Nov 21, 2008 Good food and good company—nothing like it after pedaling fifty-seven miles. Having just arrived in Lebanon, I found myself seated across from new friends, Jonas and Colleen Taylor. Jonas pastors West Hills Baptist Church in Lebanon. Ironically, what I discussed with my new friends was: old times. Colleen and I had both attended Donelson High School in Nashville, one year apart. Jonas had attended rival Two Rivers High School. We have several mutual friends from those days. Years later, at different times, Jonas and I had each pastored on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. New friends, old times—such a blend of new and old would characterize my ride the next day into Nashville.
It was a bone-chilling thirty degrees with light snow falling as I started out for Nashville on Friday, November 21. I was on the last leg of this three-day trip. And it would have to be my last trip until next spring and warmer weather. Nevertheless, I was on my Diamondback Crestview and I was going places! On this day I would ride past the house that knew me as a teenager, two buildings in downtown Nashville that knew me as a young engineer, and many other familiar sights from days gone by, if only the city had not changed too much.
My fears were alleviated on that score, for it seems that the more Nashville changes the more it stays the same. It is a unique blend of old and new, ancient and modern. Pedaling that morning into the community of Hermitage confirmed that delightful mix. The rural two-lane highway I remembered from my high school days is now multi-lane all the way out to Mt. Juliet and is lined on both sides with commercial enterprises. The intersection with Rachel’s Lane does not even exist anymore, as the lane runs under US 70. Undeterred, I lifted my bicycle over the split rail fence and pushed it down the hill to this road and pedaled the quarter mile to Andrew Jackson’s old home. Built in the early 1800’s, this splendid mansion with the large white columns immediately transports the visitor back to horse and buggy days, even in the midst of the bustling metropolitan city.
Directly across Rachel’s Lane from the Hermitage is a large cow pasture, beyond which is the house and neighborhood where I resided in my high school days. Lebanon Road (US 70) bears no resemblance to the rural two-lane of 1968 when we moved here from Knoxville. But the house at 355 Monaco Drive looks as if maybe four years have passed, not four decades. Only the presence of a small satellite dish bears witness to more recent times. The rest of Hermitage, though, is almost unrecognizable from those old days—which is why I so looked forward to crossing the old steel truss Elmer Disspayne Bridge over Stones River.
Stones River is a small body of water that flows into the Cumberland River not far downstream from that bridge. Not far upstream is an Army Corps of Engineers dam that forms Priest Lake, where my pal from high school, Barry Chamberlain, and I often swam and camped out. Barry grew up about a quarter mile away from the river. He says that during the summer the water level was so low that it was possible to walk across it and keep your head dry. One cold New Year’s Eve he and I found ourselves down by the water’s edge at midnight shooting off fireworks near the base of a huge concrete abutment, all that remains of the original bridge across this river. So even rivers and old bridges can hold fond memories for old sentimentalists.
Therefore you can understand my consternation at finding that the Disspayne Bridge has now been closed forever and all traffic diverted to the newer but far less imaginative reinforced concrete structure. State workers have already laid sod down in front of the old crossing in preparation for its demise. And to add insult to injury, they have even given the new bridge a new name—the Richard Harrington Bridge. How dare they! I knew the Disspayne Bridge. The Disspayne Bridge was a good friend of mine. And you, sir, are no Disspayne Bridge!
In a fit of pique, I refused to pedal across the new structure. Pushing my bike through the freshly laid sod, I proceeded over my old friend, past puzzled-looking laborers, and then back onto the highway. At least Barry’s folks still live in the same house near the river. I could get some physical and emotional warmth there. The Chamberlains graciously provided plenty of both. Senior citizens tend to keep their houses warmer, and on a thirty-degree morning, their house felt toasty. And then they lifted my spirits when I lamented the demise of the Disspayne Bridge. “Why they’re not tearing that bridge down,” Mrs. Chamberlain explained, “they’re going to leave it up for pedestrians.” Wonderful! Common sense has indeed prevailed! And it will be so typically Nashville—the combination of old and new. Remnants of the oldest bridge still standing, the older bridge left intact for pedestrians (and bicyclists?), and the new bridge bearing the load of vehicular traffic.
Pedaling on into downtown Nashville, I passed by a discount grocery, formerly the H. G. Hills store I worked in as a teenager; a café that used to be a Shoneys that even had curb service, where every Friday and Saturday night teens used to cruise around looking for something to happen (nothing ever did); and finally a modern bridge over the Cumberland River replacing the old Shelby Street bridge, which has been preserved for pedestrians. Remnants of the old amid the new.
I would finish this leg of my ride at Eighth and Broad, but first I had to check out two landmarks. The State Capitol Building reminds visitors and locals that Nashville is the Athens of the South. Designed ca. 1845 by prominent nineteenth century architect William Strickland (who is interred within its walls), this unique Greek revival edifice has four Ionic porticoes and a Doric basement. Rumor has it that Tennessee residents insisted that, Greek design or no, their Capitol must have a dome or tower like other state capitol buildings; hence, the square tower with the round cupola on top. Ancient Greek culture combined with modern southern culture in one building—again, a symbol of the old and new in Nashville.
The other landmark was a more personal one: First Baptist Church. Dr. H. Franklin Paschall married Marcia and me in that church in 1975. Staff member and old friend Sandra Gentry arranged to let me into the building to take some pictures for auld lang syne. Parts of the structure have been renovated to the point that I barely knew where I was. But the sanctuary looked the same as it did when completed in 1970. Almost forty years old, this auditorium nevertheless looks quite modern. The earlier 1886 building was literally falling apart when the church voted to build a new sanctuary, much to the dismay of some of the old guard members. But in a spirit of unity, the spire from the original building remained and was incorporated into the design of the new building. What a fitting addition to the skyline of Nashville, a city that so blends the old with the new.
It is winter now. I am stuck for awhile at Eighth and Broad in Nashville. But just wait till spring! I’ll be back on my Diamondback Crestview and riding (and writing) again. I am not finished with my slice of Tennessee!
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