"Sages are everywhere. Many in the cemetary. Peace!"
To My Local Fans: Several of you have been nice enough to contact me, with your concerns, in regard to the recent issue of the Bottom Feeder Gazette. I appreciate your thoughts.
For the last few days I have been reflecting on ageing and how that inevitability bestows certain conditions on you in the process. The maladies and the short comings speak for themselves. However, there are some good things - - - some gooder than others. After the long, but hasty, journey to seniority, most of us still skirting senility have become natural sages. Some sages I know can spend thirty five minutes describing how to take the bus to the mall. While others have life experiences that weep important facts. Erudition on the other hand is an option. Most of the time true sages find themselves in the company of fellow sages of the genuine order. The problem with this social conundrum is that if you’re a sage your head is full of experience and bright accumulations already. Therefore, when a fellow sage holds forth the information proffered goes in one ear and slides into the overflow and out the other.
Now, you would think that the younger generations would be gathering regularly at the collective feet of sagedom. However, they don’t even pretend to do that unless there are credits for attending, or someone they want to be BFF’s with, or tweet pals, are going, too. You know, the handing down of hard won knowledge by word of mouth, began its march to extinction with the invention of the Philco Predicta TV set.
The nice thing about being a sage is reflection. When you are thinking about a problem, reminiscing, or even day dreaming, it is seldom boring. Plus, there are some great revelations floating around in that cerebral stew. So, let me share a captured thought with you, this fine day.
Simply put, in reference to the above. When an individual is doing such a great job of revealing their true selves to the world, why waste valuable energy engaging, when that person is doing perfectly well depicting what they’re about? As this Sage says:
The Rednak Chronicles Chapter 13
Law! The Lake’s Gone Dry!
Starting in the summer of 1954 the water levels began to drop in Orange and Lochloosa Lakes. The first year about a foot. The next year about three feet. By the beginning of 1956 you couldn’t get out of Cross Creek into Orange unless you walked. You could push a boat from the creek into Lochloosa, on the east, because that lake was deeper and the water flow from it helped keep Orange afloat when water conditions were normal. It turned out that three sink holes had opened on the Orange Lake side and water was draining into the underwater caverns below. There had been drought conditions since 1953 when the average annual rainfall of over sixty inches had dried up.
On August 11, 1956, the Geodetic Survey recorded the water level in Orange Lake at 50 feet, 6 inches above mean sea level. All that was left water wise was a twenty foot wide trickle of creek water from River Stix, on the north, flowing down the middle of the remaining Orange Lake prairie.
The renowned outdoor writer, Horace Carter, wrote about the two lakes in his book Creatures and Chronicles From Cross Creek. The huge caverns that carried all that subterranean water had receded enough that the tops of the caverns had dried out. That layer of dirt between the caverns and the surface of the Earth is known as Fuller’s Earth. According to Carter, when it begins to dry, large fissures develop and gaping holes can cave in, sending whatever is above crashing into the abyss.
“When these holes opened in the bottom of Orange Lake, it was like pulling a bath tub plug and the water disappeared,” Carter wrote. Chet Crosby of Island Grove told Carter that he had a fourteen foot cypress boat that broke loose from its mooring as the lake water rushed out. The boat was sucked into one of the sink holes.
Crosby said, “I stood on the brink of that hole, like you might peek into the mouth of a volcano, and could see my boat way down in that cavern, lodged on some rocks that jutted out into the opening. I expected that to be the end of it, but miraculously, I eventually recovered it and still have it.”
Carter tells that some of the fish camp owners, with the help of other locals, burned the Cross Creek bed three years in a row because the tangle of brush and vines was so bad. Plus, the dry creek bed had become a haven for rodents and snakes. All of the fish camp owners were practically out of business . The level of water dropped four feet in Lochloosa but the fishing continued to be okay.
Then the summer of 1956 came. My friends and I were preparing to start our first and second years in high school. Word filtered down through the grapevine that Orange Lake was down to a five acre pool and was full of trapped fish, just floppin’ around in the shallows waiting to be taken.
A bunch of my contemporaries and I piled into the jalopy of the week, meaning the one of us who’s junker was running at the time. We headed down to McIntosh and turned onto the dirt sawmill road that was the short cut to Cross Creek from U.S. 441. This track crossed the River Styx on a wood bridge. Just before the bridge, to the south, was a bay that during the rainy season sometimes flooded over the road. Looking out, the surface of the mud bog of a pool, was electric with activity and splashing. On the high mud spots stood buzzards and pond birds gourging on the mass of marooned animal life in the shallows. Immediately over their heads clamored gulls with a few terns mixed in. And above them riding the hot updrafts of the wetland stench were thousands of vultures - - buzzards, common and turkey vultures with the telltale red heads - - - Nature‘s garbage corps.
