Somewhere in the meme-creating frenzy on Facebook is a creator I stumble across rather frequently, with the attribution “I will go slightly out of my way to step on a crunchy-looking leaf.” I couldn’t tell you a single meme she/he/they created, but every time I see that phrase, my shoulders hunch up into a kindred-spirit grin, jubilantly crowing “Me too!” Well. Silently crowing. Inside my head there is gleeful jubilation. Perpetual anticipation for Fall-leaf-crunching moments in my future.
I’ve discovered that I will *also* go more than slightly out of my way for story research. Like, a backstory for what *used to be* a secondary character, who randomly grew up on the western edge of the Smoky Mountains just because that sounded interesting in a moment of needing a minor character with a little depth to him. Since he accidentally developed greater significance than I originally planned, the perfectionist write-what-you-know writer in me demands an (admittedly superficial) authentic knowledge of just how this ancient tree-covered Appalachian ridge might have shaped my fictional character as a boy.
One day when my awesome “day job” took me to the heretofore unexplored territory of Tennessee—and the logistics of flight times to Nashville and meeting times in Murfreesboro meant I had to fly in the day before—I seized the opportunity to rent a car and drive nearly four hours to Gatlinburg on the other side of the state… just so I could hike the Smoky Mountains for a few hours early the next morning. Why? Well, I *could* try to justify it to myself on the grounds that I’m a (now-dormant-ish) geologist, and mountains are simply meant to be sought out and climbed. And that layer of interest most certainly still exists. (Lots of beautiful metamorphic quartzite and slate left over from the Pangea continental collision. Not that you can really see it under all that green stuff growing on top, but still, it’s there.) But to fork over a couple hundred dollars for a rental car and a hotel room to go *play*, when I literally have 7,000 vertical feet of mountains to climb in my backyard for free?
I should probably confess up front that playing and doing things just for fun isn’t really in my nature. (Unless you’re the kind of person who thinks reading science journals and unraveling the complexities of state and federal statutes is fun, in which case I might actually fit in.) By default, I take life pretty seriously and responsibly. Once, in a classroom of a hundred people, the instructor’s icebreaker was to ask us which toy in the toy box would describe us. He called on three or four of the dozen or so who immediately raised their hands, and there was laughter as intended, and he quickly moved on. After several minutes of serious consideration (while simultaneously taking notes as the class moved on), I decided that I’m probably the Rules to the Game. I am a goal maker, a task list-er, a cost-benefit analyzer, a conservative-traditions-follower. I’m also accustomed to the vicissitudes of poverty, still wearing hand-me-down clothes and using second-hand books and furniture more often than not. So… waltzing off to do story research in the middle of work and squandering hard-earned funds on frivolous things like filling in the gaps in my imagination was a bit of an anathema to my logical brain.
Enter the perfect justification for having fun doing a serious thing: “tax deductible.” Ever since I started approaching “story writing” as a somewhat serious endeavor, with concrete goals and milestones, and not merely a haphazardly-distracting hobby, my brain will accept this as a totally legitimate argument to circumvent the blanket prohibition on frivolous spending. (Turns out to be a bit more complicated–there’s a reason I avoided tax classes in law school–but the argument was sound and served its purpose to remove squirmy obstacles to adventure.)
Given how strictly grounded in practicalities I’ve always been, I find myself downright *reveling* in the disproportionate effort I’m willing to invest in backstories relative to the expected return-on-investment. It’s like there’s an impish little kid inside who thinks she’s pulling a fast one and getting away with something fun, simply for the sake of having fun.
My fun almost got kiboshed by a kid who didn’t want to hand over my carefully-reserved rental car because I had a temporary paper driver’s license. I had just passed my motorcycle test—heh, speaking of backstory detours… but that’s a story for another day—and the official laminated license with the cool M for motorcycle hadn’t arrived before I flew to Tennessee. This 20-something kid in a suit and tie was treating me like a 15-year-old with a learner’s permit. I clearly could not be trusted to drive a rental car without the officially laminated card.
I’m extremely non-confrontational by default, particularly when it comes to standing up for myself. I have gone to excruciating lengths in my life to avoid arguments and differences of opinion and ugly scenes. And I totally understood his concern—anyone could print out a “license” and assert that it was official. But this guy was standing between me and my Story Plans. (Also, as a more practical matter, I still needed a way to get to Murfreesboro the next day for work, and I had a sneaking suspicion public transportation wasn’t a simple option. I recognize rural America when I see it.)
