To start with, people in Tennessee talk funny. It’s also contagious. I had a heck of a time returning back to my normal accent. It must’ve been three days before I stopped combining you and all. My bestie had wanted, no begged me to go and visit his place down in Savannah, a mostly rural community. I never got what the population was. According to Bing here the population of Savannah, Tennessee is 7,224. As I’ll explain to you later, this community has more history to it than the fact it’s a small backwater by the Tennessee River.

Tuesday afternoon I left Spokane on a Delta flight bound to Atlanta. I arrived around 7:30 and was on the Delta concourse that was an airport all itself. I vaguely remembered coming through Atlanta when I left Fort Jackson after my initial training after joining the National Guard. Apparently, this airport grew exponentially since.

I went straight to the boarding area and waited for the 10:45pm flight, passing my time by listening to my music on my cellphone with noise cancelling headphones and texting Greg that I was waiting to board my next flight. If the name appears familiar, I also did a blog two years ago for his departed mother’s funeral. We have known each other since I was nine and he was six years old.

Something came up on the alert board informing us heading ton Memphis that the flight was delayed. I thought nothing of it and continued texting my friend letting him know there was some sort of delay. I continued listening to my music. Another flight to Cincinnati came up and those people left. It was now after eleven. I was alone. Everybody had gone. What the heck?

I texted Greg and told him the situation. He called back. “What do you mean you missed your flight?”

“I don’t know. I thought the delay just meant they were holed up and would arrive shortly before taking off to Memphis. But they ended up at another part of the airport. I guess I’m getting a hotel room tonight and I’ll see you in the morning.”

I wasn’t the only one who missed this flight. Another man from Pensacola, Florida sat in one of those wheelchairs the airport provides. Not knowing where I was going, I took this porter’s invitation and also sat in an offered wheelchair, and he pushed us both out to where the airport shuttles going to other hotels.

After a time, a long, long time, we finally had a van shuttle us to the hotel the airline supported us. I planned to give the driver a tip for his efforts, assuming that this shuttle ride was also on Delta’s dime. “That’s $25 please,” the young Arabic looking man told me. I was more than a little taken aback as I handed him a twenty-dollar bill to go with the five dollars I just handed him to go basically around the block.

I was too tired to argue what I felt certain was an error on his part and grabbed my briefcase that was big enough to handle my toiletries as well as my laptop, headphones, and cell phone. I got my complementary room and went to bed after taking a quick shower. I checked my watch, which I still had on PDT that showed 11:30. I set the alarm on my phone for five am.

Day 2

I heard the classical music piece chime on my cell phone. It was dark and early. My initial reaction was what the heck? It’s not Thursday! But then I remembered. I now see my surroundings of the hotel room Delta supplied me because of a miss up on the schedule. Now I’m more or less awake looking at the now alit room and am getting dressed, back into the clothes I came with since my suitcase is presently at the Memphis Airport waiting for me to claim it.

I briefly looked over the boarding pass for the plane that leaves at seven. I have two hours, so I need to move with haste. There was mention of a rail that ran from here to the airport. I thought I caught a glimpse of it last night when that shuttle driver dropped me and that Floridian here.

I left the room bringing with me the key card so that I could drop it off when I go pass the front desk.

The concierge, a bald-headed African American man, much taller, bigger, and younger than me greeted me. He was the same individual who checked me in last night, greeted me with a welcoming smile.

“Good morning, sir. Did you sleep well?”

“It was alright,” I replied vaguely. “I understood there’s a tram that I can take to the airport?”

“Yes, just walk outside there and turn right and go to that building there, take the elevator and it should be here shortly. It runs around every three minutes or so.”

“I have a question.”

“Go ahead. I hope that I have an answer for you, sir.”

“The shutter that dropped me here. Is it a complimentary or private?”

“Well usually it’s complimentary but there are private shuttle vans too.”

“The driver charged me twenty-five dollars.”

“He wasn’t supposed to,” he told me as the smile drained from his face and an angry expression surfaced. “I’ll find out for you…”

“It’s not that important. He may well have been a private service. I didn’t see any markings to indicate he represented a hotel chain.”

“As you wish, sir. Have a good day and safe trip.”

“Thanks,” I replied as I followed him outside, so he pointed me in the right direction. Just as we got outside. I noticed a tram moving quickly through the windows of the second floor of the terminal and headed toward that building.

