Orlinda, TN

In the gentle folds of northern Tennessee, where the land undulates like a whispered secret between the hills, lies the small town of Orlinda. It's a place where the morning light stretches over vast fields, touching the silos and barns with a golden hand, and where the rhythm of life beats in time with the turning seasons. Orlinda is not a town that shouts its presence to the world; instead, it hums quietly, a steady note in the grand symphony of the American heartland.

The streets of Orlinda are lined with memories. Once, they bustled with the vigor of a town on the rise. Main Street was the artery through which the lifeblood of commerce flowed—shops with brightly painted signs, a grain mill whose proud silhouette dominated the skyline, and neighbors who knew each other by name and story. The grain mill, in particular, was a titan of industry for the town, its operations so expansive that it shipped produce as far as the golden coasts of California. The mill’s ceaseless hum was a lullaby that soothed the town to sleep and a wake-up call that greeted each new day.

There was a time when Orlinda danced briefly in the spotlight of fame. The year was 1986 when the quiet town became the backdrop for "The Last Days of Frank and Jesse James," a film that brought legends Kris Kristofferson and Johnny Cash to its dusty roads. For a fleeting moment, Orlinda was transformed. The townsfolk watched as their familiar landscapes were captured on celluloid, immortalizing the rolling fields and weathered facades. The stars themselves mingled with the locals, their larger-than-life personas somehow fitting seamlessly into the tapestry of Orlinda's everyday life.

But like many small towns stitched into the vast quilt of rural America, Orlinda felt the inexorable pull of change. The grain mill's steady hum eventually faded into silence, a casualty of shifting economies and the march of progress. Shops that once brimmed with goods and gossip shuttered their windows, their interiors gathering dust and echoes. Young folks, lured by the siren song of distant cities, left in search of brighter horizons, leaving behind the whispers of their childhoods rustling in the fields.

Yet, despite the ebbing tide of prosperity, Orlinda endures. The town is a testament to resilience—a quiet defiance against the forgetfulness of time. Farmers still rise before dawn, their silhouettes etched against the morning mist as they tend to the land that has sustained generations. The local diner remains a sanctuary where the aroma of strong coffee mingles with tales of yesterday and dreams of tomorrow. In churches and schools, community ties are woven tighter, threads of kinship and tradition holding fast.

Walking through Orlinda, one can't help but feel the weight of its history pressed gently against the present. The old grain mill stands like a sentinel, its empty halls filled with the ghosts of industry and the faint echoes of laughter and labor. The train tracks that once sang with the approach of locomotives now lie quiet, but they trace a path that speaks of journeys taken and those yet to come.

The people of Orlinda carry their stories with a humble pride. They speak of the time when Hollywood came to town, of harvests bountiful and lean, of hopes kindled and deferred. Their faces are maps of the lives they've led—creases at the corners of eyes from both smiles and squinting under the sun, hands calloused from work that ties them inexorably to the earth.

As the sun dips low, casting long shadows that reach out like fingers yearning for the past, Orlinda settles into the embrace of evening. Lights flicker on in farmhouse windows, and the sounds of the day give way to the chorus of cicadas and the rustle of the night breeze through the crops. It's in this gentle fading of day that the true essence of Orlinda reveals itself—not in grand gestures or booming progress, but in the steadfast continuation of life’s simple rhythms.

Orlinda may not adorn the pages of glossy magazines or draw the crowds that flock to brighter lights, but it holds a quiet magic. It is a place where the roots run deep, anchoring its people to a land rich with memory and meaning. In the grand mosaic of America, Orlinda is a modest but irreplaceable tile, its hues subtle but essential to the whole. And perhaps, in towns like this, nestled among the hills and fields, we find the true heartbeat of a nation—not in its monuments or metropolises, but in the enduring spirit of its small, steadfast communities.

Storyteller Refuge

There's a profound feeling in finding a safe harbor amid the tempests of the road, especially when that refuge is offered freely by an old friend. Such was my fortune when I found myself welcomed into the home of
Al Pennington who lives just beyond the bustle of Birmingham, Alabama. His place became my sanctuary—at least for the last two nights—a respite from the weary miles stretched out behind me.
 
The lure of a warm bed, a hot shower, and the companionship of a fellow storyteller is enough to draw any traveler off his path for a while. I was no exception. I had pushed Josie about as hard as I dared, driving her five solid hours of undulating backroads. She coughed now and then, a mechanical grumble of protest, but she held together and delivered me to Al's doorstep without any real trouble.
 
Al and I go back to my days at MSNBC. I first sought him out after stumbling on some of his sharp-witted quotes in a newspaper, the specifics of which have faded with time. As a retired defense attorney with a career steeped in "been there, done that," he became a rich source of insight for the legal angles in my stories. Over the years, our professional exchanges blossomed into a genuine friendship.
One of Al's most remarkable traits is his gift for storytelling. He's unparalleled in weaving tales that draw you in, rich with humor and wisdom. Only my departed father and his brothers could rival his knack for spinning a yarn—but that's a tale for another day.
 
