Feet on the ground

cool and tree man

Finally, Knoxville.  After planning, packing, cleaning and fleeing New York before Hurricane Irene marched up the coast, my friend April and I drove south down 81 to 78 to I-40 and rolled up to the house in Fountain City after 12 hours in the car.  It was an easy drive, made easy by traveling with a friend and much easier by popping tranquilizers down the cat’s throats before putting them in their carriers and in the back seat of the Subaru.
Still trying to catch my breathe, clawing my way to the top of the pile of boxes filled with things that seemed so important at the time. Note to self:  next time either leave or burn everything before departing. Have already had numerous adventures, including being robbed (more on that in another post) but getting my feet on the ground means that Jayne and I can move forward with the Flying Anvil. Fun, but heavy lifting. There’s a lot to do, including finding a space.
Jayne, Eileen Conway and I went to look at a building with a “for sale” sign last week – a former radio station with a 500 seat theatre. When Jayne had called the realtor about it, he said, “Go ahead and take a look. It’s open. If you find any homeless people living there, call the police.” 
We took flashlights, called out loudly, “Anyone here?” No one was.  We spent the next hour with our lights flickering over the seats semi-circling the stage, the falling ceiling, an image of Jesus hovering above. Apparently a church had been renting the building but have since departed, leaving behind coffee cups in the kitchen and plastic children’s toys in one of the rooms behind the theatre. The place was a complete, lovely, haunting wreck.  I overheard Jayne and Eileen talking about the history of the building that live broadcasts of Dolly Parton once went over the airwaves from this very spot. What happened here?  We stepped over debris, peeked into rooms, stepped gingerly on the spiral staircase that joined the first and second floors.  The wind blew in from broken windows, carrying the sound of children playing in a near by school.  What if? Could we? No, not this place, too much of a disaster, too much of a project, not the right neighborhood.  Yet it put some gunpowder under our imaginations.  We’ll keep looking, plotting, planning, and dreaming.
Oh – and here’s a short article on someone else with a dream and an anvil obsession.  Join the group!

Anvil Shooting: Fun, but heavy lifting

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