Green Bay Packer Love ---in Martin, Tennessee

Are you ready for some football?

Martin, Tennessee

Old Home Motel - Revisited

Dropping a few more pictures your way of the Old Home Motel.  See my blog post below for the full story.

Leaving Alabama...

Crossing the state line, Alabama to Tennessee.

Sign in someone's front yard in Alabama. I may not come home alone...

JUANITA and the Old Home Motel

Adamsville, TN is home to Buford Pusser, the legendary lawman who broke up moonshine operations and put a lockdown on gamblers, prostitutes and organized crime.

The small town in McNairy County wraps its arms around the Pusser history. A silhouette of the 'Walking Tall' movie character carrying a big club is pictured on the community's water tower.

The local police department has a glass display case with photos of Pusser with country singer Johnny Cash, letters of commendation, and again, the famed big club with which Pusser said he would use instead of a gun to keep law and order.

Just up the Main St. in Adamsville is the Old Home Motel.

Built in 1950, the 15-unit motel hasn't changed at all. The lettering on the original street-side sign is a bit faded, but you can still see the motel name and the words 'swimming pool' written in cursive at the bottom.

The room doors are still painted with a bright array of colors including tangerine orange, brilliant yellow and turquoise blue.

The best thing about the motel is sitting in a plush, brown leather chair in the front office. Owner Juanita Richardson is 91 years old.

Juanita Richardson

She started serving customers in a restaurant when she was 17 and she's been in the motel/restaurant business ever since.

"When my husband bought the restaurant across the street I liked to have croaked," said Juanita.

We sat and talked in the front office of the motel for about three hours. The office also served as the living room of her house.

She sat along a series of street-side windows, the blinds pulled over a bulge of the neon 'open' sign for the business.

Her feet, covered in black slippers with white fluff on the top, were perched on a small, round wicker table.

Juanita had high cheekbones and white hair parted on the side. She had gray-blue eyes, pale skin with a few light brown age marks and no makeup. She reminded me of the actress Jessica Tandy.

Juanita spoke with a southern ease, some self-effacing humor and when she reenacted a story her voice rose an octave or two.

"We opened the Old Home Restaurant on a Sunday," said Juanita.

"We could seat 100 and I had homemade rolls and homemade dressings including thousand island, blue cheese and Roquefort and customers were lined up across the street," she said.

A lightning strike eventually put an end to the restaurant and for years after Juanita and her husband Joe ran the motel.

"Elvis stayed here once," she said.

Sheriff Pusser came over and picked up a key from Juanita's husband.  "Buford wanted to sneak Elvis in and out," she said, determining the 'stay' was in the late 1960s.

"Elvis really led a miserable life," said Juanita. "He had more money but he no privacy and if you stop and think about that, it's horrible."

Elvis stayed in room 115 at the Old Home Motel. Juanita said some customers ask for that room in particular.

"I suppose if I'm going to sit here and talk to you I might as well tell you about the saddest part of this ole' story," said Juanita.

There was still some strain in her voice when she told me about the day in 1976 when her husband killed himself. "He was a drinker and it just got worse when we came to town," she said.

"That turned my basket upside down."

I stopped taking notes as Juanita talked about depression, and what she would do as a single mom with a business at age 47.

"Natalie was daddy's girl," she said. "She ask for a dime and he'd give her a quarter. She'd ask for a dollar and he'd give her five."

Juanita cried daily and worked. "I'd tell the maid to take off the weekends and I'd make 28 beds and clean the rooms," she said. "I didn't eat and my weight dropped down to 105 pounds."

It was one New Year's Eve when Juanita was watching TV and the big ball drop on Times Square.

"I closed my eyes and made a resolution to change; I just knew I couldn't go on like this and for some reason I wondered what people on the other side of the world were going through."

Juanita said she got up the next day and still had no clue how to change her situation.

Then she looked at me and said, "But now I've been to 25 foreign countries." And she started listing them: Norway, Sweden, England, Holland, North Africa, Portugal, Germany, Spain, and Russia.

"In North Africa we were at a dinner where a goat's eye was put right in the middle of a dish and it was just staring at me," she said, her voice rising. "Then a half-naked native dancer came and pulled me up and tried to get me to dance."

Juanita clutched a Kleenex while she talked and held it to her mouth when she laughed.

In another country, she couldn't remember which, she ate what the tour guide later told her was a fried blood clot. "I'd like to have flipped," said Juanita.

She reminisced most about her trip to Russia. "I never laughed so much in my life," she said talking about the trip she took with her friend Carol Jean.

"Talk about country girls who went to town. We were just a couple of dumb-dumbs; I don't know how we ever made it back."

Juanita said they traveled by train in Russia. "We didn't know beans about nothin' but at least we knew to pack a lunch," she said. Two gentlemen from the States rode in their same train car. They didn't pack a lunch, so the ladies shared. "Then they left to go find some food. They got some cookies at the end of the train and brought 10 back. It turns out those cookies cost $6 a piece," she laughed.