You could hear voices bouncing back and forth on the breeze crossing the wetland. The high pitched cacophony of women and children and the deeper tones of male laughter. Slashing, smacking the water, and the occasional “Whoop!”
We drove on down to the Indigo’s cabin on the bank of River Styx Creek. It was about four hundred yards north of the road. If you didn’t know it was there - - you wouldn’t know it was there. This was the home of three surviving generations whose run-a-way slave great grandparents had settled here in 1834. They had hidden out and squatted on the swampland, but it was the family’s now by process of adverse possession long ago accomplished. The original cypress log cabin still had a dirt floor and clapboard window opening covers. There was no electricity and no running water. The water ran by about fifty feet to the east as the creek found it’s way from Payne’s Prairie to Orange Lake.
We visited with Sable Indigo as he cleaned fish and turtles, his bounty from the natural disaster down the road. Sable was the family patriarch now. His father’s father had escaped to this place more than a hundred twenty years earlier. He seemed pleased with the provident windfall but confused over the consequence of this strange turn of events. He offered us some potato sacks and a large basket and we returned to the mud bay.
It took about thirty minutes for the three of us to wade out through the waist deep, stinking, syrup of watery mud joining what seemed like a thousand other fools who were splashing and thrashing the water’s surface as they attempted to catch the mud encrusted fish, stuff them into sacks and peach baskets, and then founder their way to dry land with the prize.
Towards the lake side of this pool about forty people with three john boats were trying to pull a seine net in about three feet of water. They appeared to be having success as they struggled to catch largemouth bass of huge proportions. The fish were struggling to get air in the roiled up, muddy water and they were easy to spot as they gulped like gold fish at the water’s surface.
A man down from us said that they had captured more than three hundred bass weighing over ten pounds since the day before. They were taking them to Cross Creek and releasing them into Lochloosa Lake. In the weeks afterwards it was reported that the Game and Fish people, with their volunteers, had moved many fish, among them a number of bass near fifteen pounds and one over seventeen pounds. It stands to reason that probably a few of those fish grew to world record size but, no world records have been caught since the big natural draw down.
Many ideas on how to plug the sink holes were floated among experts and shade tree philosophers alike. A dredge was brought in and car bodies were barged out to the sink holes and dumped in. Over eighty car bodies, two school buses, and tons of appliances, junk, dirt, sawdust and eventually cement went into the sink holes. Finally rains came in the winter - - torrential rains long overdue. And the water began to rise again.
By Spring a new problem made its presence known. Hydrilla began to emerge but this spurred the bass spawn and bass angling results soon climbed to levels no one thought they’d see again.
# # # #
1. A retainer dam was built at the south end of Orange Lake during the mid-sixties, at the point in Orange Creek where the Black Sink Swamp began.
2. In 1969 it rained so long and hard that water was over two feet above the retaining dam at Black Sink/Orange Creek.
3. Then in 1975 another drought set upon Orange/Lochloosa and for two years the lakes began to recede again - - Many thought another sink hole had opened.
4. When this natural draw-down began to subside a new problem emerged. Hydrilla bloomed dramatically across the lake. Machines were brought in and at one point in 1977 only 1,000 acres of the 13,000 acre lake could be fished. But, that bad time was corrected when the rains returned, the lake recharged and the influx of fresh water plus low temperatures knocked back the hydrilla.
You can find my book available on Amazon. Also in Kindle format for $1.99. Boudreaux says, "Cool Beans."
How Do You Say, Whipped Ass, Nicely?
I love the Lord. He has an obvious sense of humor and of course, a tenacity unmeasurable. I never realized how indulgent God really was, until I came to know that I belonged to him, by His choice, and not the other way around. Stating the obvious, even God certainly would have to have an enormous capacity for things humorous, to be foolin’ around with the likes of me, for years, before I caught on. To this point in time, especially, if I am not quiet and patient, he allows me the indulgence of doubt and the subsequent torture fanned by the resignation attached to same. This is a repetitive lesson that I just can’t seem to muster the faculty for.
