The Scenic, Deadly State Route 62

The Deadly, Scenic State Route 62

By Rebecca Carroll

©2011

 

Tennessee State Route 62 is a snaking stretch of 2-lane highway that meanders mostly west to east from Monterey at the edge of the Cumberland Plateau and disappears in downtown Knoxville. If you live in southern Scott County, Sunbright, Wartburg, Joyner, Petros, Coalfield, or in any of the other surrounding communities, you have to travel it to get to Oak Ridge and/or Knoxville.

It can be scenic with its mountain views, curves, and straight stretches that tempt the faster cars to get around those enjoying the scenery. However, for many, it is literally a graveyard, a last stop on this earth in twisted metal and the white residue of the deflated air bags.

I have no statistics, just my memories of all those whose lives ended or families who were tragically affected by near misses on the stretch that goes through Coalfield. I was reminded of this fatal stretch of highway just today as I drove my grandchildren home. Near the Presbyterian church is a small memorial to a 6-year old child who died last week after the car she was riding in was hit head on by a dump truck. A wreath and some other flowers, while appropriate, are an almost pitiful reminder of a life so hideously and wrongfully stolen from this girl. There will be no first grade, no prom, no makeup, no growing up for this little girl. Those sweet events of life were stolen by that road that is outrageously out of date with its 2 lanes, curves, and narrow shoulders.

There are other accidents that have left imprints on my mind. I certainly do not pretend to recount them all—there are too many for that. My own son, when he was just learning to drive, hit–or was hit–by a truck at Coalfield’s most infamous intersection: the Snack ‘n Pack. Thankfully, he wasn’t hurt. My nephew wasn’t so lucky; he was hit there and had a serious head injury but recovered. I remember my husband’s employee as he came to the house to tell me of the wreck. His face was white. “It’s bad,” he says. I can’t forget my sister (his mother) and me standing, shaking, on the side of the road as they pulled him out of the car. I can’t even begin to imagine her feelings as she watched.

In the early 1960’s, there was a wreck near Middle Creek Baptist Church where 2 high school girls were killed. The accident was much talked about. They were beautiful girls whose lives were gone in an instant. In that same time period, another woman was killed closer to Middle Creek, and a child died in separate accidents. A man walking was also killed near the church.

There’s more . . . .

My family lived on the highway in the 1950’s. Our paper boy was hit by a car (only a broken leg); Dad’s car was hit turning into our driveway one evening; and a coal truck loaded with coal wrecked into our yard once to avoid hitting the school bus that had stopped for my sisters. http://sunnybrooktales.wordpress.com/2009/05/05/coal-truck-wreck-on-the-mountain/. No one was hurt in that accident, but it was perhaps the last straw for my dad. He moved the family to the more rural Back Valley Road.

There’s more. . . .

Who could forget the high school girl who was stopped to make a left-hand turn into Walls Hollow? The turn-off sits just over a slight rise. She was hit in the back with such a force, she did not survive. Her mother launched a campaign to install a turn lane, and the state came through this time.  

There’s more . . . .

My former sister-in-law and her companion both perished farther toward Stephens. I seem to remember someone’s mother gone after another wreck near Snack ‘n Pack.  And my husband and I were involved in a 3-car accident once near Big Mountain Church. There were no serious injuries, but it taught me the importance of seat belts. We had only lap belts at the time, which allowed my knees to crash into the dashboard.

There’s more . . . .

Near the auction, 2 men lost their lives one night trying to pull out onto that tricky stretch with limited sight and crowded cars parked at the auction. A classmate of my daughter’s and his friend wrecked there one night, severely injuring them both.  Incredibly, my kids and I once watch Lifestar land on the stretch of highway between Middle Creek Church and the top of Big Mountain hill to pick up a victim. A woman’s car was down in a ravine. She did not survive.

There’s more . . . .

There are speed limits, flashing lights, people who drive cautiously through certain areas, but nothing, NOTHING (I am shouting) will help until the State of Tennessee decides to build the mythical, far-into-the-future, modern highway east to west through Morgan County. Morgan County needs a four-lane, divided highway with wide shoulders and turn lanes so that our loved ones can make it to their jobs safely and back home again, so that little children are not crumpled in head-on collisions, so that you don’t have to get that terrible, dreaded phone call. The same could be said for Highway 27. Yes, we are thankful for the stretch that is almost finished from Petit Lane to Wartburg, but it is not enough. We have been traveling on the same highway for 50+ years with very little improvement. Wake up State of Tennessee!