After I got off the elevator I went to a platform where the next tram was due to arrive. A moment later it sped to a stop as some passengers exited and me and a dozen others boarded. It was a narrow, tubular shaped machine with a bench on either end of the car and vertical grab bars for people to latch onto as the tram sped rapidly down a rail and stopped at the destination, the boarding and TSA inspection area. We all got off and went to the TSA zone where the ritual screening took place.

After that we boarded another tram that took us to the designated boarding terminal. After we got off from there it was a long walk to the boarding zone. As I mentioned earlier this airport had grown by leaps and bounds. It appeared almost like a miniature city itself. Most notably was the stores, shops, and restaurants that catered to the passengers who needed to wait for their next flight. When I arrived at my boarding zone I noticed a sports bar, but the closet Starbucks was a good three hundred yards behind me. I hoped this place would have coffee available because I didn’t want to go back, get in a long line, and risk missing this next flight too.

The African American bartender smiled brightly and greeted me, “Good morning. WE aren’t serving food right now.”

“That’s alright. I just need a cup of coffee.”

“For here or to go?”

“To go please,” I replied as I stood next to the bar with shiny wood surface. I couldn’t tell if it was really wood or that imitation stuff. I figured it was imitation as I waited for what seemed like an exceptionally long time for her to get me a cup of coffee from the back area where I assumed was their pantry and/or kitchen.

Eventually she popped out with Styrofoam cup with secured plastic lid on top. “Here you go sir, which will be eight dollars please.” I handed her my last two five-dollar bills and told to keep the change. “Why thank you sir. Have a pleasant day.”

“You too,” I replied as I left this bar and went across to where I was scheduled to take the next outbound flight to Memphis. I checked my watch and saw I still had an hour to wait. I opened my laptop and began reading over one of my manuscripts. Though I was tempted to play my music, I realized from last night such a thing wasn’t a good idea since that’s what got me into trouble to begin with. So, I drank my coffee, read my story, and waited for my flight.

I finally heard the Delta Agent announced over the PA that my flight was starting to board. I waited for my turn that I figured was the economy class, though later I learned I could have gone first as a disabled person. I kept that information handy for my return trip back to Spokane.

The flight was mostly a quick hop from Atlanta to Memphis. I don’t think it lasted more than an hour before we landed and deplaned. I walked several more hundreds of yards to the baggage claim where Greg waited for me.

“Well, it’s about time you showed up,” he ribbed me with his familiar smile. His beard had grown out again and he reminded me of an old hillbilly without the floppy, holey hat, and double-barreled shotgun.

“Yeah, remind me again to elect earlier flights out of Spokane.” We walked together to the baggage claim office where he knew which suitcase was mine but because of security protocols and me being too tired to even bother, elected to wait until now to grab my suitcase and roll it out the airport.

“I decided to sleep in the parking garage. I don’t recommend doing that again, my back is killing me right now,” Greg told me as we went outside and breathed in the Memphis air. It wasn’t exactly fresh, but it wasn’t bad either. After a bit we found his truck, a Nisson Titan he had just bought the week before. “Well, what do you want to do next?”

“Eat,” I replied, frankly. “I haven’t eaten since last night.”

“Me neither. Anyplace in particular?”

“No.”

He went to his I-phone and found a nearby IHOPS. “IHOPS it is then.” He pushed the ignition button and shifted the truck into gear, and we left the airport, heading to a nearby restaurant that specialized in breakfast.

Breakfast seemed pleasant. I paid for it since it was my fault this happened in the first place. Then, he hit the freeway leaving Memphis and going to Savannah, Tennessee.

Greg’s a good driver. He kind of has to be since this is what he does for a living. Like my passion or calling is writing, his is driving eighteen wheelers day in and day out and dealing with people on the highway who most likely have no business driving. The highway was clear and dry, and the sun was out shiny and bright, with moderate traffic flow. We discussed the fiasco from last night and the latest work I’ve done on my latest project. He then enlightened me on the character I was using, Nate Turner.

“You know there’s another called Ned Turner, right?” He asked me.

“No, not that I’m aware of,” I replied. With one hand on the wheel, he fumbled with Google on his I-phone, he then told Google,

“Ned Turner.”

