For years, Cassville had absolutely no traffic lights. None. In fact, the road I grew up on was not fully paved until I was in 10th grade. We had that bootleg gravel, sakrete and dirt mix for years, rendering car washes useless and causing some nasty scrapes when Matt and I would fly downhil on our bikes, shooting down imaginary Migs and "breaking hard left." (+1 for Top Gun reference). I'm not sure who I was, Maverick or Ice Man, but I loved to say "the plaque for the alternates is in the ladies room" after blowing Russians out the sky. I thoroughly enjoyed watching them crash and burn in Two Run Creek, and then celebrating with a milkshake at Neen's....aaaahh memories.
The road that ran in front of the store, Cassville Road, was paved with actual asphalt. It may have had a thousand potholes, but the citizens living on its frontage enjoyed the perks of pavement. One of the perks of pavement is the speed that you can drive. This stretch of road was like a race track to be honest. The speed limit was 35 miles per hour, but it was hardly acknowledged. There were no stop signs, no traffic, no yields, and no police officers, so Cassville natives could travel at warp speed at all times. There were good reasons to be in a hurry up there. You did NOT want to miss the Evening Cash 3 drawing, did you? I think not! There was one sign close to the store indicating that a sharp curve was ahead (which it was), but it did not seem to slow anyone down. Further, somebody spraypainted "No Mercey" on the sign in 1994, so I guess the artist was telling us to put the hammer down. When I left Cassville for Athens in 1999, that sign was still there, a glowing sentiment to the local education system.
For years, the hammer stayed down. Guys in Camaros, fresh off the racks and the removal of the muffler, would fly by the store. For those who are unaware, taking the muffler off made the car louder, plus it's cheaper than Flowmasters. The T-Tops removed, the IROC-Z lettering glistening in the sun, mullet flying like a flag in the wind, Foreigner and /or Journey blaring out of the Kenwood...nothing punctuates going 75 in a 35 like "Hot Blooded" or "Only the Young." Many guys would slide the transmission in neutral as they passed us, and rev their engine, and shift back into drive as they passed the parking lot. This was a Cassville man's way of saying, "what it is, jive turkey?!" We would always throw up our hands and yell at them. We didn't care that they drove like a bat out of hell, it burned gas faster so they would come back up there and buy it from us.
In the early 2000's, I guess the county had received enough complaints about the speed on Cassville Road to do something about it. Contrary to my personal opinion, no "death quota" had been reached. I've always felt that the DOT waits until 2-3 tragic accidents occur before traffic control is considered. However, as fast as people traveled on Cassville Road, I do not remember any serious accidents happening. I remember one man got his bumper knocked off turning left off Cass-White Road and the bumper skidded down the road, past me with sparks flying, and into the fence next to the store. The guys on the benches went crazy. I think one of them took it home. There was only one wreckI really recall and it did not result from speed. One morning, at about 6:30 AM, I was pumping gas and I was half asleep, when a van pulled up at the stop sign where Cass-White Road intersects Cassville Road. The windows were rolled down and there were two people arguing in the van. A very skinny man and a not so skinny woman tucked into this brown Chevy van that was about 37 different shades of brown. Apparently, he had come home a little late the night before, and could not explain his whereabouts. "Who was she?! You tell that whore anytime she wants some, she knows whar (where) to find me!" exclaimed the woman. As he was turning right, he called the woman a four letter word that shall not be repeated here. I see the woman's elbow come out of the open window, as she cocked back and hit him with a right jab. He lost control of the van and smashed into a telephone pole. The woman got out (barefoot and only wearing a long "Gatlinburg 1984" t-shirt of course) and dragged him out of the van, punching and kicking. I was about twenty yards away, watching aghast, along with about ten other men. We all skipped coffee that day, because we were wide awake after that.
Anyhow, that particular intersection was the focus of the DOT and the new traffic control device. Since there was already a stop sign on Cass-White and Jo-Ree Road (which both intersected Cassville Road directly across from one another), they decided to affix two new shiny red octagons on Cassville Road, making it a four way stop. Just for good measure, they also added a blinking red light. This process took about 3 weeks to complete and it was all the rage in Cassville. "There's our damn tax money at work!" exclaimed the men on the benches. They too noticed that it required 17 men to put a stop sign in the ground and at least 47 to get that red light up. I think between them all, those workers smoked 13,278 cigarettes, took 327 breaks and made 2,908 Nextel calls during that time. Money well spent.
This new addition was unveiled and it did not take long for the problems to arise. There were more wrecks in two weeks than we had seen in 15 years up there. People running the stop signs, rearending each other, and misunderstanding what the blinking lights meant. One stop sign was hit by a woman backing out of the parking lot at the store, shattering her back glass and bending the stop sign to a 90 degree angle. All of this could have been prevented if they had just left us to our own devices.
I remember one day after the four way stop was installed, I was standing out front with Billy, one of our oldest and most loyal customers. Billy had been in Cassville for the majority of his 76 years and had seen it all. He came up there every day and would hang around for hours, keeping us entertained and just generally overseeing everything, "the mayor of Cassville" is what people called him. This particular day, Billy and I were watching the cars go by, talking about the Braves and how last night's game turned out. (Billy had a love/hate relationship with them and we bet on every game. If the Braves won, he bought me a Mountain Dew. If they lost, I had to buy him a pack of hot peanuts) I notice Billy looking at the four way stop very intently and I could see his wheels turning. Billy chewed tobacco constantly and he was just standing there, working the wad in his mouth and looking at the "traffic." At the stop, there were a total of five cars waiting their turn to go, with maybe twelve people total sitting in them. Billy gets this disgusted look on his face, shakes his head and spits on the ground. He wipes his mouth, looks at me with his squinty eyes and says, "Gotdam, where'd all these f****** people come from?"
I don't know, Billy. I truly don't know. The urban sprawl shows us "No Mercey." God bless us.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Friday, August 26, 2011
Junk Mail? I say Gold Mine!
Stop reading your self help books immediately. Seriously, put em down. You don’t need 7 Habits, Tuesdays with Morrie or the Abs Diet. Go AWOL from your support group and call in sick to your prayer meetings. All the answers to life problems are just a double click away. You will not have to leave the comforts of home either. Just sit down, grab a coffee, and click on your junk mail folder.
Inside, you will discover a plethora of opportunities. Everything is bigger, better, cheaper, easier, smarter, faster and healthier. This is far from junk, I say. Take today for instance, I click on my Yahoo account (pause to upload…..ok), hey! Here is what I can get right now: I can get a Russian bride, start my own website, lose 10 pounds in 3 days, get free Shake Weights, and 30% off at my nearest Banana Republic. Yesterday: I could be the CEO of a major corporation, get 50% off my car insurance, increase my libido, get a bride from Bulgaria
Sadly, it is a dream. The brides are $5,000 a piece and they don’t allow prenups. The website has a $100 per month fee and you must be enrolled in a Book of the Month club for 10 years. The increased libido and the 10 pounds lost in 3 days was from a pill that was manufactured in a sweatshop in New Guinea North Dakota and Idaho
Lesson here: If it sounds too good to be true, it is. If you don’t believe me, click on your junk mail. You’ll end up with a fried CPU, ill gotten gains, a host of worthless coupons and probably go blind from New Guinea
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Another Obscure Song You Should Download
The Outlaws are one of my favorite bands of all time. Formed in Tampa, Florida in 1967, these guys combine the sounds of the Allman Brothers, ZZ Top, and Lynyrd Skynyrd into an all-out guitar assault on your ears. I swear the state of Florida is the jumping off point for so many great Southern bands. They have a dual lead guitar approach (like the above mentioned acts) and you can hear this on their biggest hits, "There Goes Another Love Song" and "Green Grass and High Tides." You will hear the former on the radio from time to time, but "Green Grass" is too long for most stations (except 104.9 The Rebel in Rome, Georgia!). Their self titled album from 1975 is a wonderful album that any Southern rock connossieur would enjoy, as it contains the aforementioned hits and this song......from the A side of the vinyl record, I bring you "Song For You." Listen for the guitar riffs....eerily similar to Skynyrd. I love it.