There will be more . . . .

Serendipity and the Cemetery

Serendipity and the Cemetery

Rebecca Carroll

© 6/20/10 

Today is a bittersweet day.  If Dad had lived, he would have celebrated his 59^th Father’s Day. And in one of those times when the calendar reveals the way it can sometimes align special dates with events, it is my late mother’s birthday. She would have celebrated 76 years. For us, she is a forever youthful 66-year old mother, wife, grandmother, and comforter.

 A small custom began a few years ago that my daughter Kerry, who lives in Kentucky and can’t come home much, calls me to remind me to place flowers on “Grandma June’s” grave on June 20.  You see, Kerry was also born on this day, 50 years after Mom.  It is this small outing of mine that brings me the serendipity.

 I stop at K-mart to buy flowers, accomplishing another task of picking up a prescription and a few other necessities. I look at the flowers, trying not to notice the cheapness, thinking that it is the sentiment that is important.  Purple and lavender look good, and I could match up a spray for Dad with one for Mom. I know that in Dad’s particular way of being unparticular about this color, he wouldn’t mind, and Mom would love it—if they knew. But their knowing is not important; it is the honor I feel knowing that they were absolutely imperfect but perfect parents.

The cemetery is hot and solemn at the back of its peaceful field. There are a couple of other cars there, but I glance and don’t recognize them. I take my purplish flowers out of the trunk and look over to the headstone and see that someone—a sibling, probably—has placed a nice spray of flowers atop the stone. It is a mix of purple, and I feel a sudden chill despite the 90+ reading on my car thermometer.  I place the flowers, somewhat peaceful that Mom and Dad are adorned with purple, and start for my car.

A nice surprise awaits me as one of the other visitors recognizes me and comes over to talk. I had not seen her for 10 or 12 years, so we had a nice visit. I get in my car and drive slowly around the loop in the cemetery, and as I read some of the names on the headstones, I see a grouping of headstones that gives me the other serendipitous moment. A man lies buried at one stone, and a woman lies buried at the stone next to it. They are not related, and I don’t even know if they were friends; I’m sure they knew of one another. Now, the man’s wife is married to the other woman’s husband. That their burial sites are side by side is purely coincidental, and it is sweet to think they can all be buried together in a nice, blissful line.

 A sweltering day of remembrance ends with sweet moments, the kind you can’t plan no matter how many lists and how many phone calls you make. Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Happy Birthday, Mom. You are clothed in purple and love.

The “J” Factor

The “J” Factor

            My first name does not begin with a “J.” You are probably asking yourself how this could be important. It does not matter; I still look and feel the same as if I had been named Jean or Jocelyn or Janice, but the fact that my first name does not begin with a J tells you a little bit about my family dynamics.

             I come from a family of J’s. My dad’s name was Jesse, and my mom’s name was June. It was totally coincidental that they married. They named their first child Judy and the second Jenny. Then, I came along. Like a red, out-of-place dot in a sea of jade dots, they named me Rebecca. I will give them some credit; they did give me the middle name Joyce, but I never went by that name. I had one aunt who always called me Joyce, and when I was twelve or so, I pretended I didn’t hear her if she called me Joyce. The important part here is that my parents never called me Joyce.

            The next child in the family was named Janet. By this time, I was feeling a conspiracy or whatever a five-year-old would feel. Next there was Jerry, and last, Jeff. When I became a teen and really felt sort of odd in this family of J’s, I asked my mom about leaving me out of the J’s. She said—and I really had no reason to doubt her—they (my parents) did not intend to start the J pattern, but by the fourth child, they thought it would be interesting (not cool because my parents never tried to be cool) to keep up the J names.

            The story does not end with the last child named with a J. The second child, Jenny, conveniently married Jimmy. They produced children named Julie and Jeremy. Julie married a non-J but named her boys Jackson and Jayden. I’m the third child, but under the circumstances,  I saw no need to seek a husband with a J name; I married a D and named my children with 2 K’s and 1 C. My C child married Jessica. The fourth child, Janet, married a non-J, but she named her boys James and Jesse, and Jesse now has Jesse, Jr. Fifth child Jerry named his children Jacob, Jill, and Jerika. Sixth child Jeff named his son Joseph, and his daughter Kassidy (who missed the J names by one letter) named her new son Julian. The rest of the siblings married non-J’s and didn’t name their children with J’s.

