The Noog does have its own (minor league) baseball team, the Chattanooga Lookouts. I ought to go to a game next season.

Even Dr. Fronkensteen Had His Off Days.

My creation was killed, however, not by an angry mob of torch-wielding villagers (they rather liked it, as it turns out) but by a single person: the school's headmaster.

For my winter annual display at the front gate, I decided on borders of alternating color in the beds. Think of a rectangle inside a rectangle inside a rectangle inside... The outer rectangle was lemon yellow Viola. The line inside that was white Viola. Next I repeated the lemon yellow. For a change of pace, and to use larger plants so I wouldn't have to blow my whole budget on tiny flowers, I repeated the white but with flowering cabbage. Then I used purple flowering cabbage. I kept alternating those until I reached the centers of the planters. We don't have a digital camera at work (and then I would have to figure out how to post the pictures here), but the effect was something like this.

I had run my choice by Skippy (the blog name I have settled on for my boss) before buying the plants. I had originally thought of trying rainbow chard or some of this peacock kale, but he advised me not to go too wild and to use the cabbages. It turns out even he underestimated the headmaster. Our client called me and said that the headmaster has "about 0.01% tolerance of change". Wow, I've managed to find someone more resistant to change than me!

So, we ripped out the cabbbages and replaced them with this mix of pansies in the school colors. Now I'm hunting new places on campus to hide the homeless cabbages.

All Roads Lead to Rome (Georgia)

For the second weekend in a row, I've ventured down to Georgia. This sounds like a trek, but the state line is about only five miles away. You'd think that, given my upbringing in South Jersey, where any number of bridges to Pennsylvania or Delaware were just a few miles away, I wouldn't have a mental block about it. However, nearly 20 years in New Mexico, a state where you have to drive an hour or more to get to a city of any decent size, has trained me to believe that a trip to another state requires a detailed route map, several rest areas with indoor plumbing, and a cooler of food in the trunk, just in case.

First, however, I ventured downtown to check out Chattanooga's Oktoberfest. This was even less about a Bavarian wedding celebration (note the photo of a liter of beer) than the Georgia Apple Festival was about apples. Oh, sure, one of the local brewpubs (the glamorous, self-inflated one) had beer for sale on the Walnut Street Bridge, but the rest of the booths had artists and face creams and candy and cheap jewelry. And, let me tell you, neither of the women behind the table of The Hot Chocolatier (emphasis theirs) were anywhere in the realm of hot. I should sue them for false advertising.

Voice-over: (mumbling)
Me: What?
Voice-over: (mumbling repeats)
Me: It's supposed to be the chocolate that's hot, not the person selling it? Well, that's not what the sign says.
Voice-over: (mumbling)
Me: Yes it does.
Voice-over: (mumbling)
Me: Oh, forget it.

There also was a booth for The Noog, a somewhat non-traditional visitors' bureau. The web page claims, among other things, that locals also call the city Chattaboogie and Chattavegas. (Oh. Yeah. Right.) What I want to know is, if this place is The Noog, does that make those of us who live here Nougats?

If you didn't infer it from my previous comments, I was underwhelmed by the abundance of art and dearth of beer vendors at Oktoberfest. Still, I was game to explore (since I was already there, I might as well), so I stopped in the enclave of artists' tents at the far end of the bridge, scanned the booths, and just as quickly walked out -- and noticed the words "Used Books" on an awning of the store two doors down.

Sigh. I didn't buy art. I didn't even buy a beer. But, I did come away with a bagful of books. (Betty, does it count against my monthly quota if these books were purchased expressly for donation to the school library? Well, yeah, but after I read them, I mean.)

Next (after dropping off the books at home), I headed south. My quest was a rubberized raincoat (not one like this or this or this) to replace the one I own, which is falling apart, even too much for a "work" raincoat.

The closest K-Mart, the store where I had purchased my current raincoat, is in Fort Oglethorpe, Georgia (called Fort O by the Nougat across the street from me). I was feeling adventurous enough to explore the way down there, and besides, if I went north, to the K-Mart in Hixson, I would have felt obligated to stop by Nana's, and I've been a good boy this week and don't need any extra calories.

By the way, there was no break in civilization between Chattanooga, Rossville, and Fort O, which helped the journey feel more like a jaunt than a trek. I was almost confused how to get there, though, since it involved a left turn (I think) at an intersection where three roads crossed at non-square angles. I mean, it felt like a left turn, but if I activated my turn signal, would the driver behind me have expected me to turn onto the road I didn't want, since it was the closer option? Besides, none of the Nougats in front of me had a turn signal (although that seems to be standard here), and they all turned on to the same road, so I didn't bother with mine, either. When in Rome...

Voice-over (whispering): You're not in Georgia, yet.
Me: Oh. Right. Sorry.

Once I arrived (without getting lost), would you believe they didn't have any raincoats? I'd understand that in Las Cruces, but it actually rains in this part of the country. No luck at K-Mart, Big Lots, Family Dollar, Dollar General, or even the thrift store across the street. There are two thrift stores I know of here in The Noog which I can try, but I'm running out of options for an inexpensive raincoat. Any suggestions before I start looking at Target, Sears, or other, pricier stores?

Voice-over: (mumbling)
Me: Seriously? You want me to go into Wal-Mart?
Voice-over: (mumbling)
Me: Yeah, I know I own stock in the company, but that just means I want everyone else to shop there.
Voice-over: (mumbling)
Me: All right, but you're going to pay my medical bills -- and take care of my mother, should I not survive at all.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. I decided to try the Italian restaurant near the Fort O K-Mart, even though it obviously used to be a Pizza Hut. The canned Italian music and the touristy, informative placemats were a nice touch, but maybe it would have seemed more like a serious attempt at a restaurant if there were other patrons there. (I mean, other than the family with three granddaughters under the age of five, one of whom would not stop crying.) Indeed, when I bit into my ravioli and experienced a flavor I'm more accustomed to tasting in something that has been breaded and deep-fried, I ranked this place the second-worst Italian restaurant I've ever been in. Maybe I should've tried the Mexican place next door instead.

Incidentally, I've noticed a number of place names from elsewhere. There's Troy in Alabama, Rome and Athens in Georgia, and Dayton and Cleveland in Tennessee. Aren't there any towns in the South that aren't named for other places? Oh, that's right: The Noog.