The other day, a friend described McMinnville, Tennessee to me as "the middle of the middle of nowhere." While I wouldn't go as far as stating that explicitly, this represents a good portion of the view I grew up with, becoming more and more jealous of those in cities representing actual progress with things to do, places to see, and people to meet. Nashville had the Predators, hot chicken, and an incredible buzz; McMinnville, less than 90 minutes away, had the Pioneers (who, as of this writing, have still never had a winning football season in my lifetime), Applebee's, and the look of a town far past its prime, if it even had one.
Because I spent my entire life pre-college here, McMinnville represents a lot of things to me. There are an unmeasurable amount of positive and negative feelings/moments/happenings I have been able to experience in my time in what's lauded by town officials and others as "the Nursery Capital of the World." There are a lot of ways to describe this place that almost isn't describable in words, if that makes sense; the things I've seen here are almost hard to write down with the memories and feelings towards them that are still attached, even after years of indifference.
McMinnville is the old, dirty pickup truck long ignored by its owner, desperately in need of attention and care, but facing indifference from its driver who feels deep down it drives like it did twenty or even thirty years ago, and he's accepting the consequences. The high school kid at the Super Wal-Mart has come here not to shop, but to hang out with his friends, whether in groups, cliques, or both, and to waste time while laughing at the elderly gentleman in jean shorts and a tattered farm cap from decades past, because his entertainment options have become this limited.
The hard-nosed local politician believes that hope never runs dry, but his wallet, and the town's wallet, has. Welcome to "The Upper Peninsula" by Sufjan Stevens, where "the window is broken out and the interstate is far." Warren County High School, the place I drive by on occasion to produce memories, ranging from the hurt I still feel deep down from when I was verbally bullied by the popular kids for being fat and dressing differently and the depression and anger I would feel afterwards to the happiness I felt when I was commended by teachers who I knew were successful or the time I got back at one of the popular kids in a way neither of us will ever forget, is here, and it is something.
The single mother at a local Redbox rents two movies for her kids. She does this because their latest report card was outstanding, but she was laid off last month and this is one of the few remaining ways she can show appreciation for their efforts, because "I love you" only goes so far for the immature middle schooler. The weird smell of the metal manufacturing plant permeates the air around downtown. Speaking of downtown, its three-year renovation resulted in nothing more than a really bumpy street, a few new trees, and a budget crisis.
Look through the cracks, and you will see local pride; a group of residents are here, standing in the face of uncertainty and finding whatever courage and hope is left to remain here another day. They'll tell you just how proud they are of former residents, including a former MLB pitcher and Dinah Shore, but there's a certain word here that makes that stand out: former. This is where I turn my car onto Highway 55, the National playing "American Mary" in the background, and the lyrics connecting with what I see and what I feel: "there is nothing you can say to ever make me want you."
There's the kid who spends his free time on a computer looking at cars he can't afford, then staring longingly at the used Ford, where most of his savings from his work at a local grocery store were spent on a new paint job. Look around; you'll see the rural Southern teenagers who are almost the Gummo of their area, looking for something, anything that constitutes entertainment, whether it's people watching at Wal-Mart, spray painting houses, or setting fire to long abandoned barns deep in the unexplored lands of Warren County.
Say hello to the capital of the four-wheeler and the only place I've ever heard the term "mudding." Friday night is Pioneer football night, the local truck pull Saturday, and church Sunday morning. Go to the grocery store next to Hardee's; if you are so lucky, this guy will be your bagger.
Small-town religious legalism has come to life, turning away the younger generation one day at a time from the promise of a renewed and re-purposed life in Jesus by inserting and forcing a works-based philosophy. Feel the nauseous Southern accent - not the lovable one, but the one where you know, deep in your soul, they've been here their whole life and are willingly waking up every day doing the same thing they've done for the last five decades in the same place in the same house with the same people. Change is the villain, and progress is met with uneasiness.
No turn can be made without hearing the newest popular country song blaring out of a large and in-charge truck with a driver decked out in all-camouflage, his latest girlfriend in the passenger seat. See the out-of-place kid who knows he doesn't belong here, but tries his hardest to fit in, and suffers because of it. Look at the kid who moves away and gets to do and see greater things, while you wait for an opportunity such as this for yourself. Here's a 1970s philosophy in a 2013 world. The 70s were, indeed, good, but it's been a long time.
However: McMinnville is, incredibly, not Grundy County, and thank God for that. McMinnville is home to what I always considered to be the most under-appreciated attraction in the region, Cumberland Caverns, where I'll still spend some time taking yet another tour, continuing to notice aspects of the cave I've never noticed before, and leaving in awe and satisfaction of how the Creator outdid Himself yet again.
Take a step back in time. Welcome to the real-life Mayberry, and darn it if Andy and Barney aren't around here somewhere. This is Pawnee, Indiana, and they're still looking for a Leslie Knope; turn in an application at City Hall if you're up for the challenge. Everything stops in time for an hour or longer each Sunday morning. The scores of Mexican restaurants will never come close to authenticity, but they'll give you a meal you can't forget. Find the best meat-and-three in Middle Tennessee at Wilma Jean's Kitchen. It's a never-changing skyline, and one of distinct familiarity and a kind of warmth, until a downtown building burns down again. It's high school football, where the entire community comes out to support a program that had their last winning season in 1991, but hope's still there, and it always will be - no renaissance needed.
McMinnville is McMinnville, and that's all it will be. For better or worse, it's what I can say about myself, too.
