On the flight home from Nashville, I outlined today’s blog post.
It included somber details from a military funeral in Chattanooga followed by a pescaterian adventure with pulled pork, Moon Pies, and Tennessee kale.
A rowdy swing at the Grand Old Opry collapsed in comparison to the quiet intimacy of The Bluebird Café and a Sealy-bred guitar player named Jamie Lin Wilson.
Touring a Southern plantation presupposed cotton fields and grim living conditions for African-Americans. But, now it’s a museum honoring its differences: raising thoroughbred horses (as in Secretariat’s dad) and distilling Tennessee whiskey. Another frame of reference blown apart.
Seventy-two hours in Tennessee ended with more life learnings. But you’ll have to wait to read them.
My iPhone—the brand new one that I bought a week ago today—crashed into blackest black yesterday. Ergo—no pictures to share.
Who in today’s on-line world wants to read a blog sans images or sound? Our eyes and brains operate differently now, thanks to successful rewiring from small screens. Thank you, techies.
A black screen also means no texting or calling or news-surfing. Forced LOMO offers opportunity, always a good reframing for antiquated habits.
The hardest learning centers on my encounters with the phone’s creator. Dealing with Apple feels like stumbling around blindfolded at three in the morning. From deep inside the Rocky Mountains.
Between recent RoadBroad excursions to New York City and Nashville, I’ve met Apple staff six times via telephone, online, and in-person.
It began as my familiar iPhone 6s began to crap out in Manhattan. Constant battery pack offers its only survival. I called Apple from DH’s device.
During the twelve-hour, H‑Town spend-over, I bought the new unit. It’s a fancy Xr: “our latest and greatest! ” the millennial teen vowed.
Now, I’m awaiting Tuesday’s Genius Bar appointment. In the dark.
Meantime, I’m drafting a report for Mr. Tim Cook.
A writer always has a Story.