Obscure Song You Should Download
Another inclusion from the golden era of hip hop and NYC's plethora of talent, this song is a good "going out" song. I can see a group of guys in Brooklyn, rolling dirty in a tricked out 1993 Honda Prelude down Flatbush Avenue, with this song blaring. It has that cool 90's rap sound and some funny references. It's a fairly clean song too, which I have to admit I enjoy, because it seems that some songs just try to squeeze in as many four letter words as possible. It gets old. With that, I give you "Born To Roll" by Masta Ace.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
The Ice Cream Cooler....Satan's Little Helper
Recently, I mentioned my utter disdain for the ice cream cooler at the store. Many of you are probably thinking....how can an inanimate object cause someone such anger? It was not inanimate, if you ask me. It was alive and it existed simply to drive us all crazy. Contrary to it's appearance, the ice cream cooler had numerous working parts: a motor, a bay for the scoops with running water and a faucet, the brackets that held the product, the grips that locked the brackets to the actual box, and of course, eight 3-gallon tubs of ice cream. Then you had two kinds of sugar cones, two sizes of cups, and the napkins. You see? It's a lot more than just a cold box. It's a menagerie of metal and plastic with the potential for 1,374,768 ways to break, leak, creak, freeze, melt, crush, pulverize and terrorize those of us who had to deal with it. A plague upon humanity, a cacophony of dissonance, the ice cream cooler.
It's sad that I feel this way, because I love ice cream and it gives people so much joy, but when you put up with such a disagreeable machine for 16 years....you come to a breaking point. Everybody can relate to this if you work in an office or anywhere with machines with working parts. Even my Mom hated it, and she doesn't hate anything. When Dad sold the store, I wanted to pull a Michael Bolton and wheel it out to a field and bash it with a baseball bat while Geto Boys played in the background. Instead of a PC load letter, it was broken cones at inopportune times. (+1 for Office Space reference) It was the impossibility of lining up the tubs with the brackets. It was the PVC leaking water onto the floor overnight. It was the tubs on one half of the cooler frozen solid, and of course, 5 kids want double dips of those flavors. The issues were endless. When it was time to replace a flavor, we all groaned and sauntered to the back freezer, grabbed the newest soldier in the fight and came back. Then the fun starts.
The cooler had two brackets, which held four tubs each. These brackets were linked to the box by grips that simply locked in place by turning a knob, this knob would wedge the grip against the side of the box. No screws or nails holding it in. All it took was a hard hit and the bracket would fall (which happened 3-4 times daily). You had to align all four tubs before you could lock it into place. Then you try to lock it but the other bracket is off kilter, so you have to take both brackets out, align all eight tubs and try to wedge them all in together. This is nearly impossible for one person, so everybody has to turn their attention to it. You've got two men, with their upper bodies stuffed in a 5x6 area, trying to turn two knobs at the same time. After 23 attempts, one of you has to walk away before you lose it. I swear it caused Russell to start dipping again. Before you can finish this task, three people come in and want a double dip of chocolate. When they see the brackets out, they ask, "Is there something wrong with the ice cream??" My temperature would soar and I swear I would see tiny imps from Hell standing on top of the cooler, dancing Rockettes style, singing "Indian Outlaw" in Fran Drescher's voice.
When you replaced a flavor, you had to remove the remaining product from the old tub. You simply take the scooper and get out as much as you possibly can. These tubs were not cheap, as milk prices go, so goes ice cream. Mayfield ain't discount, everybody in the South knows this. You put this ice cream on top of the freshly opened tub, so you can sell it first. Without fail, a person asks, "what's wrong with that ice cream on top?" or "Is that the same flavor?" Cue the imps, except one has now stopped dancing and is scraping a fork across an empty plate. Some people did not want the "old" ice cream (less than three days) so they would request we get the ice cream from the new tub. The new ice cream had been in the back freezer, which was set at -2,876 Fahrenheit, so this ice cream is harder than titanium wrapped in diamonds with a steel coating. If you dropped one of those tubs off the Empire State Building, it would go through Broadway, the igneous rock shelf below the surface, past Jimmy Hoffa's body, and straight to the Earth's core. It was that hard.
Don't get me wrong, I didn't hold it against people for wanting ice cream. As I said, I love ice cream. I would stab somebody for a pistachio double dip right now. However, they always seemed to want the most when we were slammed. I'm outside pumping gas in a diesel truck that holds 45 gallons and checking somebody's oil and transmission, Dad is in the hardware helping a guy with 3/4 inch fine thread wood screws and explaining why we don't carry metric bolts, and a church group comes in wanting ice cream. 15 kids ranging from 5-14, all wanting different sizes and flavors. More fun, especially when the youth leader looks at me and says, "We ALL want some ice cream!" I stare into the distance, composing myself. One imp has affixed himself on the gas pump, Riverdancing.
So, after finally finishing with the gas customer and putting a quart of oil in Mrs. May's car (because she doesn't trust anyone else to do it), I come running in, wash my hands, and saunter to the ice cream cooler. The line of children is yapping non-stop and although they've had five minutes to decide, they still need to know each and every flavor. As mentioned before, we had the obvious flavors. There was always one person in every group who asked, "So, you guys don't have White Chocolate Mousse?" Then a few of them want to sample the chocolate, as if it's somehow changed since their last cone, 24 hours ago. A line starts to form at the register. I can hear the imps, "Half Cherokee and Choctaw! My baby, she's a Chippewaaaawaaa, she's a one of a kind!" So, the first kids order: half chocolate and half strawberry on a double cone, single vanilla in a cup, Single cherry on a cone and a double sherbet in a cup. Before you finish, three things happen....1) the single vanilla changes her mind to cherry halfway through; 2) The kid with the half chocolate/strawberry drops his cone in the floor; and 3) As I am dipping, one of the cones shatters into 6,000 pieces into the cooler. The youth leader makes a stupid joke, "Bet that happens once a day, ha!" Everybody laughs...but me. The entire line takes about 30 minutes to get through. I clean up three spills, listen to two suggestions on flavors we should get for the future, and have to give away about 437 napkins.
Sometimes, when we were extremely busy and I didn't have time to change the tubs out, I would put a lid on an empty tub. Undoubtedly, the question comes out, "what's under the lid?" So many smart aleck remarks would pop into my head, and I would just have to beat them back. "Oh sir, that's a new flavor called Air. You want a sample?" It finally got to the point where Dad had to write "EMPTY" on the lids and still, "what was under there?" would come out once an hour. Then you had the elderly couples who got ice cream every day, but seemed to act as if they've never been there before. I would go through all eight flavors again, they would look at each other for about a minute and ponder, like somebody asked them what their social security numbers were, and finally order. If the price ever increased, which it did almost monthly, you would get complaints. Funny though, the complaints always came from the people who needed ice cream about as much as I needed a hole in the head. It's hard to take somebody serious who has to turn sideways to get out the door. I had a fireman once order a triple dip of butter pecan, which was the most fattening and sugary ice cream in the cooler. When I told him the price, he exclaimed, "Good Lord! That is ridiculous! I am never getting one of these again!" He still paid for it and I watched him walk out to his Tahoe, gobbling down the calorie bomb and holding his size 54 pants up. He sat down in the driver's seat and the car lurched so hard that the ice cream fell in his lap, rolled off and onto the pavement. All I could say was, "there is a God."
I look back and laugh about it now. All the times I had sticky hands, cleaning up broken cones, and picking up all the napkins that the ceiling fans blew into the floor. Even though it caused me way more trouble than it was worth, it was all a part of working up there. Most people were easy to deal with, did not complain about the prices and if we were really busy, they would just come back later. Still though, if you ever hear about an ice cream cooler that was left on the train tracks and completely destroyed by a high speed locomotive....the imps did it.
