Oh Tennessee, boy did I have you wrong…

Having now put to bed any and all glamorously noir Witness Protection rumors that my suspicious name change and mysterious departure from San Francisco might well have occasioned, it’s time I address what may strike some of you as the greater mystery—how this former city girl fell head over heels for the small-town country charms of Friendsville, Tennessee.

To understand why this might come as a surprise to some (myself included), I’m afraid a confession of sorts is in order. Not surprisingly—this being a confession and all—it’s something I’m not proud of and which grieves me now to admit. But fess up to it I must, for a misperception as wrong-headed as mine demands nothing less than a bold-faced, front-page retraction. So let me begin by saying: “My name is Tess Anderson… and I’m a recovering Blue-State-Snobaholic.” (to any of my Tennessee friends reading this, I warned you it was some ugly stuff…)

Yes, eager as I was to return to the family nest for a spell, how much happier I thought I’d be if that nest were perched somewhere on the Upper East Side. That instead it was nestled amidst the foothills of rural Tennessee had me convinced this could never be anything more than a temporary move, a pleasant place to gather the thoughts and spend some quality time with the folks before embarking on another of my big-city, bright-lights adventures. For what kind of life could a thirty-something single girl possibly have in a place as far removed from the madding crowds as Friendsville, TN?

Turns out, quite a rich and rewarding one indeed. Yet in those final days back in San Francisco, when I’d pause amidst the packing to contemplate my life here, the visions I conjured resembled nothing so much as the outtakes of such Southern-skewering films as Religulous and Super-Size Me. In other words, my imaginings were penciled in with all the usual redneck and Bible-belt clichés. Consequently, when my thoughts turned in earnest to what lie ahead for me here in Tennessee, I was no better than Simon Cowell eyeing Susan Boyle for the first time. Not only did I presume to know what to expect, I was convinced it wasn’t for me, poised and all too ready to shout “next!” Yet just as that now famous Scottish songbird fast melted Simon’s heart, so has Tennessee won mine.

I confess it was the creature comforts that first seduced me. To name but a few:

• The opportunity to live in a 5,000 square foot house with a two-car garage, central vac, dishwasher, and washer & dryer.
• The freedom to crank up the stereo as loud as I want and warble along at the top of my lungs without fear of disturbing the neighbors.
• The old-fashioned luxury of nipping down to the stables anytime of day for a brisk and invigorating horseback ride
• The simple joy of stepping out into the garden every morning for a fresh-cut bouquet of lilies and lavender (estimated price at Whole Foods? $17.99. The price here? $0. The pleasure of picking them yourself? Priceless…)

Of course, I recognize that all of these delights can be found in the Bay Area, too. But do note I said “found” and not “afforded.” I mean, save for the in-home appliances I catalogue above, you’d need some serious Google millions to replicate the kind of gauzy pastoral setting I enjoy here in the environs of, say, Marin, Danville, or Atherton. Though to play fair, it’s not like I’m getting to enjoy where I live now for what it cost me to live in that rundown, appliance-challenged studio back in SF.

No, the improbably luxe amenities I now enjoy are but the spoils of a crime I committed after crossing the TN state line. Embezzlement? No, but you’re close. (it is, after all, a predominantly white-color offense, the minimum sentence of which is most often served in a kind of country-club style imprisonment…) Yes, you in the back…Bingo! That’s right, I committed that great crime against normality known as moving back in with Mom and Dad.

So as you can see, when it comes to weighing the merits of here vs. there, this whole living-with-the-folks thing does rather skew the data. That’s why, were you to ask me which place I like better, I’d have to beg the fifth. Ask me to muse on some of the differences, though, and I’m more than happy to bend your ear. Which I plan to do over the next few blog entries, should you wish to listen in. For the very plethora of polarities inherent in a move such as mine—from Blue State to Red, from big-city-life to a small-town country one, from a predominantly secular culture to a bright-eyed, unapologetically Christian one—demand reflection, don’t you think?

To that end, look for my next installment, “A Still Life in Mauve” in the next day or so. Here I’ll reflect not on Monet, as the title would suggest, but rather, the soft political pastel I’ve become since moving from Obama-lovin’ SF to Rushville, USA…..

