Whatcha Gonna Do When They Come For You?
If I had been recently abducted by aliens, I would know for certain when I’d been safely returned to Inglis by the outbreak of looney tune logic floating around in the Inglis cesspool, re: the upcoming town election.
“Reason-Accountability” is Inglis code for “Don’t question what I say I do. Do it my way, or else. . . . . We will assassinate your character and run you out of our fine town.”
Commissioner Price recently released one of her epistles re: Attorney’s Bettin’s billing/crooked behavior, Mayor Kirkland’s transgressions, and really cool matters minus any substance regarding me, etc. etc.. She mirrored my blog by substituting Bob Webb’s name for someone who a long time ago shouted “shut up” several times in a commission meeting. She did the mirror thing more than once. Sally, create your little stage plays before you read my blog. Like all of her great observations and excuses for her ridiculous behavior, it is small time gibberish, built on big time fabrication and untruth. However, in the present state of Inglis public affairs, she is the poster child for what is acceptable.
Bettin was right when he asked her,”Did you ever think about the consequences, the potential legal costs of the recall petition, and the damage to the town, that you as a sitting commissioner has done by your actions?” Note: Paraphrased to save space. You can see Bettin’s response in full, along with other examples of the Gang of Five, mouth diarrhea, by going to The Patriotstoolbox.org
These days, when I think of Price, I imagine that when a little bit of truth falls out her mouth, it falls to the floor, turns into a fireball and bounces up and incinerates all the hair on her head.
All in all, the real “statement” regarding concerns for the future of the town, are clearly addressed by the actions of the Price, Monteverde,Gibson triumvirate, by avoiding the Candidate’s Forum this Saturday at Town Hall, from 2P to 4P. Not there? Won’t have to answer the tough questions.
Boudreaux Shares A Little Happiness
Boudreaux was now locally famous for his heirloom tomatoes. He sold them under an awning, on the sidewalk, right in front of the beauty salon. He experimented for years to get four varieties of the originals without historic manipulation in their gene pool. He was growing gnarly Brandywines and Big Rainbow yellows that weighed one to two pounds, and more. Boo called them sandwich tomatoes. He was right. We ate five to six a week from May through October going through three large jars of Duke’s mayonnaise at the same time. He also grew Tommy Toes, a high yield cherry tomato that made relish so good it gave you the shivers. Last, but not least, good ol’ Mortgage Lifters. Pretty fabulous when ripe, but the blue ribbon of green tomato relish, fried green , and pickled tomatoes and okra.
Of course, in my dreggy inability to match accomplishment and style, I was forced to take quantity. I went into pepper plant production. Yes, Habaneros, etc.. Obviously two pound tomatoes had much more curb appeal than hot pepper plants for a buck apiece. That is, unless your Spanish is conversational and you know a lot of Latinos in the first place.
Well, never underestimate the resiliency of necessity. I had a mother plant that was at least five years old. It was in a tree pot and when I moved it, it took a good hand truck and another person, to do so. I kept Conchita, in my dining room during the winter. I was given this plant by my brother, in mischief, and ner-do-well, Billy Dean. The pot, the abundance of rich soil, and the portability were the perfect environment for the four foot, high, pepper plant. I called Conchita’s fruit, Tobascos. They were the familiar small pepper that started out green, phased to yellow and finished with traditional red, with mucho caliente. Retrieving the seeds was a simple process. Split and dry the fruit in the sun. Put on rubber gloves and roll the dried pepper raisins between thumb and forefinger. Catch seeds in a tray. Store in dark cool place, and wait for spring. Don’t forget. Do not rub your eyes, or take a leak, without removing the rubber gloves!
When the pepper tree was three, Billy Dean, Boo, and I, put up 400 Tobasco plants, while aiding the demise of two bottles of Christian Brothers. They took nine days to make. We never lost one plant up to week seven, when it was time to sell. This was a hellava lot better than Sunflowers and easier, too. Boudreaux and Dean had only made money on them one year out of the last three.
Boudreaux sold the first hundred at his beauty salon tomato stand and quickly had orders for more. Billy Dean transplanted fifty started plants to a pepper patch behind his trailer, at the home farm, in Bamberg. He went in the pepper vinegar business, which did not have a very long life, but taught us the value of association, for good ideas, besides carousing. In subsequent years my Florida operation reached four thousand plants a season. Boo went out to Bamberg and planted ten, plus, acres in giant heirlooms. At the best of times he was gettin’ three dollars apiece for tomatoes that weighed over two pounds and he was selling over 1,500 of my varied pepper plants. I expanded my pepper operation and started growing flowers for U-Cut. Gladiolas were my favorites, and popular with my customers.