It's sad that I feel this way, because I love ice cream and it gives people so much joy, but when you put up with such a disagreeable machine for 16 years....you come to a breaking point. Everybody can relate to this if you work in an office or anywhere with machines with working parts. Even my Mom hated it, and she doesn't hate anything. When Dad sold the store, I wanted to pull a Michael Bolton and wheel it out to a field and bash it with a baseball bat while Geto Boys played in the background. Instead of a PC load letter, it was broken cones at inopportune times. (+1 for Office Space reference) It was the impossibility of lining up the tubs with the brackets. It was the PVC leaking water onto the floor overnight. It was the tubs on one half of the cooler frozen solid, and of course, 5 kids want double dips of those flavors. The issues were endless. When it was time to replace a flavor, we all groaned and sauntered to the back freezer, grabbed the newest soldier in the fight and came back. Then the fun starts.
The cooler had two brackets, which held four tubs each. These brackets were linked to the box by grips that simply locked in place by turning a knob, this knob would wedge the grip against the side of the box. No screws or nails holding it in. All it took was a hard hit and the bracket would fall (which happened 3-4 times daily). You had to align all four tubs before you could lock it into place. Then you try to lock it but the other bracket is off kilter, so you have to take both brackets out, align all eight tubs and try to wedge them all in together. This is nearly impossible for one person, so everybody has to turn their attention to it. You've got two men, with their upper bodies stuffed in a 5x6 area, trying to turn two knobs at the same time. After 23 attempts, one of you has to walk away before you lose it. I swear it caused Russell to start dipping again. Before you can finish this task, three people come in and want a double dip of chocolate. When they see the brackets out, they ask, "Is there something wrong with the ice cream??" My temperature would soar and I swear I would see tiny imps from Hell standing on top of the cooler, dancing Rockettes style, singing "Indian Outlaw" in Fran Drescher's voice.
When you replaced a flavor, you had to remove the remaining product from the old tub. You simply take the scooper and get out as much as you possibly can. These tubs were not cheap, as milk prices go, so goes ice cream. Mayfield ain't discount, everybody in the South knows this. You put this ice cream on top of the freshly opened tub, so you can sell it first. Without fail, a person asks, "what's wrong with that ice cream on top?" or "Is that the same flavor?" Cue the imps, except one has now stopped dancing and is scraping a fork across an empty plate. Some people did not want the "old" ice cream (less than three days) so they would request we get the ice cream from the new tub. The new ice cream had been in the back freezer, which was set at -2,876 Fahrenheit, so this ice cream is harder than titanium wrapped in diamonds with a steel coating. If you dropped one of those tubs off the Empire State Building, it would go through Broadway, the igneous rock shelf below the surface, past Jimmy Hoffa's body, and straight to the Earth's core. It was that hard.
Don't get me wrong, I didn't hold it against people for wanting ice cream. As I said, I love ice cream. I would stab somebody for a pistachio double dip right now. However, they always seemed to want the most when we were slammed. I'm outside pumping gas in a diesel truck that holds 45 gallons and checking somebody's oil and transmission, Dad is in the hardware helping a guy with 3/4 inch fine thread wood screws and explaining why we don't carry metric bolts, and a church group comes in wanting ice cream. 15 kids ranging from 5-14, all wanting different sizes and flavors. More fun, especially when the youth leader looks at me and says, "We ALL want some ice cream!" I stare into the distance, composing myself. One imp has affixed himself on the gas pump, Riverdancing.
So, after finally finishing with the gas customer and putting a quart of oil in Mrs. May's car (because she doesn't trust anyone else to do it), I come running in, wash my hands, and saunter to the ice cream cooler. The line of children is yapping non-stop and although they've had five minutes to decide, they still need to know each and every flavor. As mentioned before, we had the obvious flavors. There was always one person in every group who asked, "So, you guys don't have White Chocolate Mousse?" Then a few of them want to sample the chocolate, as if it's somehow changed since their last cone, 24 hours ago. A line starts to form at the register. I can hear the imps, "Half Cherokee and Choctaw! My baby, she's a Chippewaaaawaaa, she's a one of a kind!" So, the first kids order: half chocolate and half strawberry on a double cone, single vanilla in a cup, Single cherry on a cone and a double sherbet in a cup. Before you finish, three things happen....1) the single vanilla changes her mind to cherry halfway through; 2) The kid with the half chocolate/strawberry drops his cone in the floor; and 3) As I am dipping, one of the cones shatters into 6,000 pieces into the cooler. The youth leader makes a stupid joke, "Bet that happens once a day, ha!" Everybody laughs...but me. The entire line takes about 30 minutes to get through. I clean up three spills, listen to two suggestions on flavors we should get for the future, and have to give away about 437 napkins.
Sometimes, when we were extremely busy and I didn't have time to change the tubs out, I would put a lid on an empty tub. Undoubtedly, the question comes out, "what's under the lid?" So many smart aleck remarks would pop into my head, and I would just have to beat them back. "Oh sir, that's a new flavor called Air. You want a sample?" It finally got to the point where Dad had to write "EMPTY" on the lids and still, "what was under there?" would come out once an hour. Then you had the elderly couples who got ice cream every day, but seemed to act as if they've never been there before. I would go through all eight flavors again, they would look at each other for about a minute and ponder, like somebody asked them what their social security numbers were, and finally order. If the price ever increased, which it did almost monthly, you would get complaints. Funny though, the complaints always came from the people who needed ice cream about as much as I needed a hole in the head. It's hard to take somebody serious who has to turn sideways to get out the door. I had a fireman once order a triple dip of butter pecan, which was the most fattening and sugary ice cream in the cooler. When I told him the price, he exclaimed, "Good Lord! That is ridiculous! I am never getting one of these again!" He still paid for it and I watched him walk out to his Tahoe, gobbling down the calorie bomb and holding his size 54 pants up. He sat down in the driver's seat and the car lurched so hard that the ice cream fell in his lap, rolled off and onto the pavement. All I could say was, "there is a God."
I look back and laugh about it now. All the times I had sticky hands, cleaning up broken cones, and picking up all the napkins that the ceiling fans blew into the floor. Even though it caused me way more trouble than it was worth, it was all a part of working up there. Most people were easy to deal with, did not complain about the prices and if we were really busy, they would just come back later. Still though, if you ever hear about an ice cream cooler that was left on the train tracks and completely destroyed by a high speed locomotive....the imps did it.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Obscure Song You Should Download
I can thank my mother for my love of Motown and all the harmonizing groups from the late 60's and early 70's. Her record collection from college was money, and thank the Lord she saved them all. This group was one of my favorites growing up and I'm 99.9% sure that my mom has one of their albums. They have an incredibly famous song in "Lowrider," which is one of those songs that transcends generations and will likely continue to do so, as nearly every other movie since 1980 has "Lowrider" in their soundtrack. However, they have many other wonderful songs that showcase their ability to harmonize. With that, I give you "All Day Music" by War. Enjoy! (By the way, I could NOT pass up posting the old Soul Train video.)
5 Realizations From This Week
1) I love people who have bestowed importance upon themselves when they really do not matter. I recently had a bad experience with a water department (who shall not be named, for fear of raw sewage being sent to the property in question) and all it all boiled down to the uselessness/arrogance of the employees. The action requested was to simply turn on the water to a property. There were a couple of simple hoops to jump through on their end. You would have thought that I asked them to count the bricks on the Great Wall of China. Lots of drawn out sighs, slow walking (which is a common factor with self-important wastes of organic matter), and just an overall bad disposition. Next time, I'll just buy a street key and cut it on myself and see how long it takes the bureaucracy to catch on. That's what you get when you hire people who are walking to lunch at 11:59 and packing up at 4:59, ready to blast out of the gates faster than the American 4x100 team from the 1992 Olympics.
