Nashville by Nighfall

Day II. May 11th. Part I. Ruby's Country Kitchen


"When I first came to Nashville, people hardly gave country music any respect. We lived in old cars and dirty hotels, and we ate when we could."
Loretta Lynn


I wake up in my Bristol motel, around noon, and make quick work of washing up and checking out. I'm Nashville bound.
I've been driving for about an hour, and notice the gas light come on. Good timing. I want a cup of coffee and maybe some breakfast. Pulling off the closest exit advertising a gas station, I find myself a huge truck stop. Fill it up, check the oil, kick the tires.
This landscape is a feast for the eyes. I feel the tug of the back roads, and the midday sun on the back of my neck...I feel like getting lost for awhile. Back road weaves into back road, and thinner roads still. Old cabins and Pentecostal churches, horses and steer, round hay bails checker the blanketed green. If I didn't know it was real, I'd think it was an astro-turf carpet on these hills. I'm going to drive until I find a diner, if it takes all afternoon.


Between two churches, one Baptist and one Methodist, and across from the General Store, I come upon 'Ruby's Country Kitchen'. I can't tell you where it is, or how I got here, been meandering for nearly an hour. "Try our pie." the sign invites. The parking lot is packed, and standing in the driveway stones of the lot, families and couples are adorned in their Sunday best, right down to giant silvery belt buckles the size of saucers. These men were wearing huge buckles way before it was en vogue in New York City hip-hop and hipster culture, or top 40 modern popcorn country fame. I doubt they even know that it came and went in and out of style. I've stumbled into the great American tradition of going to lunch after Sunday morning church. Spiritual food, then something from a frying pan. Reminds me of growing up in my hometown. I walk in, greeted by smiles and 'hellos'. Sitting down at a booth and pull out my pad, I begin to write. I'm immersed in recording the events of last night, Carter Fold then O'Malley's. Ruminating on the contrasts of the two destinations...examining the duality of the regulars and the bartender at O'Malley's. The waitress is standing next to my table and asking if I want something to drink, and she has to ask twice, cause I'm still in the misty Bristol of my recollection. Looking up, my eyes are met by her two sky blue eyes glimmering the way a Celt's eyes will. She's young and pretty, and I'm involuntarily tuned into her Southern draw, the shape and timber of her question, rather than the question itself. "Coffee, please, black. Thank you", I sheepishly answer. I could stay here all day drinking coffee and writing, but Music City beckons.
Finishing up my eggs and grits, and laying a tip down on the table, I find the cashier. The sign hung on the wall above the register is advertising a gallon of milk for 5 cents. It must be from the 1920's.
I never did try the pie at Ruby's Country Kitchen. But, I did get a real strong rhubarb taste of life around these parts. Strong, sweet, slow, melodic, vibrant, and honest...like my waitress' musical drawl.