The Winners of the 2025 Eugene Gullish Writing Competition

Updates
Written By PHC Arts

We are thrilled to announce the winners of the 2025 Eugene Gullish Writing Competition, hosted by the Paris-Henry County Arts Council! This year’s competition saw an incredible display of talent, with writers from across the community submitting their best work. With a total of 18 short story entries, our judges had the difficult task of selecting the top pieces that stood out for their creativity, storytelling, and technical excellence.

And now, the moment we’ve all been waiting for—this year’s winners!

Adult Winners:

  • 🏆 First Place: "Maneuver Area" by Paige Craig

  • 🥈 Second Place: "A Tennessee Frontier Friendship" by by Scott Williams

  • 🥉 Third Place: "The Giant of Henry County" by by Austin Jenkins

  • 🎖 Judges’ Choice - Overall Best Story: "Voices of Tennessee: The Boy Who Heard the Future" by Cobey Delk

Youth Winners:

  • 🏆 First Place: "Personal Journal Entry of Charles Harrison Fort Donelson" by Kadie Stephenson

The Eugene Gullish Writing Competition continues to be an incredible platform for both emerging and experienced writers to share their work, and this year was no exception. Each entry showcased originality and passion, making the competition an inspiring reflection of the creative spirit in our community.

A Word from Our Judges

We were honored to have two outstanding literary professionals serve as judges for this year’s competition: Alex Cox and Zachary Aaron. Their expertise and enthusiasm for storytelling helped shape this year’s results.

Alex Cox, an English and creative writing teacher at E.W. Grove School, shared her thoughts on the competition:
“I’m honored to have judged the Eugene Gullish competition and to have read so many incredible pieces of writing. The talent and creativity on display made the decision process incredibly difficult, which is a testament to the hard work and passion of all the writers. Keep writing, keep creating, and keep sharing your voices with the world!”

Zachary Aaron, a historic consultant and writer, returned for his second year as a judge. He was amazed by the depth of storytelling and encouraged all participants to continue honing their craft:
“This is my second year as a judge for the Eugene Gullish Writing Competition, and I enjoy it so much because of the talent I’ve seen coming through this program. I want to sincerely encourage everyone who submitted work this year, and in the past, to keep writing and editing—you’re doing great, and all these stories are important. Tell them!”

Celebrating the Art of Storytelling

We extend our heartfelt congratulations to this year’s winners and sincere gratitude to every writer who participated. The stories submitted were a testament to the creativity, passion, and talent present in our community, and we hope to see even more incredible work in future competitions.

Caleb Grissom, Executive Director of the Paris-Henry County Arts Council, shared his excitement about this year’s competition:

"Every year, the Eugene Gullish Writing Competition reminds us of the incredible talent within our community. The range of storytelling, from deeply personal narratives to imaginative historical fiction, showcases the power of words to inspire and connect us. We are so proud of all the writers who participated, and we hope this competition continues to encourage them to share their voices and stories with the world."

Thank you to our judges for their time and dedication, and to everyone who continues to support and celebrate the literary arts in Paris-Henry County. Whether you are a seasoned writer or just beginning your storytelling journey, we encourage you to keep writing and sharing your unique voice with the world.

We look forward to another year of incredible storytelling in 2026!

 

  • Somewhere in Wilson County, Late 1942.

    Pesci took a long, annoyed drag of his cigarette, as he tried to get comfortable in his hard, metal gunner seat. Once decently snug, he leaned back and propped his legs against the two-inch plate angled in front of him, impatiently tapping it with his foot.

    He thought back to all those hours he spent in basic. The dozens of times the drill sergeants would say “Short halts only last ten minutes.” Ten minutes at the maximum. Any longer and you’d face a court martial. But here they were, thirty minutes later, still sitting on some backwater road in the middle of nowhere, waiting for the order to move out. What made it even worse was that they weren’t even that far from where they started today’s exercise. If his memory served him right, Lebanon wasn’t but a few miles southwest, meaning they still had roughly twenty miles to go before they were even halfway finished. 

    It wasn’t like such hiccups were uncommon, though. Sometimes roll call would end a few minutes later than it should, or the tank would throw a track, requiring an hour of maintenance. But it didn’t matter to Pesci. It was all a waste of time. Time that could’ve been used to finish their training. Time that could’ve been spent shipping him off to Europe. Time that could’ve been spent killing Krauts and those Blackshirt traitors. But instead, he was stuck here in Nowhere, Tennessee, being dragged around this so-called “maneuver area” day in and day out, and still thousands of miles from Europe. And it was all he could think about.

    Usually, he’d rely on the banter with his crew to keep him distracted, a hearty bunch of New Englanders from about every walk of life you could think of. Unfortunately, Sarge wanted to teach the Reeds how to service an engine, the kind of task the son of a prestigious lawyer wouldn't readily know. The others jumped at the opportunity to watch the oncoming train wreck, but Pesci knew how this worked: Sarge would eventually get so tired of Reed's inability that he’d just make them do it. After all, it was his third attempt at teaching him. So not wanting to get more annoyed fiddling with their finicky Continental, he opted to stay behind in the tank. But that wasn’t to say that he was alone.

    Sitting quietly beside him was their driver, Ward, who had apparently arrived at a similar conclusion to Pesci. Under normal circumstances, Pecsi would’ve likely seized the opportunity to chat and get out of his own head. But despite having a fighting position directly next to him, the relationship between the two was almost nonexistent. This wasn’t Pesci’s fault, though. Afterall, in a hot, cramped environment like the M3 Medium, where you could barely hear yourself think, let alone the commands screamed into your headset, it only made sense to make the acquaintance of the person beside you. Ward just simply never took the opportunity.

    Pesci wasn’t sure if he’d done something to spite him, or if he was just shy, but he would never take any of the bones he’d throw. He’d either just ignore the attempt at communication, or contribute little to the conversation, as if marathoning through it as quickly as possible. Thus, Pecsi had long written him off as a lost cause, choosing to counter Ward’s indifference with his own. It did little to combat the awkwardness that festered whenever the two of them were together, but at least he wasn’t wasting his energy like before.

    Still curious, however, he shot a quick glance at Ward. His body was painfully stiff within his seat, as his mechanical hands flipped through the pages of a magazine. It was clear he wanted nothing to do with him. So Pecsi returned toward the riveted, steel plate in front of him, still tapping his foot, and trying to lose himself in the weak high of his cigarette. His relaxation didn’t last long.

    “Hey, Pesci.”

    The voice ripped through the silence so loudly that Pesci’s cigarette tumbled from his lips to his drab uniform. He quickly swatted it onto the floor, leaving a noticeable ashy sear just above his right breast pocket. Still collecting his bearings, he choked out an answer.

    “Y-yes?”

    “Can I… ask you something?”

    “Uh, sure. Ask away.”

    Still glued to the magazine, a soft sigh escaped Ward lips.

    “You think all this is worth it?”

    “...You mean the training? Well, personally, I think some of it is a bunch of…”

    “I mean this whole war,” Ward spoke with a conviction that seemed foreign to his typical personality. “Do you think this war is worth it?”

    Pesci's body swiftly outperformed Ward’s in its stillness. He didn’t just say that did he? Did he really think they weren't fighting the good fight? After the Führer conquered Europe? After Tojo punched them in the face? After Il Duce forced his family to flee their homeland? Did he have the audacity to say that!?

    “What are you saying?” Pesci vainly tried to hide the animosity that dripped from his voice.

    “I’m saying, what’s the point? Like I get it, Adolf and his buddies are bad guys, but do you really think that’s why we're fighting them? No. It’s all politics. Roosevelt isn’t fighting out of the goodness of his heart. It’s because Nazis are bad for business. Once it’s all over, he’ll just use it better in his own place in Europe. Sure, he’ll probably be a lot better, but that doesn't change the intention. What good is doing something for the wrong reasons?”

    Pesci sat quietly, barely even comprehending the words that Ward spoke. They festered within, annoying him like the constant pinches of an engine gear. It kept growing and growing until he couldn’t take it anymore.

    “Ward, are you ill? Or have you never heard the phrase ‘the lesser of two evils?’”

    Ward slammed his magazine into his seat.

    “That’s the point, Pesci. Why must we live in a world where we are forced to make decisions like that? Why can’t people just do things for the right reasons alone?”

    “What do you mean? You think I’m here so the government can make a good business deal? I’m here to protect my family from those thugs in Rome!”

    “But it doesn’t matter why you're here, Pesci. It doesn’t matter why I’m here. At the end of the day, our reasonings are trumped by the guys at the top. They’re the opinion that history remembers.”

    “What do you mean it doesn’t matter!? So my dad’s crippled sister and my dead grandfather just don’t matter!?”

    “...That’s… that’s not what I meant.”

    “Yeah, well it sure sounded like it,” Pesci spat before turning away, prematurely ending the conversation. To his delight, Ward read the room and ceased attempts at a reply, with an uncomfortable tranquility returning to the insides of the tank. But now, it was somehow even heavier than before, so much so that Pesci wondered if it would count as gas attack training. Time also seemed to have slowed as well, dragging out the painful experience even further. But before either of them even had the chance to, the silence was again loudly shattered, this time by the deafening screech of a hatch. The two jerked their heads toward the turret position, just in time to see a set of feet landing on the turret basket.

    “Alright Ward, let’s get moving!” A booming voice echoed from the elevated position. They could immediately discern who it was.

    “Wait Sarge, we’re moving out?”

    “Yes, Pesci. I’m sure you’re so excited to hear that. The engine’s serviced and Colonel Kilory said it's nonstop to Cookeville, so hope you two really enjoy sitting around and doing nothing.”

    The two ignored each other’s view as they assumed their fighting positions. Soon, other hatches and doors screamed open, with the remaining four crewmates reentering, with Reeds being the only one not stained with either oil or grease. The ruckus would’ve been a perfect distraction for Pesci’s anxious mind. But at present, he couldn’t do anything to escape it.

    As much as he now hated him, he couldn’t shake Ward’s words. He couldn’t be right, could he? But even if he was, why did it matter? That wasn’t why he was here. He was doing it for his family and their homeland. That trumped any reason why the government wanted to fight. Though, as the tank hummed into life, and rumbled into formation along the dirt road, a contrarian continued incessantly whisper into Pesci’s head.

  • The wreck of a flatboat on the Mississippi River in 1825 resulted in one of the most remembered Tennessee frontiersmen, David Crockett, becoming good friends with one of the most forgotten, Marcus Winchester. 

    After three sessions in the Tennessee state legislature, David Crockett’s career in state politics ended in October 1824. He declined to run again and set his sights on a seat in the U.S. House of Representatives. Crockett returned home to Northwest Tennessee to figure out what to do next.    

    He was certainly happy to return to the woods around the Obion River to do some hunting, but that also gave him an idea of how he could raise some much-needed campaign funds for his election. As he looked around, he realized he was surrounded by a thick forest of old-growth trees. They could be cut down and trimmed into the beveled staves used in the production of barrels. Wood for staves was suddenly in great demand because all types of goods could be stored and shipped in barrels. They could be rolled down gangplanks from flatboats, then easily loaded onto wagons or pack animals. Used barrels could also be found throughout the country, sliced in half for all sorts of purposes, from feeding animals to rocking babies. 

    Crockett hired a few men to cut cypress trees down on his property and trim them into staves, likely using a water-powered sawmill he had built there on the Obion River for that purpose. The crew also got busy building two large boats on the edge of the river. The plan was simple: load the strips of cypress wood onto the boats and then sail down the Obion River, into the Mississippi River, and on down to New Orleans. There, he would sell the staves and the boats for a nice profit and pay the workers. 

    Rather than supervise the men too closely or even cut some of the wood himself, Crockett spent most of his time hunting while the work was taking place. Whether it was for family, friends, and neighbors, or even strangers in need, Crockett was always willing to take to the woods with his hunting dogs in search of bear and other game. In just seven months during that period, he recorded that he claimed those with him killed 105 bears. 


    In February 1826, the staves were loaded, and the boats pushed off into the cold waters of the Obion River. Making their way down that smaller body of water was no problem, and the men Crockett had hired seemed to know what they were doing.  But when they entered the much larger and more powerful Mississippi River, Crockett quickly discovered he had underestimated the current of the river and overestimated the abilities of his crew. Although they had planned to stop at a few spots along the river, neither Crockett nor the others could regain control of the boats. They had no choice but to tie the two boats together, continue downriver, and hope for the best.

    In the middle of the night, after navigating a particularly rough patch of river nicknamed the “Devil’s Elbow” that had lived up to its name, it seemed for a moment that the worst was possibly behind them. Crockett took a break in one of the cabins of the two boats that were still tied together. He later wrote, “I sat thinking on what a hobble we had got into and how much better bear-hunting was on hard land, than floating along on the water, when a fellow had to go ahead whether he was exactly willing or not.”  

    Suddenly, Crockett felt the boat strike something solid, lurch sideways, and begin to fill with the cold, brown water of the Mississippi River. The boats had hit a large pile of trees and other debris that had collected near a group of islands on the river called Paddy’s Hen and Chickens. With a bit of maneuvering, he was able to get his head and arms through the small window of the cabin, but the rest of his body was stuck inside the boat that was quickly headed to the bottom of the river. Finally, at the last minute, members of his crew were able to pull him through. He had been “skinned like a rabbit” and what little clothes he had been wearing were torn off. Crockett sat naked and freezing, waiting there with the rest of the crew on a section of their boat, now lodged against the timber. 