2) I miss the signs that people used to post at the store. We had a Coke machine that sat on the front and people used it to post advertisements, sales, business openings, wrestling events, etc. Most of these were hand-written. It was a canvas for some serious artwork, if you ask me. The Van Goghs and Rembrandts of Cassville would come armed with tape, magic markers, and dreams, ready to alert the world of what was going on in their lives and why the rest of us should know about it. I cannot tell you how many "Yard Sells," "Wressling Matches," and "Rockwaller Puppies" were advertised up there. I remember somebody had a Weimaraner for sale once...it was spelled "Wine Marauder" or something like that. I especially enjoyed the wrestling ads. There must have been 20 different wrestling associations in northwest Georgia, all with the name "Outlaw" or "Mountain" in the title. There was always a guest star, somebody like "Beautiful" Bobby Eaton or Paul "Mr. Wonderful" Orndorff, coming to peruse the action. Chainsaw and ladder matches were the order of the day and undoubtedly, a local man or two would be ejected for trying to get in the ring and fight a wrestler. You just can't make this stuff up.
3) It just doesn't pay to rob a Waffle House. The two idiots were were busted in Alabama last week were messing with a Southern institution. We love our mommas. We love football. We love sweet tea. And we sure as heck love our Waffle Houses. They didn't put up with Kid Rock fighting and they sure won't abide robbery. Thanks be to the Calera, Alabama police department and their quick work....as long as they weren't Auburn fans. =)
4) The University of Miami is probably going to go down, and go down hard, for the words of an incarcerated thief with an ax to grind. The old saying goes, where there's smoke, there's fire. Well, this is the Chicago Fire of 1871 and Mrs. O'Leary's heifer poured gas on every street before she kicked the latern. ESPN is predicting the "death penalty" will be revived once again, ala SMU. If you will recall, SMU was given the death penalty for the 1987-88 seasons for transgressions similar to those of Miami. Cash, cars, homes, you name it, and SMU thumbed their noses at the NCAA the entire time. They still have not fully recovered, over twenty years later. We all lose in these situations, as the NCAA will be in our business more than ever, sniffing out every violation, trying to prove a point. Good luck to Miami and I hope Nevin Shapiro gets transferred to the federal penitentiary in Dade County.
This is nothing new, however. People are just aghast over these allegations, like it's groundbreaking. Sports have always been a hotbed for scandals. The 1919 World Series. The 1950's point shaving in college basketball. The Donaghy scandal in the NBA (for those who don't know, essentially the refs conspired to call playoff games in a certain manner so a specific team would win). Steroids. Street agents. College football is no different and next season, there will be a new scapegoat. It's easy pickings for the NCAA because every school has a dirty little underworld, they just bust the most brazen offenders. With the amount of money at stake, a certain amount of corruption is inevitable. (+1 for Last Man Standing reference, an underappreciated movie if there ever was one!)
Ponder this in legal terms, if you will: These offenses are malum prohibitum, which means they are only wrong because their respective governing body says they are. It is not inherently evil to give $1,000 and a yacht ride to a kid that plays football at the school you support. What you call an infraction, they call appreciation. This concept is why all the old men who ran moonshine for years never apologized for it. It is not illegal to make and sell moonshine, it is illegal to sell it and not pay taxes. That's why these guys went to federal prison and the men who chased them were called "revenuers." The government wanted their cut of the dough. Pure and simple.
5) Speaking of sports and moonshine running, NASCAR has absolutely lost its identity. I turned on a race the other day and I had never heard of 7 of the top 10 drivers leading the race. Half of the field was from California, sponsored by a dot com and driving a foreign car. Some guy named Boris Said (I bet he's not from North Carolina) was really mad at Greg Biffle, so they argued after the race and the crews separated them. They went straight to the press and bashed each other. Sports Illustrated then concocted an article about NASCAR feuds and the criteria they must meet to become "great." I will not go into the article's criteria, as it is meaningless because of the state of NASCAR today.
NASCAR has eliminated the men and the personalities that made it fun to watch. Arguably, the greatest single event in NASCAR history was the brawl between the Allison and Yarborough at Daytona in 1979. 20 million Americans, without football and baseball spring training just getting started, watched with amazement as these two men duked out their differences on national television. No apologies. No separations. No whining to the press. Just a brawl between two men, from tiny black dots on a map, over a wreck on the track. America realized that these rough and tumble guys took their sport seriously, and maybe, it wasn't just 1,000 left turns at 200 MPH. Alcohol and tobacco sponsored everything, because the drivers and the fans drank and smoked (the horror!). Guys had nicknames like "The King," "Handsome Harry" and "Fireball." Dale Earnhardt was a rookie that season and he drove a car sponsored by Wrangler. It could not have been set up more perfectly.
Now, it's races in Vegas while the tracks in Darlington, SC and Rockingham, NC collect dust. Alcohol and tobacco have been told they are no longer welcome at the track, replaced by DuPont and godaddy.com. When a driver wins, his contract requires him to take a sip out of five different sports/soft drinks and thank 73 different sponsors. "I would like to thank the crew on our Home Depot Toyota Powerade Jergens Microsoft Chase Manhattan Camry for their excellent job today.....(sip of a Powerade, Diet Pepsi, Red Bull, Starbucks Mocha Latte, and Mayfield chocolate milk.)" Corporate has replaced character. A feud between today's drivers? LOL....a tickle pile is more like it. NASCAR lost its roots and I'm afraid they are gone forever. In the early-mid 90's, we could not keep enough NASCAR merchandise at the store to satisfy the demands. Earnhardt helmets. Elliot shirts. Jarrett car replicas. Petty figurines. They would run out the door as fast as we stocked the shelves. In 2008, my Dad could not give that stuff away. Nobody wanted it. The Southern man is turning his back on NASCAR because NASCAR turned their backs on him.
2) I miss the signs that people used to post at the store. We had a Coke machine that sat on the front and people used it to post advertisements, sales, business openings, wrestling events, etc. Most of these were hand-written. It was a canvas for some serious artwork, if you ask me. The Van Goghs and Rembrandts of Cassville would come armed with tape, magic markers, and dreams, ready to alert the world of what was going on in their lives and why the rest of us should know about it. I cannot tell you how many "Yard Sells," "Wressling Matches," and "Rockwaller Puppies" were advertised up there. I remember somebody had a Weimaraner for sale once...it was spelled "Wine Marauder" or something like that. I especially enjoyed the wrestling ads. There must have been 20 different wrestling associations in northwest Georgia, all with the name "Outlaw" or "Mountain" in the title. There was always a guest star, somebody like "Beautiful" Bobby Eaton or Paul "Mr. Wonderful" Orndorff, coming to peruse the action. Chainsaw and ladder matches were the order of the day and undoubtedly, a local man or two would be ejected for trying to get in the ring and fight a wrestler. You just can't make this stuff up.
3) It just doesn't pay to rob a Waffle House. The two idiots were were busted in Alabama last week were messing with a Southern institution. We love our mommas. We love football. We love sweet tea. And we sure as heck love our Waffle Houses. They didn't put up with Kid Rock fighting and they sure won't abide robbery. Thanks be to the Calera, Alabama police department and their quick work....as long as they weren't Auburn fans. =)
4) The University of Miami is probably going to go down, and go down hard, for the words of an incarcerated thief with an ax to grind. The old saying goes, where there's smoke, there's fire. Well, this is the Chicago Fire of 1871 and Mrs. O'Leary's heifer poured gas on every street before she kicked the latern. ESPN is predicting the "death penalty" will be revived once again, ala SMU. If you will recall, SMU was given the death penalty for the 1987-88 seasons for transgressions similar to those of Miami. Cash, cars, homes, you name it, and SMU thumbed their noses at the NCAA the entire time. They still have not fully recovered, over twenty years later. We all lose in these situations, as the NCAA will be in our business more than ever, sniffing out every violation, trying to prove a point. Good luck to Miami and I hope Nevin Shapiro gets transferred to the federal penitentiary in Dade County.
