Dickson to Camden

March 24, 2009 Roots and wings—those are two gifts all parents should bestow on their children. Marcia was sitting in a Nashville restaurant with her brother Wilburn. They were recalling family memories in the wake of their father’s recent passing. Wilburn observed the value of giving children roots, i.e., a family heritage and values. But it is equally important, he continued, that parents also give their children wings, i.e., permission and blessing to leave home, pursue their goals, and stand on their own two feet. Cutting the young ones loose involves risk; but if a foundation of family heritage and godly values is established early, the rewards far outweigh the risks. Josh and I would reconnect with some of our roots while enjoying the fruits of our wings on our second day of riding together.

It was a sunshiny Tuesday morning as we started out from Montgomery Bell State Park en route to Waverly and beyond. Despite the troubles of Monday, our spirits soared. We were riding! We were beginning here and going—somewhere. If we hit more trouble, Marcia could come fetch us. Besides, a bad day bike riding is better than a good day working.

Plan A was to look for a bicycle shop in Dickson. Perhaps they could fix my out-of-round back tire. But alas, even the waitress’s brother Carroll at a local diner where we stopped for breakfast did not know of one. However, between bites of biscuits and gravy, the massive white-haired man did encourage us with the news that the hills would flatten out within a few miles.

Plan B was to find a gas station with an air hose—not one of those that you feed quarters while it dribbles out air, but one with some real pressure behind it. Jeff at The Bike Zoo in Knoxville advised me (by cell phone the evening before) to deflate and inflate the tire, massaging it till the flat spot popped out. But on our route I spied no such station. So I bump, bump, bumped all the way to McEwen, about fifteen miles away.

McEwen is a town of 1700 residents located in Humphreys County. When we reached there, the hills would magically flatten out, or so we were told. As we entered about mid-morning, our first order of business was to find a drug store. A passing delivery van a few miles back had slung some roadside glass up at Josh and given his left knee a significant cut. We needed fresh band-aids. He also needed an ace bandage for his ailing right knee. Despite his wounds, Josh was performing quite well with the ride that day—no soreness, handling the hills like a pro. Surely McEwen would have a drug store. But I held out no hope of a bicycle shop in a town so small.

Then I saw it: the solution to my tire problem, right there across the highway. Why hadn’t I thought of it sooner? “It” was Abernathy’s Tire and Auto Repair. O.K., so their specialty is car and truck tires, but just maybe. . . . I sent Josh on ahead in search of his bandages while I approached a big thirty-something good ole boy about my tire troubles. His name was Billy. (I’ve always wondered why average timid Williams like me go by “Bill” and big tough Williams like this guy prefer “Billy.”)

Billy was friendly and helpful. In no time his boss David had my bike up on a rack rubbing the rear tire with tire grease. Within a few minutes the flat spot popped out, and David had it aired up full. I was even more pumped up than the tire! My bump problem was solved!

David wouldn’t let me pay him anything. He and Billy seemed interested in my cross-state ride. Billy was raised in Humphreys County. As I told him I of my roots (way back) in that area, I was shocked to learn that he’d actually heard of my great-grandfather William (“Pa”) Horner, the horseback physician from a hundred years ago.

Josh had found his bandages and rejoined me. I was eager to get started again toward Waverly and another Billy I’d never met before who also knew of my great-grandfather—primarily because Pa Horner was his great-grandfather also.

We met Billy Tucker in Waverly after a quick sandwich in the early afternoon. My Dad having told me about this cousin, I had talked with him by phone a few weeks earlier. He agreed to show Josh and me some sights connected to our roots.

Billy is a lean, tanned outdoors-type with thinning hair (O.K., so he doesn’t fit my previous assessment of “Billys”). In his seventy-six years he has worked hard both as a surveyor for the Tennessee Department of Transportation and a businessman managing his properties in the area. His father and my father were first cousins.

Josh and I parked our bikes and climbed into Billy’s car. Our first stop was Pa Horner’s old home place. It is only a cleared lot now out on Clydeton Road, backing up to Kentucky Lake, which inundated most of the farm when the dam was built in 1944. I had not seen the site since 1960 (at age seven). Billy stepped off the locations of the front porch, back porch, and Dr. Horner’s eight by twelve foot office, where he often saw patients. But Pa also made house calls on horseback to see his patients. One winter night on a late call, after fording streams to reach a house, Pa required assistance to chop ice out of the stirrups so he could dismount. For such dedication Pa was often paid in chickens and vegetables.

Billy told me a Pa Horner story I’d never heard before: On one particularly difficult case he asked a respected doctor in town, Dr. Slayton, to make a house call with him. After attending the patient, they each presented the man with a bill for services. Dr. Slayton’s bill was $4.00; Pa Horner’s was $2.00. “Why,” asked a puzzled Dr. Slayton, “did you charge him so little?” “You don’t know that man like I do,” Pa replied. “He’ll never pay a dime to either of us. So you’re out $4.00, and I’m only out $2.00!”

I responded to Billy with a Pa Horner story he’d never heard before. In 1936 Pa’s son Bill (my grandfather) received a long distance call from his brother Jesse. Long distance calls back then were expensive and unreliable, so Bill knew the matter must be important. “Pa died,” he heard his brother say. “Can you come on down here?” Bill assured him he’d leave Nashville immediately. What did he think about during the (then) long drive to Waverly? It was so unexpected—Pa was elderly but had been in good health. When Bill finally arrived to the spot on which Billy, Josh, and I now stood, a small group assembled on the front porch to meet him. But Bill stood and watched them in utter shock. For there in the midst of the group was the “deceased” Pa! Fortunately Jesse saw Bill’s face and discerned immediately what had happened. Pulling his brother aside, Jesse explained that Bill had heard wrong—it was Ma who had died. They never told Pa about the mix-up. Pa lived another eight years, still practicing medicine most of that time. He died at ninety-six, his county’s oldest resident and his state’s oldest physician.

Billy showed Josh and me the graves of Pa and other relatives. He drove us around to others sites I had not seen in decades. It was a wonderful afternoon for one who has lived many places, but never long enough to put down permanent roots.

Pa Horner gave his eight children roots. A strict Primitive Baptist, he sought to instill a love for God and proper values. Several of his children remained in that area all their lives.

Pa was wise enough, however, to give his children wings also. He allowed them to use opportunities to develop their potential, even if it meant their moving away. Among his progeny over the generations would be country music performers (George Morgan and daughter Lorrie), a Washington lobbyist for the U.S. Post Office, businessmen, farmers, technicians, a T.D.O.T. surveyor, and even a preacher/bikerider. The behavior of some of his descendants, I’m sure, was disappointing at times. But the blessing in giving children wings far outweighed the risk.

Pedaling on to Camden, I crossed the scenic Tennessee River into West Tennessee. I had now crossed two grand divisions of the state and entered the third. By this time Marcia had caught up with us and picked up Josh. I rode a little further, pondering the blessings I’d experienced that afternoon, reconnecting with my roots while simultaneously enjoying my wings.

I rejoined Marcia and Josh at The Catfish Place in Camden for dinner. The waitress brought us out plates piled high with more catfish fillets and hush puppies than I’d ever seen assembled in one place. And those cats died for a worthy cause! Our meal consisted of local pond-raised, grain-fed catfish. (They taste a little milder than river catfish and are served boneless.) But I’m sure their ancestors came out of the Tennessee River some generations back. So even these catfish had roots. But apparently they also had wings—which ultimately landed them on our plates. Roots and wings—what a blessing!