    The following morning, they waved down a large steamboat that took them to the nearby town of Memphis, high on the bluffs above the river. Rather than profit, Crockett’s entire barrel business resulted in even more debt he would have to pay off. However, it wasn’t a complete loss. As the rescue boat with Crockett and his crew headed downriver to Memphis, he was about to meet a fascinating man who would become both a friend and an anonymous financial supporter for his future political campaigns.

    At just twenty-two years old, Marcus Brutus Winchester arrived in Memphis at the request of the original owners of the land on the fourth Chickasaw Bluff: his father, James Winchester, along with John Overton and Andrew Jackson.

    Through a combination of creativity, diplomacy, and strong business acumen, Winchester guided the transformation of the sparsely populated outpost on the fourth Chickasaw Bluff into a thriving commercial hub. In addition to helping lay out the streets and greenspaces—some of which remain in their original locations today—he created the first map of Memphis and sold the city's first lots. He was the first mayor and manager of one of the first trading posts, opened the first bank, handled the construction of the first courthouse and jail, and was the first postmaster. 

    Knowing transportation was key to the growth of any city, Winchester championed the first ferry that crossed the Mississippi River from the bluff to Arkansas on a regular basis, the first major roads east and west, and the first train tracks that were laid in the Midsouth. 

            Crockett and Winchester’s chance meeting took place during a time when Winchester was beginning to experience negative impact from his marriage to Amarante “Mary” Loiselle, a free mixed-race woman from St. Louis. Together, they had eight children. His decision to marry her, during a time when the nation was deeply divided over the issue of slavery, would eventually result in him and his family having to live outside the city limits of the town he had founded and faithfully served.

    When anything unusual happened in Memphis, word spread quickly. While a lot of unusual things were pulled out of the Mississippi River at the time, a naked, freezing former state representative was not one of them. Marcus and Amarante were informed and quickly came to Crockett’s aid. James Davis, one of the early Memphis settlers later wrote of the meeting of the two men.

    Winchester being among the first to witness his condition, taking an ocular measurement of his person, procured the necessary raiment, hastened down and soon afterward returned, supporting the unfortunate adventurer, whom he conducted to his resident. An hour or two later, by the aid of the kind-hearted Mary, with good fire, stimulants, etc., he appeared at the store door in the finest suit of clothes, it was supposed he had ever worn […] Other persons were also liberal to the unfortunates in this affair, for those were liberal days and Crockett and his friends were toasted around to considerable extent; when, warmed up by the few imbibings, he became eloquent, told jokes and laughable stories […] and it may be that the misfortune at the head of the Old hen was the starting point for his future importance and notoriety.

    Many believe it was Winchester to whom Crockett referred to many times as a “good friend” who lent him money for his congressional campaigns. There are also other historical references to a growing friendship between the two Tennesseans. One is a letter to Winchester from John Overton chastising him for continued support of the Congressman. Crockett had publicly rebelled against Andrew Jackson and his policies regarding Native Americans that led to the Trail of Tears. 

    Marcus Winchester would also be included among the friends that Crockett would stop and visit in Memphis in late 1835 when he departed Tennessee for Texas and the Alamo. According to James Davis, who claimed to be there at the time, after a night of “celebration,” Marcus Winchester and David Crockett said their good-byes as Crockett boarded Winchester’s ferry. Davis wrote, “The chain was untied from the stob, and thrown with a rattle by old Limus into the bow of the boat. It pushed away from the shore, and floated lazily down the little Wolf, out into the big river. It rowed across to the other side, bearing that remarkable man away from his state and his kindred forever.”

  • “Thank you for being the father you never had to be…”

    There’s a giant living out here in Henry County; towering just over five and a half feet tall and weighing in at a whopping one-eighty-five. Of course, most people probably haven’t heard of him. He’s not exactly what you’d call ‘famous’ by any means. Far from it, in fact. Truth be told, you’d be hard pressed to find anyone who even knew his name, much less his life story. But like most giants, it’s the myth surrounding them that inspires greatness. And this one is no exception.

    The son of a rambling man and a woman destined for sainthood, he was the unforgettable middle child with a heart as big as the August moon, and a smile as wide as Kentucky Lake. Raised on fried catfish and wild radishes, he was about as buck wild as a boy could be, and just as stubborn as any old mule. A fearless ruffian and patriot, he served in his first war at the ripe old age of twenty-two and fought in his last one a few months before he turned forty-nine. 

    But as fate would have it, war wasn’t where I managed to run across this mountain of a man. 

    Or should I say, where he managed to run across me.

    No, the disjointed pews of an old Baptist church is where he saved my soul. Rushing into my life like a whirlwind, he saw something inside my dying eyes that no one else ever cared enough to look for. Something worth keeping around. Something worth saving.

    I won’t lie, I fought back at first, angry at him for daring to get close – hating him for caring. But despite my best efforts, he just kind of stuck around. Through the pain and the heartache, he stood by my side like the old hickory down by the courthouse. He believed in me even when I didn’t believe in myself. Trusted in me, even when I swore to hurt him.

    And perhaps nothing tested that trust more than the time we were forced to fix each other. Through the cold sweats and night terrors, he was there for me when I didn’t have the courage to face my own demons. Encouraging me to stand up and fight, even when sitting seemed like the easier option. And in return, I was there for him on the day his body gave out. The day the sky fell out on Highway Seventy-Nine. 

    For three months, I looked after him when he couldn’t stand up; carried him when he couldn’t walk.

    For three months, I learned what it meant to trust someone again.

    And on the day he called me ‘his son,’ I wept.

    That was the night I lied in bed crying like a child. Not because I was angry or torn apart, but because for the first time in my life, I felt like I had a place to call my home. A home to call my family. In a world so unforgiving, living a life condemned by my own flesh and blood, it was that old giant that took me in. And it was that old giant who gave me a second chance on life.

    Looking back now, I realize that I owe everything to him. My wife, my children, my salvation. In one way or another, they all trace their way back to the gift he gladly gave me. The gift I didn’t ask for, but one he knew I needed more than anything.

    Even as I write this, I know the time will come when the good Lord calls him back home, and the whole county will tremble at his passing, and no one will be none the wiser that a giant has just died. But know this, dear friend: on that ill-fated day, I’ll be there by your side the same way you were always there by mine. And as you wither away into glory, you can bet your bottom dollar that I’ll be there to tell the whole world about the giant of a man who raised my spirit up from the dead. The giant of a man who took in a worthless kid off the streets and showed him that he meant something.

    Oh, great giant… history might never remember your name, but I can promise you, the whole county will remember your heart. After all, it’s just too damn big to forget.

    To the Army, he was Sergeant First Class Baker.

    To his mom and dad, he was ‘son.’

    To his sisters, he was called ‘Bubba’.

    And to the rest of the world, he was just Jeff…

    But as for me, by the grace of God alone, I had the unique privilege of calling him ‘my Dad.’

    I love you, Ol’ Man… Never forget that.

  • A Historical Journey Inspired by Nathan B. Stubblefield

    The early summer air of 1892 smelled of damp earth and sweet honeysuckle as I sat cross-legged by the banks of the Mississippi River, my eyes fixed on the peculiar contraption in my hands. The old-timers in Murray called it nonsense. My father, a farmer of simple means, muttered about wasted time when I tinkered with wires and coils instead of tending to the fields. But something about this—about sound traveling unseen—called to me like a voice through the mist.

    I am Jasper Tate, fourteen years old, a boy of Tennessee, and I have seen the future.

    It started one afternoon in the bustling streets of Nashville. My father took me to the city to sell tobacco, and as I wandered past shop windows, a peculiar sight stopped me. A crowd had gathered around a man with wild hair and eyes that burned with excitement. He spoke of voices traveling through wires, of messages leaping across the air like spirits untethered.

    “Come closer, boy,” the man beckoned, and I did. “You’ve got the eyes of an inventor.”

    I later learned his name—Nathan B. Stubblefield, a man whispered about in quiet circles. Some said he was mad, others a genius, but all agreed he was different. I watched as he held a wooden box, connected to something hidden beneath the street. Then, he stepped away—so far I should not have heard him speak. But I did.

    His voice crackled through a device in his hand: “Can you hear me?”

    I nearly dropped the receiver. The crowd gasped. Sound, carried without a wire? It was impossible. And yet, there it was.

    That moment lit a fire in me.

    Back in our small home near the Kentucky border, I raided my father’s workshop, pulling scraps of copper, coils, and metal sheets into my room. My mother shook her head but said nothing. She had the same knowing look she wore when my father fixed a broken plow—understanding that some things must be built, even if they don’t yet have a purpose.

    I tried to mimic Stubblefield’s work. I’d seen the way he connected the wires, how he placed the coils. For weeks, I fiddled with my crude transmitter, twisting knobs and tapping copper rods into the damp soil behind our house. Nights passed in restless wonder, my mind filled with visions of voices carried through thin air.

    One evening, I convinced my little sister, Ellie, to help. She stood a few yards away, holding the receiver I had pieced together from old phonograph parts.

    I pressed my lips to the transmitter and whispered, “Ellie?”

    She shrieked. “Jasper! I heard you!”

    My heart nearly burst. It worked.

    Not everyone believed.

    My father frowned when he caught me burying wires near the barn. “Boy, the land gives us what we need. You’d do well to remember that.”

    In town, the schoolteacher dismissed my excitement with a wave of his hand. “You ought to focus on proper work, Jasper. The world doesn’t change for the likes of us.”

    But I knew better. I had seen a man speak into a box and be heard from a distance. And if Nathan B. Stubblefield could do it, why couldn’t I?

    Still, whispers of doubt crept in. What if it was all just a trick of the ear? What if the world wasn’t ready for voices that traveled without wires?

    One evening, I found myself back by the Mississippi, watching the riverboats churn the muddy water. I imagined a day when sailors might talk across great distances, when a farmer could hear the news without waiting for the postman.

    I imagined a future where people like me—boys from Tennessee, dreamers—had a place.

    Years later, I heard that Nathan B. Stubblefield faded into obscurity. The world praised men like Marconi, men with backing, while Stubblefield’s work was left to rot in forgotten pages.

    But I never forgot.

    I kept building, kept dreaming. And on quiet Tennessee nights, when the wind carried voices from faraway places, I knew I had glimpsed something bigger than myself—something neither my father’s fields nor my teacher’s books could explain.

    A future waiting to be heard.

  • When I was growing up, there were three “baby-sitters” in McKenzie-- the Park Theatre, Carroll Lake, and the Twin Pools.  The Twin Pools were a phenomenon from the 1950’s through the mid 1960’s.  The pools were operated by Roe and Belle Alexander and if you were lucky enough to have Ms. Belle for your third grade teacher, you got to swim free for a day.  The complex was on Stonewall Street and parents could give their kids fifty cents, drop them off and they could stay all day.  For a dollar, a kid could get in and eat well, as candy bars and ice cream were a nickel, hot dogs were fifteen cents, and drinks were a dime. As it cost fifty cents to swim for a day, Roe could always be seen with several half dollars in his hand turning them over and over with his fingers.  Ms. Belle liked to lie out in the sun and her skin was the texture of leather.  She would position her deck chair between the bleachers and the men’s dressing room and Heaven help the kid that dared to bother her.  Her distinguishing physical attributes were her bright red lipstick, toenails and fingernails.  My friend Jimmy King was hired one summer to pick up trash on the pool grounds and told me that when Ms. Belle would see a piece of paper on the ground, she would flick it with her red toes and say, “Pick that up, boy.”  Ms. Belle’s specialty at the emporium was manning the hot dog rotisserie.  She offered only one condiment and that was pickle relish. 

    When one came to the pools, they had to cross a gravel parking lot and then enter the large hallway that led to the water. Emblazoned across the front of the hallway was the word “SWIM.”  In the hallway, one would pay fifty cents and be issued a basket.  All of the stuff not needed for swimming would be put into the basket and the person on duty would issue a large safety pin with the number of the basket on the pin. The basket would then be put into a cubbyhole marked by the number that was on the safety pin. The safety pin would be pinned to the patron’s swimming suit.  If they had to change after arrival, they had to go to the dressing rooms.  The ladies had a sidewalk leading to theirs, but the men had to literally wade across the baby pool to get to change clothes.  The men’s dressing room was always wet, had a funky odor and was avoided if possible.  

    The Twin Pools were just that—two pools of the same dimensions sitting side by side with a divider down the middle.  Each pool had a separate baby pool at the front end. The pools were filled by a well that was on the property and the water was extremely COLD.  The pools had no filtration system and the lifeguards would dump gallons of bleach into the water as a sanitizer. After a couple of days or about the time the water temperature was bearable, Roe would dump all of the water out of the “warm” pool into a big ditch and begin filling it again.  At that time, everyone would move to the other pool—which was frigid.  The pools were made from rough concrete and kids were constantly lined up at the First Aid portion of the entrance hallway to have mercurochrome administered to their wounds. The boardwalk on the sides of the pool were made of sawmill lumber and were the source of many splinters. 