I read the feed of the notorious Ned Turner, a Tory of the American Revolution who was part of a group that called themselves the old Ninety-six District that attacked rebel families in rural South Carolina. “No, not that. This is much later you know just before, during and after the Civil War,” I told Greg. “And it’s not about Nat Turner neither. He led a slave rebellion in Virginia around that same time.”

“Well, then what’s your book going to be about then?”

“Okay, Nate Turner is a free Black man who eventually becomes a rancher in Eastern Montana and is elected sheriff. One night he gets ambushed and finds himself in Heaven preparing to go in through the purely gates. But he instead talks St. Peter into letting him relive his life as he stands off to the side where he eventually sees his would-be murderer.”

“Oh, well I might be interested in that then. That sounds really interesting. And you say he’s in the Civil War?”

“Yes, there was an actual-colored regiment that fought in a number of battles in Kentucky, Virginia and even here in Tennessee,” I explained. “It was called the Fifth Colored Cavalry Regiment.”

“We’ll have to go to the Shiloe Battlefield Memorial then.”

For reasons that belie my own geographical ignorance, I assumed the Shiloe battlefield was in Mississippi. “Sure,” I told Greg, figuring we would be doing a long road trip as we were doing today.

“You may not know this, or notice this, but we are in Mississippi now, close to a town called Corinth.”

“No, I didn’t know or notice. I must’ve missed the ‘Welcome to Mississippi’ sign.”

“You did, but you were also busy reading about Ned Turner.” He then turned on some music from a Mongolian band called the HU. It sounded to me like a Klingon war chant before taking their Birds of Prey into combat. It was fascinating to say the least. “I listen to all kinds of music while I’m driving.”

The song he played loud and clear was “Wolf Totem.” “It has an interesting beat,” I told him.

“I don’t know what the hell they’re saying, but I like it,” Greg agreed.

In the meantime, I took note of Missiissppi. It is of course very Christian, Bible belt, conservative. I learned long ago from my own family, that I needed respect other peoples’ opinions that weren’t my own. I knew if anyone here shared my views, it was a voice muted as mine was. I didn’t dare assume that anyone here shared my left of center opinions. It was green and warm countryside that if I was outside rather than inside Greg’s truck, I could hear birds chirping or cawing and feel soft breezes blowing on my face.

Eventually we crossed into Tennessee after passing through Corinth, crossed the Tennessee River where one of the dams had created a lake that I didn’t catch the name of. Then after fifteen more minutes we were inside the town of Savannah.

Briefly, Savannah is a small, inviting town. It used to be a dry town of a dry county but now has alcohol available in stores. There are no bars though. Alcohol is served in restaurants as part of the meal, Greg explained to me as we meandered through the town streets to another smaller state highway that led to Warren Lane. His parents’ in law property was up the road and next door to his wife Terry’s aunt. Like me he lived in a fifth wheel trailer with her.

When I got out from his truck, he led me to the small cabin he had built, for me to reside in for my stay. He had the air conditioner running, which was fine for now, but as I told him, I wouldn’t need it tonight.

“Are you sure? It stays warm at night,” Greg warned me.

“I’m positive Greg.” WE returned to his trailer. Next was a small house that would eventually be his and Terry’s when her parents passed. His father-in-law, who also went by Terry, sat in a motorized wheelchair, more of a motorized scooter than wheelchair though. Some time ago, both legs were amputated. He appeared short, though of course he was sitting down, thin, and lean looking, he was an Army veteran who was in Vietnam. He didn’t volunteer his age, but I guessed him well into his eighties. I didn’t know why he had two prosthetics, but I didn’t ask either. Greg introduced us. We shook hands. He had a strong, confident grip.

In front of us was a mess of cut lumber and what appeared like the beginnings of a ramp to go along with a boardwalk that led from the house down to the driveway and over to Greg and Terry’s trailer. It was almost like Terry the father-in-law was waiting for us to arrive continue and where Greg left off. So, we both went to work cutting pieces to fit and slowly it came together, with the exception of a missing piece that would allow his scooter to move up the ramp from the ground to that second two by six board.

I suggested crosscutting an already cut remnant, but they didn’t have the radial arm saw that would’ve worked, making the correct cut. We tried using what was available, but it didn’t pan out as I imagined. “You’ll need to go to Lowes that has such a saw,” I said to Greg. He nodded.

