TENNESSEE BY WAY OF ASTORIA - by Janeen Phillps

Ogling tourists and transitory travelers attempting to “find themselves” are drawn to Astoria. They converge on the small river town, flowing in teeming streams down the sidewalks. Introverted residents pop up like crocuses, especially off-season. The town embraces the odd and the eccentric and provides me the opportunity to temporarily leave my quiet, relatively tame life to take a walk on the wild side.

While navigating the uneven, weatherworn planks on the riverfront boardwalk, the ubiquitous sound of barking sea lions is interrupted when bursts of unrestrained laughter erupt from out of nowhere. Laughter is enticing to me, like how the irresistible mouthwatering aroma of buttered popcorn or the hickory scent of bacon frying creates an uncontrollable urge to eat, even though I’m not the least bit hungry. The extrovert in me is compelled to trace the source. It is coming from inside the Inferno Lounge.

My eyes adjust to the darkened womb of the bar, bathed in crimson with a cozy coffered ceiling of deep mahogany. Two silver chandeliers shed light on red Naugahyde booths shaped like horseshoes. The ambient light helps me find my way to the bartender.

Laughter coaxes me to the back where several tables had been pushed together to accommodate ten revelers from Tennessee. I find a small corner table facing the partiers, intending to just be an observer but within moments I find I’m dragging a chair to an opening at the head of their table.

Introductions are made; most of the names at the end of the long table are promptly forgotten.  The Trio: Doris, Kathy and Shelley, my chums to the right and left of me, are kindred spirits from another culture.  We bond instantly.

The group is on a tour of northwest wineries and will be heading to the Willamette Valley the next day.

 “Wine. I thought folks from the homeland of Jack Daniel’s would be on a whiskey tour,” I questioned the Trio.

“Willamette dammit,” Doris quips as that is their motto for their tour.

“What is Tennessee like?” I genuinely want to know.

In one voice, as if on cue, “We luuv it there!”

Rapid-fire each shares a snippet of the reasons why: “There’s so much great muusic, history, foood, and Southern hospitality. The land is beauutiful.” 

“Is that where the Smokies are?”

“Yess, and the Blue Ridge Mountains, too.” The strong southern accent pulls me into their world.

 The Trio’s interest began to focus on me.

When the topic of marriage came up I shared that for eleven years, before I retired in 2015, Thom and I had maintained a long-distance relationship.

A voice of atonement declares, “Y’all were livin’ in sin.”

The voice came from a woman in the chair next to Kathy. With that one statement I surmised I was in the presence of a truly pious Southern woman, the likes of which I’d had only seen on TV.

Sitting erect, Bible belt cinched tightly around her, she exuded unwavering self-assurance. Short cropped silver hair framed a determined face, and her pursed lips formed an underline of disapproval.

Trying to reclaim my fall from grace, I clarify, “But we only saw each other twice a month.”

“Did Y’all sleep in the same bed?”  “Then Y’all were livin’ in sin”

Doris and Kathy come to my rescue when both chime in, “I liked livin’ in sin.”

Desperately wanting to get off the subject of “sin,” I seize the opportunity when a sudden movement on the river catches my eye. “Oh look! There goes a pilot boat. They are going out to either pick up the bar pilot or deliver a river pilot.” Hoping to calm the turbulent waters of righteousness I go into great detail about the importance of our pilots.

Without being consciously aware of it, I begin to develop a southern drawl to match the cadence of the Trio and use uncommon words for me. “Y’all plan to see the Spruuce Gooose” whall yur in McMinnveal?”

But a serious blunder is made when I attempt to use a common southern term with Shelley.

“Ohhh bless your hearrrt” I slowly drawl out.

She immediately rebuffs me, “Now thaaat would just pisssss me offf.”

I am having my first lesson in the art of “bless your heart.”

Apparently it is a highly nuanced expression and its interpretation is affected by the speaker’s vocal cadence, facial expressions, body language, circumstances, and perhaps even the time of day or whether the listener had restful sleep or satisfying morning constitutional.

Several more practice runs are made with my kindred spirits, the Trio, until I arrive at just the right formula.

Just before they leave, I kneel down in front of the Bible belted pious one, and taking her smooth, warm hands in mine, I look softly into her eyes and sincerely say in my Pacific Northwest accent, “Oh bless your heart.”

There is a mother/daughter moment that passes between us on molecular level. Perhaps I have healed our differences or at the very least repaired the broken bridge to understanding.

When I ask her if I got it right. She smiles and nods, “Yeees darlin’ you did.”

I wave goodbye as the last Tennessean is absorbed into a very long Ford Transit van. They are on their way to the Willamette dammit to enjoy the Valley’s might fine pinot noir.