    The pools had a low diving board and a high dive.  The diving boards were made of 2x12 boards with a burlap bag nailed on the end with roofing nails. This was to provide traction to the diver to prevent him or her from slipping off the end of the diving board. The boards on the high dives had a reverberating thump that would echo over the pool area when the diver went airborne.  The high dive allowed the older swimmers to showcase their diving talents.  The young kids would gather to watch high school and college students conduct a diving clinic. Watching the gymnastics of the can opener, jack knife, back dive, cut away, gainer, preacher’s seat, cannon ball, flip, and belly buster provided much entertainment for my age group.  We also noticed all of the overweight swimmers and would engage in such questions among ourselves as “Who would make the biggest splash doing a cannon ball  off the high dive, so in so or so in so?” Much debate went into these conversations but little scientific evidence was presented as we discussed the water displacement of the cannon ball. 

    On the north side of the complex was “the beach.”  This was a grassy area that was on a slight hill and swimmers could position their beach towels and transistor radios there and catch some sun or eat lunch. The fragrance of sun tan lotion, hot dogs, and Fritos always drifted across the beach. Roe played records over loud speakers that were under each high dive platform and on the pool side walls of the dressing rooms.  He gave specific instructions that his records were not to get out of the order.  The song “Last Date,” an instrumental by Floyd Cramer was popular in the early sixties and when I hear the song I always remember the Twin Pools.  One year, Roe’s favorite song was “Abilene” by George Hamilton IV and sometimes he would shuffle it around so it would be played a couple times before the stack finished. 

    On certain days of the week, kids from other towns would come to McKenzie to swim. The Gleason kids would come over in a big old truck and would be wearing a unique array of swimming attire. It was not unusual to see cut off shorts, cut off overalls, or cut off pants worn by the Tater Town bunch.  It almost reminded one of the Beverly Hillbilly Clampetts going to the cement pond.  Many years after closing, the Twin Pools got a bit of national publicity as in one of her books Dixie Carter wrote about traveling from McLemoresville to swim at the Twin Pools.  

    The way the pools were operated back then wouldn’t be allowed today, however no one ever drowned or got sick from the water and everyone looked out for each other.  Other than the concrete scrapes and the time Tommy Ellis jumped off the high dive and hit his head on the edge of the pool requiring stitches, most days were without incident. 

    On hot summer days, I can still hear the thump of the diving boards, Roe yelling at kids and telling them not to run, the splash of the water, the music from the speakers, and the laughter of the kids.  Those were good days. 

    TWO FLAT TIRES

    Kermit was extremely superstitious.   He believed in the bad luck that black cats, walking under ladders, breaking mirrors, and forgetting something and having to return home and get it would bring. He was always very careful to avoid these situations.  When I got to high school and played football, I chose number 13.  When he found out about it, he made me go to the coach and get another number.  (Terry Bateman ended up with #13 after I traded it for #10 and he ended up being an All-American.) Friday the 13th wasn’t just another day to Kermit, but a date that he wished he could avoid. 

    Once when working in the attic of my grandmother’s house on Cherry Street, Jill broke a mirror.  Kermit raved and ranted about the seven years of bad luck she would have.  Another time when we were outside the milk barn, I walked under the ladder that went into the top of the barn and he made me quickly go back under the ladder and walk around it. If a black cat ran across the road in front of him, he would turn around and go a different route.  (I later learned that you could “X” a black cat out by making an “X” on the windshield.)

    During elementary school—about the time when I was in the second grade, Kermit was going to go to the high school football game in Camden.  Jill and I were going with him and we were playing football out in the yard waiting for him to say, “Let’s go.”  When it was time, we loaded up in the 1956 Oldsmobile and headed out.  It was October and the nights were cool and about the time we got to where West Tennessee Dairy is now, I discovered that I didn’t have my toboggan.  I told him I must have dropped it where Jill and I were playing football.  He reluctantly turned around and drove the short distance back home.  I found it in the yard and he started talking about how it was bad luck to forget something and have to turn around and go back and get it.  We headed out again and on Carroll Street about half way between Smith Street and Paris Pike, a black cat darted across the road in front of us.  He saw it too late and crossed the cat’s path.  Then, he started ranting about the bad luck you would get from crossing the path of a black cat.  I thought it was kind of funny and it least it got him off the topic of the bad luck you would get from having to go return home and get something you forgot. 

    We went to Camden via Highway 70.  When one drives out of Bruceton and heads toward Camden, there is a long bottom with several bridges.  When we crossed the third bridge—the Big Sandy River bridge--, the ride got rough and Kermit pulled over and got out to see what the problem was.  We had TWO flat tires.  I remember that some McKenzie folks going to the game stopped and took us back to the service station that was on the right when you leave Bruceton.  The service station is closed today, but the building and sign are still there.  They repaired tires and sent someone to change the flats and take the car back to the service station where we would ride back with someone and pick it up after the game.  

    I remember that all the way home, Kermit continued to talk about the bad luck we had from having to turn around and get my toboggan and the black cat on Carroll Street.  And…..guess who got blamed for the trouble?? 

    THE HERNIA

    As a kid I had a routine.  I would run though the house to the kitchen and when I got to the refrigerator, I would jump up, grab the top and do a pull-up on the side of the appliance.  All of this resulted in me getting a hernia.  

    After Kermit took me to the doctor (I didn’t wear any underwear for the visit but that is another story) we got the diagnosis and surgery seemed to be the only option.  I was only a second grader, but was fully aware of what surgery involved.  Kermit would try to tell me that I needed the surgery, but I was adamant in my decision and would not agree.  Of course, he could have by-passed all of my reasons and hauled me to the hospital and I couldn’t have done much about it.  

    Kermit was diplomatic.  Every Sunday afternoon, we would drive out Cherrywood Road past the house and farm where his father and mother first settled when they came to the area from Kentucky.  Then, we would drive to the bottom and turn around and come back by the homestead.   Just before getting to the Holland place there was a sharp curve in the road and a pasture with several horses.  One of the poor horses was ruptured and had a large mass hanging from its belly.  He would always slow down when we went by the horses, but wouldn’t say anything.  After a couple of weeks of driving to the Holland place, one particular Sunday he pulled the car over to the side of the road in the curve and stopped.  For a couple of minutes, all we did was look at the horses but he didn’t speak.  Finally, he pointed to the ruptured horse and said, “If you don’t have surgery, that is what you are going to look like.” 

    After he said that, I had a vivid mental picture of a large mass hanging from me when I got older and it didn’t take long for me to agree to the operation. 

    The power of suggestion is mighty in influencing a kid.

  • Wrapping my coat a little tighter, I make my way through the woods trying to stay out of sight from the troops. My momma would give me a good flogging if she knew I had run out of chores to catch a glimpse of the battle that was sure to come. Being only twelve meant I was too young to fight alongside my kinfolk, unlike cousin John. Nashville is our home and that meant fighting the union was bound to happen. The thick tree line made for good cover even though the trees were bare from the winter months. I caught a glimpse of General John Bell Hood briefly before he ducked back into the tent to no doubt discuss the plans going forward with his captains. The soldiers were standing around a fire trying to stay warm with their rifles hanging down behind their backs. Maybe one day I would be standing by them with my own rifle, I thought, staring at theirs. I pull back myself so as to not get too close and the men start to scramble at the sound of a bugle being blown. I run back a safe distance and that's when I see the troops coming over the hill. I had heard that the union troops were being led by General George H. Thomas and no one seemed to know for sure how many were heading our way, but some thought it could be over fifty thousand. That seemed high in my mind but as I watched I couldn’t help the loud gulp I took as they kept filing over. My mind kept thinking that this day, December 15th 1864, might just end up in our history lesson at school. 

    Without warning, the sound of a cannon being fired sent my ears ringing. I realized then just how close I was and running wasn’t an option. The sounds of orders being yelled and shots being fired seemed almost endless. Covering my ears I find a large tree with a hollow big enough for me to just squat into. I’m only five foot and slim built so it was a tight fit. My cheeks feel wet from the tears that I hadn’t known had fallen. Men were falling everywhere from both sides either wounded or dead. My heart ached for the number of our confederate men that were sprawled on the ground bleeding. We were outnumbered but I was proud of our men holding them off, it looked as though they might fight another day.  As the sun began to set the troops from both sides seemed to have pulled back to regroup and check over their casualties. Only a few shots here and there could be heard.

    I tried to move and realize my legs felt slightly frozen. December in Tennessee could be harsh and I hadn’t realized how long I had been hiding in the tree. It was well into the night now and I realized that my curiosity had truly gotten the best of me. I stopped trying to move as it did no good, I suppose I could have tried calling out but given the state of the men, who was I to call out for help? My breath was shallow and I no longer could feel the cold, but all I could think about was that our troops wouldn’t make it more than another day. It seemed that Nashville would in the end fall to the union troops. 

    My eyes start to close and as I drift off, I have the feeling of being called home. The sensation of floating has my heading spinning, my eyes feel too heavy to open. Is this the end for me? The boy who let his curiosity carry him to where he shouldn’t have been. I hear my name and pry my eyes open but all I see is a blinding light with a man reaching for me, his leg dragging behind him. He looks like my cousin who was fighting in the war. As the man reaches me I realize that’s who it was. He had blood all over him, but he didn’t seem to be in pain. Relief flooded me as I realized I could now move, looking at my cousin John as he smiled down on me. He doesn’t say a word, he just takes my hand and leads me towards a light. I knew I wasn’t headed home to momma, but this felt right, like I was going to my true home. I look around as I see the fallen soldiers are following us, I smile as I am now a soldier walking with them to a place that I know holds no pain. I will be with my kinfolk after all. 

    The End   

  • I

    Just over 100 years ago, one of the biggest decisions ever made in American history changed the very fabric of its political landscape. And it all happened because of a last-minute decision by a man from the Smoky Mountains.

    There’s a small list of people in Tennessee’s history that helped give women a voice. Not just to write music or stories. But to give them a voice on the ballot.

    Harry Thomas Burn was born in a valley called Mouse Creek, later known as Niota, TN. He later went on to become a statesman for the Republican Party in his home state. In that time, women’s suffrage had been one of the biggest news stories in the country. The 19th Amendment was written to protect everyone’s right to vote, including women. It wasn’t just the fact that that women voting was considered a threat to statesmen. They believed that men giving their wives the right to vote would affect their own marriages. The Amendment needed at least three-fourths of the United States to vote to ratify. By the time it had been up for discussion in Tennessee, only 35 of the states’ legislatures had voted to ratify—just under the amount needed for ratification to be passed. All eyes were on Tennessee as their representatives were at a dead even split on the decision. The margin for error wasn’t a game of inches. The house had to postpone the vote two separate times because votes in opposition of ratification was at 48 in the House vote in Tennessee. And the votes to ratify were at 48. Nose to nose.  The House had no choice but to finalize their state in the matter on August 18, 1920.

    When the ratification of the Amendment was up for discussion, Harry didn’t want to have a say in this matter. Being as young as he was, at 24, he didn’t have a dog in the race. He wasn’t married, he hadn’t been in a relationship since he graduated high school in Niota. Working on the railroad, traveling place to place, he never gave much thought to a woman and her opinion. His own mentor, Senator Herschel M. Candler, was said to be a main reason to oppose the motion to ratify.

    A few days before that fateful day, Senator Candler called to invite Harry over for dinner to go over how things were going to go on the House Floor later that week.  Candler was always confident in Harry.  He considered him as a silent apprentice.  Harry thought the world of Candler right back.  Candler had a dominant stature with every bit of 50 pounds on Harry.  He had a way of mixing his actual intentions with good humor.  It was how he found his friend’s weaknesses.  He knew a great home-cooked meal would set a good tone for the discussion with Harry. 

    “So, listen, Harry,” Candler said.  “I’m glad you had the chance to come over tonight.  That bein’ said, I’m wantin’ to know your thoughts on the 19th. Now, I’ve got all the confidence in the world for you, but I was just wantin’ to hear what your thoughts were on it.  I mean,” Candler took a pause to gather how to be subtle yet serious.  “… there’s no way we can ratify, there’s just-there’s just no way.” Candler became agitated on the subject and couldn’t help but stutter. 

    “Well, Herschel, even if it did go to ratify, I know you’d have the woman vote—”

    “—Now, now,” Candler swatted Harry’s words away like flies.  His head was boiling.  He balled his hands together with a sigh.  “What if they don’t, Harry?  What if our constituents we have are outnumbered with w—,” he interrupted himself with another breath. “—with people that don’t want me, or you nonetheless.  Your reelection’s comin’ right around the corner.  You gotta have people in your corner that you can trust, to win again, Harry.”  Candler was all serious.  

     Harry’s response was just blinks of confusion.

    “Son, listen to me very carefully.” Candler scooted up to the table, making it awkward for Harry.  “As a lion protects his pride, so a man protects his family.”

     Harry kept listening.