Terry finally made it home. She and her daughter had gone to a doctor’s appointment in Corinth. She had an issue with her foot a while back and finally found a doctor there who listened to her and could give her the correct treatment. She explained later that the majority of doctors here were less than adequate.

“I told them my pain was in my foot,” she exclaimed with more than a hint of frustration. “’No, it’s your knee,’ they kept telling me. They were going to have me committed to a psychiatric facility, thinking I had lost my mind.” She got her Southern drawl back after nearly twenty years in Washington State.

She went up into the camper using a walker to maneuver herself along the deck and inside. Two dogs came out. One a silver-colored Scotty and a little dog that I assumed was a cross Pekinese and Cairn terrier too. I’m not sure. I generally place all such creatures in the ankle biting class of dog. The Scotty was a rescue that Greg found one winter’s morning in South Dakota. He was nearly froze to death, tied to a bumper of a car near a truck stop.

Greg and I eventually followed her inside and we sat to eat some chicken she cooked up on the air fryer she has. We spent a portion of the night chatting about their and my life events including our new grandchildren who came into the world, we watched TV. They were programs that they recorded and streamed. By nine o’clock Tennessee time, I went to bed in that little cabin. I thought I could get in and out of the cot they provided but soon realized my sixty-five-year-old body just wasn’t up to it; something Greg needed to rectify tomorrow.

Day Three

What’s a furry? I asked myself as I listened to Greg’s wife Terry talk with her daughter, Shylene, I believe it is though I could be wrong. She’s got six kids, with the oldest at eighteen and the youngest just born back in May. Anyway, Greg has a doctor’s appointment and I elected to stay here and do some writing and book editing, though conversation has captured my attention and feel I must become part of this.

“Have you heard of it Jerry?” Terry asked me.

“No, I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Oh, it’s the newest trend of those people,” her daughter stated in a matter-of-fact way. “These people dress up like a dog or cat or whatever and are demanding rights too just like them LBGTQ people. They want their own litter boxes.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t heard of them Jerry,” Terry told me in awe. “I thought everyone knew about them.”

“It’s what’s wrong with this country. Most people here at least are informed about these people,” Shylene said with disdain. I listened to her but wasn’t bought on what she was selling. I figured it was more about the culture wars between those who want to be who they were and wanting the same basic rights as everyone else and those who see these same people in some negative light to be ridiculed and degraded.

Just then Greg came home, a disappointed expression on his face. “I got the appointment all wrong. It’s in October not September. I missed my eye appointment though. That was yesterday. I just got a text today about that while I was on my way to the doctor.”

“Well, that sucks,” Terry said. “So, it’s next month then?”

“Yeah, and I don’t know where I’ll be next month,” Greg said in frustration. “Well, you want to go and check out Savannah, or stay here?”

“I suppose I can go with you. Where are we going?”

“Well, there’s the county museum. It has some interesting things on the Civil War you might like,” Greg said as he waited for me to put away my laptop and follow him out the door.

I smiled at Terry and her daughter as I got up to leave. “I’ll see everyone later then,” I told them. I followed Greg and closed the door behind me.

“Are you getting hungry?” Greg asked me as I was about ready to climb into the truck. “Wait I almost forgot. I need to help spread some fertilizer on Terry’s aunt’s garden. He climbed aboard a tractor and filled the front loader with darkish brown goop that I presumed was cow or horse manure and moved the tractor down to the neighbor’s place, Terry’s aunt.

I went along and followed him, walking down the green lawn to a nice-looking ranch styled house. A charming elderly woman came to supervise where she wanted Greg to deposit the fertilizer. She then came up to me, offering her hand.

“Hello, Greg has told me all about you. Would you like some sweet tea or water?”

“Water would be great,” I told her as she disappeared in through the back door of the attached garage and returned with a bottled water that she effortlessly opened.

“Here you are. I understand you write.”

“Yes, I authored a couple books.”

“That’s wonderful. It’s so nice Having Greg around. He’s been a great help for us and Terry’s parents.”

“Oh yeah, he’s always willing to lend a hand.”

Greg had completed the task he promised he’d do and drove the tractor back up the private road and parked the tractor.

“Oh, I need to give something to my sister. I got this golf cart; would you like a ride?”

“No, I’ll just wait here for Greg. I guess we’re going to lunch and then that museum.”

