CUMBERLAND CANTEEN
The day rose warm and bright with a sigh of comfort and a hint of wind, carried along blissful thoughts moving across my mind like a symphony toward a day of rest and rejuvenation. I stepped foot on stone for a great adventure to a restaurant I had never been before. I began traveling down long country roads to be by the water and indulge my senses in some culinary delights. Then suddenly, there it was. A huge American Indian sign guiding me to turn down Cherokee Road. As I made my way down the street, houses were just delightful. They looked brand new and were brick-faced set in deep, luxurious red tones. The trees and bushes were well manicured and bloomed with white flowers. It was a lovely contrast to the depths of red lining the passing grasses.
I bared alongside the road which was turning now from street texture to gravel to a bit sandier. A collection of boats were lined up and I got a scent of water nestled somewhere nearby. I felt excited! I thought, “Wow! It’s so close to the water!” As I continued a slow approach forward, the energy seemed to change. It shifted from a sense of lightness and wonder to a sense of creeping doom. I looked to the left and saw a beat up, old motel/rent a room type that had an air of fright. A man sat on the stoop with a menacing glare dancing in his eyes. He was leaning forward on his knees, smoking a cigarette and staring straight into my soul.
Moving onward and just straight ahead there it was, a second sign. Cumberland Canteen hung by the necks of nails. The sign seemed to whisper creaking sounds, moving back and forth by an unseen presence. It swayed with purpose against a backdrop of paint dripping downward off the building as if the structure itself was being held captive. The air was thick and the outside light had been extinguished, not by the slow death of day but by suffocated souls that walked this desolate land. This was a burial ground of many things that weren’t good. I knew, if I stepped out of the car, it would be the last step I ever took. So, I turned the car around and headed back the way I came in. I thought to myself, moving full circle never felt so complete.
- Tiny Poet, Cumberland Canteen, 7.19.2024
I bared alongside the road which was turning now from street texture to gravel to a bit sandier. A collection of boats were lined up and I got a scent of water nestled somewhere nearby. I felt excited! I thought, “Wow! It’s so close to the water!” As I continued a slow approach forward, the energy seemed to change. It shifted from a sense of lightness and wonder to a sense of creeping doom. I looked to the left and saw a beat up, old motel/rent a room type that had an air of fright. A man sat on the stoop with a menacing glare dancing in his eyes. He was leaning forward on his knees, smoking a cigarette and staring straight into my soul.
Moving onward and just straight ahead there it was, a second sign. Cumberland Canteen hung by the necks of nails. The sign seemed to whisper creaking sounds, moving back and forth by an unseen presence. It swayed with purpose against a backdrop of paint dripping downward off the building as if the structure itself was being held captive. The air was thick and the outside light had been extinguished, not by the slow death of day but by suffocated souls that walked this desolate land. This was a burial ground of many things that weren’t good. I knew, if I stepped out of the car, it would be the last step I ever took. So, I turned the car around and headed back the way I came in. I thought to myself, moving full circle never felt so complete.
- Tiny Poet, Cumberland Canteen, 7.19.2024
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