This is nothing new, however. People are just aghast over these allegations, like it's groundbreaking. Sports have always been a hotbed for scandals. The 1919 World Series. The 1950's point shaving in college basketball. The Donaghy scandal in the NBA (for those who don't know, essentially the refs conspired to call playoff games in a certain manner so a specific team would win). Steroids. Street agents. College football is no different and next season, there will be a new scapegoat. It's easy pickings for the NCAA because every school has a dirty little underworld, they just bust the most brazen offenders. With the amount of money at stake, a certain amount of corruption is inevitable. (+1 for Last Man Standing reference, an underappreciated movie if there ever was one!)
Ponder this in legal terms, if you will: These offenses are malum prohibitum, which means they are only wrong because their respective governing body says they are. It is not inherently evil to give $1,000 and a yacht ride to a kid that plays football at the school you support. What you call an infraction, they call appreciation. This concept is why all the old men who ran moonshine for years never apologized for it. It is not illegal to make and sell moonshine, it is illegal to sell it and not pay taxes. That's why these guys went to federal prison and the men who chased them were called "revenuers." The government wanted their cut of the dough. Pure and simple.
5) Speaking of sports and moonshine running, NASCAR has absolutely lost its identity. I turned on a race the other day and I had never heard of 7 of the top 10 drivers leading the race. Half of the field was from California, sponsored by a dot com and driving a foreign car. Some guy named Boris Said (I bet he's not from North Carolina) was really mad at Greg Biffle, so they argued after the race and the crews separated them. They went straight to the press and bashed each other. Sports Illustrated then concocted an article about NASCAR feuds and the criteria they must meet to become "great." I will not go into the article's criteria, as it is meaningless because of the state of NASCAR today.
NASCAR has eliminated the men and the personalities that made it fun to watch. Arguably, the greatest single event in NASCAR history was the brawl between the Allison and Yarborough at Daytona in 1979. 20 million Americans, without football and baseball spring training just getting started, watched with amazement as these two men duked out their differences on national television. No apologies. No separations. No whining to the press. Just a brawl between two men, from tiny black dots on a map, over a wreck on the track. America realized that these rough and tumble guys took their sport seriously, and maybe, it wasn't just 1,000 left turns at 200 MPH. Alcohol and tobacco sponsored everything, because the drivers and the fans drank and smoked (the horror!). Guys had nicknames like "The King," "Handsome Harry" and "Fireball." Dale Earnhardt was a rookie that season and he drove a car sponsored by Wrangler. It could not have been set up more perfectly.
Now, it's races in Vegas while the tracks in Darlington, SC and Rockingham, NC collect dust. Alcohol and tobacco have been told they are no longer welcome at the track, replaced by DuPont and godaddy.com. When a driver wins, his contract requires him to take a sip out of five different sports/soft drinks and thank 73 different sponsors. "I would like to thank the crew on our Home Depot Toyota Powerade Jergens Microsoft Chase Manhattan Camry for their excellent job today.....(sip of a Powerade, Diet Pepsi, Red Bull, Starbucks Mocha Latte, and Mayfield chocolate milk.)" Corporate has replaced character. A feud between today's drivers? LOL....a tickle pile is more like it. NASCAR lost its roots and I'm afraid they are gone forever. In the early-mid 90's, we could not keep enough NASCAR merchandise at the store to satisfy the demands. Earnhardt helmets. Elliot shirts. Jarrett car replicas. Petty figurines. They would run out the door as fast as we stocked the shelves. In 2008, my Dad could not give that stuff away. Nobody wanted it. The Southern man is turning his back on NASCAR because NASCAR turned their backs on him.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Forget the Movies..Free Entertainment at 1810
1810. That was the address given to Cass Grocery when old Highway 41 became Cassville Road. Cassville Road used to be THE highway 41 (or Dixie Highway) until they constructed the current one. It was the main drag from Miami to Michigan until I-75 was completed in the mid-70's, thus killing hundreds of businesses in the process as travelers abandoned Highway 41 for the expediency of the Interstate. Bartow natives will notice all the abandoned buildings on the highway between Cassville and Adairsville, those used to be hotels and stores. Cass Grocery remained, however, unscathed. A bastion of small town America holding firm against the Wal-Marts and the Dollar Generals of the world. A rock that everybody else broke themselves against. (+1 for Legends of the Fall reference, and yes, I just compared the store to Tristan Ludlow, sue me)
Our people were loyal to us. Come hell or high water, they traded with us and tried their best to never enter Wal-Mart, Lowe's or those giant truck stops where nobody gives a crap who you are. They just want you in and out as quick as possible so they can take their smoke break. Not us. We may have to charge a little more for certain things, but we didn't hustle you out the door with an insincere "thank you, have a nice day" like we read it off a teleprompter. I think people appreciated that.
If we ever had a moment to rest, we would sit on the benches and people watch. These were some of the best times to get to know Cassville in all its glory. I would grab two glass bottle Coca-Colas (which are manna from Heaven, nothing in the universe tastes better), hand one to whomever was working with me and we would sit there and take it all in. You never quite knew what you would see or hear, but rarely did the citizenry ever let us down in terms of entertainment. Just like Two Run Creek, we had some very peculiar characters meandering past our little dusty corner. Here are some examples of what you may see:
1) "Get on it!!"
One thing we absolutely loved to do was entice people to lay drag at the four way stop. If a single car pulled up and nobody else was coming, we would yell "Get on it!!!" to the person driving. We would follow that up with a hand motion that signified that we wished them to burn rubber. More often than not, if that particular person was a Cassville native, they would oblige us. It did not matter what year, make or model of vehicle either, they would rev up the engine and do their best to spin their tires, inciting hoots and hollers from us. It could have been the most beat up Caprice Classic on its last leg and they would stomp the accelerator to the floor for us. Some of the best drags ever laid up there were from Honda Accords and Nissan pickups, I'm serious! My friend Rocky drove a late 80's model Ford Ranger, 4 cylinder, manual transmission, primer gray, about 200,000 miles on it....a real gem. That dude could turn his foot sideways, hold the clutch, the brake and the accelerator down at the same time and cook the tires as good as anybody. He once scored a million cool points when he actually lit a cigarette while he was spinning the tires. He took a drag, smiled and blew past us, and we obliged him with whistles and high fives.
One of the best was from a guy that lived across the street from the store. He completely restored a Ford Gran Torino, the same model used in Starsky and Hutch. It was immaculate too, with its red and white paint, shiny wheels and best of all, the roar of that engine. He spared no expense on this car, and I swear it could have pulled the store off its foundation. One day, he took it out for a spin and he came up to the four way stop. We just so happened to be sitting outside. "You think Ronnie would get on it?" asked my co-worker, Russell. "Nah, not in that car, that's his baby," I said most assuredly. "Aw hell, let's see," he replied. Russell stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled as loud as he could, Ronnie looked over at us and Russell yelled our typical phrase and delivered the hand motion. I fully expected Ronnie to shake his head, laugh and just ease past us. Nope. I saw his eyes and knew he was going to come through for us. You always knew because a devious smile would suddenly form on their face and the revving would start. Ronnie fired up that monster engine and unleashed a drag unlike I have ever seen up there. He sat in place for ten seconds as the tires screamed on the pavement. Smoke billowed out from under the car like it was on fire. It got so thick that we could not see his car anymore. Then he released the brake and shot like a cannon out of the cloud of smoke and past us fishtailing, complete with a rebel yell and a fist pump out the window. We were hooping and hollering, jumping around and high fiving, when the smoke alarm went off in the store. We had opened the windows earlier and Ronnie had put out so much smoke that it crept into the store and set the alarm off. He got a free beer for that one.