“Oh, that will be wonderful,” she exclaimed as she loaded freshly picked swash and zucchini into the cart and drove up the hill. Greg drove his truck down to meet me and I got in.

“She’s a neat lady. She talked a great deal about you, Greg.”

“I’m sure she did. Yeah, she likes that golf cart she bought.” He began driving down the road to the highway.

“Yeah, she offered me a ride in it thought I don’t know where I would’ve sat. That seat was loaded with those vegetables she picked.” We traveled down the highway and into Savannah where he stopped in front of a Ford dealership and texted someone on his phone. A moment later a big African American man came out smiling a cheezie grin that seemingly stretched from ear to ear.

“Greg my man. What’s going on with your fine self today?”

“Well, I wanted to show you the little crack I noticed on the windshield. It’s not much, but I had a similar experience a while back and the entire windshield cracked straight across and I had to pay to get it replaced,” Greg told his salesman. “Oh, and Tim, this is my brother from another mother, Jerry.”

“It’s a pleasure meeting you sir. Now, I’ll talk with Mr. Johnson and see what he says. I don’t recall seeing that crack when I sold it to you, Greg. But I might’ve just overlooked it.” He reached across and shook my hand.

“I also promised you dinner. Are you hungry?” Greg asked as Tim retreated back outside.

“Yeah, I could use a bite. Where were you planning to do this?”

“Hill’s.”

“Well, that’s great,” he replied as he opened the back door of the Titan truck and pulled himself inside. Greg shifted into gear, and we took off down the street and up another when we pulled into a parking lot of an average appearing restaurant with a sign outside proclaiming its name. It appeared more like a diner than restaurant. It was small and probably cozy with that small town flavor that I know Greg appreciated.

We walked inside a hostess greeted us with a welcoming smile. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. How can I help you?”

“WE are all hungry,” Greg announced.

“Well, you came to the right place. This table right here. Will that do?”

“Certainly would,” Greg replied as we all three sat a table with straight back chairs made of wood.

She handed out three menus. “Would y’all care for something to drink?”

“I’ll just have water,” I replied.

“Sweet tea,” Greg answered.

“I’ll have some of that lemonade you got,” Tim replied. She quickly disappeared for the drinks while we looked at the menu. “I don’t know if they serve steak this time of day, Greg. I don’t see it here on the menu.”

“Well, I’ll buy a steak dinner somewhere else then.”

I watched them make up their minds when the waitress came up and smiled down at us. “Are y’all ready?”

“I’ll have the sandwich and salad,” I told her in pleasant tone.

“I’m going for the double burger and fries,” Greg asked,

“I’ll have your chicken basket,” Tim asked.

She smiled at us one last time before disappearing into the kitchen. I heard Greg tell Tim, “It’s been a while since we sat down and shot the bull.”

“That’s for sure, Greg. Of course, you being on the road driving truck is a good portion of that to be sure.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Now how did you two get together?”

“As near as I remember, our fathers knew each other from work,” I replied.

“We met at his parents’ sometime later,” Greg continued.

“I was nine and he was six I think it was when I first met him and his brother and sisters,” I said to Tim. “We both have a common interest in Hot Wheels and Match Box cars.”

“I’ll be damn,” Tim quipped with a chuckle. “You’ve known each other that long huh?”

“Yeah, we would go back and forth, either his parents would come down to Wenatchee where I lived, or my parents took us up to Methow where they lived.”

Greg must have told Tim about himself because he nodded as if he knew. Our orders arrived and the conversation stopped for a brief period. What small talk that continued dealt mostly with Tim’s car dealership that worked for and what Greg had planned for me for the next few days. Somewhere along the line the issue of my credit came about, and I pulled up my Esperian credit score. He appeared amazed and satisfied. “Are you currently in the market Jerry?”

“No, not at present. I just bought five acres and got most my money tied into that,” I replied not bothering to enlighten him that I had two other people helping to make the monthly mortgage payment.

“What do you do for a living?” He asked.

“I’m a janitor at a tribal casino near Spokane. Plus, I’m trying to be a famous writer.”

“A writer?”

“Yeah, I have all his books. He’s pretty darn good.”

“Really?” He asked in astonishment. “How many books you got published so far?”

“Two from a regular publisher and three self-published,” I replied.

“Well, I’ll be,” Tim stated. “You never told me I was in the midst of greatness, Greg.”

