An insider's view of Chattanooga (sorta, kinda)

My familiarity with Chattanooga spans three decades. What first attracted us was white water rafting on the Ocoee, an experience that, while thrilling my friends and husband, left me convinced I would never raft again. (Let me just say that hypothermia and I aren’t strangers.) I was too sick to appreciate our lovely private cabin at the Chanticleer Inn on Lookout Mountain.

The next time we visited Chattanooga found us at the Tennessee Aquarium shortly after it opened. Hailed as the largest fresh water aquarium in the nation in 1992, it attracted droves of tourists. And, to think, it took a bunch of students to realize its potential.

Yes, eager, forward-thinking, idealistic college students. From the University of Tennessee at Knoxville, the architectural students can claim the pride of ownership of the idea for the aquarium. Their well-conceived design, along with proposals from a publicly-appointed citizens’ group, formed the “Tennessee Riverpark Master Plan.” The twenty-year plan called for $750 million of mixed-use development, enhancement, and conservation along 22 miles of the Tennessee River corridor through Chattanooga.

It just goes to show you that when people band together for a common good, positive things can happen.

The transformation began in 1984. Between my first and second visits to Chattanooga, revitalization had dug in its heels. Once labeled as “the dirtiest city in America” during a 1969 CBS newscast by Walter Cronkite, Chattanooga was no longer the recession-plagued industrial city it once was. In fact, it positively shined. Following the building of the Aquarium came the Chattanooga Visitors Center, the Creative Discovery Museum, the IMAX 3D Theater, and a remarkable pedestrian-only bridge, the renovated Walnut Street Bridge. Across the river, Coolidge Park, featuring a vintage carousel, opened, spawning increased retail activity. “And on the south end of town, the convention center was expanded a block away from a new conference center and hotel. Private enterprise was rekindled, too, with at least a hundred eateries, shops and other businesses sprouting up to support the influx of downtown visitors” (from a Tennessee Aquarium Press Kit).

Through the nineties, Chattanooga was featured in U.S. News and World Report and Parade. It was found to be one of the most enlightened cities in America (Utne Reader), one of the top 10 family vacation destinations (Family Fun), one of the world’s great cities (NPR’s Morning Edition), one of the country’s best places to live, work and play (Outside), and one of America’s most walkable cities (Walking).

From 2001-2007, my husband and I often stopped in Chattanooga on our way to and from Clemson University. Always looking for a good place to eat, we were never disappointed. Thanks to my husband’s generous Christmas present to me, we were able to take advantage this past weekend to once again sample all Chattanooga has to offer.

Steve made a reservation at the Mayor’s Mansion Inn. Built in 1889, the historical house did not disappoint. The room was lovely, the service fantastic, and the breakfasts superb: fruit cup, 3-cheese quiche, asparagus, potato medallions, and a blond brownie one day; ricotta cake, stuffed French toast, bacon, and honeyed-cinnamon fruit the next. Oh, my. I’m nearly drooling just thinking about it.

On Friday evening, we first went to the Big River Restaurant. Since the line was too long, we decided to make reservations for the next evening and went on to eat at Sticky Fingers. Having eaten there before, we knew what to expect: scrumptious BBQ and lots of it. (For just a couple of dollars more, we decided to share a three-meat platter: pork, chicken, and an introduction to beef brisket. Delightful!)

The next day, we took a walk through UTC and witnessed lots of construction but very few students at 9:00 a.m. Afterwards, we visited the Chickamauga Battlefield, stopping at the Visitor’s Center to see the museum and movie and then taking a driving tour through the battlegrounds. (In case you don’t know, Chattanooga, TN and Chickamauga, GA are places rich in Civil War history.) We ate lunch at Bluewater Grille and found the restaurant to have the best fish tacos ever, and the lobster bisque isn’t shabby, either! Since we had to work off breakfast and lunch, we then took the Incline up to Lookout Mountain and walked there for the next hour and a half, gawking at the huge mansions with their breath-taking views.

