Where Davy Was Born, Where Meriwether Died

Because Bank of America apparently doesn't consider Alabama a part of the Union, last week I drove to Tennessee to the nearest BofA ATM to deposit my first check. Lawrenceburg, Tenn., is proud of its most famous citizen, Davy Crockett, and erected a statue in his honor in the middle of its historic downtown. Did you know he was almost 50 when he died at the Battle of the Alamo? That's impressive.

What's not impressive is how the monument put the name Alamo in quote marks. Like it's a hypothetical? Really, Tennessee? Just because he left your lame-ass state to go and fight for mine doesn't mean you should hold a grudge.

For some reason, I was the only person taking pictures of Davy's likeness in the middle of the town square at 5 p.m. that Thursday. Cars passed by me and Davy, like we didn't even matter. Kids these days. No respect for history.

Now that I was in a different state and had succeeded in depositing my check so I could pay bills, I decided to keep exploring the Volunteer State. About 30 miles west you can reach part of the Natchez Trace Parkway, a 444-mile road that "commemorates an ancient trail that connected southern portions of the Mississippi River, through Alabama, to salt licks in today's central Tennessee." More importantly, the closest landmark on the Trace to me is the resting place of Meriwether Lewis, oh he of Lewis and Clark fame. He killed himself on the Trace in 1809, and I'm pretty sure he's hung out in central Tennessee since.

I want someone to erect a half-built smokestack to commemorate my life when I die, whether my demise is tragic or not. His memorial actually looks like something I've seen outside of Don Morris on ACU's campus. Perhaps the building's namesake is buried there?

One other car was at the memorial site when I arrived, but left shortly after. Again -- I was the only one stopping to pay my respects to a man influential in this nation's Manifest Destiny or whatever. Kids!

Lewis shot himself in a place called Grinder House, the remains of which can be seen on the site -- a small outline of stones shaped like a square. What a cramped place to die. Near that is a cabin -- likely not historic, just built to look that way. Even at 6 p.m. in broad daylight, the whole "deserted cabin in the middle of the woods" thing didn't instill comfort in this tourist. Neither did the creaking woods surrounding the memorial site. Or the "Pioneer Cemetery" a few feet away that is home to various members of the Higgin and Spears families.

The cabin has two doors -- one locked, one open, its screen door inviting visitors in. Or scaring them away, take your pick. As I opened the screen door, I stopped for at least 10 seconds, debating whether to go in. I said "Hello?" to the empty room filled with eight-grade history project-worthy bulletin boards detailing Lewis's life. Terrified adventurers can sign the guest book or take a seat on the single folding chair against the wall. But buckos, I watch "Lost." What do you bet that chair was already occupied? Eh? I walked around the room for another 10 seconds, signed the guest book ("Rest in peace, Lewis") and then quickly ran out. Ran.

Standing outside, I noticed a panel in one of the cabin's windows was broken -- a window on the room behind the door that was locked. I started walking up to it, but quickly backed away at the thought of an eye appearing from the dark. Again, thanks, "Lost."

I took more photos of the area, all the while narrating the experience, sometimes aloud, because that's what I do. The ghosts probably appreciated the commentary.

I grabbed a few Natchez Trace maps and hit the road, back to Alabama to tell of my excursion.

My friend, who loves to watch documentaries and tell me all about them, told me Lewis's life story a few months ago, calling him one of the nation's most misunderstood manic depressives. Sorry you were born before the days of Prozac, Lewis. Rest in peace.