“I’m not that great,” I said feeling the heat on my face radiate with embarrassment.

“Yeah, he’s good but not great yet,” Greg said with a smile.

I gave him that ‘whatever’ expression and ate the last of my salad. It appeared everyone else had finished too and we all got up and went to the hostess. After paying we got in his truck and drove back to the dealership where Greg dropped off Tim.

As I mentioned earlier, the town is small but has a history to it starting with the Cherry Mansion. It was built in the 1830s and looked pretty much like a house a rich person would build and live in, who happened to be the ferry operator of the Tennessee River. Apparently, it was where Civil War General Wallace died after being mortally wounded at Shiloh.

Greg took me there first where we then took a tour of the other historical; homes, most all built after the Civil War. We then stopped by a church that had been there since the Civil War and then we went to the Harden County Museum.

It consisted of Native, prehistoric artifacts just like the ones I saw at the First Americans Museum in Oklahoma City back in February when I visited Uncle Hal. There were also items of the Civil War, such as swords, muskets, pistols, and rifled cannon rounds from Parrot guns. Also mentioned was how the county has evolved since then.

I came away with a fresh perspective this town that I wouldn’t have considered and allowed my ignorance and prejudice to reflect early assumptions I had. Like all places, its people are what makes a town a community. It has its good points and bad. Human nature is no different. It’s all a matter of perspective and being open minded about learning new things.

Tomorrow, I promised Greg, I would help him with his truck. Not the one he just bought but the one that makes him money, his Freightliner.

Day 4

“Jerry, I got to find out what’s wrong with my truck. You want to come with or stay here?” Greg asked me as he collected eggs from the chicken coop, using a plastic sand bucket one would give to their toddler to play in sand boxes or lake shores.

“I was thinking of going with you. I’ll drive your Titan. At my age and physical condition, I don’t think I could climb up into the cab of your truck like done back when I visited you in 2014.”

“That would work out fine. I’ll be right in as soon as I gather breakfast.” He smiled as he disappeared inside the chicken coop.

I went into the trailer where Terry was slowly moving about with her walker in front of her.” If you my loyal readers aren’t familiar with fifth wheel trailers, a good hint is never get in the way of someone traveling in a walker. It’s best to get out of her way because chances are she was on a mission. I stood just inside the kitchen area as she maneuvered around me and up the steps to the bathroom.

Greg came in and commenced to preparing breakfast. Terry came down a little later and I sat on the recliner I sat on yesterday. I watched recorded “Undercover Boss,” while Greg helped Terry until she kicked him out and he sat on his recliner.

After breakfast, I followed Greg in his pickup truck while drove his money maker to a friend’s shop where he planned to fix one of the rear tires. He complained it skipped on the highway. They’re back roads, paved and center lined that I followed Greg’s Freightliner—actually I’m not certain it is a Freightliner. I know it’s not a Mac or Volvo. I guess at this point in the story it isn’t important. It’s a big diesel fueled, powerful truck built and designed to haul big trailers filled with stuff that keeps the economy rolling.

Anyway, I’m following Greg in his big truck and I’m looking at the rear tires and for the life of me can’t discern which tire is skipping or bouncing abnormally. If it’s doing what Greg described that I can’t see it.

We arrived at this house where a mechanic’s shop sits about thirty south by itself. There are trailers parked behind this shop and sign out front announcing a trucking company. I guess Greg began driving truck for this outfit before he landed bigger and better jobs. I mean I don’t know if these guys are big or good. J

Suffice to say the man inside the shop was repairing a tractor. Out front was another big truck similar to Greg’s though I suspected Greg’s was twenty years newer. He was big bruiser of a man with thick arms wearing a t-shirt and jeans with tennis shoes.

I shook his hands and Greg introduced me to Brian, the other initial for “J & B Trucking of Savannah, Tennessee.” Brian came off the tractor and shook my hand. Greg went out to his pickup and moved it further back than where I parked it, which I thought was safely moved off the road and still close enough to the shop. He backed it off the road entirely and facing the shop.

He grabbed a bottle of water and chugged down half. His t-shirt appeared wet with his sweat. His face had grease smudges that he used paper towels to wipe his face and hands. Greg made some phone calls to other truck suppliers, fearing he might have to spend hundreds if not thousands of dollars to repair what he thought might be wrong with it. Brian went back to work on the tractor. I sat on an RV captain’s chair and waited.

