Thursday, March 5, 2009

Travels With Betty: Nashville

Yesterday's post about traveling got me thinking about other trips, so I dug out the pictures I took on our trip to Nashville last December.  We were there to visit HOB's family, but every trip is an educational trip when you're with Betty.  On Christmas morning, while waiting for HOB to pick us up and transport us to Grandma's house, Sonny Boy, Evan and I decided to walk around the capitol building.

Here it is.  It's quite stately, sitting there in the Christmas air.  We had to walk through the large War Memorial Plaza to get to the actual building.  It was eerily quiet on this morning, no one (save a few transients) was around and to tell you the truth, it was more than a little creepy.  

Ummm, can you see why it would be a little creepy?  I was REALLY hoping this was not like one of those acts you see on the pier where the person is dressed up, acting like a statue and then jumps out and scares people.  We quickly walked past that little scene to this one:

Somebody's been working out!  Nice memorial!

Poor President Polk is buried just off to the side of this flashy tribute to Andrew Jackson.  People hurry by the little square that marks Polk's final resting place to go and see the drama of the horse and rider.  Andrew tips his hat and looks directly at the grave as if to say, "Hey there, Polky!  My horse and I are on the way.  We'll be there to see you real soon.  You just stay right there."  Polk waits patiently, expectantly.  

They take their memorials and their Southerness very seriously here in Tennessee.  Take a look at this plaque: 
Here's Carmack's "Pledge to the South."  Please remember this next time you think Betty's writing is getting a little dramatic and overwrought.

The south is a land that has known
sorrows; It is a land that has
broken the ashen crust and
moistened it with tears; A land
scarred and riven by the plowshare
of war and billowed with the graves
of her death; But a land of legend,
A land of Song, A Land Of Hallowed
and heroic memories.

To that land every drop of my blood,
ever fibre of my being, every pulsation 
of my heart, is consecrated forever.

I was born of her womb; I was
nurtured at her breast; and when
my last hour shall come, I pray
God that I may be pillowed upon
her bosom and rocked to sleep
with her tender and encircling

Oh my.

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