The Longest Yard

At first, the World's Longest Yard Sale seems like one big yard sale rather than a connect-the-yards picture, but then come patches of grassland devoid of sellers. Usually, when one yard is full of goods for sale, the neighboring yards will be, as well. But when residential areas open up to fields of crops awaiting harvest, the only things available for consumption are the road's pastoral views.

In agricultural areas, cattle graze in valleys, and rock outcroppings stand watch over fields of corn and burley tobacco. Metal rods sit where locust fence posts have finally given way to rot. Hollow, whitewashed gourds hang in rows, awaiting the birds for which they were crafted into homes. When two-lane roads widen for the business sections of towns, vendors leave little space on the curb. Sale items seem to cover all the grassy patches in the municipalities along our path. Sometimes local churches offer free refreshments, and occasionally they'll run a sale of their own, but they almost always offer sale-related messages on backlit signs. One of these signs advises, "For where your treasure is, there your heart will also be."

The stretches of road that are the most congested with commerce have vendors lined up as far as the eye can see. Folding tables, tents and makeshift booths of sawhorses and plywood can seemingly transform entire towns into giant flea markets.

You can learn a lot about people, families, communities by what they choose to sell. Here, along U.S. 127, it's as if houses have been turned upside down and shaken, like purses being emptied. You can tell, house by house, what sort of decorations people have surrounded themselves with over the years, and what sort of hobbies they've explored. There are art deco lamps, aluminum Christmas trees, Aerosmith posters and tasteful vintage botanical prints. There are discarded tennis rackets, archery bows and skateboards with hot-pink wheels. Here, you can even learn a stranger's shoe size without it seeming like an invasion of privacy. During this sale, each yard becomes a temporary museum of personal artifacts.

The shared agrarian history of this part of the country is evident in the yard-after-yard offerings of sky-blue Mason jars, decrepit hay thrashers and rustic tools. I imagine the Mason jars feeding family after family with homegrown vegetables stored away to nourish through the winter, the hand tools building house after house along our path.

As the afternoon winds down, we begin to worry that the traveling couple we met at the church giving away zucchini brownies, inspired by an unexpectedly large crop of squash, was right to tell us that we'd be lucky to find shelter within 30 miles of the sale route. The few places to stay along the rural

passageway are most often booked in advance, but we hope for the best. Our camping gear is stowed in the back of the truck cab, but I don't think I could sleep outdoors in this deep summer heat. Concerned about making arrangements, we agree not to stop again until we reach a town, but it is hard. We rubberneck at every sign, every cluster of goods spread under shade trees. There's no telling what we're passing by. It feels as though we're skimming through a book. We'll get to the end, but we're sacrificing parts of the story.

In Liberty, Ky., Matt and I are relieved to see a motel just off the road. We don't yet know it, but the Royal Inn Express is the only motel in town and our only hope of having a place to sleep tonight. The swimming pool out front is disappointingly dry, and the motel's rate has been inflated $20 per night because of its proximity to the sale route.

"I have two cancellations tonight," the man at the counter says when we inquire about vacancies. "That's the only reason I have any room left." The room in question has shag carpet that looks as dirty as my sandaled feet, now the color of red clay dust, and a dormant air-conditioning unit held in place by metallic insulator tape.

The motel employee instructs, as if he's not sure of the answer, "Go ahead, turn it on, and see if it works."

Matt turns the plastic knob and puts the backside of his hand up to the vents. He nods to let me know that the air is, indeed, cool. "Sold," we say, exhausted.

We get off to an early start the next morning -- six o'clock. In Jamestown, Ky., U.S. 127 curves through sandstone cliffs and over river gorges bordered by cathedrals of kudzu. Around lunchtime, the Forbus General Store appears in Fentress County, Tenn., as if an oasis of country cooking in the middle of an otherwise establishment-free zone. We get plates of barbecued chicken from a cast iron cooker just outside the store. The chicken comes with baked beans and coleslaw, and we add tiny pecan pies and Coca-Colas in glass bottles. Matt and I join a host of others, locals and travelers alike, under a tent. The men across the table from us share their trials of finding a place to sleep the night before. They'd resigned themselves to sleeping under the stars until someone offered to rent them a room in their house. One of the men, deeply tanned and wrinkled, took a swig of Coca-Cola before saying, "They told us they'd serve us biscuits and gravy in the morning, and I thought they were kidding, but there they were with breakfast when we woke up. Turns out they might be headed down to our part of Georgia soon, and they might come stay with us."