Those who know me generally assume jazz and big band are my preferences. But, there was another me, unsuspected by even my closest friends. Occasionally, with the door locked and chained, I would take out a CD, hidden as one would hide a naughty magazine, and enjoy … Patsy Cline. Sometimes even Hank Williams or Slim Whitman.
Eventually, having read of a tour that catered to fellow Tammy Wynette addicts, I succumbed to temptation (a standard country theme, be it a honky-tonk woman or 'likker'). In early October, I loaded my iPod with the ‘Louisiana Hayride’ (a Shreveport radio show from the 1940s and 50s), packed a book on the origins of country music and headed south.
We crossed into the United States at a down-on-its-luck Detroit. Below is a liquor store on a grim street heading out of town.
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The weather cleared and we rolled down the I-75 and into the sun.
You may have noticed one or two grey hairs among my fellow travellers. Bar the driver and tour guide, I was the youngest. I confess to being mildly anxious as I booked. I needn’t have been. It was a hoot!
First night in Sydney, Ohio. I made my way to a classic art moderne diner built in 1941. Not only is ‘The Spot’ locally celebrated for its burgers and home-made pies, but President Bush made a campaign stop here in 2004. He bought a hamburger with lettuce, tomato and onion ‘to go’. I had a ‘small’ vanilla malt for $1.99, which turned out, as so often in the States, to be huge. While binging on my malt, some locals chatted to me about their town; for someone from Toronto, this natural friendliness to strangers came as a bit of shock.
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Sitting in a comfortable seat, watching the scenery, listening to Ferlin and Faron and Waylon and occasionally dipping into my book was very relaxing. More and more, I avoid driving, although the sight of RVs strikes a certain gypsy chord. Along the Interstates, dealerships with dozens of shiny RVs and trailers are a frequent sight. “Easy credit!” signs shout as the economy tanks.
At St. Louis, we crossed the Mississippi and into Missouri. This is the Gateway Arch, commemorating the route west for the 19th century settlers.
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Here I am by Route 66 (as in ‘Get your kicks on …’) in Rolla, Missouri. From Chicago to Santa Monica, it is the most fabled of America’s highways, although a shadow of its former self. But, at dusk and twilight, you can get a hint of what it was like in its heyday, lined by quirky motels, restaurants and stylized tepees selling ‘genuine’ Indian crafts. And all those post-war travellers heading west in their flashy boom years cars.
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Branson offers an extraordinary variety of “good, clean” entertainment. The music hall below, attached to our hotel, gives an idea.
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After the show, ol’ Buck signed his photo for me and later turned up at the diner where I was lunching. I couldn’t see what he was having, but at that place it sure wasn’t salad.
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What’s a trip to the American South without going on a real paddle-wheeler? Below is the Branson Belle. The maple wood wheel – dating from 1928 – is more than ten feet in diameter.
Next to getting Buck’s autograph (now, where is that photo?), my Branson highlight was a train ride through the Ozarks and into Arkansas. I love trains. Now, that’s something I’ve never hidden! 0900 on a Sunday morning; most people are in church and only about fifteen passengers board. That is, we board once we’re checked for firearms …
Trains have always featured in country music. Jimmie Rogers sang ‘Waiting for a Train’ and the ‘Train Whistle Blues’. In 1929, one of the Carter Family’s big hits was ‘Wabash Cannonball’.
The train from Branson featured that lovely, streamlined equipment from the 1950s. Here’s the stairway to one of the domes.
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