**Ronnie also "barked second," which gets you another cheer. "Barked second" means that when your transmission shifted to second gear, the tires gave a tiny squeal. Big deal in Cassville.
Another good one was my friend, Paul. He had a shortbed Chevrolet truck that supposedly had a Corvette engine under the hood. He also had illegal slick tires on the rear, so "getting on it" had a whole new meaning for him. Further, Paul lived for it. He absolutely loved to cook his tires and make us go crazy. He would do it even if we weren't outside, so we would run out and see him. One day, he came in after work and bought some random things and shot the bull for awhile. "Alright y'all, I'm gone, " he says. "Get on it when you leave," ordered Russell. Paul backed out of the parking lot facing north and started revving in the middle of the road. Tires squealed and smoke went everywhere, I ran into the parking lot pumping my fist and egging him on. He took off like a shot and traveled about 50 feet when a Sheriff's Deputy in SWAT gear walked into the middle of street and stopped him. Apparently, we did not realize that a meth bust had just taken place about two doors down. They heard the commotion, walked outside and Paul was caught red-handed. The cop ordered him to park at the store and wait until the paddy wagon came to get the methheads, then he would get his ticket. He sat there for about an hour fuming. Just another day in Cassville.
**As far as I was concerned, I never laid drag. I drove a 1997 Ford Ranger that couldn't "pull a greased string out of a cat's @ss" according to my co-workers. I literally had to turn the air conditioning off if I went up a steep incline.
2) Out of Towners
With I-75 being so close to us, we got our fair share of "tourists" passing through. 50% wanted to see Cassville, the other half were just lost. Most of them were of the Midwestern persuasion and older, so there were plenty of black sandals with black socks (a dead giveaway, as per the late, great Lewis Grizzard. RIP Lewis, give Catfish a pat on the head for me.) People named Bob, Bill, Marge, Barb...the typical old Midwestern names. The wives would tell us how "cute" the store was and describe a similar place back in Ohio. The men would make a remark about gas prices (ours was always too high) and then stride over to the ice cream cooler.
That ice cream cooler was the BANE of my existence. I hated it. Seriously, I told Dad if I ever took over, I would roll that thing into the first fire truck barreling down Cass-White Road. It contained eight three-gallon tubs of Scotty Mayfield's finest ice cream, but to me, it was eight opportunities for aggravation, annoyance and twenty minutes of Windex and sticky hands. One half of the cooler froze too hard, so four of the eight tubs would be as hard as a brick. Those were undoubtedly the four flavors that EVERYBODY wanted, and they all wanted a double. Speaking of flavors, we carried the basics (chocolate, vanilla, cherry, strawberry, butter pecan, black walnut, rainbow sherbet) and one random that Mayfield would sell us (usually Moose Tracks, Turtle Tracks or Birthday Cake). I'll go into the ice cream cooler more later, I could write an entire book about that spawn of Satan.
Anyhow, out of towners always wanted ice cream. Always. They would act like they have never seen an ice cream cooler before, run over to it and stick their face in the glass. The undisputed king of first questions, "what flavors do you guys have?" would come out. Cassville natives already knew, or if they needed a refresher, "what flavors y'all got?" I would go through the list of painfully obvious flavors. Chocolate is chocolate....in Georgia, Ohio, Canada, Kazakhstan....it doesn't matter. Undoubtedly, the next question, "oh, you guys don't have _______?" would rear its ugly head. The blank represents some off-the-wall flavor that nobody ever wants, like Rum Raisin or some other flavor that rural Georgians would not touch with a ten foot pole. I wanted to say "yeah, we have a secret cooler under this one, that's where the Rum Raisin is, I'll run down and get it." They would pause and ponder, "I don't know Barb, what should we do?" the man would remark and wink at me, like I was 6 years old and he just told me Santa Claus was real. Both would end up getting vanilla. The vanilla is frozen solid, of course, and they want a double "scoop." Cassville people say "dip," not "scoop." He pays for the ice cream, remarks about the price (too high, as always), and notices my grandfather's mounted largemouth bass on the wall. He compares it to a fish he once caught (his was bigger, of course) and compares his life to my grandfather's, since they are of the same generation. Being in customer service, you have to watch yourself, but I wanted to say, "Sir, no two men in the universe could have less in common than you and my grandfather." He wouldn't be caught dead in black socks and sandals, that's for dang sure.
3) Giving Directions to Out of Towners
As I stated, 50% of them were just lost. They would pull up on the front when they saw us sitting there and say, "excuse me young man!" It was obvious they were lost by their frazzled appearance and the giant useless map in their lap. In their defense, rural Georgia is one of the worst marked areas in the United States. Half of the road signs are stolen (I plead the Fif...I plead the Fif....One, Two, Three, Four, Fif!) and the DOT simply never replaces them. Interstates and highways intersect but you have no idea where or how far away. It's a colossal disaster.
Giving directions is an intricate process at Cass Grocery. Whomever is the oldest has the right of first refusal. Older Cassville men LOVE to give directions. They live for it. It's a bum rush to the car to see who can start talking first. Now, these guys know exactly where you need to go and what roads you need to take. The problem is in the description. The only way to illustrate this dilemma is play out the conversation. I'll use the names "Billy" for the Cassville man and "Jo" for the out of towner woman.
Billy: "So, y'all lookin' for Calhoun, huh? I used to live upair (up there) so you in luck!"
Jo: "Oh thank goodness!"
Billy (pointing north): "Alright, y'all go up yonder a piece, get on the four lane....." ("the four lane" is highway 41, which is a four-lane highway, hence "the four lane")
Other Cassville man: "Naw, Billy, they need to get on 75!"
Billy: "Junior, shut the hell up! It ain't faster! I timed it, it ain't no quicker. Look, y'all just listen to me. Get upair on the four lane, go about twelve miles, pass by Summerville Highway.." (that's Highway 140, but these old guys don't do numbers)
Yet another Cassville man: "It ain't twelve miles! It's only ten! Hell, they's too much traffic that way, y'all need to get 411 over at Pine Log and take Summerville Highway across Folsom."
(Jo is looking more and more flustered)
Billy: "Ten, twelve, it don't matter. You'll pass by the tar (tire) place and go up the road a piece and you'll hit Calhoun."
The other men then debate the authenticity of Billy's directions, tell the out of towners about three other ways to get there and they all end up arguing as the people drive away. This happened nearly every single time. God bless us.
Our people were loyal to us. Come hell or high water, they traded with us and tried their best to never enter Wal-Mart, Lowe's or those giant truck stops where nobody gives a crap who you are. They just want you in and out as quick as possible so they can take their smoke break. Not us. We may have to charge a little more for certain things, but we didn't hustle you out the door with an insincere "thank you, have a nice day" like we read it off a teleprompter. I think people appreciated that.
If we ever had a moment to rest, we would sit on the benches and people watch. These were some of the best times to get to know Cassville in all its glory. I would grab two glass bottle Coca-Colas (which are manna from Heaven, nothing in the universe tastes better), hand one to whomever was working with me and we would sit there and take it all in. You never quite knew what you would see or hear, but rarely did the citizenry ever let us down in terms of entertainment. Just like Two Run Creek, we had some very peculiar characters meandering past our little dusty corner. Here are some examples of what you may see:
1) "Get on it!!"
