There's nothing more fun than spending some time in a good bookstore, and this week I had a great reason for stopping by the always-interesting Parnassus Books in Nashville. Parnassus has been kind enough to carry my previous book, and this week they honored me by giving Memaw's Maxims a try.

















Parnassus is rapidly becoming a Nashville institution, and it really filled a void that happened when Davis-Kidd left the market. If you've never been, then you'll find it on Hillsboro Road in the same shopping center as Levy's and Donut Den, which are two other Nashville traditions that you should visit sometime.


















I want to give a big thank-you to Parnassus Books for giving me a chance, and I hope that you'll linger a bit longer at the "Local Authors" sections (there are two of them), where you can pick up a copy of Memaw's Maxims and lots of other great books.

A couple days ago I visited a Czech museum exhibit that was a bit surrealistic and a bit existential. The exhibit included several dark and dreary paintings, two sound "events" and an even darker cartoon narrated by the artist.

One of the greatest tricks in military history was not a maneuver, but a calculated attempt to fool a superior enemy.

Two weeks ago I took the kids to Knoxville to watch our Vols destroy BYU, and to send their boys back to Utah with a lesson learned.

We had a great time. We got to spend a couple hours at a fantastic tailgate with my old roommate and his wife and other assorted friends and visitors, then Ella got to see the Tennessee dance team up close, so close that she actually got the jitters. I was able to "high five" with Smokey, which was very cool, or very weird. Probably cool.

Everything was great, until the game started. Check that. Everything was great until the game ended. Then 90,000 of us wearing orange zombie-walked out of Neyland Stadium, with the main topic of discussion being what kind of basketball team we'll have next year.

The next morning we got up early and left Knoxville, going to stop by Granville to check on the folks. As we pulled off the interstate in Baxter, I asked Ella if she wanted to do something different. She said sure, so we went a little farther north and took the time to visit Cummins Falls. Cummins Falls is a relatively new state park, and may be the prettiest place in Jackson County that isn't in Granville.

We decided that it didn't matter whether we were properly dressed, that this was a perfect chance to go swimming, or rock climbing, or snake avoiding, or whatever else the wilderness might throw at us. Cummins Falls is gorgeous, but it is impossible to get to. The trek to the falls includes rappelling yourself down a hillside, then sliding down a fallen poplar until you fall butt-first into smooth, water-worn rocks. They hurt, but you never want to let your kids see that, so when you cry you tell them that you're thinking about a song by Air Supply. That usually does it with my two.

After several hours of hiking up the creek bed, tripping over people who thought it would be good to bring their dogs, complete with ropes tied around their precious little necks, we finally found the actual falls. The kids were disappointed that they had no bathing suits. Not a problem, said their sympathetic dad. Just jump in with your clothes on. Ella and Cal both agreed that that was the correct answer, and for the next 90 minutes they climbed all over the rocks and stood beneath every bit of water that fell over the ledge. They also enjoyed jumping into the pool. They could have killed themselves, but that's the chance you take.

Our trip to Cummins Falls was one of the best days that we've had in a while, and probably because it was completely impromptu. I read this morning that the place has become so popular that they're probably going to start limiting visitors, by issuing just a certain number of permits per day. That's too bad, but I do understand.

I think I want to go back there with the kids, but need to do it soon, because it does take endurance and feats of strength to get down there. The hike back up the hill is even worse, but I can handle that. As Cal says, anytime that he's faced with insurmountable odds, you've just got to believe in yourself.

If you're anywhere near Jackson County, I highly encourage you to make the trip over to Cummins Falls. I exaggerated a little about getting to the falls, maybe even lied, and I bet you can make the journey down, take a swim, and climb back out. Just watch out for the bears.

Yesterday, I visited an exhibit of painting and sculpture by a man who was from an Italian-speaking part of Switzerland. His name was Alberto Giacometti, and his work was fascinating.

Today I'm taking a flight overseas, one that is now causing me anxiety. The flight from Charlotte to Nashville is delayed, but will be here soon. It will be fun in Philly, fighting the stampede to get off the plane with everyone else who's late. So tonight will be exciting, and I'm not sure whether I'll be spending the night in Philadelphia or somewhere over the Atlantic. Or somewhere else I cannot even imagine at this point.

Adventure is fun.  Uncertainty in travel is always a good story, later, but not as it happens. Fingers crossed and a forced smile...I'm about to board!

Today reminded me of the good old days. On the spur of the moment my dad, brother, and myself decided to drive back into an old "holler" in Granville. My daughter wasn't interested, but my 12-year-old son said he was absolutely coming along. He had already been given a chance to do a little farm driving earlier this morning, and he wanted to see how the truck would do in some rougher territory.












The place we went to was an old family farm, though it consists of so many hills that it was never much more than hard scrabble up there. When I was a kid we let cattle wander those hills, and did our best to make a little hay on the hillsides. We stored hay in the lone barn and we salted cattle on the old, flat limestone rocks in front of a long-abandoned house.












My best memories of the place, though, were when we had time to just mess around. Daddy would take me and my brother hunting up there, and would walk us back and show us old chimneys and homesteads. Mint grew alongside the spring, planted by those who lived there before our memories. One winter it was so cold that Daddy competed with us, seeing who could run and slide the farthest on a frozen pond. Those were the good old days.












Today we were stopped by a fallen tree, which was not expected, so without a chainsaw we decided to tie to it and pull it out of the road. Which, on the little road we were on, was an adventure. Cal, my son, was out of the truck in a flash and was busy clearing brush and doing everything he could to help. Once the road was open we drove back, until it was smarter to just stop.

Once stopped we all walk down to the old spring (dry because we've not had rain for weeks) where we used to play, and Cal got down in it with my dad. Honestly, my dad should not have climbed down there, but there was no stopping him. So there we were with an 82-year-old explaining to the boy 70 years his junior how the spring worked and how he was going to get back up there with a crawler and clean it out.












On the way out of the "holler" Cal took a picture of the tree that we were able to move, and he never even realized what today was for him. Today was one of his memories, it was one of his good old days.