Nashville, Indiana

Day one of our road trip -- Toronto to Nashville, Indiana enroute to Illinois. It was a beautiful drive, but long at 12 hours, so we simply pushed through, stopping only near Lansing, Michigan for a picnic lunch.

Nashville is the major town in Brown County, a lush green hilly haven in the middle of corn and soybean country. We hit a pretty strong sun shower as we drove into town, and the fog rose up from the hollers in a magical way. Traffic was a little too tight on the windy road, and we a little too travel-fatigued, to stop and take photos.

Instead, we just pulled into our hotel, a nice little spot loosely named after the "Hoosier Group" of painters who made Brown County their home in the early twentieth century



After a quick supper of local specialities --fried tenderloin sandwich and a catfish sandwich, enlivened by a salad with actual fresh vegetables-- we went for a quick walk around town. There are a bunch of old historic buildings, including the bank (now a t-shirt shop).




This particular t-shirt guy seemed to be a real artist, as was the stained glass maker next to him, and a furniture maker nearby. But Nashville, the one-time artists' colony, seems filled to overflowing with stores that sell knickknacks made in China or India ... the same knickknacks, more or less, that you can buy on Queen Street in Toronto or Water Street in St. John's or Carnaby Street in London. Every store has a yard or a front porch stocked full, even when they're closed (as everything was on our walk) -- I guess there isn't a tsochke theft problem in Brown County.


We all have our fair share of this kind of "art," and some of it does have appeal, like this swinging sculpture of bluebirdish things:


But it makes you long for real artisan goods. One hint of what lay below the surface in Nashville came in the form of this cunning little rusted metal bat, hanging up with a buddy on a lamppost.


Head down a path and see what you might find.


A potter's yard.


And a stone mason's.


And then, head back to your hotel when genuinely crafted period furniture --and a Swedish TempurPedic mattress-- await you and your road-jostled bones.


And be thankful for art where you find it.