That evening found us at the Big River Restaurant. The food there was also delish (but, to my ears, the music a tad loud, making conversation difficult). Steve had gotten tickets for A Doll’s House by Henrik Ibsen (adapted by a local playwright) so we went to the Chattanooga Theatre Centre across the river. (Beware adaptations by local playwrights. Ack! Poor Ibsen must have been rolling in his grave.  But, unlike most plays, this one got us to talking about it quite a bit—mostly with lead-ins, like “Can you believe . . . ?” and “What was he thinking when . . . ?” Unlike the vicious critic within me, the local reviewer was exceedingly kind.)

After the astounding breakfast the next day, we set out on foot for the Riverwalk. First walking away from downtown, we covered an hour in one direction. The lovely path with several gazebos and benches took us past the rowing house (with which we were familiar as our son was a member of the Rocket City Rowers). When we eventually turned around, we walked to downtown where we, once again, found a great restaurant, 212 Market Street. It was unfortunate, indeed, that our waiter was an older gentleman who didn’t quite know how to wait tables; instead of saying “Excuse me,” he poked my husband with his plate of food when Steve didn’t immediately become aware of his presence.

With protesting feet but fulfilled appetites, we began our return home to pick up the car.

What a lovely way to spend a weekend.

Reading, writing, and arithmetic

When I first began reading at age six, I became hooked. We’d take weekly trips to the library at which time I’d get seven books. Seven books a week x 52 weeks = 364 books a year. In other words, the first ten years of my reading life netted me approximately 3640 books. I probably would’ve continued in this vein, but I started dating; in my new dumbed-down state, I simply no longer had time to read so much. Unfortunately, I also had to work. Reading became something covert; sneaking in a few pages at lunch, or staying up until 1 a.m. to finish a book.

Getting a degree in English was a sneaky way of supporting my habit.

Of course, I also got married and had children. Out of necessity, my intake slowed to a more reasonable amount, say an average of three books a week.

So the way I figure it, taking into account a slow-down of adult intake but a decided increase of picture book consumption during my children's younger years and the seven years I taught ESL, I calculate that since age 16 I've read an additional 7176 adult/YA/MG books --and another 4160 picture books (although re-reading may be the more appropriate term). So the total number of books I’ve read since age six is approximately 14,976.

I anticipate reading at least 6240 more adult/YA/MGs and who knows how many PBs in my lifetime.

"How many books have been published? According to Google's advanced algorithms, the answer is nearly 130 million books, or 129,864,880, to be exact. (Ben Parr’s blog: http://mashable.com/2010/08/05/number-of-books-in-the-world/). Discounting the non-English language books and nonfiction--I read fiction almost exclusively--and adding the increased number of books printed in the three years since the appearance of the article, all I’ve got to say is this:

Too many books, too little time.

The natives were restless

As some of you know, I’ve been calling bingo at an assisted living center for nearly four years. The residents are generally excited to see me. Their eyes light up and they pat me as I pass, murmuring my name.

But yesterday I gave them a warning. “If you don’t behave yourselves next time, I’m taking my megaphone and walking right out of here!”

I wouldn’t really do it, but the warning wasn’t without justification.

In times past, one of the ladies told me, “If you’ve got any sense left, it ain’t no picnic here. There’s always somebody crying, crapping their pants, or dying.”

And sometimes they’re simply complaining, taking out their frustrations about growing old on the bingo lady, wishing that the highlight of their day wasn’t bingo.

I try to keep an honest game. If I don’t call a number and one of them finds it covered on her board but the others don’t, I don’t let it slide. After all, the winner wins a buck (even if it is Monopoly money). And it’s true that some of them hear 17 when I call 29, so I can’t let anything slide. But it happened not once but twice to a very vocal protester who grumbled at length, thus making it difficult for the hard-of-hearing to hear. When one of the guys got angry at her for getting angry at me, he said, “Jesus!” and then the fight snowballed because, of course, the same someone got angry at him for taking the name of the Lord in vain (although I’ve heard her do the same).

Oh, my. Bingo isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

At any rate, most of the folks enjoy my presence. And as long as I can hear, as I leave, the gentle chuckle of a gentleman saying “Bingo Bonnie” to himself—I’ll just have to grin and bear it.

Making the most of my time

I’m a sometimes writer, a constant reader, a wannabe artist. I’m always a mother and wife and friend and bargain hunter. I find time for the things that are important to me, such as visiting my kids, walking with my husband, taking the occasional nap, and zumba-ing to a pounding Latin beat. I never miss a meal.

