Always an adventure on Miz Lena’s road trips
I was living with my grandparents, Adrian and Miz Lena, on their farm in Middle Tennessee, just outside of Columbia. It was the 1950s, years before they built the freeway from Columbia into Nashville. Everybody took U.S. 31, what is now referred to as the Old Franklin Road. There were a few straight stretches, some dips, several curves and three or four little towns to drive through before we reached Music City.
About once a month, if there were no storms in the forecast, my grandmother made trips to Nashville. Mostly for her house-building business. She had her favorite hardware store. Sometimes her trips were for pleasure. She loved to shop at CainSloan and Harveys.
Once in a while, I was allowed to go with her. Before we left, her groundskeeper, Ole Tom, wiped down Grand Mom’s mint-green Cadillac, soaped down the whitewalls
and ran a hose over the tires. After pointing out some water spots, which Ole Tom quickly rubbed out, Grand Mom gave her approval, and we were ready to hit the road.
Grand Mom’s housekeeper, Elizabeth, packed a brown grocery sack with pimento cheese and ham sandwiches, garnished with thick-sliced tomatoes and lots of mayonnaise; a bag of potato chips; folded paper napkins; two green, 6-ounce bottles of Coca-Cola and a bottle opener. Elizabeth put it in the back seat, next to Miz Lena’s dress shoes.
I got to sit up front as long as I followed Grand Mom’s very strictly enforced traveling protocol. Before we even pulled out of the driveway, Miz Lena gave me the same speech.
She said, “Looka here, I’m lettin’ you sit in the front seat like a grown man. You kain’t sit up here if yore gonna act like a little girl. If you start fidgettin’ and jumpin’ around or kickin’ at sumpthin’, I’m gonna stop somewheres and cut me off a branch. Are we clear?” I assured her we were.
Then, as we made our way to the road, Miz Lena laid down the rest of the rules. She said, “Now, I don’t want yuh beggin’ me to run the radio. I kain’t be foolin’ with the radio and concentrate on drivin’, too. You sit over there on yore side and don’t be askin’ me a million questions. Yuh’ll cause me to git to thinkin’ and end up runnin’ into a tree.”
We pulled up to the stop sign. Miz Lena was wearing her house slippers and had her seat up high and pushed up as close to the dashboard as it would go. Her head was barely above the steering wheel. No seat belts to deal with. They hadn’t invented them yet.
Grand Mom looked both ways and said, “Sit back, Honey Baby. Here we go.” And, like the end of a Cape Canaveral countdown, we were off! — clocking speeds of 29 up to 35 miles per hour all the way to Nashville.
Once we were out of the city limits and on our way into the countryside, Grand Mom began to relax. We were far enough out of town, away from noise and billboards. Maybe an occasional Burma Shave sign.
Miz Lena was of and from the country. She grew up out there. When there weren’t any cars coming toward us, she allowed herself to look around. A hint of a smile. She seemed to breathe better. Me, too.
During the trip, Grand Mom didn’t say much, other than to talk about Grand Dad’s misgivings, how much money she was spending and how important it was to save your money. I acted like I was listening. I’d heard it all before, but out of respect, every so often, I’d say things like “Really?” or “Wow!”
She wouldn’t turn on the car radio, but Miz Lena enjoyed me singing to her. Her favorite one was a Pat Boone song, “Love Letters.” Grand Mom loved Pat. She bragged about him being from Tennessee and what a good man he was.
A few years back, I had the pleasure of playing with Mr. Boone in the Frank Sinatra Celebrity Invitational Golf Tournament, out in Rancho Mirage, California. Miz Lena was right. He’s a great guy. A devout Christian. A “family first” kind of fellow. He was amused that I used to sing his song to Miz Lena.
Along the way, we’d pull over into a grassy area, step out of the car and have ourselves a mini picnic. I’d wave to the endless stream of passing cars that had been trailing behind us for miles. Some of them waved back. Many of them just glared at us. Grand Dad called them “Miz Lena’s Caravan.”
U.S. 31 was a beautiful little stretch of Middle Tennessee. White, 4-foot fences, with a strand of barbed-wire, bordered both sides of the two-lane road. Purple, white and yellow wildflowers were sprinkled across green pastures with grazing cows and free-as-the-wind, galloping horses kicking at the air.
There were several stately, plantation-size, brick homes that sat back from the road, surrounded by tall oak and maple trees. Many of the homes featured American flags in the yards. Green fluffy ferns, boxwoods and high white pillars sprawled across their front porches.
There was almost a reverence that could be felt in recognition of their conservative perfection. Rolling green lawns and manicured plants. Even the trees were perfectly coiffed. They were the most beautiful homes I’d ever seen.
I got a lump in my throat and felt a swelling of pride in my body just because I was a Southerner. Elizabeth used to rub my back and say to me, “You is a sinsive child.” She meant sensitive. Out of everyone, Elizabeth knew me best.
After what seemed like an eternity of being dragged up and down steps and patiently waiting for Grand Mom to try on dresses or sitting in the car while she went in the hardware store, we were done and back on the road heading home.
I’m not sure who was more glad to get out of the city, me or Miz Lena. I’m pretty sure I was.
We always stopped in at a little café in Spring Hill. Grand Mom loved their coffee. Back then, people would drive for miles to get to their favorite restaurants that served their favorite meals. Grand Mom had a couple of cups, smoked a couple of Salems and allowed me to have a wedge of pie, provided that I promised to eat all my supper. No problem.
Little did I realize that, all these years later, something as simple as taking a drive with my little grandmother to Nashville and back would turn out to be such a fond memory. When my mind gets weary, I think back to those days. A time that shall never be again. Sure glad I grew up back then.