Monday, June 9, 2014

Chapter 41 – Beverly Hillbillies in Reverse


In March of 1994, Donna, Jonathan and I went to Nashville to visit with my good friend, Chas Sandford, who had moved to Franklin, Tennessee. He was living in a mansion on Bear Creek Road in a place called Beachwood Hall which at one time was where the legendary Hank Williams hung his hat. I heard stories that the downstairs was so full of mud from the hundred head of cattle wandering in and out of the antebellum mansion. Now that’s the cowboy way! This historic home is 6,856 square feet and was built in 1856.
The first night I spent with Donna in one of the guest rooms called “the yellow room”.  I had a dream I was serving as a Union foot-soldier in the Civil War. On the field of battle, a Confederate officer on horseback galloping with sword in hand approached me. I took a firm stance but I was no match for this valiant opponent. He drew back his sword and swung a mighty blow and I saw my right arm fall to the blood-stained ground. I woke up clutching my arm to make sure it was still attached. Thank God it was. Donna told me she heard my moans and groans but knew it can be dangerous to be awakened from a traumatic dream was afraid to disturb my restless slumbers. The next morning when I told Chas about my dream, he said the house was definitely haunted. It was once used as a hospital for injured Confederate soldiers and it made me wonder if what I dreamed was not a glimpse into the past.
There is a 3330 square foot log cabin that was built in 1850. The cabin was recently refurbished and had a 24 track recording studio in the living room. This is where we stayed. Coming to Nashville had a three-fold intention. The first was for me to attend a two day songwriting seminar at the Lowes Vanderbilt Hotel. The second was to visit Chas and the third was to scout out Nashville as a possible place to relocate to.
 A couple of months earlier in the wee hours of January 17, 20 month old Jonathan was having a restless night. Donna and I were taking turns seeing to him and trying to figure out why he was tossing and turning and crying his little eyes out. Was he sick? Did he swallow something ominous? We didn’t know what was wrong with him but he kept waking up every half-hour. Jonathan was usually a very sound sleeper but this night and early morning was out of the ordinary. I had just come back to bed at 4:29 a.m. and was sitting up on the edge next to Donna when the ground began to shake violently. I soon realized it was an earthquake and I jumped over to protect Donna from any falling debris. She yelled, “Jonathan!” I got up quickly and swayed like a drunken man to his room across the hall. It was like walking on a sinking ship during a tsunami. Somehow, I managed to pull him out from his crib just before a heavy picture frame was shaken off the wall over him. If I had hesitated it would have struck him in the head. The room was oscillating like a carnival ride as Donna followed me with Jonathan in my arms to the living room trying to navigate our way through the debris. Falling televisions, broken glass, shattered kick-knacks and memorabilia we had collected over the years, everything in the house flew like a demonic possession—a tempest in a tumultuous teapot. The French window in the living room pulsated in waves like a riptide as furniture slid across the floor. We found shelter under the dining room table and waited for the shaking to subside. In reality the tremors only lasted a minute or two, but it seemed like an eternity. Of course, I didn’t have any batteries in my transistor radio (you never seemed to be prepared for moments like these) so I grabbed my keys off the hook in the kitchen. I noticed the refrigerator had moved six feet from the wall and pots and pans littered the room. It looked like The Who had a party the night before.
I ventured out to the driveway and climbed into the jeep Cherokee and then turned on the radio. I heard the announcer report that a 7.1 earthquake ha hit the Los Angeles area and that, get this, it WASN’T the BIG ONE that California had been expecting for ages. “Not the big one?” I couldn’t believe it. “Hell, it was big enough for me! If this wasn’t the big one than there is no way I’m going to stick around for it. The next couple of days were traumatic and Donna slept in her clothes in fear that she should have to run out of the house at a moment’s notice, and after every aftershock, which were plentiful, that’s exactly what she did. The chimney had to come down and the walls were all squint and misshapen. The place had major damage and if it weren’t for the earthquake insurance policy, we would have been up shit’s creek without a paddle.
We went back to Nashville a couple of months later to specifically to look for a place to live. Maybe we would rent but we preferred the idea of buying a house since the prices were so reasonable. We were in Chas’ living room talking about how beautiful Williamson County is, (the southern, adjacent county to Davidson—where Nashville is located) and how it would be a great place to bring up children while still being able to pursue a career in music. Chas had a lawyer friend by the name of Carolyn, who said she had seen an old farm house for sale about five miles away from Beachwood Hall and asked if we wanted to drive by there and take a look. I was game. Why not? We had already seen a few places that we liked but had not really fallen in love with in the area.
Driving the winding back roads we made a left on Thompson Station Road with anticipation. On the north side of the street was a big white farmhouse on a hill with four chimneys with two dormers and two old-fashioned porches, one even had a swing. It was love at first sight—for me anyway. The house built in 1912 was originally called The Elmore House and it had three acres of land. I already imagined us living there and how I would build a golf hole. I could hit a drive as far as I wanted and the only thing I would hit would be a cow or a rabbit. Donna wasn’t as knocked out by the place as I was. I think she had visions of moving into a newer place in a subdivision with sidewalks and a community pool, but my powers of persuasion were in high gear.

We contacted the real estate agent, a woman by the name of Ginger Johnson and she came out and met us at the house posthaste. The asking price was $148,000. If this house were in Beverly Hills it would have been worth well over a million bucks—maybe two million. We haggled and negotiated a deal to buy the place for $138,000 if they would throw in the storage barn. There was already a smokehouse and an old silo on the property and she even included the Sears riding mower. We signed a contract contingent that we sold our house in Woodland Hills. I wasn’t too hopeful because the place on Santa Lucia had extensive earthquake damage. What did we have to lose? If the house didn’t sell we were no worse off for wear.
After signing the contract, Ginger invited us out to dinner at the Outback Inn located in Franklin, ten miles to the north. We sat in a booth with Ginger and her husband who was a sheriff in Williamson County. He was telling us how safe the county was from crime and the kids would love it here. We said we only had one child but planned on having another one soon—maybe two more. That’s when he said something that still turns my stomach to this very day.
“Yep, this place is so safe and peaceful-like. I know because I’m a cop. In fact there was only one murder in Franklin the whole of last year but he was only a “nigger” so it don’t rightly count.”
Did he just say what I thought he said—the “N” word? Donna and I were appalled and I wanted to cover Jonathan’s ears. The rest of the meal I stared at my food. There was no way I could even look the guy in the eye. I wanted to punch his out but he was a cop and I thought maybe it wouldn’t be such a good idea. What were we doing here? We were going to move to a place where the sensibilities and prejudices were so backward and small-minded? To this day neither Donna nor I have ever gone back to The Outback Inn.

I tried my best to forget what the racist pig of a cop said and we left Tennessee. The day we got back I called James Gary and Associates to put the house in Woodland Hills up for sale. It sold in six weeks and we were moving to Nashville. We were shocked—not only by the move, but what and where we were moving to. It was like the Beverly Hillbillies in reverse.

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