            Our story is certainly not unique; you can find many stories of families who carry out the tradition of names beginning with a certain letter for several generations. Ours has been passed down through three generations. We have a good time remembering the days when Dad would call out every J in the family until he got the one he really wanted to talk to or about. Mom never seemed to have this problem—she got it right on the first try, and at family gatherings, we have fun guessing who will produce the next little J or perhaps marry a John, a Jason, a Josh, or a  Janine.

Vera Bradley Switch-a-Roo

I was visiting my brother’s family in Georgia. I went to the bathroom, left my purse in the living room. When I returned, there was a Vera Bradley purse the same style as mine but a different pattern–the Capri Blue. Inside was all my stuff! My old black/brown purse was gone.

Okay–that’s not what really happened. Only what I tried to get Terry to believe!

I was really visiting my brother’s family. Sister Judy was leaving, and I noticed she had a Vera Bradley purse–same style as mine but the lovely Capri Blue pattern. I said to her that we had the same style of purse, but I liked that pattern better. She said she liked mine better. I said “do you want to trade?” She agreed, so we dumped everything out right there on the sofa and traded. An exciting moment! Those with us thought we were nuts, but we both now have a new purse!

The Vera Bradley Plunge & Other Purse Notes

There was a time when my purse always matched my shoes–always! This was pre-kids, in my twenties. Of course, after having a baby, who would have time to coordinate shoes and purses? I gave it up for a large utilitarian purse.  After the years when I thought I would carry a perennial diaper bag, I settled for a purse large enough to still carry those needed kids items like tissue, wipes, hair bands, and whatever else the kids handed me to carry.

Finally, the kids were almost grown and independent, and I went the “as light as possible route.” My purse was just a wallet with a shoulder strap, and it would hold a lipstick, a brush, a compact, and cash and credit cards. I made it that way for a while. Then came the time when I HAD to have my glasses with me. In their hard-body case, they just would not fit into this small purse, so I dragged out the old large purse that I paid quite a bit for at the time and carried it for 4-5 years. I carried it during my antique store days, and once I discovered a plate in it that had been there about a week!

You could really categorize me as not being into designer purses, but a few months ago, I need a new, large purse with lots of dividers, zipper pockets, etc. At Dillards, they had one on sale that seemed perfect. It was a great price so I bought it. When Kerry saw it, she said, “Wow, Mom, a designer purse.” It is a Gianni Bini (I had never heard of it, but Kerry recognized the brand immediately). Kerry usually does not care for my sense of style, but she really liked this purse. I carried it for a while longer and discovered it had a couple of features I didn’t like. The handles weren’t meant to be shoulder straps, but they were long enough that I could, with some effort, get them on my shoulder. It also had a magnetic closure which was difficult to get into with one hand while driving–yes, on occasion, I have to dig in the purse! My arthritic hands made this difficult.

When we were in Europe, I decided to buy a red, Italian purse. I let the “cute factor” make the decision. The purse looks like a minature brief case, has some pockets, shoulder straps–it seemed perfect! It wasn’t! It was too small for what I need to carry.

Now, I’ve seen plenty of Vera Bradley purses and accessories at school, and my step-daughters like Vera Bradley. I have bought them some accessories for their birthdays or for Christmas. I like the fabric the products are made of, but I am usually slow to follow a trend. There is a shop in Karns called Spoiled Rotten, and they have a good selection of Vera Bradley; they also have lots of baby items that are very cute–overall, a cute shop to visit. When I discovered the red, Italian purse was not going to work, I went to Spoiled Rotten and bought a retired pattern (Cafe Latte–a black/brown pattern) purse at 25% off! It is big, has lots of pockets and zippers, and it fits my shoulder nicely. The only problem was at the beach when we were visiting attractions outside, it seems to be very hot to carry (Kelly noticed this when I carried Daisy and she carried the purse). But I love the purse. I might have chosen a different pattern, but I just couldn’t bring myself to pay the price.