The pepper plants bought a lot of single malt scotch, some very good eats around Charleston, and opened the doors for some priceless good times. While Boo and I never went out without our women while married, once we gained single status we did everything we could think of, not to go out without at least one woman in tow. Once we realized that the lawyers had not emasculated us, regardless of how it felt in court, we also realized that we still had our senses of humor and several more years of real life, God willin’. Therefore, we made it standard operating procedure to clue every attractive female we met, into our mode of enjoyment. Good food, great wine and scotch, fabulous music and dance ‘til you drop. For the first time in my life I lost the fear of dying.
It came to pass that Billy Dean’s daddy, Horace Allen, (pronounced in Bamberg County as “Horse Allen”) became interested in what this trio of no counts was up to for three years runnin’. Obviously, there was money in their secret, as far as he could tell. So, one night we were sitting around the fire pit and got to talkin’ about retail. These folks were sixth generation farmers and they didn’t sell anything out the front door except at the church bake sale.
Horace Allen had seven acres across the road from the home place, that ran along the Bamberg highway for over a thousand feet. Boo, started talkin’ to the old man about how ideal that frontage would be for sellin’ cut flowers. There was an open equipment shed roof up there that had electricity and a nice turn off with plenty of parking room on thick bahia. Boo, talked about a backdrop of sunflowers, four, thousand foot rows of glads next to the road shoulder and six different varieties of house flowers suitable for cut bouquets. He even threw in two long rows of Clemson okra, so people could take a breather from bein’ stooped over with the flowers to just walkin’ and breakin’ okra to their heart’s content. When the season got well under way, the Tuesday chilren’, who lived on the farm in a sharecropper’s cottage, could break okra every day for 20 pounds worth between them, and Dean could be sellin’ that by-product, too.
Boudreaux was doin’ some of his finest work with Dean’s dad. It was on a par with charming females, and handsome Boudreaux had no equal in that regard.
Boo reeled Horace Allen in, “The place is easy to find. It’s off the interstate, just over an hour from Columbia, up north, or Augusta out west where real money lives.”
“If it ain’t got hooves, or grows in a shuck, I got no idea how hard this is s’posed to be.” Horace Allen had his arms spread out, palms up. A gesture of genuine curiosity.
“That’s the beauty of this idea,” Boo sighed. “Even that simpleton baby boy of yours can cultivate flower rows and figure walkin’ room between. He’s seen Alce’s place more than once. Gladiolas are bulb plants and when cold weather comes we’ll furrow over the bulbs, and if we get lucky we’ll get the flowers the following year without havin’ to plant again. The rest we can grow from seed or we can get “starts” and have an old fashioned family plantin’ party.”
“Alright, how much money do I have to put up?”
“Not a dime. We’ll pay rent based on sales. We’ll need to use the smaller tractor, and we’ll need tools, which is nothing new.”
“Soundin’ better every minute. Too, good to be true?”
“Not yet. But . . . I want you to think about this for a minute before money dampens the enthusiasm for this project. You can ride over to the field anytime people call or just ring the bell. Customers will be mostly women. We’ll advertise in the Market Bulletin and put up redneck signage everywhere. We can run announcements for free in the papers and carloads of women folk will come out, especially on the weekends, when one or more of us will be up here to help.”
“So far, so good.”
“Now, Horace Allen think about this. You ride over to the flowers and in the field is more than two dozen women, working diligently at clippin’ flower buds with just the right stems. Got that?”
“I got it!”
“Now go back there one more time, and envision this. At any given moment, more than a dozen of those gals will be bent over at the waist workin’ blooms. Odds are, half of those will be facin’ the right way. This picture, will change continuously, and so will the variety of the female posteriors.”
“Ohhhhhh, now I got it,” Horace Allen had a big contemplative smile on his face. “I don’t reckon money’s a problem.” He patted Boo on the back. Most of the time when he did this it was a cuff to the back of the head. Guess he was lovin’ us a little more today.
“One last thing, Mr Horace. You can’t be hanging out over there all day. Miss Mildred will catch on quick if you do. Just pace you self, okay?’
He answered with a thumbs up, still grinning like a hound with a mouth full of sand spurs.
Spring came soon enough and so did the flowers. Billie Dean had doctored the ground with fertilizer and the plants jumped out of the earth overnight. The first weekend, I got to the farm Saturday afternoon. When I drove up Billy Dean was helping customers and smack dab in the middle of the flower farm, Horace Allen’s truck was parked. On top of the dog box, in the back of the truck, sat the old man on a swivel seat. You could see the grin on his face from a hundred yards. There were fifty women workin’ the flowers. The okra was eight feet tall and that strip of green looked just like a quarter mile long marijuana patch.
Horace Allen drove up to the stand when he saw me. “Well, Sir, I reckon this worked out even better than we thought it could.”
“My goodness, it sure as hell did! Who’d of thought? I’ve got a terrible headache, though.”
“Horace Allen, you got to pace yourself. You’ve got a Tost-trone reaction. Here take a BC and don’t go out there and stay so long.”