The old home place

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Through a random confluence of mouse clicks, I stumbled across this picture of a house in Augusta, Georgia:
This house was just a couple of doors down from our apartment when we lived there. We had the whole first floor of this beautiful, slightly decayed Victorian house full of tile fireplaces, sweeping staircases (that led nowhere - the second floor was separated into another apartment occupied by several medical students) and all sorts of neat little period details. The house was situated right on the cusp of old gentility and urban blight. Directly across the street from us was a Greyhound bus station, and next door was some sort of EMT staging center, with occasional ambulance sirens. And for a year or so, across the empty lot behind our house was a blues club & pool hall. We'd spend summer evenings sitting on the back step, listening to the live blues bands, and later, the all-night announcements from the bus station ('now boarding, direct line to Biloxi, Mississippi') became a kind of comforting white noise to our time there. (this was many years before we had the kids). The house pictured above was a halfway house, just a few dozen steps down the street. Mostly the inhabitants kept to themselves, with just an occasional passing nod or somewhat guilty wave, but every once in a while, one of them would get confused/drunk/high/all of the above and end up on our porch at 2 in the morning, pounding on the door, screaming to be let in. The med students upstairs didn't have to deal with this. It was our special little "extra" for living on the first floor. Or we'd get one from the bus station, who only needed an extra three dollars to get home to see his family, don't you have three dollars to give him? Come on. What would Jesus do, man. Spare a brother three dollars. Ok, how about two. Two dollars will get me a hamburger from McDonald's, and man, it's been a long time. You know how you like those burgers from McDonald's. They're my favorite. You suck, man. It's only two dollars. Greedy bastard. Still, I loved living there. Our rent was a few hundred bucks a month, the best I can remember, for more space than we knew what to do with. We had more kick-ass Christmas parties in this place, with its beautiful hardwood floors and fireplaces, and it was worth putting up with the occasional bum on your porch. Even if it did smell like pee the next morning.
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One step closer to crotchety curmudgeon

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As a note: this is the worst and most self-indulgent kind of blog entry. I am about to rant about the good old days. I am groaning right along with you already, just thinking about it. My Bride and I have disagreed for years over what the kids are supposed to call other adults. It started with our own family. Growing up, I called all my aunts and uncles by their first name. It wasn't "Uncle Raland." It was just "Raland." Except with my aunt Paulette. We called her "Aunt Potty." Partly because one of the cousins came up with that as a toddler-friendly version of her name. And because it was "Potty." And that's a name worth copying. My Bride, on the other hand, grew up in a large Filipino family, where every relation and close family friend gets a title. Older brother Fred? That's Kuya Fred to you, kiddo. Aunts, Uncles, next door neighbors, the guy at the grocery store that you've known for years, they all get an honorific tacked in front of their name. What started to confuse me was that your aunt became your kid's grandmother, and your uncle is your kid's grandfather. Or at least they were all called by the same title. But there's something generational and respectful about the habit, and while it confuses my white-bread mind, I can get behind it. So I didn't object too much when my brother became "Uncle Paul" rather than just plain old "Paul." (But my head spun when one of her cousins called me "kuya" for the first time). So you'd think, based on this, that my Bride would be the more traditional between the two of us about extending this type of traditional social honorifics to those outside our family circle, wouldn't you? Yeah. You'd think that. But you'd be wrong. Not to make myself sound too old (though I know that's hopeless when I start any sentence with "when I was young") but when I was young (see? told you) my parents were insistent on a few rules for how I spoke to a grown up. It was always "Mr" or "Mrs", and it had better be "Sir" and "Ma'am" unless I was real confident that the person wouldn't mind. And even then, it's a good idea. I tried initially to pass on the first part at least (the Mr/Mrs thing), but my bride wrinkled her nose and informed me I was being old fashioned. Excuse me? This is the same woman who told me that part of why she married me was my vaguely old-fashioned Southern upbringing (except, you know, without the Jim Crow, but with the grits and banjo). I thought this was a good thing. Apparently it is, but only in the retro-can-be-cool kind of way that makes keeping a few last giant pandas around in captivity desirable, but not really worth the effort of getting them to successfully propagate. We've grudgingly compromised on "Mr First Name" when introducing to a family friend. Though the kids do have to call their teachers by Mr/Mrs Last Name. Which is likely enough to keep my father, the Surgeon from clawing his way out of the grave and (politely) haunting me for my failings in the matter. But barely. Just barely. I guess maybe I am old-fashioned. I think the demise of these little courtesies has something to do with the triumph of email over the letter. Remember when writing a note entailed selecting just the right weight and grade of fine paper for your letter, crafting a greeting of "Dear so-and-so" and spending a paragraph or two on meaningless pleasantries before you got on to the topic at hand? Now, with email, the quick note is the rule - Maybe you put the name at the beginning, maybe you just whack them over the head with the subject at hand right up front like a face-smack with an electronic shovel. Do you put 'sincerely' or 'warm regards'? Or do you just hastily jot your name - or worse - a single initial - at the bottom because typing those few extra characters would take an extra three seconds which in the name of all that's holy you do not have? I've sulkily retreated into the corner of my panda cage to cling to "sir" and "ma'am" and plot the resurgence of manners as a social requisite and quietly mourn the slow demise of old fashioned etiquette. My Bride occasionally stops by to pet me on the head and replenish my pile stationary. Someone asked me why I don't 'text' with my cell phone the other day. I muttered something about "damn kids" and "turn that awful music down." Now get off my lawn before I call the police. Sincerely, Cranky Old Man
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Success!