I started this explanation to demonstrate my base feelings about the enormity of the Town of Inglis elections this past Tuesday, March 17.
In the end game, the good trounced the evil by 60% of the votes cast. The extreme, pathological liar, whose behavior was her undoing, flip flops from the lie of the day to the lying intention. She is now, no longer relevant. The Gang of Five leader who couldn’t hide his past or his sinister intentions, is no longer relevant. The recall petition champion will be inducted into the Gang of Five hall of fame and gain added recognition for her debut as a defendant. In that case there is a lottery. Who will throw who, under the bus, first? At issue? Well over $35,000 in legal fees.
Lastly, I’d like to note that the great pretender posted a showing that only he is capable of. He racked up 25 votes - - - less than 3% percent of the total votes cast, which ,by the way, in a popularity poll would have been the margin of error. I reckon, the next time we see him, he will be working for the CIA. Or in the astronaut program.
The Rednak Chronicles, Chapter 5
Haints & Cow Catchers
From time to time Milo and Joe Pritchard hunted cows together. They had discovered a number of animals in the pine flat land, around Cedar Key, and north. These cows were descended from the Spanish cows brought by the early explorers from Spain that had fanned out across north Florida, west to the Mississippi River, in the late 15th and 16th Centuries. The Gulf Coast cows were known as “Piney woods” cows and were a little larger and more prolific than the Cracker cows found around Milo’s Sink and most of Central Florida.
The Spaniards had deliberately turned the hardy cows loose figuring that they would provide a good food source in the years to come. The scrub cows did, in fact, survive well and adapt to the harsh conditions of the Southeast. They were almost impervious to the clouds of mosquitoes and adapted to the thick brush and wooded tangle of sub-tropical Florida well. They seldom got larger than 900 pounds and both sexes were horned. They had roamed the north half of Florida out to the near coastal reaches of eastern Louisiana for over 300 years.
On one of their expeditions, the first group of cows they encountered were almost too easy to catch. They cleared brush and created a quick enclosure from the branches and a tangle of weeds and vines and made sure that the “corral” included the small muddy runoff from a nearby cypress head. Milo had gator fat in a small tin that would repel mosquitoes but it also would repel humans it was so rank, so he used it sparingly.
They would normally try to rope one or two cows and drag them along slowly to the enclosure. Others that were part of the wild herd group would generally follow blindly, encouraged from the rear by the snap of a cracker whip and a little verbal rousting. In this instance however, roping and whip popping turned out to be totally un-necessary.
When Joe on his mule pony and Milo on the giant draught horse were in position, a sudden braying rang out from the underbrush and out popped a very large goat with a small burro on its heels. The goat went right to Island Boy. Pritchard, fumbled around in his saddlebag and found a piece of stale biscuit wrapped in wax paper. He showed it to the goat, which in turn took the crumbling biscuit and the wax paper and began chewing away. The crumbs didn’t hit the ground good before the little jackass was on top of them licking and snorting softly for the scraps. These two were pets, not wild animals. During this brief encounter the cows didn’t run or shy. They seemed to just move enough to stay in the immediate proximity of the two barn yard characters. Island Boy tossed a short lanyard over the goat’s head and the goat in turn fell in behind him as if they’d been friends forever. Whatever step the goat took the burro followed in unison. The seven cows shambled along too, and Milo, watching, couldn’t stop chuckling at the unlikely scene.
Once all the four legged critters were safely enclosed Milo rode off and a few minutes later a gunshot reported that dinner had been found.
The next morning as the two men finished preparing their mounts and feeding the livestock a little grain, the goat, in a flash of reddish brown and white had jumped out of the brush pen like a whitetail over a tree fall. She obviously intended to join the cow hunt. As the two strange looking cow catchers ambled away the goat skipped and tripped playfully along behind them. The burro brayed out a trumpeting farewell, ending with hiccups of donkey laughter. Two of the cows mooed in agreement.
Milo and Island Boy had already discussed what to do with the goat and both agreed that there wasn’t much in their power they could do but shoot her, and they had no intention of doing that. They’d just let her decide what she wanted to do until she changed their minds, if at all. Two men and a goat was just a little bit stranger than three men and a passel of dogs that didn’t listen. So, off they went.
