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Unstuck in Time with Kurt Vonnegut, Vol

Knoxville Knonsequiturs

Transfixed by the Drive to Work

A Safe, Well-Lighted Place

Short Takes

The Question

I-Sore on I-40

Knoxvillian Thoughts

Laurel Avenue

by Jennifer Corum

So, what does Knoxville mean to me?

Let me start with a question: Do you find that when you live in a particular place, you take it for granted, and only in retrospect do you see what it meant to you? I grew up in Louisville, Ky., and while there I didn't consider it much; for years now I've been away, and as time passes my memories are becoming distorted through recurring dreams of my neighborhood, the house I grew up in, our yard, a creek and woods nearby, etc. It all seems like a fairyland now, and of course I expect that it wasn't really. Now I am much older, and through various circumstances I have relocated to Knoxville. The days pass, I work, I don't think much about where I am, probably because I'm here, and it is now. Sometimes, however, Knoxville, with her odd ways, stands up and taps me on the shoulder. I'll explain—

It's a relatively quick trip from my house to my workplace, probably five minutes as the crow flies, but more like 15 minutes of meandering time by car. There exists a "back" way and a "front" way, but both offer strange scenery. The "front" way takes me along Asheville Highway to John Sevier Highway. At that intersection is an old drive-in theater that has been converted into a flea market; two winters ago the caretaker had hand-painted an informative sign, stating that the flea market was "Cloed for the season."

Every time I drove by I would snicker, and I'd have to yell "CLOED!"

On John Sevier Highway, the Holston River drifts alongside the road for several miles. A bit downstream, there is a rather shallow stretch, and a variety of wildlife wades there—heron, Canada geese, seagull-type birds (in this area, are they considered lakegulls?), and I see hawks flying overhead more often than I should. They tend to perch on utility poles around here.

The "back" way is a little more bizarre, running from Holston Hills Road to Asbury Road, crossing the river by Boyd's Bridge. Just over the river is a mountain shack to end all mountain shacks—this rustic building's second floor is tilting 30 degrees downward toward the road. I don't want to be driving by when that thing falls. Several miles further down Asbury, you come to the Lebanon in the Forks Cemetery, with graves dating back to the 1700s, and just behind it is an untouched wooded area adjacent to an old quarry that you can stand at the edge of, or jump into if you like (please don't!). The place is beautiful and spooky at the same time. I once had to stop in that area to let a mother duck and her ducklings cross the road, waddling leisurely in a line. With such sights to see, it is a shame to go to work and struggle with the mundane.

Spring is here, and now my thoughts turn, in marveling over this year's beauty, to a spring several years ago when I was lucky enough to witness a birthday party in progress—there is a large yet unobtrusive dark-brick house on Wyndcroft (we're traveling through Holston Hills now) with a very large, flat yard and many trees overhead. It was a beautiful day, perfect for a garden party. There was a table, loaded with gifts and cake, many chairs, and a dozen little girls in white dresses running about—it was as if that image had been envisioned by Lewis Carroll. As Wyndcroft merges into Green Valley Drive, there is a gentle curve in the road, underneath a canopy of flowering trees. To your right, you are surrounded by ivy, and to your left you see the beginning of a succession of exotic homes—a perfect gingerbread house, two doors down takes you to rural France, across the street you're in Bavaria, and before you know it you approach a cottage suitable for Snow White. It was that same spring, but on a different day, that the breeze was just right—petals were floating in mid-air at that curve, giving the illusion of being in a tunnel of flowers, if only for a moment. I'll never forget it.

I challenge you to look for the little nuances and humorous oddities that enhance your life in Knoxville. We must appreciate and celebrate our town while we are here. This so-called scruffy city has had her way with me. I'm hooked. Surreal images pop out at me on (nearly) a daily basis. Lately, I've begun to have strange dreams about this yard, too.

I take that as a good sign.

(Jennifer Corum, 28, is a champion pack-rat and spends her time collecting junk. She reads many books and magazines, watches many movies, and spends the rest of her time sewing and engaging in weird crafts.)