I was living with my grandparents, Adrian and Miz Lena, on their farm in Middle Tennessee, just outside of Columbia. It was the 1950s, years before they built the freeway from Columbia into Nashville. Everybody took U.S. 31, what is now referred to as the Old Franklin Road. There were a few straight stretches, some dips, several curves and three or four little towns to drive through before we reached Music City.
About once a month, if there were no storms in the forecast, my grandmother made trips to Nashville. Mostly for her house-building business. She had her favorite hardware store. Sometimes her trips were for pleasure. She loved to shop at Cain-Sloan and Harveys.
Once in a while, I was allowed to go with her. Before we left, her groundskeeper, Ole Tom, wiped down Grand Mom’s mint-green Cadillac, soaped down the whitewalls and ran a hose over the tires. After pointing out some water spots, which Ole Tom quickly rubbed out, Grand Mom gave her approval, and we were ready to hit the road.
Grand Mom’s housekeeper, Elizabeth, packed a brown grocery sack with pimento cheese and ham sandwiches, garnished with thick-sliced tomatoes and lots of mayonnaise; a bag of potato chips; folded paper napkins; two green, 6-ounce bottles of Coca-Cola and a bottle opener. Elizabeth put it in the back seat, next to Miz Lena’s dress shoes.
I got to sit up front as long as I followed Grand Mom’s very strictly enforced traveling protocol. Before we even pulled out of the driveway, Miz Lena gave me the same speech.