Turned out the goat was better and quieter than any catch dog and apparently spoke brush cattle real good. The goat would flap her ears then swing in the direction of what she was listening to and point the stray cows long before the men would hear them crashing around in the palmettos. Once they got within sight, the goat would bounce like a deer and come alongside the scraggly cows as if to whisper in their ears. The cows would immediately calm and soon other stragglers of the herd group would materialize out of the scrub and moo quietly as they approached. This was a cow catcher’s dream. No torn up, briar cut, arms, legs, and horse hide. No sweat, little rope work and no catch fight. They had been given a genuine, cattle pied piper. . . . “A Judas goat sho ’nuff!”
Every time they found cows and started back to the jungle corral, off in the distance the burro would bugle and the goat would bleat a muted salute back. Milo told Joe he thought they might be haints, good spirits so far, but a little scary and mysterious with their behavior, never-the less.
As Southern tradition had it, Milo had the ceiling of the porch on his house painted haint blue to ward off evil spirits. So, Joe suggested that when they got home, Milo lure the goat onto the porch with a carrot and if she wouldn’t come they’d know for sure. Well, they got home and the Judas goat remained the same independent, free spirit, wanting nothing to do with pen nor barn. The goat a nanny, found a pile of leaves under a big sweet gum and bedded right down. The jackass on the other hand, actually insisted on being inside the small barn. Over the next week he just came and went as he pleased. He took about ten minutes to figure out how to push up the barn door latch and ease open the door. Once he accomplished this, as he did whenever he did something unexpected, he brayed like a fog horn in a self-aggrandizing cacophony, which in turn was joined in chorus by cows, whinnying horses, chickens and geese from down the road.
The goat settled in and became friendly with Milo’s wife, boys and dogs. The family called her Judy for short and Liz made sure she got the trimmings from the vegetables and potato skins. Day after day, she ambled around the homestead and slept a lot in the shade. She kept the weeds and briar vines cropped down around the house and along the fence rows. And when a cow got loose and wandered down to the river or off into the woods she and her braying catch partner would be off to shepherd home the wanderer, noisily announcing their accomplishment as they walked, herded, and trotted zigzag, happily bleating and braying, back into the yard.
Then one day she disappeared and stayed gone. After a week, Milo began to wonder if maybe she’d taken up with other cow catchers out of boredom, or been caught by a panther, or penned up. Even the donkey was confused by her absence. He would walk out into the woods a quarter mile, stop and bray loudly and continue on and bray again until he was far enough away that you could just barely hear him. When he went on these excursions he stayed gone ‘til dusk and then trotted back home and into the barn where he’d lay down against the stacked bales of hay and empty burlap sacks.
One morning, about three months after the Judas goat had been gone the little jackass jumped up from sleep with a start. He flipped up the door latch and pushed through the door in a rush. He brayed as loud as he could, extending his neck and trumpeting skyward in the effort. Then he cocked his ears and moved his head slowly to one side. He stretched his head skyward and let go again with a mighty bray ending with the comical hiccupping. Then he took off at a gallop as if someone had dropped a hot coal on his rear. Out the gate and up the slight hill throwing dust and leaves in his wake, he went out of sight and made not a sound again.
Milo assumed that he must have heard stray cows. He’d done that recently and brought home three of Shep Izzard’s steers at lunch time that day. He told Liz over dinner, “Donkey went cow catchin’ this morning. He’ll probably bring home some of the neighbor’s stock. Or better yet, maybe he’ll catch us some wild cows. Now that would be great. I wouldn’t have to go cow catchin’ again. Just send the donkey!” - - - - - - - - They laughed.
The following morning as dawn eased the last vestiges of night aside, Milo heard an unfamiliar noise from the barn. One side of the double door was ajar, but that was nothing to be alarmed about since Donkey didn’t bother to close the door behind himself. Milo heard the noise again. He pulled the heavy door aside and Donkey was standing in front of him. Milo looked into the darkened interior and laying where Donkey usually did, against the hay bales on top of the old empty burlap was Judy. She didn’t get up or make a sound. Milo thought at first that she might be injured. As he walked slowly to her, she got up and he could see a tiny tail flicking back and forth just a few inches behind her back legs. Her milk bag was distended and the little kid was bumping and pulling on the nanny goat’s teat. Judy had brought them a handsome little doe kid and, “What’s this Milo thought.” There were two little doe goats - twins!
The little ones grew quickly and took to the children like they were all the same kind of kids. Over and over again Milo and Liz tried to coax Judy and her babies up on the porch with carrots, oats or fruit. And none of the three would come any closer than the steps. Each one would look up at the blue porch ceiling and dodge their heads and back away while staring upward. Even Donkey would not come near enough to the porch to see the blue ceiling. Wasn’t much doubt that there were three haints for sure and a haint accomplice, at least.
