Norman Rockwellville... or...?

FRANKLIN, TN

No wonder Miley was born in Franklin, Tennessee. It’s perfect.

In contrast to the rest of the South, which gave us seemingly endless days of stifling, steaming heat, Franklin offered us 77 degrees, low humidity and clear blue skies. Its picturesque downtown, bustling but not crowded, was lined with perfectly manicured trees. Everyone was smiling—even the panhandlers, although there weren’t any. Cute little churches were sprinkled about, and every little shop and café was delightful, unique and thriving. The place was so clean that you could lick the sidewalks (I can personally attest to this). Parking was free and plentiful.

Oh, and we learned that you can buy a coffee-book-table-worthy home on twenty bucolic acres for like fourteen dollars. I kid you not.

Everything was so idyllic that, frankly, Franklin was kind of creepy. Something must have been horribly amiss under the surface, as in Pleasantville, or Seahaven… or Stepford, where the wives were all made to become fawning and submissive (yuck—it gives me the shivers just thinking about it).

Curiously, my input was not solicited on this next move, but after we left downtown we found ourselves on a shopping excursion at a suburban mall. As I have an allergy to shopping, and I was hungry, I told Shana that while they shopped I was going to the food court for a “salad or something.” The “or something,” of course, was the key. Even though I’m a noted health and nutrition nut, I found myself at DQ ordering a Pecan Pie BlizzardTM, a low-quality but splendid concoction comprising “pecans, crispy pie crust pieces and roasted nutty caramel blended with creamy vanilla soft serve.” To avoid detection I dispatched this treat with all due haste, resulting in several excruciating, nearly debilitating brain freezes. On balance it was worth it.

Later, after dinner, we all went out to Ben & Jerry’s. I like vacations.