    “Even if they don’t need protectin’,” Candler said. “God beset man to provide for his family, just as he appointed us to speak on their behalf.  There’s always gonna come a time where they think they can speak for themselves, but the bottom line is,” Candler’s voice started growing deeper as he grew red in the face.  “The minute we give them an inch, they’ll take a mile.  Be that if we let’em.” Candler pointed at Harry with a wink. “That’s an obstacle I’m not willing to take on.  Probably not ever.”

    Harry spoke less after that discussion with disappointment, his heart not matching Candler’s intentions.

    II

    The lawmakers who pushed to ratify the Amendment sported yellow roses on their lapels representing women’s suffrage while those who opposed it wore red roses. Harry Burn wore red as well. But the very day he was set to vote, he read a letter his mother had sent to him that very morning:

    “Vote for suffrage, and don’t keep them in doubt…Be a good boy,” she wrote.

    Those words haunted him while sweat rolled from his brow as all eyes were on him on the House Floor.  Everything he had been taught, learned, laughed and cried about, all paved way to this one moment in his life, being the youngest lawmaker in Tennessee to make one of the most unprecedented decisions in American history.  

    Be a good boy, he heard her whisper in his ear.

    “Aye!” 

    The room popped with gasps of surprise and uproar. Harry reached for his red rose on his lapel and threw it to the ground and walked away with a deep breath of relief as he exited.

    “Harry.  Harry!” When Candler caught up with him down the hall, he shoved Harry around to face him. “What was that?  What were you thinking?  Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?!”

    “Voting for giving millions the right to have their opinions heard, absolutely!”  Harry was swift with his words.

    “Oh, snap out of it, Harry Thomas!”  Candler was yelling as his eyes were almost red wanting to scald Harry.  “You’re not turning the tables on us!  You’re throwing a stick of dynamite with all of us in the room!”

    “Senator, if that’s the way you see it, then maybe we shouldn’t be in that room at all. Maybe some other people deserve our place in there.” Harry was pointing his finger toward the House Floor.

    “The AYE’s have it!” Was heard from down the hall, followed by loud cheers and whistling mixed with outrage as the Speaker banged the gavel calling the room to order.

    Harry took that same finger and started to point at Senator Candler. “See, you may think that speaking for people is your idea of Liberty. But that is far from Liberty.” Harry’s finger was bumping Candler’s chest with every word.  He continued, “Our boys just got back from a war, fighting for our freedom, which I guarantee you, didn’t swear an oath to fight for your so-called Liberty, Senator.”

    With a deep breath, Candler finally gathered words with his eyes welling, seething with defeat.  “We’re gonna fry for this, Harry,” he whispered, holding back tears.  “We are gonna cook.  For.  This.”

    Harry said, “You may be right, that bein’ said, there’s a whole lot of commotion stirrin’ up back there, a den full of your lions.  How’bout you go there and cope with’em—find a way to protect your pride, again.” Candler’s face turned white with those words of bitter sarcasm.  Harry put his hands in his pockets, looked him up and down, “Hmm…Some lion you are.”  The influence that Herschel Candler had on Harry Burn faded as he walked out of the State Capitol being followed with press reporters hollering for a word.

    III

    Harry’s vote helped Tennessee to recourse the very fabric of democracy, where every American adult has a say and would later be the state known as “The Perfect 36th”. Because a young man from the Smoky Mountains read a letter from his mother, and knew that her voice mattered.

    Harry read that same letter at his mother, Febb’s funeral in 1945. And he ended with saying, “Mother, your life has stood as a testament that all people are created equal. The book of Proverbs tells us that acts of great wisdom are done with great counsel. You had that wisdom. And you were that counsel. So, may our souls smile knowing that our voice matters tomorrow. I heard your voice when it mattered the most in my life. And so did this great nation. I love you. Rest easy. And good night.”

    Harry was later buried next to his mother.  His gravesite is decorated anonymously, with yellow roses to this very day.

  • The Life and Heroic Death of Father Patrick Ryan

    It was 1878 when Yellow Jack visited Chattanooga. No one thought he could make it to the mountains but he arrived with the refugees. Whether he came from Memphis, New Orleans or Vicksburg, no one knows. He stayed from September until the first frost finally drove him out in November. His unwelcome presence in those months caused 85 percent of the population to abandon the city and claimed 336 lives. He was opposed, however, by doctors, nurses and other volunteers for whom the word “generous” does not suffice. While many names of those who gave themselves for their fellow man during this yellow fever epidemic all over the Mississippi Valley have been forgotten, one remains that Tennessee can proudly claim as her son: Father Patrick Ryan. 

    “Patrick Ryan” is hardly an uncommon  name. There were literally hundreds of baby boys with this name born around the same time as our hero in County Tipperary, Ireland, such that his definite baptismal record cannot yet be located. Neither did our Patrick have an uncommon life: born at the beginning of the Irish Potato Famine, his family seems to have been thrown off their land by the landlord when Patrick was a child. Families at that time who found themselves in this situation were faced with the difficult decision of staying in their country and possibly facing starvation, or emigrating to New York in hopes of a better future. The Ryans chose New York.

    Nothing is known of the family’s life in the city. Patrick’s brother Michael, about nine years his junior, may have been born during this period, if not shortly before the family left Ireland. We know a good deal about the life of immigrants at the time–a hard, rough, poor life–but we can’t help imagining a sweet, charming and also mischievous Patrick who probably both warmed his mother’s heart when he came in from playing baseball in the street and drove her more than crazy with his antics, in which Michael was doubtless implicated. 

    Patrick was about 17 when president Abraham Lincoln began calling for volunteers to fight in the Union Army. There was another call for Patrick, though. Did the life of his fellow immigrants pull at his heart or speak to his conscience? Was he moved by the plight of the motherless children in the slums? Or perhaps his own mother modeled piety, his father modeled faith; maybe the priest at his own parish gave an example. Most certainly there was a yearning in his soul for truth, goodness and beauty. Whatever it was in his life, it led him to enter St. Vincent’s College in Missouri in 1866 where he began studying to become a Catholic priest. He was not noted for any particular academic achievements while there, but he was known for his common sense as well as his athletic prowess, whether it be in soccer, baseball, or simply leaping over the fence in one bound to cries of “Huzzah for Tipperary!” 

    County Tipperary to New York to Missouri – how is it that Patrick Ryan is considered a Tennessee hero? It was in the spring of 1869 that Tennessee’s claim on him began. The bishop of Nashville, Patrick Feehan, came from a family who had been neighbors of the Ryans back in Ireland. Knowing Patrick and his family, Bishop Feehan saw something in the young man and wanted him for the ministry in Tennessee. In April 1869, Patrick was ordained a Catholic priest at St. Mary’s Cathedral in Nashville, a church which still stands today. Father Ryan’s influence would eventually extend to Michael, who also became a priest. 

    Father Ryan was assigned to care for the people in towns that are familiar to the ear of a Tennessean: Clarksville, Cedar Hill, Gallatin. He walked among those people as a father and shepherd, caring for them, speaking with them, being part of their lives. He visited the sick, blessed the dying, consoled and counselled those in need. He certainly had a warm, cheerful demeanor that radiated kindness in all his travels around the state. He knew well the need for, and value of, education, so he built a school in Gallatin. Wouldn’t any young, jolly Irish priest be seen playing in the schoolyard with the children?  It’s impossible to imagine anything less. 

    The town with the proudest claim on Father Ryan, however, is Chattanooga. Father Ryan was sent to this mountain town in East Tennessee in 1872. Most of the Catholics in the area were Irish, perhaps they could even understand the thick brogue he must have had. Catholics were not his only friends, though: he developed a close relationship with the minister of Presbyterian church across the street, Reverend Jonathan Bachman, which would continue until Father Ryan’s death. 

    What a joy Father Ryan surely was to the poor, the needy, anyone of any faith or creed who needed a listening ear, a gentle hand on the shoulder, a word of comfort! It would be hard to imagine him without an Irish temper to rein in and learn to use for the Kingdom of God, while at the same time maintaining a fiery love for his work and his flock.

    He ultimately proved his love of God through his self-sacrificing charity for the people of Chattanooga. He had desired to be sent to Memphis to aid the yellow fever victims, where his good friend and assistant in Chattanooga, Father William Walsh, had been sent. “As I cannot live without you, I will go and die with you”, Father Ryan wrote to Father Walsh. The bishop, however, thought it best that Father Ryan stay in Chattanooga. That decision would prove to be an immense blessing for the people of that city. 

    Being situated in the mountains, Chattanooga was thought to be immune from the fever. As such, the mayor, Thomas Carlisile, invited refugees to come and escape the disease. That was when Yellow Jack hitched a ride, claiming his first victim in Chattanooga on September 18th. Once it became clear that the disease was present in the city, anyone who could, fled. Those who were left were the poor, the sick, anyone who could not afford to leave… and Father Ryan. 

    Eyewitnesses from the time recall Father Ryan "going from house to house in the worst-infected section of the city to find what he could do for the sick and needy." He visited everyone, not just the Catholics. He surely was an incredible consolation to the dying in those terrifying days. Who knows how many would have died alone, abandoned by friends, perhaps the last survivor of their families, had this heroic priest not risked his own life to bring them peace in their final moments. 

    On September 26th, Father Ryan developed the first symptoms of yellow fever. The next day, he was visited by a doctor who thought it likely that the priest would recover. He was wrong, however. Father Patrick Ryan died the next day, September 28th, 1878, the day before his 34th birthday. It was his brother Michael who was present to give him the last rites of the Catholic Church as Patrick had done for so many of his own flock. A victim of his charity, we cannot doubt he died filled with love, perhaps even with a smile, as he made his last request: “Bury me in Chattanooga, among my people.” 

    Had he fled the city, Father Ryan may well have survived. He may have lived on earth for many more years. But he stayed, detained by love of God and neighbor, love stronger than death and more important than life. From Ireland to New York to Missouri and finally Tennessee, it was a city in Tennessee which he himself called the place of his people, and Tennessee can be proud to claim this man as her own.

  • It’s 2:00 AM and Bob couldn’t sleep. 

    For hours after the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center’s Twin Towers in New York City, every possible news organization — foreign and domestic — reported the latest news, and fear was electric. 

    Scene after scene permeated the coverage: two commercial aircraft flying into the high-rise office buildings, one into a field in Pennsylvania. Debris and bodies falling, crushed fire trucks and police cars, dust-covered pedestrians fleeing, and posters of the missing tacked to light poles. The horrors of the day turned into a collective numbness. This couldn’t be happening – not in America! The human brain can only process so much death and destruction. 

    Now, it was two days after the 9/11 attacks and Bob just laid there in his bed, sleepless. His anxious mind whirled; his body tense.

    His mattress was lumpy; the room too warm for early September, he thought. And it was too quiet. Eerily quiet for Memphis, Tennessee. So quiet he could hear his own heart beating in his ears. Occasionally, the whining of a single semi truck from Interstate 40 would break the silence. 

    I-40 was his main route to work each day. Those travel minutes were his buffer from his private life and his work life, but not on that day. The morning disc jockeys on WMC-FM came out of the song “Fill Me Up, Buttercup” to announce that they didn’t know what they were seeing on their live television feed from the NBC network, but there was smoke coming out of the World Trade Center and they thought it was a plane crash.

    Bob remembered pulling his car into his spot on the lower level of the parking garage. Being underground made him feel a bit uneasy that day as he walked to the elevator, but he shook it off. “New York City, busy airports, planes crash sometimes,” he rationalized. 

    Bob was an art director for a publishing company in midtown Memphis, and as soon as he arrived to his office, he went straight to “The Cave”, a darkroom where several men prepared color photographs for publication. These guys were his friends, and he knew when the bosses weren’t around, a small black-and-white television played in the background. He joked in the past that the tv kept the men from turning into moles. But on that morning, it became the focal point as history unfolded.

    The moment he arrived to the darkroom, there was a communal gasp from the men. One of the men shouted “DAMN! Another plane! Into the other tower!” Another jumped to his feet saying, “THAT’S no accident. We’re at WAR!” But for Bob, he felt helpless and retreated to his office. The rest of the day was a blur of nothingness. Nobody could work, some people cried. There was a small group that prayed. He was invited to join them, but he hadn’t been to church since he was a kid. He declined the offer but found himself silently asking God to save those trapped in the rubble.

    Bob thumbed through his published book on New York City with its dustcover spectacularly portraying an aerial view of Tower One. The book was a showpiece for the company. Now, it was only a reference book.

    Driving home that evening, Bob noticed other drivers were like him — just going through the motions. No singing to the radio, no cursing at other drivers, and remarkably, no traffic accidents. Memphis traffic was light because federal workers were sent home early. No one was rushing to the airport. President George Bush had ordered all commercial and cargo flights to be grounded at the nearest airport or risk being shot down. 

    During his ride, he listened to CNN on his radio. An expert being interviewed noted that New York City was the number one terrorist target in our nation. That was scary enough, but the man continued to rattle off other cities — Denver, Chicago, Atlanta, MEMPHIS! CNN’s commentator Wolf Blitzer, who had been on the air nearly non-stop since the attacks, spoke in astonishment, “Why Memphis?” “Well, Wolf, Memphis has three targets actually,” the expert stated flatly. “One, the main east-west corridor, Interstate 40, travels on a Mississippi River bridge. Take out the bridge; take out 50% of our commerce. Two, FedEx has the largest commercial fleet of aircraft in the world and is headquartered there. And three, the FedEx runways are some of the longest to handle large aircraft.” With a pit in his stomach, Bob turned off the radio as he took the next exit and traveled the long way home.