Imagine my delight when I can combine my interests. Friends and food = delight. Friends and food and art classes = even better.

Yes, I’ve found the perfect venue for drawing—in my house, among friends. A local art teacher suggested group classes, and I lassoed a small herd of other wannabes like me. The five of us sit, draw, and chat. Follow that up with lunch, and I’m oh-so-grateful for a husband who can provide for me.

And he does it so well.

It’s a good thing. For whatever reason, I wasn’t the kind who could stick with one job forever. Maybe I just never learned how to play well with others. I’d rather think my interests are just too varied to tie myself to one thing long-term. I’ve regaled you before with tales of my versatility through the years: typist, mail clerk, bookkeeper, secretary, stenographer, court reporting transcriptionist, tech writer, playground supervisor, medical transcriptionist, freelance writer, ESL teacher, and, when the going got tough, Spanish teacher (after an intense program of self-teaching with a little self-delusion mixed in). Phew! When I exhausted all the fields in which I could get paid, I turned to writing children’s books. I’ve got this crazy idea that someday it’ll pay off, too. Maybe the art classes will help. If I can teach Spanish, anything's possible.

Yes to friends, food, and art classes. If I start singing “I’m sexy and I know it,” maybe I can inspire them to zumba as well. Or not.

Zumba crazy

True to the eclecticism of this blog, my next entry will be an interview with Beck McDowell. She’ll be presenting a workshop at a conference sponsored by Southern Breeze in Atlanta, called Springmingle. A local high school English teacher for many years, Beck is now retired and tackling her next career—with great aplomb, I might add. If you haven’t yet read her YA book THIS IS NOT A DRILL, you should. It’ll keep you on the edge of your seat.

A New Lease on Life

Although I’d lived in sixteen different residences since 1969, September 1978 found me contemplating yet another move. After I hurled the ring at my fiancé, I developed a sudden interest in court reporting—not completely out of the blue, mind you. In a serendipitous sort of way, that same day a newspaper article claimed the need for fast-fingered court reporters. A light bulb turned on; perhaps my 100 words per minute on the Selectric could translate into a higher-paying job. Not putting a whole lot of thought into the actual destination, I moved from Columbus, Ohio to attend a school in Saint Louis, Missouri. Granted, it wasn’t the smartest thing I ever did; my ex-boyfriend’s parents lived there. Obviously, I wasn’t as committed to distancing myself as I should’ve been, having dated the guy for four years and facing a future alone at age 27. The breakup was short-lived. When I returned to Columbus after only six months into a program requiring two years, I enrolled in another college to finish my schooling. Called Bliss, the college all too aptly reflected the saying “Ignorance is bliss.” (I quickly learned that I could ace the Friday spelling tests without actually being there during the week. The headmistress disagreed with  my lackadaisical approach to class attendance, marking me as doomed forever: “You’ll never amount to anything!”) At any rate, discouraged with both the training and the boomerang romance, I broke off both relationships. While I felt lighter from shedding two burdens for the price of one, I also cried myself to sleep more than once.

But breaking up required further action, and I relocated my physical possessions to yet another dwelling. Planning to stay there indefinitely, indefinitely lasted all of three months. It’s a good thing I didn’t sign a lease.

You’d think Columbus would be a mecca for court reporting schools, as the actual capital of Ohio and, therefore, bustling legal arena. Instead, Springfield, an hour away, seemed to house the only decent court reporting school around. I resisted moving until I couldn’t take it anymore. Hey, I commuted for a month; I can’t help it if I have a low threshold for boredom.

One beautiful morning—at least, it started out that way—being stuck behind yet another smoke-belching semi temporarily obliterated my view—I’d decided I’d seen all I-70 had to offer. Besides, historically-speaking, autumn’s blue skies and deliciously pleasant days were numbered. With Ohio’s terminally gray skies and frigid temps rapidly approaching, I needed to navigate my way into an apartment close to campus—and soon. That weekend, I scoured the rental ads, identifying the precious few apartments within my budget. Placing several calls only netted me one concrete connection. Mike—my future landlord?—assured me of several vacancies. Hoping that this trip into Springfield would end the two-hour path I’d been forging, I slid onto the bench seat of my trusty, old station wagon.