Juanita said the travel pulled her out of her depression "because around here when I saw friends I knew they felt sorry for me because of Joe, but when I traveled... nobody knew."

Juanita said she always wanted to go to Australia, but the cartilage in her knees was so bad now it hindered her walking.

She said she’d keep working at the motel because it kept her active.

So far on this tour, she’s one of the most inspiring people I’ve met.

Comments: Some friends and I spent about an hour today talking with Juanita. We enjoy our visits with her. Today her conversation centered on The Bike Writer. She showed us a card you left her. I think you made a hard-working lady happy.  Sylvia

As Tina Turner would say....

"In Tennessee where I grew up, there were animals, farms, wagons, mules." - Tina Turner

CROSSING INTO TENNESSEE

About a mile before the Tennessee state line I visited the Whistlestop Cafe; a small diner of six tables at the back of a gas station.

I ordered two eggs, toast and a sample portion of fried green tomatoes. My every move was observed by a little girl in a pink iCarly t-shirt.

Gracie, 7, was on summer vacation and already bored. She sat across from me, head in her hands, answering my questions with a thick Alabama drawl.

"Fishing" was how she planned to spend her summer. "We catch bass mostly. My daddy said I caught the biggest bass he's ever seen," she said.

Gracie spoke with matter-of-fact confidence.

I spread my hands for an example of size measurement and then my arms. Gracie shook her head and said she couldn't remember but "her daddy said."

The conversation turned to biking. I gave her my business card and told her where to look for stories about the tour.

"This your phone number," she asked. "I'm going to give you a call and then we can go biking."

She was adorably sincere and quickly corraled by her mother to 'stop bothering the lady.'

These quick encounters really make the tours a memorable experience.

Meet Gracie....

The people I meet

Crossed into Tennessee on Tuesday morning around 10 a.m. and got twisted in a traffic jam of thoughts.

Safety is top priority, but it became quickly obvious that The Volunteer State never consulted with bicyclists when designing its roads.

The county roads have a narrow shoulder with a rumble strip dropped right in the middle, that forces bikes back into the one-lane of traffic.

With my large blue marker and notepad I scrawled a simple note, 'HELP - RIDE.'

I was stuck in a hot pocket, with a challenging climb ahead when Aaron came to my rescue.

He climbed out of an old white pickup; bare feet, a straw hat, blue jeans and an awe-shucks attitude.

Aaron and traveling buddy

Aaron was in his late 60s but looked older. Skinny and hunched over at the shoulders he looked like he'd creak when he walked - possibly a combination between a stroke and Parkinsons.

"I'll give you a lift over the next eight hills," he mumbled.

We loaded the bike in the bed of the truck, left the tailgate down and I hopped in front.

"This is Cricket and the other one's Tinkerbelle," said Aaron about his two nervous little pocket/purse dogs that had already called dibs on the front seat.

A decent enough guy, Aaron talked and talked, but with the windows open and my eyes glued to the passing hills I didn't understand one thing he said.

He had a very 'King-of-the-Hill' speech pattern. I simply smiled and nodded.

Those seven miles ended quickly and that's when I met Perry.

He was driving a red Dodge Ram pickup and I managed to snag a ride from him into Savannah, TN.

Perry was 71 years old. He had a pile of loose tools riding shotgun so I was resigned to riding in the back with my bike.

Me and my bike in the back of Perry's pickup

After loading the bike I climbed on board and buried my bottom into the middle of a spare tire. My feet were wedged between an array of plastic jugs of oil, an old shoe, wood chips, stray rocks and a WHAM-O Slinky.

"Somebody pulled my door off so I've got to tie it shut with the seatbelt," said Perry as we  slowly got underway.

With the heads' up on the door, I put little trust in the tailgate. Rather than lean back and enjoy the ride, I wedged myself a bit further into the wheel and hung on.

It was exhilarating; I hadn't ridden in the bed of a pickup since I was a teenager at my grandparents in Gays Mills.

We crested one hill and Perry pulled over at a gas station for a sandwich.

"Be just a minute," he said, walking toward the building leaving the door to his pickup swung wide open.

Perry returned about 10 minutes later with two burgers wrapped in tin foil. "We'll eat these under the tree," he said handing me an unexpected lunch.

With that we stood in the shade of the tree and ate our homemade hamburger with a thick wedge of tomato, onion, lettuce and a combination of mayonaise and mustard.

Perry had a thick Alabama accent, wild gray hair that hadn't seen a comb in about a week and a mean scar on his nose that looked like he had been kicked by a horse.

Perry talked about his health, diabetes and how he "quit the insulin and fired his doctor."

Pretty soon we were back on the road. Perry's truck listing to the right and riding the rumblestrip most of the way into Savannah.

Perry