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On the last day before the Critter and I headed to Tennessee, I stole a few minutes away at lunchtime and gave a call to the guy with the truck to make sure we could come by and see it when we got there. 'The '60? I sold it.' Oh. Shit. Less than 24 hours until we hit Tennessee, and I had no truck lined up to look at. And I was still at work, and in meetings for the rest of the day. A furtive few minutes of Craig's List searching later and I had come up with a couple of what I hoped would be decent alternatives. But essentially, I was left with not much more than a couple of maybe-idea candidates, a pair of one-way tickets for me and my 6 year old daughter, and a pocket with some cash in it, waiting for a truck to spend it on. This was quickly turning out to be one of the least-well planned ventures I have undertaken in the past 10 years. My Bride had some choice words for me when I told her about the sold truck, but I re-assured her that everything should be fine. After all, I was headed to Nashville. Where there are more trucks than people. The state government issues them when you move there, or after the birth of your first child. If Fred Thompson had ever been elected President, Air Force One would have gotten mud flaps and a rifle rack. Tennessee - you know, where the only thing better than discount tobacco stores:
... were discount tobacco and firearms stores:
Seriously. I mean, I'd be able to find something. I hoped. Saturday, my step-father, his mechanically inclined buddy Mike and I drove two hours to see what I thought was the most likely candidate: a 1967 Ford F-100. It was beautiful. And in near-stock shape. An hour later, it was mine.
. It doesn't have power steering. Or power brakes. Or a radio. Or air conditioning. It's awesome. It's a three-on-a-tree, manual transmission, 6 cylinder beauty. Simple, understandable, I think even I can manage it. Within 24 hours of landing, I had found the perfect truck, that was pretty much ready to make the drive back to Massachusetts as is. Mike, mechanic-buddy, took it for a few hours before we headed out and made sure it was tuned for a long drive. And early this morning, we climbed in, set the TomTom, and headed out.
From Nashville, we headed east. Look! Virginia!
See the rain? It was like that almost all day. This was our view for most of the journey. Rain. Trucks. Wind. Sigh...
Hey! West Virginia! I've never been before. I suppose I should make hick jokes or snarky comments about rednecks. But let me point you back to the Discount Tobacco and Firearms store** from earlier.
And Maryland! I've been here, but I can't for the life of me remember why.
You'll have to pretend I snapped a shot of the Pennsylvania state line when we passed it, as I wasn't quick enough to get one after driving about 11 hours straight. Instead, let me show you another picture of my beautiful truck.
I've no idea why we were so fascinated with state lines, except as a way to communicate to my fresh-from-England daughter how very big a place the U.S.A. is. She was totally cool with the whole roadtrip idea - I don't know how I managed to get blessed with such a laid back kid, but she didn't say "I'm bored" or "I've got to go to the bathroom" or "are we there yet?" even once on the drive. She just enjoyed the ride, listening to her iPod or telling jokes together and absorbing the passing sites: the signs for Endless Caverns or Shenandoah Caverns or Ruby Caverns or Uncle Bubba's Super Special Rainbow Gnome Caverns And Gift Shop. Tonight, we're stopped a ways past Hershey, Pennsylvania, where every hotel room within 30 miles was full, in a sort of sad old Days Inn that has that slightly damp film on every flat surface in the room and smells of menthols and despair. A road trip rite of passage. Tomorrow, I'll introduce her to the perfect, spiced beef snack that is a Slim Jim.
**Note: I pulled in to the Discount Tobacco and Firearms store at about 7:30am to take that picture. It was already open, according to the neon sign in the window. One guy pulled up in another truck and got out while I was there in the parking lot. Another guy walked out of the store to meet him. They both looked at me as if I needed to give the secret sign or wave or whatever, or get out of there. I think the fact that my truck came equipped with both a rifle rack and an NRA sticker in the back window bought me a little credit while I pretended to re-arrange the suitcases in the back of the pickup. And then I drove to the gas station next door to take the photo from a safe distance. Who the hell needs discount tobacco and firearms at 7:30 in the morning? Why do I find this suspicious?
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