One thing we absolutely loved to do was entice people to lay drag at the four way stop. If a single car pulled up and nobody else was coming, we would yell "Get on it!!!" to the person driving. We would follow that up with a hand motion that signified that we wished them to burn rubber. More often than not, if that particular person was a Cassville native, they would oblige us. It did not matter what year, make or model of vehicle either, they would rev up the engine and do their best to spin their tires, inciting hoots and hollers from us. It could have been the most beat up Caprice Classic on its last leg and they would stomp the accelerator to the floor for us. Some of the best drags ever laid up there were from Honda Accords and Nissan pickups, I'm serious! My friend Rocky drove a late 80's model Ford Ranger, 4 cylinder, manual transmission, primer gray, about 200,000 miles on it....a real gem. That dude could turn his foot sideways, hold the clutch, the brake and the accelerator down at the same time and cook the tires as good as anybody. He once scored a million cool points when he actually lit a cigarette while he was spinning the tires. He took a drag, smiled and blew past us, and we obliged him with whistles and high fives.
One of the best was from a guy that lived across the street from the store. He completely restored a Ford Gran Torino, the same model used in Starsky and Hutch. It was immaculate too, with its red and white paint, shiny wheels and best of all, the roar of that engine. He spared no expense on this car, and I swear it could have pulled the store off its foundation. One day, he took it out for a spin and he came up to the four way stop. We just so happened to be sitting outside. "You think Ronnie would get on it?" asked my co-worker, Russell. "Nah, not in that car, that's his baby," I said most assuredly. "Aw hell, let's see," he replied. Russell stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled as loud as he could, Ronnie looked over at us and Russell yelled our typical phrase and delivered the hand motion. I fully expected Ronnie to shake his head, laugh and just ease past us. Nope. I saw his eyes and knew he was going to come through for us. You always knew because a devious smile would suddenly form on their face and the revving would start. Ronnie fired up that monster engine and unleashed a drag unlike I have ever seen up there. He sat in place for ten seconds as the tires screamed on the pavement. Smoke billowed out from under the car like it was on fire. It got so thick that we could not see his car anymore. Then he released the brake and shot like a cannon out of the cloud of smoke and past us fishtailing, complete with a rebel yell and a fist pump out the window. We were hooping and hollering, jumping around and high fiving, when the smoke alarm went off in the store. We had opened the windows earlier and Ronnie had put out so much smoke that it crept into the store and set the alarm off. He got a free beer for that one.
**Ronnie also "barked second," which gets you another cheer. "Barked second" means that when your transmission shifted to second gear, the tires gave a tiny squeal. Big deal in Cassville.
Another good one was my friend, Paul. He had a shortbed Chevrolet truck that supposedly had a Corvette engine under the hood. He also had illegal slick tires on the rear, so "getting on it" had a whole new meaning for him. Further, Paul lived for it. He absolutely loved to cook his tires and make us go crazy. He would do it even if we weren't outside, so we would run out and see him. One day, he came in after work and bought some random things and shot the bull for awhile. "Alright y'all, I'm gone, " he says. "Get on it when you leave," ordered Russell. Paul backed out of the parking lot facing north and started revving in the middle of the road. Tires squealed and smoke went everywhere, I ran into the parking lot pumping my fist and egging him on. He took off like a shot and traveled about 50 feet when a Sheriff's Deputy in SWAT gear walked into the middle of street and stopped him. Apparently, we did not realize that a meth bust had just taken place about two doors down. They heard the commotion, walked outside and Paul was caught red-handed. The cop ordered him to park at the store and wait until the paddy wagon came to get the methheads, then he would get his ticket. He sat there for about an hour fuming. Just another day in Cassville.
**As far as I was concerned, I never laid drag. I drove a 1997 Ford Ranger that couldn't "pull a greased string out of a cat's @ss" according to my co-workers. I literally had to turn the air conditioning off if I went up a steep incline.
2) Out of Towners
With I-75 being so close to us, we got our fair share of "tourists" passing through. 50% wanted to see Cassville, the other half were just lost. Most of them were of the Midwestern persuasion and older, so there were plenty of black sandals with black socks (a dead giveaway, as per the late, great Lewis Grizzard. RIP Lewis, give Catfish a pat on the head for me.) People named Bob, Bill, Marge, Barb...the typical old Midwestern names. The wives would tell us how "cute" the store was and describe a similar place back in Ohio. The men would make a remark about gas prices (ours was always too high) and then stride over to the ice cream cooler.
That ice cream cooler was the BANE of my existence. I hated it. Seriously, I told Dad if I ever took over, I would roll that thing into the first fire truck barreling down Cass-White Road. It contained eight three-gallon tubs of Scotty Mayfield's finest ice cream, but to me, it was eight opportunities for aggravation, annoyance and twenty minutes of Windex and sticky hands. One half of the cooler froze too hard, so four of the eight tubs would be as hard as a brick. Those were undoubtedly the four flavors that EVERYBODY wanted, and they all wanted a double. Speaking of flavors, we carried the basics (chocolate, vanilla, cherry, strawberry, butter pecan, black walnut, rainbow sherbet) and one random that Mayfield would sell us (usually Moose Tracks, Turtle Tracks or Birthday Cake). I'll go into the ice cream cooler more later, I could write an entire book about that spawn of Satan.
Anyhow, out of towners always wanted ice cream. Always. They would act like they have never seen an ice cream cooler before, run over to it and stick their face in the glass. The undisputed king of first questions, "what flavors do you guys have?" would come out. Cassville natives already knew, or if they needed a refresher, "what flavors y'all got?" I would go through the list of painfully obvious flavors. Chocolate is chocolate....in Georgia, Ohio, Canada, Kazakhstan....it doesn't matter. Undoubtedly, the next question, "oh, you guys don't have _______?" would rear its ugly head. The blank represents some off-the-wall flavor that nobody ever wants, like Rum Raisin or some other flavor that rural Georgians would not touch with a ten foot pole. I wanted to say "yeah, we have a secret cooler under this one, that's where the Rum Raisin is, I'll run down and get it." They would pause and ponder, "I don't know Barb, what should we do?" the man would remark and wink at me, like I was 6 years old and he just told me Santa Claus was real. Both would end up getting vanilla. The vanilla is frozen solid, of course, and they want a double "scoop." Cassville people say "dip," not "scoop." He pays for the ice cream, remarks about the price (too high, as always), and notices my grandfather's mounted largemouth bass on the wall. He compares it to a fish he once caught (his was bigger, of course) and compares his life to my grandfather's, since they are of the same generation. Being in customer service, you have to watch yourself, but I wanted to say, "Sir, no two men in the universe could have less in common than you and my grandfather." He wouldn't be caught dead in black socks and sandals, that's for dang sure.
3) Giving Directions to Out of Towners
As I stated, 50% of them were just lost. They would pull up on the front when they saw us sitting there and say, "excuse me young man!" It was obvious they were lost by their frazzled appearance and the giant useless map in their lap. In their defense, rural Georgia is one of the worst marked areas in the United States. Half of the road signs are stolen (I plead the Fif...I plead the Fif....One, Two, Three, Four, Fif!) and the DOT simply never replaces them. Interstates and highways intersect but you have no idea where or how far away. It's a colossal disaster.
Giving directions is an intricate process at Cass Grocery. Whomever is the oldest has the right of first refusal. Older Cassville men LOVE to give directions. They live for it. It's a bum rush to the car to see who can start talking first. Now, these guys know exactly where you need to go and what roads you need to take. The problem is in the description. The only way to illustrate this dilemma is play out the conversation. I'll use the names "Billy" for the Cassville man and "Jo" for the out of towner woman.
Billy: "So, y'all lookin' for Calhoun, huh? I used to live upair (up there) so you in luck!"
Jo: "Oh thank goodness!"
Billy (pointing north): "Alright, y'all go up yonder a piece, get on the four lane....." ("the four lane" is highway 41, which is a four-lane highway, hence "the four lane")
Other Cassville man: "Naw, Billy, they need to get on 75!"
Billy: "Junior, shut the hell up! It ain't faster! I timed it, it ain't no quicker. Look, y'all just listen to me. Get upair on the four lane, go about twelve miles, pass by Summerville Highway.." (that's Highway 140, but these old guys don't do numbers)
Yet another Cassville man: "It ain't twelve miles! It's only ten! Hell, they's too much traffic that way, y'all need to get 411 over at Pine Log and take Summerville Highway across Folsom."
