Gary Smith: Crisis of Faith (and Tim)

Visit to Nashville turns family into semi-stalkers

I spent the weekend stalking Tim McGraw and Faith Hill.

All right, so maybe I need to qualify that before burly men show up with restraining orders. For one thing, I wasn't, technically, stalking anyone. I was just driving the get-away car.

And the people who were actually doing the stalking, namely the Lovely Mrs. Smith, the Youngest Female Progeny and our Future Daughter-In-Law (henceforth known as the "Moe, Larry and Curly Detective Agency"), are not exactly what I would consider dangerous. At least not to anyone else.

I also have to mention that, as stalkers go, they're ... pretty bad. For one thing, they're easily distracted by pretty things and ice cream. And, for another, their tracking techniques leave a little to be desired.

Apparently, Step 1 for them is to drive by any and every large house in Franklin, Tenn., and wonder, without the slightest shred of evidence, "Do you think they live there?" Step 2 is to suppose Tim and Faith would be easy to spot in town, since they'd be riding matching unicorns and leaving a trail of glittering pixie dust behind them.

Step 3 is to look for them in every shop on Franklin's main street -- ironically named "Main Street." And just because they didn't find them didn't mean they didn't try.

Of course, we didn't just look for them in Franklin, which is a picturesque suburb of Nashville and is, supposedly, home to any and every country music star worth his or her (or, in Tim and Faith's case, his and her) blue eyes crying on a slow-moving train.

After being joined by our Oldest Male Progeny, we also looked for them on 12th Street, Broadway, the Vanderbilt campus and a whole lot more restaurants than you'd think possible during the four days we were in town for the opening of the Future Daughter-In-Law's sister's boutique.

Yes, we were there to be supportive. And eat the world's best biscuits and gravy. But mostly to be supportive. And stalk Tim and Faith.

Or, for that matter, any of the millions of celebrities we (as in "they") were sure would be wandering the streets of Nashville, just waiting to be recognized.

Now, I scoff. But it takes a pretty hardened soul who isn't at least a little intrigued by brushing up against the rich and famous (accent on "famous"), and living to tell about it, repeatedly, for the rest of his natural days.

There aren't many people who know me who aren't aware I once saw Robert Redford at Kahului Airport on Maui (great-looking linen slacks, pretty beat-up loafers. And yes, he is shorter than you'd think. Or maybe it was just because he was standing next to two volcano-sized Hawaiian body guards).

While in college, a convenience store near my apartment was, apparently, on Oklahoma Sooner football coach Barry Switzer's way home. So, at odd times of the night, I'd be there getting a microwave burrito, bungee cords and a deck of playing cards and he'd stop in to get a loaf of bread and a quart of motor oil. I mean, really, who needs motor oil or bread at 3 in the morning?

So while my brushes with celebrity were a tad more spontaneous (and that's not even counting the time I bumped into former NFL defensive back and CBS sportscaster Irv Cross while he was trying to get a Mickey Mouse-shaped ice cream bar at Disney World), they have confirmed an important fact to me.

Namely, that even the famous are just like the rest of us. They have to wait in baggage claim. They enjoy ice cream treats shaped like imaginary talking rodents. They buy odd things at strange hours. They ride matching unicorns (OK, maybe not that).

In short, they put on their pants one leg at a time, just like us. That they may be doing it at the Betty Ford Clinic is kind of beside the point.

We never found Tim and Faith. In fact, I don't think we actually saw any celebrities (though our Uber driver has just signed with Sony. Whatever that means. Something good, I think).

But we did have a wonderful time together, saw an interesting city and spun unreliable stories about what might actually happen if we did come across the McGraw-Hill's (wait ... I think that's something else) in the line at Hattie B's Hot Chicken.

Besides, of course, asking them if we should get the Super Hot. Because it is their town.

Commentary on 02/24/2017

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