So, now I was stuck with the designer purse I don’t carry. Kerry’s birthday was in June, so I sent her the purse and a very nice Hard Rock Cafe Barbie from Paris. She was thrilled! She was carrying the purse when she came to the beach! Of course, when she saw the Vera Bradley purse, she made it clear she does not like Vera Bradley. But that’s okay–that is what keeps everyone in business! And, it doesn’t bother me that I will carry the purse until it probably wears out!

Hoskins Drug Store in Clinton also carries Vera Bradley, and there is a pretty good store in Pigeon Forge–I don’t know the name, but it is on the right going towards the Smokies.

www.verabradley.com

What We Know that Europe Does Not Know – Part 1

To be fair–I am patriotic–I have to write about the good aspects of the great United States as opposed to the good things about Europe.

Here’s what we do better: fast food and food courts.

We know that we can travel on the interstate in the U.S. and find eating establishments along the way whether it be fast food or Chili’s, Cracker Barrel (in the southeast, as least). In Italy–and we covered a great bit of territory there–they have something called Autogrill. These are built either over the autostrada (interstate) or 1 on each side of the interstate at one exit. First, if it is over the interstate, you have to make sure you don’t get confused and go out the door that is on the other side of the interstate. Yes, I did this once and led a whole group of ladies with me. We exited the building and looked around and realized our error. Then we had to go back inside the building and follow a maze (more later) to get out the other side. I think other members of our group did this also.

The Auto Grill (doesn’t even sound Italian, does it) is a combination of a convenience mart, gas station, cafeteria, fast food, and tourist trap. It sounds nice, but it’s not like having a McDonald’s, Burger King, Arby’s, or Chik-Fil-A all at the same exit. Inside, you have to decide if you are going the cafeteria route (expensive!) or do the pre-made sandwiches. It took us a couple of times stopping at these to understand that you pay for your food first, and that means you had to go up to the crowded counter and look at the offerings in the glass case (usually sandwiches), try to figure out what you wanted (understanding Italian), wait in line to pay for the food, then take your ticket back to the crowded food case and wait in line to get your food. By that time, the tour guide is getting nervous about getting everyone back to the bus on time. You also had to make sure you bought everything else you might want (water, Coke, candy bars, etc.) when you pay for your sandwich; otherwise, you would have to stand in line again.

If you decided on the cafeteria, you had to go through several sections and select your food, and before you knew it, you were paying $20 for lunch! On one occasion, I spilled the balsamic vinagrette dressing in the floor; the attendant scolded me for it (not what we would do here in US). At the same place, we took our food off of the trays to put on the table, and the same attendant scolded us for that. Yes, they were rude!

So, now, you are done with your food, whatever you decided, and you have to find your way out of the building. You cannot simply walk out the door. You have to follow a virtual maze through their aisles of merchandise to get out the door and hope you don’t end up on the other side of the interstate Thus, we know how to do food at an exit much better! Lots of choices, not too expensive and fairly easy to figure out the logistics of getting the food!

http://autogrill.com

My Absence

I’ve been telling myself I have to get back to blogging, so here I am. I have been incredibly busy lately–traveling the world–okay, I’m just making it sound better than it was! We had the Europe trip in May/June, and I plan to write more about it. Then, I started a new job; then we went to the beach for a week (more later), then I had surgery. I don’t advertise the trips when the house is going to be empty.

About the surgery: I had a front-end realignment (as Terry calls it) which translates in lay terms to having my bladder rehung. The medical term for it is a transvaginal bladder neck suspension. I had this done this past Tuesday, so I am at home recovering on the couch. Now, usually I am not a wimp with surgery (I had my gall bladder removed on a Friday and was back at school the next Tuesday, walking slowly, I admit.) Anyway, this was a horrible surgery. I think it was worse than having a baby! I had to spend 1 night in the hospital and came home with a catheter (it comes out Monday). When I woke up Thursday morning, I felt like a truck had run over me. I was sore all over (part of that was due to a bicycle wreck at the beach); my eyes were swollen; I hadn’t had a lot of sleep; my stomach was upset; the catheter hurt; and my throat was sore. Thankfully, Kelly came by and gave me some much needed care. She brought breakfast, helped with with dressing and other stuff, and provided moral support. Terry had to go to work–he had not worked the whole week of the beach and missed part of Tuesday & Wednesday due to the surgery. By the time Kelly left, I was resting comfortably on the couch.