The Rednak Chronicles is available on Amazon in book form and in Kindle. Amazon Link: Click here
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.”
Benito, top agent for Gang of Five Realty works clients.
When I go to hell I think I should get credit for time served on the Inglis town commission. Since before I took office, I’ve watched and listened to Bill Monteverde do everything he can think of to destroy our town. He’s spent the last six years abusing the town staff, making unfounded allegations, and criticizing anyone who can’t read his personal crystal ball. At this month’s regular commission meeting on March 3rd, he put agenda items up, aided and abetted by Sally Price, that were nothing more than his signature ambush-“gotcha” productions, designed to denigrate and imply that the town staff, the town attorney, and myself had done something crooked and/or negligent. He provided no supporting material to the commission members or the attorney. The script was all his. And, it was a Dandy for the first thirty seconds. Monteverde arrogantly believes that the town is obligated to provide him a “paper trail” that matches his ulterior motive specifications, du jour.
I’ve been troubled for some time trying to figure out who he reminds me of. You know that nagging thing that hangs in the back of your mind but just won’t come forward? Well, I got a breakthrough yesterday while researching. I needed a little refresher on Fascism. BINGO! IL Duce: Pompous. Arrogant. Condescending. Benito Mussolini. More than just a resemblance, 5’7” – same stature, same attitude. The name, the behavior, has such a familiar ring. Now we have: The Inglis IL Duce.
He has hijacked meetings. He has shown himself to be a bigot. He staged one session during which members of the Gang of Five screamed “shut up!” repeatedly at the mayor. He has consistently threatened to get rid of the Town Clerk, Sallie McCrainie, and the Water Clerk, Darlene Slattery. If he, Price, and Smalldridge get elected they will do that and then the town will fall on its face. Monteverde’s lieutenant, Drew White, the slum lord, wants to run town government without an attorney. This is one hellava brain trust. The destruction, waste, and mismanagement will run rampant, just like all anarchist takeovers naturally do. Town government, a million and a half dollar budget and a four hundred and forty thousand dollar per year, water system business don’t manage themselves. This is not a situation that a Kelly Girl can come in, flop down, and pick up where the staff pro’s leave off.
Monteverde, Price, and Smallridge (for mayor), all three, have declined to appear at a candidate’s forum on Saturday, March 14th, from 2P to 4P. Smallridge has crap falling out of his closet regularly. Pretend veteran of the 101st Airborne, pretend Coast Guard, and pretend Captain in the Merchant Marine. Facebook porn celebrity. One of Monteverde’s worst mouthpieces to ever appear on the commission stage. He hasn’t stopped talking about himself since taking office. He’s also missed two of the last three meetings and when he was here he announced that he was only available on Friday evenings.
Now we come to Carol Gibson. This is a gem in the rough. You want to understand her personality? See the TV20 clip below. She and Smalldridge are the perfect candidates for mayor of Inglis. You elect one of these two and you won’t be telling strangers where you live. But, if you want to sink the town and make it a bigger laughing stock than it is already, vote for either one.
Watch this until the end. Too frightening for children.
In the bigger picture, if you were tricked into signing Gibson’s recall petition for removing me, you can make that right by voting against her and the other Gang of Five member candidates.
The judge threw the petition out as groundless. Makes no difference to Gibson, they’ve already filed an appeal. Gibson lied to the judge when he advised her to get legal counsel. She said she didn’t have the money. Then on court day she shows up with an attorney. When I asked the Katzenjammers if they had consulted an attorney when they created the recall petition, they said they had. When they circulated the petition, they told people that if they didn’t sign they’d lose their trailers. That’s three lies on one count and two hundred or more on the petitions collected.
So far, Gibson has cost the town $9,932.50 in real money for legal fees. This doesn’t include the fees covered by insurance, which so far total, $18,379.46. This bunch of “jimcracks” think that is Monopoly money. The town will sue to recover these wasted dollars - - - a total, so far, of $28,311.96. And, there’s more to come, much more, after the appeal process. By the way, just like the other cowards, Gibson won’t show at the candidate’s forum either. She only has one plank in her platform. “Get Kesterson.” Once again, if your bag is to destroy Inglis these are your candidates
Last Man Standing ? You can bet on it.
Gang of Five Headquarters.