    Since the attacks, Bob couldn’t sleep. He read until his eyes hurt, he listened to classical music hoping it would bore him to sleep, and even jogged in the dark until a patrol officer told him to get off the streets. Even warm milk, his mother’s remedy, only made his stomach sick. 

    From his pillow, he looked at the clock. 2:13 AM – all is quiet. Again. Bob knew he had to get some rest. There was a monthly staff meeting in a couple of hours and he had to give a report. He yawned, but his mind was still wide awake.

    In the distance, he heard a low, rumbling sound. Then another. Thunder? No, the weatherman said no rain was in the near future. Bob got up and glanced out his bedroom window. The sky was clear. Nothing to see except trees and a cat dashing across the apartment building’s parking lot. 

    As he stared out, he saw two bright lights glowing in the sky, growing larger and faster as they approached. Then he heard it — the roar of jet engines on ascent. He could see the aircraft clearly with its gleaming purple and orange FedEx insignia on its tail. To him, it was the most beautiful sight in the world.

    Bob was filled with so many emotions  – giddiness, relief, thankfulness. He was also glad he was alone because he would be hard pressed to explain why a cargo jet would move him to tears. For years, Bob had heard those jets flying in the wee hours but paid no mind. They were just part of the background noise of Memphis. Now, the roar was the most comforting noise to his ears.

    Moving back to his bed, Bob fluffed his pillow and eased his exhausted body back down on the mattress as he covered himself with the bedcovers. Lying prone, he could feel his whole body begin to relax for the first time in days. “It’s going to be okay now,” Bob thought to himself. “We’re going to be all right.” 

    It had been 57 hours since the presidential no-fly order, but FedEx was on the job and flying again. Bob’s eyes grew heavy, and before falling into a deep slumber, he heard himself whisper “Life might not be the same, but we’ll be stronger for it.”

  • Poverty was cruel. William and Bridget, children of Irish immigrants, were well acquainted with the demanding creature. Until 1887, however, the children had never whispered any thoughts of hate toward poverty, nor had they ever been acquainted with such fear. Helplessness seemed to suffocate the brother and sister that September day as they watched their parents groan under the burden of the fever. William, the older of the two children, blamed poverty and cursed it with bitterness. If not for poverty, the O’Donnell family might be somewhere other than Chattanooga, Tennessee, free from the clutches of Yellow Fever. Bridget was ten and too young for such bitterness; she only felt fear. 

    “What are we going to do?” Bridget asked in a small voice. Such a question had been asked silently and aloud many a time in the last three days. William buried his fear deep down and put on a mask of confidence.

    “We’ll make them well, Bridget. Why don’t you stir the broth, and I’ll draw more water.” William squeezed his sister’s hand before he left his parents’ bedroom for the well. That brotherly touch of tenderness quelled Bridget’s tear-clogged throat, and she nodded her sunshine-blond head, trusting her brother’s words.

    The children’s broth was bubbling nicely, although Bridget noticed it looked nothing like their mama’s. The ten-year-old drew a spoonful to her lips and pursed her lips in thought. She thought it tasted bland. The second to last hen had been sacrificed for the broth, as Bridget remembered her mama making broth with chicken bones. What else did her mama include?

    “Onions?” Bridget said aloud. That sounded right, and Bridget knew their yard was full of wild onions.

    William was lugging a bucket of water toward the house when Bridget stepped outside. The girl closed her eyes and breathed in the cool September air. The purity of the air was a welcome respite from the stink of sickness.

    “Is everything alright?” William asked, fear creeping into his voice. Bridget opened her eyes, nodded, and explained her errand to her brother. 

    “I’ll help you,” William said. The lanky red-haired boy delivered the bucket of water to the kitchen table before joining his sister. They harvested wild onions in silence. Both children dreaded and yet yearned to return to the house. A dark picture of two lifeless parents suddenly flashed through William’s mind. He tried to shake it away, but it had dug its pincers into his mind like a tick.

    “I think we have enough.” Bridget’s voice was breathless, a symptom of similar hopeless thoughts. Bridget stood, onion stems in hand. William, however, remained in his crouched position, his eyes wide as he looked into the horizon. Suddenly, he leaped up and sprinted toward the drive. Bridget shaded her eyes against the glaring sun and gasped when she saw what drew her brother’s sudden attention. She ran after her brother as fast as her skinny legs would allow.

    “Father Patrick!” William cried. The thirteen-year-old felt tears prick his eyes, but his boyish pride didn’t bother trying to suck them back in. Akin to the O’Donnell family, Father Patrick Ryan was Irish. He arrived in Chattanooga in 1872, where he was gratefully welcomed by the small Catholic community. William and Bridget thought he was the kindest person ever to live. The children fell into their priest’s open arms. Both shook in his embrace. They no longer felt the need to be strong when strong arms held them. 

    “Dear children, what troubles you?” They laid their tale of fears and troubles before the tender priest as one would lay a meal upon a table, but if their tale was a meal, it caused sympathy and sadness when eaten. The children told of the day when their parents first fell ill, a mere three days ago, and of the turmoil that followed. William expected to see fear in Father Patrick’s eyes, for he had seen such blatant fear in a neighbor’s face two days ago. He had gone to their nearest neighbor to ask for help but was brusquely turned away when he mentioned Yellow Fever. The priest’s face held no fear, however. William noticed sympathy, as did Bridget, but he also noticed something else. There was a strength, a resolve in the priest’s eyes. The boy yearned to clothe himself in the same strength. 

    “We were trying to make broth for Mama and Papa,” Bridget explained, fingering the onion stems still clutched in her hand. “It’s not as good as Mama’s.” Father Patrick smiled. 

    “That’s a very good idea, Bridget. A broth can be as good as any medicine. Would you like me to help you finish it? Then I can visit with your parents.” Bridget and William nodded their tired heads with relief. So glad they were to have an adult assist them in their adult work.

    Father Patrick was true to his word. He finished the broth, adding the onion stems, a few garlic cloves from the root cellar, and herbs, whose names the children knew not. He fed it to Mr. and Mrs. O’Donnell with gentle hands, speaking with them while the children ate the bread the priest had brought and cut for them. He then administered sacraments to the sick parents. As the children watched from the doorway, Bridget smiled to see peace on her parents’ faces, but William wasn’t looking at his parents. He was watching Father Patrick with admiration. Not for the first time the boy craved what the priest had. He wanted to wear the armor the priest wore. It was a strong armor, and awarded strength and joy, charity and zeal to its wearer. Such an armor permitted the priest to look yellow fever boldly in the eye, unafraid of its deadly breath.

     Later, as Father Patrick was preparing to leave the O’Donnell house and the sky was dusky blue, Bridget asked the question that had been eating away at her for days.

    “Are they going to die, Father?” The question tasted bad in the girl’s mouth. Father Patrick knelt down to be on Bridget’s level. William wanted to cover his ears for fear of the answer.

    “Only God knows the answer to such a question, Bridget. His will is perfect, and his ways are higher than ours. Do you remember what I said in my sermon a week ago?” Bridget hesitated. Her mind always wandered during Mass. 

    “You said God always hears our prayers but may not answer them in the way we want,” William answered instead. Father Patrick nodded.

    “Right. Be fervent and devout in your prayers for your parents, Bridget and William. Trust that God is more powerful than this fever, and humbly ask Him for healing. Ask Him to give you grace and courage to accept whatever is His will, no matter what it is.” Father Patrick kissed both children on the forehead. “I’ll come to see you again tomorrow,” he promised. The children sincerely thanked the priest and hugged him tightly goodbye.

    When the children brought water to their parents later that day, they felt an invisible cloak being slung over their shoulders. Mr. and Mrs. O’Donnell were both awake and speaking quietly to each other. Mrs. O’Donnell smiled. Father Patrick was coming tomorrow. The cloak wasn’t the heavy one associated with fear. It was light and warm and brought with it a rare jewel. It almost felt illegal to feel hope at that moment, but both children let it envelop them. 

    Author’s Note: 

    While this story is a work of fiction, it contains many elements of truth. In 1878, yellow fever broke out in Memphis, TN, and killed thousands. In September, the dreaded fever found its way to Chattanooga, TN. Father Patrick Ryan was a real priest who served the people of Chattanooga starting in 1872. While many individuals fled during the yellow fever outbreak, Father Patrick Ryan stayed in Chattanooga and selflessly served and ministered to the sick. He risked his life to bring hope to others. His selflessness and kindness eventually cost the young priest his life. On September 26th, Father Patrick contracted yellow fever. He died two days later on September 28th, not yet thirty-three years old. 

  • Based on a true life story.

    Tennessee is where my family's heart and home have always been. My parents met here in the state and got married. Shortly after, father built a house in Model, Tennessee. My mother gave birth to me on October 14th, 1923 on the homestead. They named me Sandford Griffin. Little did they know, they had just given life to the man that would change the destiny of the entire area. 

    I spent as much time as I could as a child playing outside on our wooden front porch. I played tag on it and many other games. When I learned how to sling-shot rocks, I made dents in the tree bark across the driveway. Sometimes I would shoot them at the wood supports on the porch. Mother scolded me after she found out I was hurting her house. She yanked me up, took my sling away, and said “Boy! I told you not to be shootin' that at my house!!” She was never a mean woman, but she sure did love what her husband had made her. 

    Getting in my young adult years, I enlisted in the Army. I was sent off to fight in the line of battle in World War II. Many of my friends and other allied soldiers died fighting for our country. Over fifty-five thousand to be exact…we lost so many powerful men. Seeing death in the masses changed me as a person. There would be nights I lay in my tent restless with the images in my mind. I saw the dying faces of fellow men, the remembrance of the gunshots, and flashes of crimson-red blood in my eyes. It’s like it was all happening right in front of my face. 

    After the war ended, I returned home and lived with my Mama and Paw. I took care of them, and they took care of me. We would tend and live off of the land. We grew food and hunted what we needed to survive. I was finally happy to be home. I would go out and sit on that wooden porch for hours. I enjoyed the warm Tennesse weather hitting my skin. That porch was my getaway from it all. I didn’t have to worry about taking care of Mama or Paw, The visions of war hid away, and life seemed to be all together. 

    I was sitting out on the porch one day and I heard a vehicle coming down the driveway from a distance. This wasn’t a normal thing to hear since we didn’t own a vehicle. We always walked if we needed anything since the general store was just a little away. It was a white pickup truck with “TVA” written on the side of it in red lettering. A tall and skinny man came out of the truck and walked up to me. “Excuse me, Are you the owner of this house?” the man said as he continued up to the porch steps. “I live here and take care of my elderly parents, is there anything I can do for you?” I said as I stood from sitting. “Yes, I am here to inform you with a notice that has been sent out from the Tennessee Valley Association. You and the occupants of this home will have 30 days to vacate the property…this area is being turned into a national recreation area,” he said as he handed me a folded piece of paper. He began to speak again as I was reading the notice… “In there, you will find an offer for this place, it will help you find another home for you to go…If there are any questions, there is the contact information at the top of the letter.” 

    I was enraged with disbelief that we were getting asked to leave our home. I took the letter inside and the man pulled away in his truck. I sat down at the wooden kitchen table and asked for Mama and Paw to join me. I explained what the man had said to me and showed them the offer on the house… Paw got worked up like I did and said “ I am not leaving a home that I built with my own hands! No amount of money could ever be enough to make me leave!” Mama had tears falling down her cheeks and she shook her head when the letter got passed down to her. 

    “We aren’t leaving this home! Not for one minute!” Paw said as he kept pacing around the kitchen… “When they come back we will tell them that we aren’t leaving and that is our final decision…you hear boy?” Paw said as he glanced over at me. “Yes sir…I’ll tell them.”

    Several weeks passed and the due date for us to leave was long gone. I waited for the day for them to come beating up on our front door for approval to start dozing the house. Finally a month after the first man came by, I heard a knock at the door. I came downstairs and opened the door to find the TVA man. “Mr. Griffin…Your family needed to leave by now… We are destroying the area for a Land Between the Lakes recreational area.” The man said. “We aren’t leaving…my parents are too old to be moving and this house is irreplaceable to my family. My father built it by hand for his family in the 1920s. Tell whoever sent you that we are not leaving, as it is my father’s wish to not leave his masterpiece.” The man had a surprised look on his face at my words and he shook his head and went on his way. 

    Years passed and I saw houses, churches, schools, and other buildings get demolished by the TVA. The only thing that remained was the house, the little general store, and the cemetery where Paw and Mama are now buried. Paw died due to cancer back six months ago, and Mama went shortly after him. The doctors said she died of a broken heart. After all, Paw was the love of her life. 

    I now protect the house. It was my duty to continue treasuring my Paw’s masterpiece. When they turned off the water to the house, my family on my Mama’s side brought me jugs of water to drink. They would spend the occasional meal with me on the weekend and would bring generations of children to my house. The children would sometimes play on the front porch. It reminded me of the good old days before the war. 