When I arrived, Al was out, but he'd left a key waiting for me. I eased myself out of Josie, giving her a reassuring pat and promising her a couple of days' rest. She didn't complain. Inside, I shook off the dust of the road, plugged in my ever thirsty electronics, and settled into the quiet comfort of his home.
It wasn't long before Al returned, and soon enough, stories began to flow. Noticing the weariness etched on my face, he grinned and said, "Looks like you could use a drink."
 
With that, he swung open two large cabinet doors in the kitchen, revealing a trove of spirits. "Help yourself to whatever suits you," he offered. Before I could decide, he pulled out an unassuming bottle of 20-year-old Irish whiskey. "Picked this up on my last trip to Ireland," he said, pointing to the label marked "Chinese Edition"—a limited run of just 3,000 bottles.
 
Curiosity piqued, I asked, "How did you come by a Chinese edition of Irish whiskey?"
"Well, that's a story," he replied with a twinkle in his eye.
 
Before I could decide, he pulled out an
unassuming bottle of 20-year-old Irish whiskey.
 
Al recounted how he'd sought shelter from the rain in a quaint Irish pub. The warmth inside was a welcome contrast to the dreary weather, and soon he found himself immersed in conversation. Drinking and storytelling went hand in hand that day. The bartender, charmed by Al's tales, remarked, "Are you sure you're not Irish? Because you tell stories like an Irishman!"
 
The bartender then suggested Al visit a local whiskey distributor, giving him a personal referral. Following the tip, Al met with the distributor, who revealed that he had a special stock—the "Chinese Edition" whiskey that, for reasons undisclosed, hadn't made its way to China.
 
"Because you come recommended," the distributor told Al, "I'll sell you one bottle. I guarantee you'll have the only one in the entire United States."
 
As Al finished his tale, he poured us each a glass. The whiskey glowed amber in the soft light, its aroma rich and inviting. We raised our glasses, and as the smooth liquid warmed me from the inside out, I knew I'd tasted something truly exceptional. It might just be the finest whiskey I've ever had the pleasure to sample.
That evening, time seemed to slow down. Surrounded by the comfort of an old friend's home, the miles and trials of the road faded away. Stories flowed, each one weaving into the next, punctuated by sips of rare whiskey. In those moments, I was reminded of the simple joys—a good tale, a fine drink, and the enduring bonds of friendship.
 
As the night deepened, I felt a deep sense of gratitude. For the roads that led here, for Josie carrying me, despite her quirks, and for friends like Al who open their doors and hearts without hesitation. It's these experiences that enriched my journey, turning miles into memories and strangers into companions, if even for a day.

Running on Empty

In the quiet hours of dawn, sitting in Josie’s cockpit, listening to the harmonies being played out between engine and wheels, I've had time to reflect on this journey. It's been a path lined with the faces and stories of ordinary people doing extraordinary things, threads woven into the rich tapestry of the American heartland. But now, as autumn leaves gather in the ditches and the chill of winter whispers in the wind, I find myself at a crossroads.
 
I set out with a mission to shine a light on the unsung heroes of our small towns, to share their tales of generosity and kindness. The road has been both my companion and my teacher, and each stop has reminded me of my belief in the inherent goodness that binds us together. Yet, despite frugal living—meals of grilled cheese, peanut butter and jelly, and the lowly Ramen noodle—the reality is that the fuel gauge is dipping toward empty and the money is drying up like a creek in a long drought.
 
I never imagined myself as someone to ask for help. That's just
pride, perhaps, or the stubborn notion that I should walk this path unaided.
 
I never imagined myself as someone to ask for help. That's just pride, perhaps, or the stubborn notion that I should walk this path unaided. But life has a way of humbling you and reminding you that we're all threads in the same fabric. So here I am, hat in hand now, reaching out to those who've walked alongside me in spirit, who've found some measure of inspiration or solace in the stories I've shared.
 
The truth is short and sharp: without more money, I may have to cut the tour short. The original funds, already less than hoped for, have dwindled. The road ahead is long, and there's so much more to uncover, so many voices yet to be heard. This journey isn't just mine; it's a collective odyssey that belongs to all who believe in the power of shared stories.
 
If these updates have resonated with you, if you've found a flicker of hope or a spark of generosity in the tales of these remarkable individuals, I ask you to consider helping to keep this journey alive. Any contribution, no matter how modest, becomes part of the engine that drives Josie and me forward. It's not just about me staying on the road; it's about us, together, continuing to shine a light into the quiet corners where the true heart of our nation beats.
 