After a bit, Greg came back with a scowl on his bearded face and informed us there wasn’t anybody who could replace the parts cheaply. By now, Brian appeared done working on his tractor. “Go ahead and park your rig there,” he told Greg and wiped his grease-stained hands on another paper towel.

Greg backed his rig very close to where he parked his pickup, and I feared the worst. He barely cleared his newly bought truck with inches to spare and moved his money maker into the shop, nose first. Brian then moved his forklift in behind the rearend of the Freightliner, used chains that he wrapped carefully around the forklift forks and the rear of the truck and proceeded to raise the forklift’s forks up until the rear tires were suspended.

Greg placed the truck in gear and all eight rear tires spun forward. I couldn’t tell whether there was a problem though I noticed a barely brief lateral wobble on the forward right tire. But I figured it must have been a normal issue, but Brian told Greg to stop and check out the issue.

“I need wheel stabilizers then,” Greg stated with displeasure.

“I’ll see what I can come up with,” Brian volunteered and went to another part of the shop. After a time, he came back with four aluminum rings that had predrilled holes to insert the lug nuts onto the tires.

“What do I owe you?” Greg asked in amazement.

“You can pay me a couple hundred later,” Brian stated.

“Jerry, one of these was going to cost me eight hundred,” Greg explained as they went to work, pulling the tires off the truck and then removing the wheels from the tires so they could remove the old stabilizers and replace them with the replacement parts.

It was mid afternoon by the time Greg and Brian were finished replacing that necessary parts and then remounting the tires. Brian left to run banking errands and Greg and I went home. He apologized for not being able to go to the battlefield.

“Don’t worry about it Greg. There’s always tomorrow. We can go then.”

Day 5

I don’t know who or how the conversation evolved into the day Greg’s mother died. The description and the emotion that we all felt was enough for Greg to announce, “Can we talk about something else?”

Greg then got up and told me we were going to Shilo. He promised me yesterday that we would check out the Civil War battlefield. Of course, I still mistakenly assumed the battlefield was in Northern Mississippi and figured we were going on a road trip.

Imagine my surprise when we drove about six miles south of Savannah and took a left off the divided highway and took Pittsburg Landing Road and there it was, the monuments, the relics, the cannons aligned for us tourists to gawk at and enjoy.

I got out and walked along the road. I considered this hallowed ground. Three thousand soldiers from both sides, who believed their cause was correct, died on this field over 160 years ago. I felt so many emotions as I walked alone. I heard birds chattering about and wondered if those same ancestors made the same cawing sounds on that day. Or was it deathly quiet, like just before a storm struct. I saw the forest, the open fields where countless lives were lost and forever changed, the blue sky of late September, cloudless and warm, and I stopped in front of one of many monuments and took pictures.

Greg rolled up to me and I’m sure he saw how affected I was. I wanted to check out the visitors’ center where they were going to show the Ken Burns documentary of the battle. I got in his truck, and we moved to a parking area in front of the information center. We sat in the theater where the civil war battle was aired for our benefit. The lights dimmed and we got to see and learned the futility of war.

It is still my belief that both John Adams and Thomas Jefferson are to blame for this war. It was an avoidable truth of our common history. All they had to do back in 1797 was outlaw slavery in America. Granted, what to do with freed Black Americans would have been an unavoidable consequence of such an act. But this war would have not occurred when it did.

After the film, we went to the cemetery. At first, I wanted to go down there and see each tomb stone, touch the granite or marble headstones. But it was so vast, so overwhelming, so emotional I thought it best to take a picture using a panoramic shot of what I experienced and hoped that whoever saw that picture, they would feel what I felt.

We then went back inside the truck and drove slowly down these roads that led us past skirmishes, places such as the Hornets’ Nest, a heavily wooded field where it was said the mini balls that flew from both sides sounded like a nest of angry hornets. The ground where General Johnston died after he was shot in the back of his knee. I told Greg that there’s an artery behind the knee. He probably didn’t even realized he was wounded until he died. Bloody Pond and the ferry landing where Union reinforcements arrived favoring the balance of the battle on the Sunday of the third day into the North’s favor.

We went back to Savannah and his place. We went to a Mexican restaurant later and then tomorrow we would go to church.