Next Up: Why I Moved from San Francisco to Friendsville, TN…

[Cut now to the image in my mind’s eye, of hands feverishly raised, and my saying, “No, you heard me right. F-r-i-e-n-d-s-v-i-l-l-e, Tennessee. What? No, of course I didn’t just make that up. That’s what my town is really called! Yeah, I know, it is rather dear, isn’t it…?”]

Okay, so let me guess: whiplash anyone? I mean, for those of you whose address books I’ve made a scrawled-out mess of through the years and who learned early on to always note my latest address in pencil and not pen, were you to hold that “A” page up to the light and study the smudged palimpsest under Anderson, T., what you’d see would read something like this: Leningrad, Moscow, London, Vienna, Taipei, NYC, Washington, DC, Boston…

In other words, were this that section of the GRE where you’re asked to extrapolate the next logical item in a series, I think we can all agree that Friendsville, TN would not be the multiple choice answer you’d go with. And I have to say that, when it comes to tire-screeching, 180-degree lifestyle changes, this latest move has probably been the most dramatic of all. Which does rather prompt the question: why Friendsville?

Well, at the risk of sounding like one of those resignation-tendering Cabinet officials of the Bush era, my answer to that question is this: “I wanted to spend more time with my family.” But not in that “inside-the-beltway” euphemistic sense. No, as an only child who’d just gone through the wrenching loss of a grandmother, an extraordinary woman who was both second mother and best friend to me, I felt an overwhelming desire to come home. To live close once more to those two others I hold most dear in life, my mom and dad. That I’d have to turn my life upside-down to do so? So be it. For throughout all those moves and all those lonely “another-suitcase-in-another-hall” moments, my parents have always been the one anchoring constant in my life. So while I’ll never have a hometown to return to in the physical sense, I do have one in the emotional sense and that’s wherever my parents are. And since for the last several years that’s been on a lush rolling horse farm in Friendsville, TN, now you know what brought me here.

Kinda schmaltzy, I know, but there you have it. And I have to say, as someone for whom that Hallmark sentiment, “My parents by birth, my friends by choice,” has always rung true, this was a homecoming long overdue.

Why I Moved Without Saying Goodbye…

I suspect you can learn a lot about a person by how they bid a place and a chapter in their life goodbye. Or at least something of how that person feels about their impending move. To wit: are the farewells those of fireworks and fanfare, where every evening is given over to one last hoorah with this friend, that colleague, or another? Or is the leave-taking done “not with a bang, but a wimper?”

I suppose it’s because I moved around so much as a kid that I’ve always gone with the quiet exit. After all, I know all too well the price such a gypsy-knockabout existence exacts, and at what expense such adventures and new opportunities come. For no matter how heartfelt those cheery pledges to “stay in touch,” you’ll soon discover that the dual forces of time and distance are not to be gainsaid. Sadly, even the deepest of friendships erode when deprived the vital oxygen of conversations had day-to-day and face-to-face. Not true, you say! Social networking has changed all that! Maybe you’re right. But from where I sit, some 3,000 odd miles downriver from the headwaters of all your tweets, it’s hard not to feel a little left-out.

All of which is why, when life does send that moving truck my way, I’d sooner don a black veil than break out the bazookas and the party hats. Yes, I tend to mark these departures in life about as secretly and discretely as a single woman celebrating her 40^th birthday.

So if this is the first you’ve heard of my move, or you’d heard and wondered why you weren’t invited to the Bon Voyage party at the Lone Palm, now you know: there was no party. Why, not only was there no party, I didn’t so much as tweet about my move, either (surely the graver affront to my tech-savvy friends)! That’s right, when that last cardboard box was packed and sealed, I slipped out of San Francisco with all the stealth of a cat burglar and have been living in Friendsville, TN ever since…

New name, new state…and no, I’m not in Witness Protection

What better way to mark a new chapter in life than by launching a new blog! The name change alone seems occasion enough, my move from San Francisco to Friendsville more occasion-worthy still.

That said, since those two changes together do fairly scream, “Witness Protection” to those of you who know me as “Tara” and might have wondered at my sudden disappearance from the SF/Web 2.0 scene, something tells me I’ve got some explaining to do…

So what’s up with the whole Tara/Tess thing anyway?