I am slowly improving but don’t feel like getting too far from that couch!

Ladies, if you have had that surgery, tell me what you think about your own. If I had known. . . . I think I might have lived with the problem. I am hoping in a week or two that I will be glad I had it, but now, I’m not too sure. I have needed it for a long time but have put it off.

What Europe Knows That We Don’t Know-Part 1

The Romance of Trains!
I’ve been saying this for a while. The United States needs to return to train travel. And not just in the big cities. It used to be you could travel a short distance to a train station and ride a train to almost anywhere. Now, we get in our big cars and clog the highways for our excursions to Gatlinburg, the mall, or other travel sites. For my job, I travel to Cookeville on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and what I would give for a nice train ride there and back. I could sleep, grade papers, daydream, and grade some more papers!

In our recent travels in Europe, we rode a bullet, fast train from Nice, France to Paris. It was absolutely lovely! We were exhausted after 10 days of non-stop walking, bus riding, packing, unpacking, and sleeping on lumpy beds. Although the train approached a top speed of about 200 mph, the train ride was about 6 hours. At first, it made a few stops and traveled rather slowly through the French countryside, but it was spacious and comfortable. We were on the top deck and thus had long views of the scenery. We had room to stretch our legs, and although we tried not to fall asleep, the gentle rocking of the train soon lulled us into naps. We ate our sandwiches we had bought at the train station and walked through several cars to the dining car (rather informal) to buy Cokes and used the better-than-an-airplane toilet!

The getting on the train proved to be sort of an adventure in itself. Our excellent tour guide Alex had a plan: “When the train pulls in, boys put on the luggage, girls get on the train!” He was emphatic about this plan. It seems the train is only at the station about 10 minutes, and we had quite a bit of luggage. The station is generally crowded with lots of people trying to get on. Our large group of 31 was separated, and my group was in the last coach of the last set of cars.

The good old days could be  good again. Think of the gas and pollution we could save by traveling more by train! Terry and I hope to return to Europe on our own in a few years and ride trains from country to country.  Our country did it once; we can do it again!
(Note: Hopefully, I will learn to post pictures soon to go with my posts!)

Update of Information – “I Have Never Never Lived in a Castle”

For those of you who read the true story of the night a man broke into my house and assaulted me, you might be interested to know that he has been arrested again. He apparently entered a house in Clinton near where he is staying. There were 2 teen-age girls there, but he did not assault them. He is in jail. Read the story in the today’s Oak Ridger. I think this is his 3rd arrest since he got out of prison last October.

http://www.oakridger.com/localnews/x124631247/Victims-describe-break-in-nightmare?popular=true

The House Party

The House Party

Rebecca Carroll © 2008

We came from Knoxville, Claxton, Maryville, Petros, Chattanooga, Cookeville, Georgia, Kentucky, from across the road, down the road, and from across Middle Ridge. My five siblings and I and our various offspring and attachments gathered at dad’s for few days of togetherness. We made cookies, ordered pizza, drank wine and cans of soft drinks, and reminisced. The trash can heaped with the remnants: bottles, cardboard boxes, paper plates, and cans. The dining room with its extra long table that Mom was so proud to seat most of the family around became the center of command. From there siblings and grandkids directed their laptops and scanners, keeping a finger on the outside world and scanning old photos. We came and went; some went to work for a few hours; others called in–there was always a cell phone playing a confessing tune and someone going outside to take a call. At night, we slumbered on the sofa, in the spare bedrooms, in the recliner or wherever there was an empty spot. At some point in the few days, I realized it was the first time I had spent a night in my parents’ house since I left there thirty-six years ago. It could have been true for some of the others; we didn’t discuss that. For certain, it was the first time in thirty years or more that more than one of us had stayed overnight in the house at the same time. And here, there were five of us there–and some of the spouses–all laying our heads under the same roof.

We had lively discussions about movies, politics, obnoxious neighbors, religion, distant cousins, old friends, our peculiar but deceased great aunts, and our mother. The grandkids laughed at old picture albums, trying not to comment, but failing, on our big hair and the obvious differences in weight. At times, they interrupted the older adults to find who the baby or child was in a certain picture. Most of the time we knew, but other times we were grateful that our mother or grandmother had written on the back of the picture the names and dates. We laughed; we had disagreements. We kept our outbursts to the kitchen and dining room.