    When my health started downhill, my family came to get me to move from the house. I’d always walk back to the house from Dover Tennessee, sometimes fifteen miles or more because protecting that house was something so close to my heart. The last time I saw the house, I embraced the sweet feeling that it left within me . I ran my fingers over the sling-shot dents in the front porch support. I looked at the pictures that still hung on the wall of my Paw and Mama. It all felt so great to know that the house still stood in the Griffin’s family honor. My family worried about me, knowing that I kept walking to the house in my old age. Because of this, they put me in an old folks home. Doctors told me that I didn’t have long till I went to be with Mama and Paw. What seemed like forever went by in this old folk's home. Days went by and all I seemed to have the energy to do was to lay in bed and write. I began dozing off to sleep and a bright golden light filled my eyes. When I was able to see, I was on the porch of the old homeplace. My body was young again. I had my slingshot sitting next to me. I heard a voice in the distance “Standford…dinner is ready!” I went into the house and my Mama and Paw sat at the table waiting on me. “We’ve been waiting for you Standford…” Mama said. Tears welled up in my eyes and I couldn’t help but begin to cry. “I...I don’t think I am ready to go…The house is still waiting for me to come back.” I said as I wiped the tears from my cheeks. Mama put her hand on my shoulder and said “Don’t worry about that now. TVA decided to preserve it for future generations to see…For others to forever enjoy that old wooden porch.”

  • Based on actual historical events.

    In the early summer of 1821, I walked the streets of Paris, Tennessee, hearing about the sulphur well that had been found in town. People talked about how this well had magical healing powers. Some of the women in town said that drinking the water could make the old youthful again. Some even said that it helped them feel less pain in their aching joints. There was also talk of it helping get rid of/prevent people from getting yellow fever. All I knew was that it was attracting a lot of people, and it made the town boom with money and tourists. 

    This sulphur well was only a few miles from my house. People would often ride past on their way to the well. The people would stop and ask me for directions to get there. I was glad to point them in the right direction because my husband Henry found work helping people by the water. Henry is a good man, and he loves to help people. He helped the men, women, and children down into the water at the well. It stained his clothes horribly after getting in and out of the water. It left hard discolored stains on everything it touched and it made his body smell of rotten chicken eggs. 

    The well became so popular that there was a resort was built in its fame. People from far and wide would come to the area just to get to touch the water, It was the first tourist attraction to come to the area. Henry knew it would come with money for him, and that is what our family needed. Since I was a homemaker for my family. I would tend to the animals and the house. Me and Henry only had one child, and his name was Charles. Our boy is a gifted child, top of his class at school…so saving money for his education became important to me. It wasn’t too hard to save money, since Henry had a good job…but when he fell ill…the money became scarce.

    A few months after the resort opened, I could tell that Henry grew tired by the day. He was losing weight, but not in a good way. He contracted an illness. The town doctor came by and told us that Henry was spending too much time by the sulphur well. The doctor had given my husband castor oil, to try and get rid of the sickness. I think it was only causing more problems with my husband. 

    Henry became bed-bound while others continued to the well. The press came and took photos of the attractions. The story in the press read “The Miracle Healing Water of Paris Tennessee”. It even had a few testimonials from people who had been healed from the well. While taking care of Henry, I couldn’t help but look at the pictures in the press and think about how the sulphur well made my husband so sick. We knew the truth about that “healing” well…After all my husband was a living proof of the secret dangers of the well. 

    The doctor came by to check on Henry, and the news wasn’t great. “The oil hasn’t had any effect on Henry…He looks horrible, and I believe he has yellow fever. There isn’t much else that we can do for him…I would prepare for the worst.” The doctor said as he was getting ready to walk out the front door. “Well, do you think that the sulphur well water did this to him?” I said as I wiped tears from my cheeks. The doctor looked at me shook his head and spoke “No ma’am…He must have contracted the Yellow fever from someone who came to get healed by the well…after all there are tons of people seeking refuge here due to the outbreak of the yellow fever.” 

    I spent the next few weeks taking care of Henry, but he continued to get worse. The sores on his body got bigger and infection took him over. Henry died, and we buried him in the Paris City Cemetery. There on his tombstone was the quote Henry used to say when going off to work every day. It reads “Going off to help people heal!” Henry loved helping people down by that old sulphur well…but yellow fever ended up being the thing that put an end to it all.

  • It was September 25th, 2024 when I saw the Goodyear blimp crossing Highway 641 in Puryear. Today, there are only a handful of fully functional blimps, and the Goodyear blimp is one of them. However, during WWII Henry County was home to Camp Tyson: the nation's only Battalion Balloon training center. Camp Tyson is unique to Henry County, but equity in death is not. A Camp Tyson soldier--Herman Andrew Hankins was murdered and was buried in an unmarked grave for 80 years. Like him, countless other African Americans in Henry County faced a similar fate, buried and forgotten. 

    Six days later, I found myself at Maplewood Cemetery here in Paris, photographing the headstones as per usual. In the Old Section, I came across a very new-looking pair of headstones. Both belonged to Herman Andrew Hankins, a Camp Tyson soldier who died in 1943. My immediate assumption was that he had died in the war. It’s not often you find a perfectly new and clean headstone unless they’ve passed away recently. Something about his shiny new stone and the assortment of coins left there piqued my curiosity.

    PVT Hankins was born May 24th, 1918 in Pittsylvania County, Virginia to Willie Andrew Hankins and Henrietta Ferrell Hankins. However, his parents unfortunately divorced a handful of years after his birth. He went on to be accepted for induction to the service in Danville, Virginia, on June 14th. Private Hankins was a part of the 320th Barrage, the Army’s only fully African-American unit, which went on to see the sandy shore of Normandy on D-Day. However, Hankins never touched the sand himself. As I delved into researching, I found an article that depicted his last moments. He was detailed to have been “prowling” around the home of William A. Barringtyne.

    Supposedly, one of the three men demanded PVT. Hankins stopped and as he ran from the dwelling, he was shot in the back by an unnamed man with a 22-caliber rifle. His death certificate lists his cause of death as “Homicide” yet charges were never brought to light. His killer got to be free, and Hankins paid with his life. Considering the atmosphere of the Jim Crow era in Tennessee--the omniscient presence of racist attitudes were obvious and intentional. His remains were never returned back to Virginia, which only amplified the mindless injustices Hankins suffered. After his death, he was buried in an unmarked grave at Maplewood Cemetery, Paris, Tennessee. For the next 80 years, his grave lay stoneless, left to be forgotten and never having received justice. Like Emmet Till, Hankins never got his day in court--either. Just in the wrong place, at the wrong time, in a period where your skin color defined your guilt. 

    Without the actions and benevolence of Paris-Henry County’s Bicentennial Committee, PVT Hankins may have never received the equity in death we all deserve--to be remembered. On July 26, 2023 Hankins finally got a headstone. Courtesy of public records, the committee was able to locate his plot and have a beautiful memorial made for him. Unfortunately, there are an insurmountable amount of unmarked graves in Henry County--especially the graves of enslaved persons. Falina Tharpe, an enslaved person who lived to see 100 years old, still lies in an unmarked grave at Maplewood Cemetery. She is forgotten by the majority but I have not been able to get her off my mind. I learned of her whilst photographing for FindAGrave. I was curious as to which folks had no grave photo, so I messed with the search settings and found Falina’s obituary. Perplexed by the sheer hatred in the vernacular in the obituary, it lit a fire within me. In a newspaper clipping, John H. Hasting said, “She was my…and nursed me when I was a baby…”. Supposedly loved by all, following her burial on January 1, 1933, she never got a headstone. Maybe one day, I will have the means to give Falina the equity in death she deserves.

    Similar efforts have been made to pay reparations to the ugly sides of Henry County’s past, like the memorial erected by the citizens of Paris at the Paris City Cemetery. Which is the final resting place of an unknown number of enslaved persons and folks of African-American descent. The engraving on the memorial states, “Now they have come to the place where their faith can no longer feed on the bread of repression and violence. They ask for the bread of liberty, of public equality, and public responsibility, it must not be denied them”, Dr. W Mordecai Johnson. 

    Holding such reverence and empathy for those who came before us, I have felt compelled to do something about it. Even if it is just photographing headstones and uploading GPS coordinates online, it makes all the difference. I research and study those who came before us, holding appreciation for their life and the work they did. Linking ancestors, adding documents, photos, or whatever I can find to keep their memory alive. 

    I have encountered so many souls that weigh heavy on my heart. From the barely legible handmade stones that perfectly encompass the timelessness of love. To the new stones of the recently deceased that gives you perspective that life is short. In Hispanic culture, they say that you die twice. Once when you leave earth, and a second time when your likeness is entirely forgotten--like in the movie Coco. If you can watch that scene without losing your marbles, congratulations. It is our responsibility as citizens, to prevent such an inequitable death from happening again. Death does not discriminate, but people do. When I think of Tennessee, I think of Dolly Parton, the Appalachian mountains, Graceland, the Bat Man Building, etc. There's no denying some of Tennessee's history, like it being the birthplace of the KKK. That being said, it's pertinent that we educate ourselves on the voices of the past, and of the forgotten--especially.

    Works Cited 

    “Falina Tharpe (1832-1932) - Find a Grave Memorial.” Findagrave.com, 2019, www.findagrave.com/memorial/197984167/falina-tharpe. Accessed 21 Jan. 2025. “Herman Andrew Hankins (1918-1943) - Find a Grave...” Findagrave.com, 2023, www.findagrave.com/memorial/150152579/herman-andrew-hankins. Accessed 21 Jan. 2025. 

    POST-INTELLIGENCER, GLENN TANNER. “Soldier’s Grave to Be Marked after 80 Years.” Parispi.net, 26 July 2023, 

    www.parispi.net/news/local_news/article_d2bb6f28-2bc8-11ee-a97c-933429528982.html . Accessed 20 Feb. 2025. 

    Rust, Randal. “Camp Tyson | Tennessee Encyclopedia.” Tennessee Encyclopedia, 8 Oct. 2017, tennesseeencyclopedia.net/entries/camp-tyson/. 

    Tayloe, Stephanie. “Camp Tyson Detailed.” Parispi.net, 9 Mar. 2007, 

    www.parispi.net/article_d41a597a-5f79-530c-88ad-49d64896ab21.html.

  • President Franklin D. Roosevelt's New Deal program aimed to provide relief, reform, and recovery from the economic hardships brought on by the Great Depression. One of the most notable programs to come out of the New Deal was the Tennessee Valley Authority (TVA). The TVA was established in 1933 with the hopes of providing flood control and electric power generation to the residents of the Tennessee Valley region. Residents of this region were notably poor and were often distrustful of government aid. Many feared the changes the TVA would bring and were especially worried about losing their land once the dams along the Tennessee River were built. For several communities this fear was correctly placed. 

    In 1944, when TVA constructed the Kentucky Dam, the once thriving community of Sulphur Wells, located in Western Tennessee along the Kentucky border, was flooded to create the Kentucky Lake reservoir. 

    The area where Sulphur Wells was located had always been abundant with life. The first known history of the region dates to the Pre- Columbian period when Paleo- Indians roamed the area. Other native groups would eventually settle in the region and create their own thriving settlements as the land was seen as a prize hunting ground. One of the prominent native groups in the area was the Chickasaw. They settled in the region in the 1500s and dominated the area by the mid-1700s. Besides the abundance of wildlife, the region also had a natural salt lick. The salt collected here was used to preserve meat and flavor foods. It also was used in some medical remedies. Overall, it was a very valuable resource to the Chickasaw. In the early 1800s, however, white settlers also wished to settle the land and gain access to the salt reserve. Initially, the Chickasaw disagreed, and tensions grew between the two groups. In 1818, General Andrew Jackson negotiated an agreement, known as the Jackson Purchase, with the Chickasaw chiefs of the area. A few whites could now lease on the land if they agreed to give a set quantity of 450 salt bushels to the natives each year.   

    Then, in 1821, two white Majors, William Lewis and Robert Currin, dug a well on the leased ground in hopes of finding additional salt. They accidentally discovered a large supply of white sulfur water instead- therefore the area became known as Sulphur Wells. The discovery of this water attracted many visitors to the area as it was believed to have healing qualities within it. In 1830 the Indian Removal Act was signed, and the natives (Chickasaw and other tribes) were forced to move to Indian Territory west of the Mississippi River. Once the natives were gone, the land was largely settled by white farmers. Over time a small close-knit community was formed.

    My great-grandfather, Earl Shankle, experienced this community firsthand and would often recall what it was like to grow up ‘at the Well’. His family had lived in the area for generations and ran the local hotel. He used to tell elaborate stories about the visitors who stayed there and how he would help them spot wildlife and good hunting grounds. He also talked about the self- sufficiency that the locals had- saying that families worked hard, lived off the land, and rested only on the sabbath day. With that, the church played a pivotal role within the community and “people would worry if you were not in the pew come Sunday morning”. When the TVA announced they would flood the region, many locals met at the church and prayed for their land and livelihoods to be preserved. 