So, for what was probably the first time in my entire life, I asked to speak to the manager, and the tone that came out of my mouth was downright *authoritative*. Honestly, I didn’t think that would work, and my mind was racing for alternatives that didn’t involve being stuck at the airport for the next four days. But the kid looked around at the other people waiting in line and politely took me back to another part of the small airport office, and he found a way to make it work. I blinked, a little stunned. And since I’d somehow gotten exactly what I wanted (the rental car I’d already paid for) I thanked him profusely and settled quite happily into the seat of another unfamiliar car.
The four-hour drive across the state was mostly uneventful. The sun was sinking into the west as I headed east. I was probably overly confident that my male British Siri knew precisely how to direct me to my destination, and that I wouldn’t suddenly lose him or cell service or my way. (Really, I should be more prepared with maps and stuff, but over-reliance on technology is my unintentional way of living on the edge.)
I stopped at a fast food place for dinner, and was startled when the pleasant woman not only handed me a paper bag with a burger and fries, but looked me in the eyes with some sort of supernatural maternal authority and with a relaxed Southern drawl said, “Here you go, baby. You need anything else?” I kind of got the feeling she meant it. Like, if I needed a shoulder to cry on or a safe haven for the night or some deep life wisdom, she’d drop everything without hesitation to have my back.
I’m a western girl. I’ve lived west of the 100th Meridian for most of my life, so the people and dialects and cultures of the American South are enchantingly different. I’ve been on conference calls with Southern lawyers, and the conversation is so congenial it’s like floating down a long, graciously meandering stream. I find that we may never reach the intended destination, but we’re going to feel pretty good about that, because we’ll have discussed our families and health and the weather and exchanged compliments and gratitude so thoroughly, one of us might start to lose track of why we’re actually on the phone. (That would be the person on my end of the conversation.)
These Southern women were something else again, though. I’m generally not one to appreciate pet names, but they called me sweetie and sugar and hon with abandon, and made sure I was taken care of with an unhurried air that suggested the grits, collard greens, and hush puppies in the back kitchen, or the people in line behind me or holding on the phone, would just simply have to wait their turn until everything was rightside up in my world. I didn’t take advantage of it or misuse the sincere hospitality, but I kind of soaked it up like a sponge.
Early the next morning—once I finally managed to tear myself away from breakfast; why is Southern food so addictively delicious?—I drove to the entrance of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.
Now… I had psychologically prepared myself that “mountains” means something different to easterners than it does to those of us living among the hulking towers of the west. But even so, there was this unexpected moment of disillusionment, wondering where the rest of the mountains went. These were like baby foothills covered from head to toe in some kind of thick foresty stuff. But then I reminded myself these are ancient mountains, weathered down by unimaginable lengths of time (a couple hundred million years, give or take), and deserved my respect for their venerable old age.
I found a small parking area next to a trail head and thoroughly enjoyed an easygoing hike to a waterfall. There weren’t many people on the trail at that time of the morning, which meant long stretches of blessed social silence, punctuated by nature’s soft melody. I kept getting distracted by the beautiful scenery and pausing to investigate rock outcrops, so it took a while to meander along the trail, but those are my favorite kinds of hikes.
Years prior, I had imagined a pivotal childhood scene for my Tennessee character that involved climbing up a tree. One of the things I noticed right away is that this scene would never work. At least not with the trees available on that particular trail. Excuse me, but why were all the branches two or three stories off the ground? It’s like they don’t even want to be climbed and only care about reaching toward sunlight.
I realized I was going to have to do some more research on trees growing in the Smoky Mountains. Consequently, I stopped by the park bookstore on my way out (braving the crowds that suddenly appeared late in the morning) and picked up far more “research materials” on flora and fauna, geologic history and more recent human history, than can ever be useful for this one character. At least so far.
And this is exactly the sort of thing I love. Going someplace new and discovering unexpected details my imagination lacks, and coming away with excuses to dive into new research, because learning is my happy place. (Honestly, some days I wonder if the stories are just an excuse so I feel like my learning has some place meaningful to land.)
I only had about four hours to enjoy the winding scenic drive, walk the peaceful trail, and soak in the tantalizing sounds of running water before I had to head back across the state for an afternoon of serious work meetings (huzzah for two time zones giving me an extra hour!) But it was enough to refill my soul with fresh air and fuel my imagination with a rich landscape worthy of a character I’ve grown to appreciate (even if he *was* supposed to be relatively insignificant.)
It was definitely worth the eight-hour detour to explore a new place and meet lovely people, and I’m grateful stories offer the perfect excuse to stretch my wings and play.
storycapades.com 