Knoxville Tennessee Quotes

We are talking now of summer evenings in Knoxville Tennessee in the time that I lived there so successfully disguised to myself as a child.

Down we felt as up we grew, dancing our didn'ts and drinking our dids.

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Years later, a Jackson partisan (who wasn’t at Knoxville) said Jackson had praised the melodiousness of “Tennessee” as a word that had “as sweet a flavor on the tongue as hot corn-cakes and honey.

through any structure without detection by his prey. He was a flawless assassin. It was just before five local time when Steven settled into the plush leather seating of the first-class compartment. The Deutsche Bahn Intercity Express, or ICE, was a high-speed train connecting major cities across Germany with other major European destinations. The trip to Frankfurt would take about four hours, giving him time to spend some rare personal time with his team. Slash was the first to find him. The men shook hands and sat down. Typically, these two longtime friends would chest bump in a hearty bro-mance sort of way, but it would be out of place for Europe. “Hey, buddy,” said Steven. “Switzerland is our new home away from home.” “It appears so, although the terrain isn’t that different from our place in Tennessee,” said Slash. “I see lots of fishin’ and huntin’ opportunities out there.” Slash grew up on his parents’ farm atop the Cumberland Plateau of Tennessee about halfway between Nashville and Knoxville. His parents were retired and spent their days farming while raising ducks, rabbits and some livestock. While other kids spent their free time on PlayStation, Slash grew up in the woods, learning survival skills. During his time with the SEAL Teams, he earned a reputation as an expert in close-quarters combat, especially using a variety of knives—hence the nickname Slash. “Beats the heck out of the desert, doesn’t it?” asked Steven. After his service ended, Slash tried a few different security outfits like Blackwater, protecting the Saudi royal family or standing guard outside some safe house in Oman. “I’m not saying the desert won’t call us back someday, but I’ll take the Swiss cheese and German chocolate over shawarma and falafel every friggin’ day!” “Hell yeah,” said Slash. “When are you comin’ down for some ham and beans, along with some butter-soaked cornbread? My folks really wanna meet you.” “I need to, buddy,” replied Steven. “This summer will be nuts for me. Hey, when does deer hunting season open?” “Late September for crossbow and around Thanksgiving otherwise,” replied Slash. Before the guys could set a date, their partners Paul Hittle and Raymond Bower approached their seats. Hittle, code name Bugs, was a former medic with Army Special Forces who left the Green Berets for a well-paying job with DynCorp. DynCorp was a private

The derelict station, like most of the old downtown section, was fixed in a rigor mortis of past usefulness; shapes flitted among the shadows here and there but it couldn't be said the place was inhabited. The impression that people no longer wanted to live in this part of town was reinforced by the new tall buildings to the east: orthogonal Venusian World's Fair constructions, a giant mega-globe and the expensive hotels thrown up to host a transient population. A freeway loop on stilts cut across the city like the dreadful scar from a dangerous necessary operation. Knoxville had recently undergone some major surgery; its vital organs had been replaced by artificial replicas. It had been transformed into a Conference Centre, one of those places that depends for its prosperity on cartel-constructed hotels that guarantee a standard minimum-quality accommodation for businessmen siphoning off the wealth of other richer cities. Where local industry had declined the franchise commodity and service companies had moved in: Hilton, McDonald's, Texaco. If you had ever wondered how it was you could cross the United States without ever encountering the family hotel, the home-made hamburger or locally-brewed beer, in Knoxville, Tennessee, you can see the reason with your own eyes: the miracle of capitalism regenerating itself on its own corpse.

Riona,” I say slowly. “This is in Knoxville.” “I know,” she laughs. “I saw it when we went into town to get the horse stall mats.” “You bought a building . . . in Tennessee?” I know I sound like an idiot, but I can’t quite believe this. “Yes,

We are talking now of summer evenings in Knoxville, Tennessee, in the time that I lived there so successfully disguised to myself as a child.

These notoriously destructive White-on-Black race riots started en masse just one year after the end of the Civil War and continued until the beginning of the modern Civil Rights Movement. Some historians have claimed that there were anywhere from 250-300 race riots over this period, most of which have been conveniently forgotten about by the American academia and press. Over 25 race riots broke out between April and October 1919 alone, a six-month period poet James Weldon Johnson labeled the "Red Summer." Among the most deadly outbreaks were those in East St. Louis, Illinois (1917); Chester, Pennsylvania (1917); Philadelphia, Pennsylvania (1917); Houston, Texas (1917); Washington, D.C. (1919); Chicago, Illinois (1919); Omaha, Nebraska (1919); Charleston, South Carolina (1919), Longview, Texas (1919); Knoxville, Tennessee (1919); Elaine, Arkansas (1919); and Tulsa, Oklahoma (1921). Ward noted,   Although urban race riots in the United States between 1866-1951 were unique episodes rooted in the particular historic situation of each place, they shared certain characteristics. To begin with, the whites always prevailed, and the overwhelming majority of those who died and were wounded in all of these incidents were blacks. They also tended to break out in clusters during times of significant socio-economic, political, and demographic upheaval when racial demographics were altered and existing racial mores and boundaries challenged. Perhaps most importantly, the riots usually provoked defensive stances by members of the black communities who defended themselves and their families under attack. Seldom did the violence spill over into white neighborhoods.

As a dirt farm in the Tennessee mountains, this place was a ticket to starvation, but as a retirement community for the Knoxville country club set, it was a gold mine.

They closed the transient 5th Avenue Motel and now where will they go? They came from all over to stay for a night or a month or whatever they could afford, however they can afford it – and now it’s gone, broken windows boarded up, chain link fence surrounding it like it’s a dog with scurvy. The transient hotel drained pale, pissing in an empty ashtray.