When my older brother and I were children, my grandparents on my mother's side took us to Nashville. My grandfather was to attend a national Kiwanis convention there and we came along for the ride. Traveling to and through Tennessee, one was then, and is still, bombarded, mile after mile, by billboards proclaiming that we should See Rock City! After hours, even days of such propaganda, we were fairly frenzied in our insistence that we must take in this place of wonders. Our grandparents acquiesced, a side trip was undertaken, and we enjoyed ourselves immensely. In fact, I've had fond memories of this excursion ever since. So, as I entered southeastern Tennessee, I was intent upon retracing my youthful steps down those magic paths of Rock City. I wondered if it would live up to my fond recollections.

I'm pleased to report that it did, indeed. Located atop Lookout Mountain near the Tennessee-Georgia border, Rock City is paradise for a child - all nooks and crannies, caves, and crevasses with lush vegetation and huge, cool rocks. On a hot summer's day, it's cool and damp and mossy; a place of secrets. From a spot called Lover's Leap, you can see, on a clear day, seven different states. As a child, I was a bit thrown by this concept. After all, one can see no lines marking these rather arbitrary borders we call state lines. Gazing out from Lover's Leap those long years ago, all I could see was mountains and countryside, not seven distinct territories. And today, nothing had changed. They could have told me I was viewing all of the lower 48 and I might have bought it.

Towards the end of the trail through Rock City, one reaches Fairyland Caverns - dark, damp passageways with windows in the rock through which one can view scenes from fairy tales, glowingly lit with blacklight. As these things go, it was pretty impressive.

All in all, Rock City stood up well to my stern adult scrutiny. My fond childhood memories were not damaged in the least; instead, they have been refreshed, made a bit more vivid. The next time you're in Tennessee or Georgia, take my advice: round up the kids and See Rock City!

Rock City was fun, but my next destination was to be the highlight of the trip to date. I traveled south on Hwy. 27 a bit to the town of Summerville, Georgia where I planned to make two stops: first, I wanted to lunch at Anderson's BBQ, which I had read somewhere was good and cheap (it was both: $2.80 for a BBQ pork sandwich, french fries, and a large Dr. Pepper) and second, I wanted to see Paradise Garden, the Rev. Howard Finster's ongoing creation. Many of you will know this artist's work from the album covers he's done for Talking Heads and REM, but for those of you who aren't familiar with him (say, for instance, my father), I will fill in some details here.

He's an Assembly of God minister who cranks out his own unique form of folk art in rather frenzied fashion. I bought a piece that was painted on April 16 of this year and it says on the back that it is the 23,000,946th piece he's completed since 1976. I'm not kidding; that's what it says. I'm not certain I believe it, but the point is made that he is prolific.

He uses words in most of his pieces, covering the canvas or wood or whatever he may be using with language, both biblical and personal. I didn't have the opportunity to meet him, much to my disappointment, but from viewing his work, it's clear that he is an eccentric and I mean that in the best sense of the word. The messages he conveys through his paintings can be at once quite moving and rather cryptic. His painting style could be called crude or primitive, but believe me when I tell you that, in the end, that is its charm. I'll describe for you the piece that I purchased; that may enlighten you as to my meaning.

It's a painting on plywood, 3 feet or so high, of a farm boy in a straw hat and overalls. His shirt is rather wildly patterned and vividly colored. One is apt to notice right away, when viewing the piece, that it is lacks the verbiage that has become Rev. Finster's trademark. This work has only a small bit of writing just above the boy's left foot. These words reveal to us the identity of the lad portrayed in the painting, and I quote now, exactly as it's written: "ELVIS-AT-3-IS-A ANGEL TO ME. BY HOWARD FINSTER FROM GOD TO YOU MAN OF VISIONS" Apparently the King holds an honored place in Finster's pantheon, as does Henry Ford, of whom Finster has also painted a series of portraits, depicting the auto magnate at the age of two-and-a-half. My understanding was that there is mentioned, in the Book of Revelations, a carriage with no horses; Finster ties Ford to this reference. At first, it might seem easy to dismiss Finster and his art as slightly goofy, but there's a charm and a sense of commitment that imbues his work and it is difficult to resist.

Paradise Garden is his public collection of found and created art. I suspect it is an ever-changing creation - an outdoor stroll through paintings (his own and others'), odd but engaging sculptures, collections of bits and pieces, odds and ends put together in an enticing way and many of his messages of love, hope and...well, oddness. It is quite a charming place, one that can hardly be described in words. I can only urge you to make a point to see it if you find yourself anywhere nearby. In fact, I've decided to make Paradise Garden the first recipient of the BRETTnews Highlight Attraction award, something I'll present to deserving roadside attractions. There's also a gallery on the premises; that's where I made my purchase. Finster's grandson was running things that day and told me that galleries in Atlanta sell the work for at least twice what I paid at the source, so to speak, and the price climbs even higher in New York and beyond, so bring a little spending cash.

Continue on the American Odyssey.
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