    When the land was flooded very little notice was given, and little compensation was offered. Locals were displaced, heartbroken, and some even had their faith shaken. The flooding of Sulphur Wells was not instantaneous. It took several days for the water from Kentucky Dam to reach the area. When it did, a few of the locals were still present, my great-grandfather’s family being one of them. He once recalled his mother being worried about the rising water rates, and his father ignoring her protest. Later that night, water seeped into the house and covered the floor in a couple of inches of water. My great- grandfather said they quickly packed up their favorite belongings and headed for higher ground. Afterwards, they- along with many of the other locals- watched their community disappear beneath the waves. Years later, my great- grandfather painted a scene of Sulphur Wells from memory. Today his painting is on display at Tennessee Wildlife Refuge which sits near the location of the old well.

    The community of Sulfur Wells may have washed away but its history remains.

  • after George Ella Lyon


    I am from wringer washing machine in the back yard, stiffened clothes draped on lower tree limbs and rusty fence; from corn starch and lye soap.


    I am from the great kitchen smells that drifted out beyond the porch; gingerbread, fried chicken and biscuits.


    I am from the tree that dropped her green apples to the ground, those bruised cavities filled with delighted bumble bees.


    I am from abundant food and Ya’ll come back now;

    From Clista and Christine.


    I’m from the steak that overflowed the plate and fresh peach cobbler,

    From strawberries asking to be eaten, bare feet in the dry field dirt.

    I’m from Amazing Grace dressed in fear.

    I’m Scots Irish and Swedish,

    Chicken and dumplings and stewed potatoes,

    From Granny’s lunch meals of eleven items because someone might drop by.

    The handmade apron that held gathered eggs and fresh cut okra.

    I’m from loving the smell of puppies breath.

    I’m from S&H Green stamps in the drawer under the old wall clock.

  • I was born and raised on the northern side of Mason Dixon line, so I suppose my upbringing had more of a ”Yankee” lean than a “Rebel” lean. I had occasionally browsed through a Southern Living magazine in a doctor’s office waiting room, but had never given the differences between the Northern and Southern cultures much thought. 

    I knew my family had primarily German ancestry, but I had never given my personal heritage a tremendous amount of thought. I toyed with the idea of researching my ancestry through an on-line site, but the process always seemed too complicated to navigate and not worth the effort. Occasionally my husband and I examined family trees drawn by other family members, but as both of our family lines became increasingly obscure, we lost interest in continuing frequent contact with cousins and farther flung relations.

    A decision, upon retirement, to relocate was not an easy one for my husband and me, but moving closer to our grown children and grandchildren was an idea that we could not ignore. When we found and decided to buy a home in Henry County, Tennessee and the home where we had enjoyed our forty-two years of married life sold quickly, our move was imminent. Although we were somewhat unprepared for the changes that were involved in transitioning from a busy, rapidly-changing, suburban area to a slower-paced, less-populated, rural community, we managed to transition to a relaxed retirement mentality rather easily.

    Though we heard grumblings from some who had recently moved to the area that there was nothing to do in a small community, within a relatively short period of time my husband became involved in local musical opportunities by playing organ in a local church and playing in the Paris jazz and concert bands. He also found a group of fellow bicyclists with whom to ride. I began taking Silver Sneakers classes at the Civic Center, became involved with the Project Bridge summer reading program, started making donation quilts with the Peace Makers quilting group, and introduced an enthusiastic group of retirees to the fun of playing pickleball at the Atkins Porter Recreation Center. Entering local photography and writing competitions with PHC Arts Council, and entering quilts and canned goods at the annual fair rounded out our free-time activities. 

    In addition to engaging in activities individually, my husband and I enjoyed opportunities to engage in activities together. We found campgrounds for overnight camping, quiet inlets for kayaking, beautiful wooded paths for hiking, and back roads for tandem bicycling. We even added learning how to square dance and round dance with the Paris Squares to our growing list of fun activities.

    It was inspiring to see the amount of support for the food and clothing distribution programs, reading programs, and other missions within our new community. In an effort to help support the efforts, we became involved in making donations to small local ministries, local organizations, and to the annual Helping Hand auction. We attended the World’s Biggest Fish Fry, art shows, and performances at the Krider Performing Arts Center for personal enjoyment and to help financially support the various ministries and artists.

    We discovered that our new community was rich in history. Our interest in the historical significance of the area led my husband and me to tour local battlefields, cemeteries, and parks. By visiting local visitor centers we learned about local fishing, farming and ranching and of the past history of the sulfur springs resort and button-making industry. 

    We were pleasantly surprised to discover that we had moved to an area in which we could see an impressive variety of birds as they migrated along the flyways and visited our backyard bird feeders. Frequent visits to the Wildlife Refuge with our children and grandchildren helped them and us to recognize the importance of preserving the area that was so necessary for the birds’ migration and for the area’s other wildlife.

    Because we were new to the community, and most of our new friends were active retirees, we did not know each other’s past histories. Because it was not discussed, we were unaware that we were rubbing shoulders with those who had spent their entire lives in Henry County and had been doctors, pharmacists, musicians, teachers, cyclists, park rangers, business owners, and community leaders before they retired. Though the people that we met accepted us with open arms, we soon realized that they had a connectedness with each other that was beyond our understanding. They knew of each other’s families, histories, joys, successes and grieved each-others’ losses.  

    When we chose a church home, the older congregation that we joined was comprised of like-minded people who acknowledged our Northern peculiarities and accents with good humor and open acceptance. In addition to involvement in the church’s music program, we found other opportunities to participate in the member care aspect of the church.  To assist in meeting the needs of our church’s elderly members, I asked the Peace Makers quilting group if I could deliver some of our donation quilts to those who were struggling with physical ailments within our church community. The quilting group enthusiastically granted their permission.

    When my husband and I decided to visit our churches’ shut-ins to hand-deliver the quilts, little did we know that we would be opening the doors to our community’s history. Our first quilt delivery to an amazingly alert, conversational, ninety-two-year-old woman who was born and raised in the home where she currently lived. I quickly recognized how important her deep community roots, heritage, and family ties were. As she ran her hand over the stitching of the quilt, she talked about an earlier time when farming and sewing clothing for her own children occupied her time. She enjoyed talking about her past involvement in the ministries and activities of her church. We left her home with a greater sense of the heritage of the people in our church and in our small community. As we continued to deliver quilts, we realized that we were gaining a greater sense of the role that these elderly folk had played in the history and heritage that we so appreciated in Henry County. We were getting a peek into a previous time when those who had lived entire lives in the area were involved in farming, teaching, coaching, preaching, and community leadership positions. They had set their sights on giving back to the community in which they were raised and where they raised their family. When able to be more active they sang in church choirs, prepared meals for socials, and taught Sunday School and youth groups. Some families had owned local grocery stores and those who could do so donated property for post offices and churches. They were proud to mention those they had taught and mentored who later became respected, involved members of the Henry County community. They shared information about their continuing relationships with local doctors, politicians, other community leaders. Our impromptu discussions gave us additional respect for those who worked and lived in the community their entire lives, and we gained a fresh understanding of the importance of history and permanence in our community.


    When we had first moved to Henry County, we were kiddingly told that those who were born and raised close to Paris, Tennessee were Parisians, while those who moved to and settled in the area were Parasites. I realize now that if my husband and I can gain some of the strong Southern roots and the sense of heritage, permanence, and purpose from those older members of our church congregation, we will consider ourselves to be blessed to cling to them, like parasites, to gather as much as they are willing to share. I suppose that even a transplanted Northern gal can become a Southerner at heart.

  • When family members decide to congregate for an afternoon picnic, the gathering is often termed a “reunion”. When the get-together extends beyond an afternoon of shared food, quiet conversations, and games for the children and becomes an every-other-year, week-long much-anticipated vacation, the term “reunion” seems inadequate. My parents always treasured close-knit family associations. Years ago, as their siblings, married children, nieces and nephews relocated because of jobs, family changes, or schooling, Mom and Dad, in an effort to maintain our family’s relationships, prioritized these vacations. 

    In preparation for this year’s get-together, a virtual family discussion and evaluation of possible new locations led us to choose Paris Landing State Park as our next vacation spot. After deciding to rent cabins at this central location, we planned our week of shared evening meals and family fun, eagerly anticipating shared activities that had become traditions over the years. 

    On the day of our arrival, we unloaded our vehicles and greeted our relatives. After traveling most of the day to reach the park, this time was always exciting as well as exhausting. We older family members were eager to settle down in one of the cabins to catch-up on one another’s lives. However, excited squeals from the younger children who were exploring the cabin interrupted our plans. Their discovery, of what appeared to be a child’s camp craft on a high shelf in the kitchen, was causing a commotion. The “find” was made by one of my very curious grandchildren. Fear of him toppling off of the counter with the box, that he had reached from a wooden chair, caused initial panic, but we were all curious about his discovery. Eager to determine its contents, we moved the shell-covered box to a table where it could be carefully examined. The snugly fitting lid, though an initial deterrent, only added to the excitement of the discovery. While the children were sure they had found something akin to a pirate’s treasure, the adults were much more skeptical about the contents. When only papers and a single arrowhead were found in the box, the younger children quickly lost interest and ran outside to play.

    Some of the papers in the box were crisply folded, while others were yellowed with age or dog-eared. We carefully removed them from the box, uncovering an arrowhead. Though each paper was written on, some of the writing was faded or blurred to the point of being nearly illegible. By smoothing out each paper, and spreading them around the table, we found what appeared to be the first entry. 

    Our great-great grandma AND great grandpa used to captain a steamboat on the Tennessee River. We vacation here every year to remember our heritage. Please add your own Paris Landing adventures to this box.

                        The Greene Family

    Some of the papers were dated and we attempted to organize the notes. Several of the writings and drawings in the box described or showed fun information about the games, hiking experiences, and explorations of those who had vacationed here. A few of the notes were written by individuals who had ancestors who had lived in the West Tennessee area and they shared snippets of their families’ histories. As we read and commented on each note that was written by others who had discovered, opened, and added to the box, we soon realized that we had indeed found a treasure.

    Some writings provided glimpses into the history of the area:

    Our grandparents used to visit the Sulphur Well Summer Resort, before the well was permanently closed and the river was dammed. Apparently, it was considered healthy to drink the water. Yuck! We come for the fish fry.

    Could this arrowhead have been used by a Chickasaw Indian? Our kids certainly had fun trying to find more.

    Wanted to learn more about the “Trail of Tears”. Picked up some interesting pamphlets. What a sad time in our nation’s history.

    My grandpappy was trained at Camp Tyson during WWII. He was part of the D Day invasion as a member of the Barrage Balloon Service of the Coast Artillery Corps. Imagine going into battle with a dirigible!

    There is a family graveyard that we visit every year. We remember stories of the lives of our ancestors who lived and farmed in this area.

    Not being from the south, but wanting to fish in Kentucky Lake, we were surprised and intrigued by Civil War history of Tennessee. Truly a state divided. 

    Some notes were less historically significant, but provided interesting information about the surrounding area:

    Took the kids to see the Wildlife Refuge. Beautiful area and educational exhibits. Great way to spend an afternoon.

    Saw and HEARD a rattlesnake on a hiking trail today! Never knew those things were that loud.

    Eek! Mayflies! Never saw so many!

    We come every year and enjoy sitting out on the porch and watching a gorgeous sunrise over Kentucky Lake.

    Great fishing! Came for a tournament.

    Spent the day in Paris. Even had our picture taken at the Eiffel Tower! What fun!

    And on a blue surgical mask:

    This mask was never used! We stayed here for a few days during the Covid-19 pandemic. Never thought we’d see the day . . .  

    We sat around the table reading the notes, commenting on the writings that we found to be interesting or intriguing. None of our family members had grown up in the area, and the cabins were chosen because of their availability during our vacation week, but the fun and excitement of peeking into the lives of those who had lived in the area or visited frequently increased our desire to explore the area further. We agreed that no quickly-written note would be an adequate addition to this box. Investigating the area became a “must do” instead of choosing to relax and chat in the beautiful hill-side rental cabins. Other family members had rented adjacent cabins, so sharing the box contents with them and the ensuing excitement added to the fun of our discovery.

    As we discussed what we would add to the box’s contents, we realized that we were choosing to merge our family’s history with those of others who happened to discover the carefully stowed treasure box. It never entered our minds to remove or change any of the box’s contents, because each addition created a link to the past. The box was a well-kept secret among those of us who were adventurous enough to explore the hidden recesses of the cabin, and chose to share a moment of time with those who had the same adventuresome spirit.

    Although this was our family’s first visit to Paris Landing State Park, it certainly will not be our last. Though we had discussed the possibilities of visiting some Civil War monuments and local visitor’s centers, we didn’t realize how personal the exploration of the area would become because of the treasure of the notes in the box.

    Any discussion of the possibility of meeting at a different location in two years became a non-issue. At the end of the week, as we added our family note to the box, and replaced the box on the shelf, we were amazed by the connectedness we felt with the other note writers. It is remarkable how tightly knit a group of strangers can become when they share the same place and similar experiences.

    The thought of some other visitor pulling over a chair to reach the box to discover its new contents made us smile, and we eagerly anticipated doing the same when we returned in two years to continue our treasure box family tradition.