I think of the farmer whose unwavering commitment to his small town shines bright, the volunteer librarian who reopened dusty doors, the countless hands that have reached out not for recognition but out of simple kindness. Their stories deserve to be told, to be heard, to remind us all of the goodness that persists even in trying times.
 
So I appeal to you now, not as a mere fundraiser, but as a fellow traveler on this winding road. If you're able and willing, please consider donating to the Hope & Generosity Tour. Let's keep the wheels turning, the stories flowing, and the hope alive.
 
Thank you for walking this path with me. Together we can ensure that the quiet voices are heard, that the unseen deeds are illuminated, and that the journey continues onward. If you’d like to contribute, just follow this link:
 
And remember to push that slider left to zero; otherwise, you’re going to tip GoFundMe for the privilege of donating...
 
Much appreciated.

Alternator Transplant

The ordeal is over. "Transplant” was a huge success. Josie is back up and running strong.
 
The new part arrived at 10:45 via UPS next-day air. By the time the part arrived, I was nearly through the removal of the old alternator. I was right on schedule.
 
There were no tricky situations to adjust to, just time-consuming tasks. I marched right through them and was done hours before I thought I would be. Good thing, too… it’s been cold and windy and overcast much of the day.
 
 
The pic here is of the old alternator. You can see how rusty it is inside. Metal flaking off… no bueno situation.
We live to ride again!!

Mayday... Mayday!

Josie has broken down, this time in a major way. Her alternator appears shot. Although the repair can be done without having to drop the engine or anything near that drastic, this is still a major repair, and I am nowhere near being in an optimum position to pull this off.

Earlier in the day I was hunting for a bona fide ghost town known as Alone, Kentucky. The weather was miserable, overcast and raining on and off, and cold. A wind blew up that only made everything seem more miserable and more cold. And though I tried and tried, I just couldn't find the town. 

It's there on the map, if you zoom in far enough, but I had no way points to guide me, no street names to plug into the GPS. And although I found the Alone Cemetery, which sits just off the main road, the town was no where to be seen. Given the terrible weather, I accepted defeat and looked for the closest Walmart to hold up for the rest of the day and into the night.

That store was in Glasgow, Kentucky. I navigated Josie there with no problem, picked out my spot on the fringe of the parking lot and shut off her engine. After a half hour or so, I decided to head to a diner where I could get some hot coffee and recharge my electronics, which were running dangerously low on electricity.

I jumped in the driver's seat and turned the key only to hear the sickening sound of a slow "bur-rur-rur-rur"; the battery was nearly dead and I couldn't turn the engine over. I did some quick tests with a voltmeter and confirmed that the battery was low. But how?

The culprit now had to be the alternator, which, when working properly, drives all things electric when the van is running, as well as keeping the battery well charged. As I contemplated my next move, a thought sent sudden chills through me: If I'd actually found the town of Alone, that's exactly what I'd be right now, alone and stranded with a dead battery, instead of merely broken down in a Walmart parking lot. Thank God for small miracles...

My task at hand now was to first locate a replacement alternator. This proved more difficult than I would have imagined. In the course of my hunt, I learned that there was a "nationwide shortage" of alternators that would fit my engine. I finally tracked down a parts supply vendor online that promised they could secure me "the last one in the country we can find." It was located in California, a "new" rebulit alternator, which they could overnight to me (for an exhorbitant price, of course.)

The next hurdle was, though the part could be overnighted to me, exactly how should the part be delivered? It's not like FedEx or UPS has a habit of delivering to an address such as "Far end of the Walmart parking lot." 

My only option was to persuade the Walmart folks to let me use their store address as the drop-off point and send it to me "in care of" the store manager.

After much pleading and cajoling, I managed to get the store manager to allow me to proceed with the part being shipped to his store under my name, "in care of" him.

To make sure the receiving department at Walmart would be aware of the package coming the next day, I went to talk to the receiving manager. Well, the Walmart receiving manager tells me they don’t get FedEx or UPS deliveries until 11 a.m. Sigh.

My plan is to start removing the alternator now in hopes that I’ll have it out by the time the new one arrives, then all I’ll have to do is install it and be back in business.

Someday, looking back on all this, this episode will be a good after-dinner story to tell. But living it now is just total angst and with a pinch of desperation…

Travels

We're going nowhere and anywhere and we're not going fast. Traveling in Josie, this 42-year-old VW Vanagon is not an exercise in speed. She's pushing all of 67 horsepower; top speed rarely nudges above 60-mph. But this forced constraint means you have to slow down, giving you time to absorb the landscape, rather than curse the absence of an exit with amenities.

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Compass Point
After a whirlwind trip through Oklahoma, I'm now heading across Arkansas.
Fleeting Thoughts
Road trips may sound romantic and adventurous, these are seductions. Truth is, the loneliness of the road eats at you constantly.
Cuisine
Pro tip: Dinty Moore Beef Stew in a can will get you through the night, but it's not winning a Michelin star any time soon.