Somewhere between the kitchen and the hallway that led to the back bedroom, there was a line that the noise must not cross, an unspoken rule, an entrance into an unknown vastness we did not really want to visit, but had to. For in the back bedroom, our father lay dying. Daddy, our dad, our acropolis, was yielding to the depleted blood cells, to the wearied heart, the filling lungs, to death.

Nurses came, aunts and cousins, friends called. Some brought food; others just carried a prayer, a thought. One by one, we left the boisterous dining room and found our way into Dad’s room. There we sat and talked to him, petted him, held his hand. We wondered what it was like, physically, to have your blood dry up. Soon there would be no talking; the conversations had been strange for about a week. Just a week ago, he sat in his chair in the living room, weak, but fully dressed, his still handsome face not revealing the turmoil inside his body. He was confused. Where was his wife, he asked. But it wasn’t our mother or stepmother that he was speaking of. He was convinced there had been another wife. We tried reasoning, but when we realized how serious he was, we just agreed with him. Dad even felt so well one day that our brother took him for a ride in his truck, the truck the had worried that we had sold already.

Now, with us all gathered but one–he had made his peace a few days ago and had to go back home to Georgia–we waited. We talked of miracles but knew there were none. It felt the same as it had with Mom. Why couldn’t he just wake up and be himself again? We asked, knowing there was no answer, no solace, no Daddy to comfort us. It was us who had to be strong for him as we walked to death with him as far as we could go.

It came on a Sunday morning, about 9 a.m–Mom had also passed on a Sunday morning. Wasn’t it harmonious that this happened on Sunday, a day that had meant this family with the pretty red-headed wife and the tall handsome man gathered their growing family for the weekly journey to church? On Sunday mornings of long ago, hadn’t Daddy helped get the little girls ready for church, retrieving black patent leather shoes from various corners and trying to match them up with the correct feet, and struggling to tie the sashes of the four little girls’ dresses while Mother prepared the Sunday dinner and finished getting herself ready. Just a couple of years ago, Dad had mentioned how he could never get the sashes right, and funny that we hadn’t even known that–we thought it was always Mom taking care of the girls’ frills.

Now, none of us were getting ready for church at all but sitting around the kitchen table greeting the undertaker and trying not to cry or to look as they took our foundation, our strength, out of the house he had built mostly by himself, onto the front porch where he and Mom had sat watching a summer storm roll in from the west or the frost on the distant mountain peaks, and past the pink dogwood and the sleeping daffodils and tulips. Just one more night, we all secretly wished. Just one more night, could we not be lying in our sheltered beds when Dad would sing–from his and Mom’s room–us to sleep? It was a special song–a cowboy song, “When the Work’s All Done This Fall.” The cowboy was near the end of his life and was dividing his possessions, and Dad always used our names to hand out his saddle, his hat. We would fall asleep to that beautiful, clear voice we heard so much in the car, from the basement, and in church.

The soul of the house was truly gone now–half of it left when Mom died. We would wash the last load of Dad’s clothes, clean out the refrigerator, and carry off the bags of trash we had accumulated in those last days. In the next few weeks, we would begin the dismal but necessary task of dismantling two lives. There’s the rocking chair where Mom rocked the grandbabies and the great grandbabies. Someone mentions all the grandbabies that Mom never got to rock, and already, there’s a baby that Dad has missed, just born, and he carries Dad’s name. There’s Dad’s chair where in the last few months we would usually find him, surrounded by his books, his medicines, the trappings of a cancer that had become a fixture in his house. We sorted, claimed, and boxed endless mementoes of our parents’ lives. Finally, the house is mostly empty; a couple of us go to the basement to see what is left there–our brothers had already carried most of it out.

My eyes could barely stay dry; I wanted to hear just one more time Dad’s cheerful whistle as he worked in the basement with his rocks or his wood projects. The sound was gone from the basement, but I knew that it lived on in our hearts, and we would never forget its meaning, the devotion he carried for his sweetheart and the six children she bore. We would hear the sound through the way we live our lives, through the kind of people we are because of our father and our mother, the imprint they had left on each of us.