I’ve come to think of Tennessee like that quiet kid in grammar school, skinny and not too tall. You don’t think about him much until you hook up in a one-on-one basketball game and he whips your butt. After that, you’re friends forever. Like that kid, I truly like Tennessee and its citizens. They’re quiet when you first meet them, but the moment you speak up, they’re like an old pal. Two instances in particular stand out.

 

In Maryville, I had some stuff to mail home so I go down to the post office and park next to another biker, a tough looking guy in, I’d say, his mid-40s.

 

   Me: How do?
   Tough-Looking Tennessean Biker: ’M aright. Havin’ fun ridin’?
   Me: Oh yeah. It’s a pretty day.
   Tough-Looking Tennessean Biker: Wish I was, but I hafta run errands for my mama all day.
   Me: Well, ya gotta do what mama says.
   Tough-Looking Tennessean Biker: Yeah, ’at’s right. If ya don’t she’ll put ya over her knee an’ give ya a spanking, y’know.
   Me: And it doesn’t matter how old she is.
   Tough-Looking Tennessean Biker: Or how old you are.

 

Another example of the friendly Tennessean temperament happens one afternoon as I’m standing outside a Sonic Drive-In waiting for my lunch. A mother is walking toward me with her four-year-old daughter, who’s carrying a big stuffed animal. When the girl first sees the Beast, she freezes with a startled look. But then she cocks her head slightly, calmly walks right up to him, and looks him over with eyes as big as a harvest moon.

 

   Tennessean Four-Year-Old: (With perfect manners) Is this your motorcycle?
   Me: Yes, it is.
   Tennessean Four-Year-Old: It’s pretty.
   Me: Thank you.
  Tennessean Four-Year-Old: May I come over to your house and play with your daughter sometime in the next two weeks?