  • Thursday, February 6th, 1862 

    Now that I am resting comfortably at Fort Donelson with a plate of food I can share what has gone on the past two days. Sadly Company B of the 1st Tennessee Artillery under General Tilghman was overtaken at Fort Henry by Grant's gunboat raid up the Tennessee river. Despite the pouring rain, Tuesday's scouts' reports were true. General Grant was 5 miles upstream with his infantry. This led to the majority of my unit being sent to the better fortified Fort Donelson in anticipation of an engagement. Then the rain came down steadily for days. The fort took on water, flooding our powder magazines first. Today around midday seven gunboats carrying Union soldiers commanded by Andrew Foote steamed up the river. As everyone fixated on commander Foote's boats, we heard General Tilghman giving orders. My Major yelled to prepare all of our cannons and artillery for fire. We knew we couldn't hold ‘em off for long with the majority of the fort under water. Foote's second ship was the first to fire near 1,000 yards away. That one shot damaged most of the defensive guns I had just helped ready and killed several fellow soldiers, good men. Scrambling to see where I could lend a hand, I suddenly felt a sharp pain in my left arm. I fell to the ground and I saw more soldiers falling and running around me. I guess I was knocked out. I came to myself just in time to see our cannons fire a direct hit to the middle boiler, knocking the ironclad Essex out of commission. This gave the reprieve we needed & we were ordered to retreat while we still could. Gen. Tilghman and a few soldiers stayed behind to negotiate surrender hoping to further stall, giving us as much time as possible to reach Fort Donelson. Although we had landed hits to the Cincinnati and the St. Louis, we had taken the brunt of the blows. I leaped to my feet and fled the fortified earthen walls for the safety of higher ground. While running, I got a quick glance at my left arm. It was pretty bad. I ran for my life through the woods trying not to be seen. I looked for a cabin or hoped to reach Fort Donelson in time to mend my wound. Out of breath, I rested for a brief moment against a tree. I examined myself and noticed several more minor injuries all over, probably from flying shrapnel. Before I started off again I heard a noise to my left. My heart pounded, thinking it could be a Union soldier, I proceeded cautiously. I moved over a branch or two and found Major Thomas, one of the men I respected most at the fort. He too had been wounded but more severely than I. Immediately I recognized him and went over to help him up. After I quickly looked him over, I noticed that he had been shot in his thigh and his right arm was dangling, looking like being hit by a cannonball. Then and there I had to make one of the most important decisions of my life. I heard in the distance hoards of Union soldiers disembarking to chase after us. I ripped the hem of my shirt, tied it around his arm tightly trying to slow the blood flow. Hurriedly I slung Major Thomas over my shoulder knowing he would have no chance of making it if he tried to run. I started uphill in the mud, rain still falling and soaking us both completely; we were praying to God the Union wouldn't catch up to us and capture us both. I ran for about a mile through woods and thickets before I could feel my body starting to give out. I knew we were in a bind. I ran around another half mile or so before I spotted a rock covered in brush we could hide under. Quickly I shoved the Major and myself under cover hoping no one would find us. I slowed my breathing as best I could to ensure no one would hear us. We stayed cramped like that for what seemed like hours until darkness could cover and we wouldn't be seen. I made sure no one was around, helped Thomas up and over my shoulder again. Another two or so miles left to go, the rain had finally slacked up. We needed to make quick time because Major Thomas was fading fast. Just then we saw smoke rising in the air, my heart skipped a beat! I knew there must be a cabin nearby. We traveled on with hope in our hearts. Finally we reached a clearing and saw a dimly lit cabin where we could get help. I went up the steps of the house to knock on the door. A burly man peeped through the side window. I could hear him walk towards the door to unlatch it. Opening the door a crack, he stood tall with his musket. I pleaded for help, his expression softened and he opened the door. We both helped Thomas onto a bed inside and covered him in thick blankets to preserve his body heat. The farmer called for his wife to bring rags, warm water and lots of bandages. She came with the warm water and rags at once. He began to dab the blood around the Major’s wounds. I stood over by the fire to warm up. She came back with the bandages, began to clean my scrapes and examine the severity of my arm. The farmer questioned me about who we were and what had happened at the fort. I explained how Major Thomas and I were both Confederates with the 1st Tennessee. I described the gunboats and told them Grant’s infantry was only a few miles away. His wife finished wrapping up my arm and went into the kitchen to quiet the curious children who hid in the shadows. He told me that Union cavalry had been by earlier asking if they had seen any Confederates. I told them we were both extremely grateful for their generosity & the kindness they had shown to us. I asked how the Major was holding up. He replied that he's resting but wasn't sure he’d make it through the night in his condition. The wife brought me a bowl of leftover stew and another for Thomas. Suddenly there was a knock on the door. The farmer whispered to hide in the other room with his wife and the Major. I left the door a little cracked so I could see. As he headed towards the door he told the children to stay hidden and out of sight. He again cracked open the door to see Union cavalry who’d been ordered to double back to hunt for fleeing rebels. They stormed through the door very insistent and demanded to search the house. I spotted a window I could sneak out of unseen but not successfully with Thomas. One of the men started towards the back room. I rushed out the window and to a nearby bush in the distance. I heard the woman scream knowing they had probably found the Major and ended his suffering. My heart sank. I forced myself to keep watching as the family who had cared for me all went out on the porch, to the yard and watched their house and barns both catch flame. The mother and 2 small children cried as the farmer hugged them by the well. The Union men mounted their horses and rode off, the shadows of the night covered them and what they had just done. I made my path straight and headed towards Fort Donelson. It was much easier to run now. I knew I could make good time. Hearing more screams from afar pushed my legs to run faster. Running again through the brush and briars for what seemed like forever, I finally saw the earthen works ahead. A voice called out up the muddy path to HALT. I raised my hands and cried out my name, rank, and begged for help. A young soldier stepped out and noticed my injuries immediately. I followed him through the gate and to their medical tent. There were several more I recognized from Fort Henry who made it here safely. The Doctor came over, unwrapped my wounds to examine them. He applied some type of healing salve and dressed it again. He thinks with rest and proper care it should heal just fine. He left me some opium pills to help with the pain and I've been given a bed in the medic tent for tonight so he can keep an eye on me. Tonight I can rest safely but I pray, knowing it’s likely Fort Donelson will be attacked next.

  • The history and the well-being of Tennessee is huge and very important to everyone especially if you are a Tennessean, because to us our home is a big part of our lives and as such it deserves to have only the best said about it so buckle your seat belt and get ready for a long but fun ride.

    What is now Tennessee to us was just a piece of land in North Carolina back then but later became part of the Southwest Territory. It also had another name at the time as well it was “The Volunteer State.” And on the date June 1st, 1796, it had just become the 16th state of the United States. And with such a beautiful landscape how could they say no with all the mountains, valleys, and the rolling plains, the newborn state had just taken its first steps to becoming one of Americas most beloved states.

    Even from the beginning early Native American roots- that of which run deep on this historical land- and European exploration with their roles in the revolutionary, the civil wars, and the civil rights movement. But Tennessee also boasts cultural contributions, that of which includes Tennessee being the home of some of the country's most influential musicians.

    Tennessee is and was home to some of the presidents, vice presidents, and a lot of other very influential people. Such as President Andrew Jackson, President James Polk, and President Andrew Johnson. Then there's Vice President Al Gore; along with some of the most famous musicians like Dolly Parton, Elvis Presley, Tina Turner, and Justin Timberlake. Oh, and Tennesse is also home to a whole bunch of famous authors like Robert Penn Warren, James Agee, Alex Haley, and Ida B. Wells. Then we also have two famous athletes that are from here, Wilma Rudolph and Pat Summit. Then there are also some entertainers from here, like Oprah Winfrey, Reese Witherspoon, and Morgan Freeman. And lastly, we are also home to two famous frontiersmen, and their names are Davy Crockett and John Sevier.

    Did you know, that Ruby Falls, which is the nation's tallest underground waterfall, which stands to be 145 feet, more than 1,000 feet (about the height of the Empire State Building) below ground, is located in Chattanooga, in Tennessee.Tennesse, is also home to the NBA’s Memphis Grizzlies, the NHL’s Nashville Predators, The NFL’s Tennessee Titans, and the MLS’s Nashville soccer club.

    Did you know that Elvis’s old home, Graceland, is the second most famous private- visited residence in the United States, the White House is number 1. Tennessee is also home to a few famous inventions that were created here like cotton candy, mountain dew, the tow truck, touchscreen technology, and the typewriter ribbon.

    And guess what Tennessee is so awesome, that we even have 10 official state songs such as, “Rocky Top”, “Tennessee Waltz”, and “Tennessee Bicentennial Rap”. And in 2015 Dr. Maragret Rhea Seddon, had her name placed in the U.S. Astronaut Hall of Fame, for flying on three space shuttle missions, and was the first Tennessean in space.

    Interesting Facts

    One interesting fact is that the first European person to set foot in Tennessee was Hernando de Soto, his expedition landed at Tampa Bay in 1540. Before the arrival of the Europeans in Tennessee, it was already settled by the Cheroke and the Chickasaw Native American tribes. And due to poor living standards in Tennessee from 1915 to 1930, many people wanted and did migrate to other areas of the country, in history books this time was known as the “Great Migration”.

    According to some sources, Tennessee was also named after the Tennessee river, which was named for the Indian word, “Tanasie” which is the name of a Cherokee village. Also, did you know Nashville, the largest city in Tennessee, was founded on Christmas Eve in 1779? So, Nashville was historically nicknamed, “The Athens of the South.” Kingston, Tennessee, was the state capital for just one day. This is a great fact you can share because no one would argue Tennessee is the best.

    Memphis is the second largest city in Tennessee, it has the greatest population of people living there, and it is the largest city on the Mississippi river. And it is the 26th largest city in the entire U.S. And in the year 1878 Memphis, TN, had not had a particularly enjoyable time. During that time, the yellow fever epidemic had arisen, and because of it many people had died. Also, did you know that the highest temperature ever recorded in Tennessee was 113 degrees Fahrenheit? This was recorded on August 29, 1930.

    There is also a building standing 33-storys high, which worldwide its known as, “The Batman Building” is the tallest skyscraper in Tennessee. Oh, and Shady Valley, TN, is the home to the shortest tunnel in the world with 20 ft. If you have ever heard of the Peace Monument know that it is in Nashville, Tennessee, and it honors the union and confederate soldiers. The bronze and granite monument honors those who sacrificed their lives in the “Battle of Nashville.”

    Also, I am going to point out that it is interesting to note that the grave of the 11th President James K. Polk, is not located in some average run of the mill cemetery or national monument. But lies on the grounds of the state's capital, James and his wife were both buried at Polk Palace. And later their remains were transferred to the Tennessee state capitol grounds in 1893. Also, if I may add Tennessee has had a whopping 38 battles fought on its soil during the civil war. The reason Tennessee is also known as the volunteer state is because of the contributions of volunteers during the war of 1812.

    Around 1860, about every one out of four people in Tennessee were slaves. Because slavery was a harsh society to live in, and all slaves had few rights. Oh, and Tennessee has eight bordering countries such as, Kentucky, Virginia, North Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, Arkansas, Mississippi, and last of all Missouri.

    Also, a women named Wilma Rudolph, was a black-African American women from Tennessee who also is a sprinter. She won three gold medals in the 1960 Olympic games in both track and field. But at the same time sadly she suffered from several childhood illnesses; including pneumonia, scarlet fever, and polio, and all of that happened when she was only five. But thankfully with all the support from her doctors and family and thanks to her determination, she eventually could walk without assistance and went back to winning gold medals and competing in the Olympics.

    The Grand Ole Opry in Tennessee is the longest radio show in the whole United States history. Nashville, Tennessee, is also nicknamed the “Music City” because it became popular for its country music in the 1920s, and because of the since then it has become known as the country music capital of the world. Tennessee is also the first state in the whole United States to pass a temperance law.

    Also let me give you some brain gobbling information, Martin Luther King Jr. Who is one of the United States most influential black people ever, was assassinated in Memphis, Tennessee, on April 4th. Also, in Tennesse lies the largest underwater lake in America and it is called the Lost City, and it is located near Sweetwater, TN.

    My life In Tennessee

    Tennessee has been my home my whole life, and I have always loved it here. It is a beautiful place where you can find the kindest people when you do not even expect it. Though our weather is always all over the place and temperatures are always low you never know when you are going to look outside and just the sight makes your day.

    As long as I can remember, I have always lived in Tennessee, and there is no other place in the world that is better than Tennessee. Yes, we have small towns, and small cities, compared to other states and places, but an upside to it is that no matter how small the city, or town you can find everything you need here. My life in Tennessee has been the best time of my life and I would not want to live anywhere else.

    When I was younger, I wanted to live anywhere but in Tennessee, but once at the age of 12, I realized something, all the other states have unbelievable problems, while Tennessee has barely any. The school systems are also great. We all have fun, we do not feel pressured, instead, it is just fun. While some of us do not consider schoolwork to be fun, the classes still are. Thank you for reading my story. I highly enjoyed writing it, especially, because it is about my favorite place in the world. Tennessee is great, I hope you enjoy it too.

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