Okay, so here’s the deal: for those of you who know me as “Tess,” my given name is actually “Tara.” For those of you who know me as “Tara,” you should know that about a year ago I started going by “Tess” instead. Why in the world did I do that?

Reason #1: George Bush Ruined my Name.

Huh? Now, before you Republican friends of mine go and take offense, this isn’t a political statement on my part. It’s a linguistic one. You see, when George Bush declared his “War on Terror” eight years ago, his flat Texan pronunciation of the word made it sound like he’d declared a war on me. Suddenly I couldn’t turn on the radio or the TV without hearing that “Tara was a grave threat to our nation” and how “We must marshal all our resources to stop Tara.” Worse yet, unlike his widely-mocked pronunciation of the word “nuclear,” his peculiar way of pronouncing “Terror” as “Tara” went mainstream.

You probably think I jest, but trust me, you wouldn’t like it if your name was turned overnight into a homophone of great evil!

Reason #2: “Did you say Pat Anderson?”

As if Reason #1 wasn’t incentive enough for me to draw another name from the hat, there was also the curious and befuddling phenomenon of “Pat”. You see, weird as I know this will sound, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve called someone and left a message, only to have them return my call with, “Hi, may I speak with Pat Anderson?” Again you say, “huh?” Tell me about it! “Sara” I could understand, even “Lara” or “Kara,” but “Pat?”

As for why this annoyed me, obviously, it’s not that there’s anything wrong with the name “Pat.” It’s just that, having so many people think that’s what I’d said left me feeling like I was completely unintelligible. So naturally, I reacted as any sane person would: I h-a-t-e-d them:-) All exaggeration aside, this was an awkward way to begin a conversation, and the dread of it hung over me every time I picked up the phone to call anyone but my parents and close friends. Given how much time my work has me on the phone, this was no petty annoyance. It was a vexingly persistent and frequent inconvenience.

Reason #3: The Quilt Monster

“You mean, there’s more?” Well, this one isn’t a reason so much as more fuel to the fire….

As anyone who’s ever googled themselves knows, no matter how unique your name may seem, there are sure to be lots of other people out there with that same name. No problem there. I mean, most of the time it’s immediately apparent who’s who, even though their names are identical. Unfortunately, this isn’t the case on Flickr, which I use, love and adore. And it’s only because everyone I know uses, loves and adores flickr, too, that I was distressed to discover the tag “taraanderson” being affixed to gobs and gobs of photos that had nothing to do with me. Ordinarily, this isn’t an issue, but since the photos in question were of inanimate objects, it would take you a few clicks to find out they weren’t mine….

So what were these photos of exactly that I found so monumentally objectionable? Quilts! I know, I know: you were expecting something more salacious. But no, they were just innocent ‘ole close-ups of fabric and stitching. And the problem with this would be….?

Well, a few quilt photos I could take, but there are literally hundreds of them. Oh great, I’m thinking, now everyone I know is going to think I’m some craft-happy spinster armed with a glue gun who spends far too much time and money at Michael’s when she’s not home minding her nine cats.

I rest my case.

[Psss: should the real “taraanderson” behind those photos ever read this, may I just say that your quilts are lovely and I’m sure your boyfriend is wonderful and your social life perfectly happening…].

Now for the cruel irony:

And so, after much deliberation, when I had the opportunity to start a new job in a new community last year, I picked a name I’d always loved–“Tess”– and, thought, why not?! All went swimmingly those first few months, I, giddy at the prospect of every phone call made as easy-to-understand “Tess,” my new acquaintances none the wiser of the change, and my friends virtually done teasing me about the change when….

Showtime went and announced the debut of a show about a woman with multi-personality disorder called—you guessed it—“The United States of Tara.” Just my luck. I mean, here I go and change my name, and now there’s a show that indirectly makes a mockery of a Tara who wants to go by any other name! Oh well, I’m still sticking by the change. So those who know me as Tess, carry on. And those who know me as Tara (Mom, Dad, Thor, Amy….you know who you are), I still answer to Tara!