The Vandy-Kentucky game time has been set for 11:00 am. That is the same time as the 2005 UT game and might be just as cold depending on how we decide to celebrate.
That raises the question: who has the satellite radio?
Greg brought one in the past but he is flying in from Vancouver so we don't expect him to bring one and everybody knows Canadian satellites orbit the opposite direction.
Josh delivered one by jon boat last Fall with mixed results.
Rob probably doesn't want to bring his in case Auburn actually loses to New Mexico State.
So in spite of all this technology should we just invest in an AM radio? Vanderbilt broadcasts moved to WLAC 1510 AM this year which has a signal that "allows WLAC to reach the entire southeastern United States." But that may only be at night:
"In 1942, the station boosted its power to 50,000 watts, becoming the second clear-channel station in Tennessee behind WSM. Its daytime signal is somewhat weaker than that of WSM, whose daytime signal reaches parts of five states. For instance, close-in suburbs like Murfeesboro only get a grade B signal. However, its nighttime signal reaches parts of 28 states and three Canadian provinces."
Our gravel bar will be 38.7 miles as the crow flies from the WLAC tower on Music Row and looks like roughly the same distance to the southwest as Murfreesboro is to the southeast.
An AM radio will also get other local stuff that we can't get on satellite, like weather reports. Although weather and a Vanderbilt score might be the last things we want to hear.
Having slept heavily, I woke early and lay there unwilling to slide out into the cold air beyond the quilts. At six thirty Old Man Willett came in and switched on the light. He was wearing flap-backed long underwear and slippers and seemed to be dancing a little with contained emotion.
He said: "You're a blowed Jew!"
The pup started barking without showing himself from under the blanket I'd folded over him on the floor. "Why?" I said.
"Hit's a-snowin'!" the old man cackled, and gave a caper, and disappeared.
Rolling up, I looked at the window and sure enough, hit was.
Big wet white globs were whirling out of the half-darkness and flattening themselves against the glass and sliding down to stack up against the partition moldings.
I got up and dressed and went out to the kitchen, where the old man was patting out biscuit dough and the radio, full-blast loud, was gloating over the fact that the weather was in a hell of a shape and likely to stay that way. I sipped coffee and listened and looked out the window at the snow-dimmed bulk of the log house, and the old man laughed every time he glanced my direction.
"November ain't so bad for a canoe trip," he said, misquoting words of mine from the afternoon before. "November's the nicest month they is, in Texiss."
Goodbye to a River, p. 100.