An aspiring slumlord if ever there was one, Mike didn’t even attempt to put lipstick on the pig. Was this all I could afford? Dump after dump left me pessimistic.

My lack of interest in buddying up to cockroaches soon struck Mike as a negative. I have to give him credit. While he held little potential as a trusted landlord, he nonetheless had my interest at heart. “Some friends of mine own a Victorian house,” he said. “They’ve been working on it and turned the upstairs into two apartments. I think one of them is available.” I took him up on his offer to introduce me, and we walked there together.

The house loomed ahead of us in all its 1880s glory. Interesting. Unique. A little bit spooky. I worried about drafts. And bugs. And mice.

When Basil came to the door, I thought, “Cute.” When Steve followed, I thought, “I’m renting the place, no matter what.” Tall—well, tall’s in the eyes of the short beholder—dark, and handsome struck a chord. I never noticed Mike’s departure.

Cosmetically speaking, the empty apartment left a little to be desired. Dirt and construction debris littered the floor. After all, the owners were guys in their twenties, not terribly used to tidying up after themselves. But I browbeat them into helping me spruce up the place, and it did clean up nice. No mice. No bugs. A minor plumbing problem that soon got ironed out. No drafts that bothered me. A row of windows in the living room even made the hardwood floors gleam.

And Steve—a carpenter living on a shoestring, apparently untainted by the need for fiscal responsibility—granted me a week’s free rent for helping them clean. When I dug deeper and found that he was also strong, smart, funny, and nice, I realized I couldn’t let a landlord like that get away. Three years later, I married him.

I never did become a court reporter, but I learned the value of a contract. Lease at Suite 101, 806 South Fountain Avenue? Bring it on, baby. Marriage contract?  Between you and me—and, well, there’s Steve—I wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

 

 

Milk an idea for all it's worth!

I just read the disappointing news that Chick-Fil-A refuses to accept unsolicited ideas. While I dislike their chicken recipe and totally disagree with their fundamental philosophy, you’d think that I’d be less than eager to offer creative ideas anyway. But the thing is this: I adore their billboard campaign.

With that in mind, I created a billboard message in my sleep last night based on my son’s recent dream involving cows organizing a “moo d’état”—a Far Side invasion into the deep recessions of his mind. Since lots of folks know that a coup d’état means overthrow, but don’t necessarily know how to spell it, I figured those  uneducated, oft-misspelling cows played right into this. This is how the billboard would play out:

THER HAZ BIN A MOO-DAY-TAH. COWS ROOL. EAT MOR CHIKIN.

Now, is that not brilliant?! Just think of the moolah I could make—well, if unsolicited ideas were accepted, that is. I had even formulated a letter demanding payment; if they didn't pay up, they’d face the moooooo-sic. Of course, I would have signed the letter “Standing on the side of cows” or “Moooooooooove aside, Mad Men,” depending on my mood.

Instead, here I am, my idea rising to the top of the milk bucket like cream, while Chick-Fil-A pushes it aside to go for the skim.

 

Poetry in Motion

Poetry in  motion. That’s the best way to describe Desert Baths. Author Darcy Pattison and illustrator Kathleen Rietz set their poetry in motion with action on the desert.

Bathing takes all forms, few of which require water. But that’s not the case with an Anna’s hummingbird; she bathes with dew drops by sliding her breast feathers down a leaf.  The desert tortoise hopes for rain, but instead often skips bathing since rainfall is scarce on the desert. Some animals scratch and groom; others simply shed their skin. Dueling it out for the most interesting of baths is the scaled quail which uses an ant as a bath mitt and the  western banded gecko whose tongue licks his eyeballs to keep them moist and clear.

Desert Baths includes an educational section called For Creative Minds with six pages of learning activities. A big boon to the usefulness of the book in the classroom, a separate Teaching Activity Guide by Sylvan Dell Publishing provides fifty-two pages of additional information and activities.  

Be sure to get a copy of Desert Baths at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Powells, or your favorite online bookstore. In fact, you can order it from any local store. Online versions for schools are licensed at Sylvan Dell’s website. Also the audio alone (both English and Spanish) can be found at iBookStore.

 

Pattison has struck gold once again with her latest book on nature.