(Jo is looking more and more flustered)
Billy: "Ten, twelve, it don't matter. You'll pass by the tar (tire) place and go up the road a piece and you'll hit Calhoun."
The other men then debate the authenticity of Billy's directions, tell the out of towners about three other ways to get there and they all end up arguing as the people drive away. This happened nearly every single time. God bless us.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Georgia's Season in Song and Movies
Game 1: Boise State
Song: "Welcome to the Jungle" by Guns N' Roses;
Quote: "It's a helluva thing, killin' a man. You take away all he's got and all he's ever gonna have." - Unforgiven, Clint Eastwood
Basically, we are going to give the Blue Turf Bimbos another mollywhopping, SEC style. I remember the first time we did it in 2005. Jared Zabransky had to be removed from the field due to "heat exhaustion" aka three turnovers and four sacks. We'll hate to do it to them on national television, but we've got something to prove. The national media wants Boise to knock us off for shock value, but we aren't taking these guys lightly. Our speed and talent will overwhelm them early. I fully expect a 100 yard game from Crowell and a monstrous coming out party for our new look D. Our newest defensive lineman, Johnathan Jenkins (6'4 340) may actually eat their center (5'11, 288) and quarterback before the game is over.
Game 2: South Carolina
Song: "We Ready" by Archie Eversole
Quote: "I'm your Huckleberry, that's just my game." - Val Kilmer, Tombstone
Last year's game in Carolina was an abomination, to say the least. We played terrible offensively and our defense allowed true freshman Marcus Lattimore to fly by us like we were cardboard cutouts. And yet....we nearly won the game. But for Ealey's fumble on their 1 yard line, I think we would have knocked them off. It was a fun trip though, as Brock, Vinny and I stayed at the fabulous Sleep Inn in western Columbia, complete with a vanload of strippers from Atlanta in town to entertain an electrical worker's convention. We also learned how to make an "Irish Pancake," increased Corona's stock by 1.3% and Vinny talked to a dog for about 30 minutes. Fun times.
Nonetheless, it's a new year, we are at home, and we are tired of the "cockadoodle-dooing" coming from the East. We've been called out, and we will be ready.
Game 3: Coastal Carolina
Song: "Let the Bodies Hit the Floor" by Drowning Pool
Quote: "Who are these f****** guys? - Neil Flynn, Major League
The Chanticleers. That's who. Seriously, I know nothing about them. Just like the fabled Indian squad from Major League, nobody knows who they are, much less what a Chanticleer is. It must come from the same land as the Hokie. Looking at their roster, they have a monster O-line (averages 299 lbs) and several D-1 (sorry, I don't do the new distinctions, they suck) transfers. Still, I'm thinking 72-2, they sack our third string waterboy for a safety with 0:04 seconds left. No Wild Thing or Jobu can save them.
Game 4: Ole Miss
Song: "Last Dance With Mary Jane" by Tom Petty
Quote: "Look for low and away....but watch for in your ear." - Ray Liotta, Field of Dreams
Why this song? Because if this new realignment happens with the SEC, we will play Ole Miss in Oxford again in about....hmmmm.....2053. I am not a fan of this expansion, we don't need an even harder road to the national championship. Then again, it may force a playoff system if a couple of conferences disappear, so stay tuned. Ole Miss gave us hell in Oxford last time we played them in 2006, and they weren't supposed to put up a fight. Even the Rebel fans were conceding defeat the night before, between shots of Southern Comfort. 14-9 was the final and I wanted to gouge my eyes out all game long because our offense was so anemic. Ole Miss always gives us a scare, you never know what to expect with them, especially with Houston Nutt as the coach. We'll go in with confidence but we will tread lightly....and we won't wink either, kid. (+1 for another quote reference)
Game 5: Mississippi State
Song: "Go To Sleep" by Ludacris
Quote: "The man in the black pajamas Dude, worthy f***** adversary." John Goodman, The Big Lebowski
We took Mississippi State lightly last year, went into Cowbell Central and came out with a loss. It was one of the worst performances of a dismal season. However, Dan Mullen has them believing in Starkville and they are no slouch, to be honest. I chose the song because it's mean, which is what we need to be in Athens when they come to town. If we hit them in the mouth early, no amount of trick plays and onside kicks will help the other Bulldogs pull out another win. They will have to meet us "eyeball to eyeball" and I don't see us flinching this time. (+1 for another quote)
Game 6: Tennessee
Song: "No More Mr. Nice Guy" by Alice Cooper
Quote: "Nazis. I hate these guys." - Harrison Ford, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade
Last year, we clobbered Tennessee at home. We brutally murdered their secondary with passes all over the field, ran by their line like they were stuck in the mud and raided their backfield like meth head in a Sudfaed factory. In the first half. My highlight was Da'Rick Rogers getting booed off the field after his one catch for -2 yards. Coach Richt took the foot off the gas and the second half was a punting exhibition. Maybe because it was Derek Dooley on the other side? I don't know. We could have scored 65 at the rate we were going amd I vote that we do so in Knoxville this season. Tennessee is my least favorite team in the SEC (remember, I don't hate anyone). So the quote is a little misguided, but it more or less expresses my sentiments towards the "Looks like somebody barfed Cheetos" Volunteer nation.
Game 7: Vanderbilt
Song: "Once Bitten, Twice Shy" by Great White
Quote: "Only to people he know! He don't be doin that to them fools around the corner!"- Chris Tucker, Friday
Vanderbilt is like Ole Miss, they always play us tough at their place. Heck, in 2003, it was 3-2 at halftime! Seriously. We had a field goal and they had a safety. There were about 30,000 UGA fans and about 3,000 Vandy fans there. The dork in front of me kept remarking how "this is like a baseball game" and giggling like he saw a naked female for the first time. In 2007, we were a fumble away from losing to them and in 2006, at home, we did the unspeakable and let Vandy whip us. I've witnessed two Vandy wins in Athens actually (the other in 1994) and I would liken it to having a root canal while somebody scrapes a fork across an empty plate with John Mayer singing "Why Georgia" over and over. We just play apprehensively and they take full advantage every time. It seems we are the ONLY school that allows this, hence the quote. This is a year of change. Vandy is going to play Red and we will be Deebo, squeaky bike wheel and all. Let's hope their daddy shows up in the Ford Escort to haul their body away.
Game 8: Florida
Song: "Over" by Drake
Quote: "At my signal, unleash Hell." - Russell Crowe, Gladiator
Since 1991, we have basically laid an egg in Jacksonville every year. We play with two left feet, crossed eyes, bad luck and warm butter hands. I can still see Terrence Edwards dropping that wide open pass in 2002. I nearly threw myself into the St. John's River, instead, I invaded the Landing and enjoyed some warm Heineken....mmmmmm. If we played Florida like we play Tennessee or Auburn, this series would not be going this way. Forget moving the game to home and home, we just need to flush the mental toilet and know we can win. Dooley made a career out of stomping Florida, he ruined their season so many times that they lost count. Ask any older UF alum, they freaking hate UGA. I want the hate back! Evil Richt will have our guys ready and we will introduce Will Muschamp to the Benedict Arnold treatment that he deserves. Branden Smith and Boykin will get some special teams TD's and the Gators will fold like a cheap tent....just like their former coach.
Game 9: New Mexico State
Song: "Welcome Back" by John Sebastian (Welcome Back Kotter theme song)
Quote: "Our calvary will ride them down like grass. Send the horse." - British lord, pre-battle, Braveheart
New Mexico State visits us again in Athens. We are glad to have them after such a brutal stretch. Last time I saw them, we unleashed a beating that was culminated by Tony Gilbert nearly killing their quarterback on a blitz that nobody picked up. Their guard literally stepped aside and said, "look out!!" I look for much of the same this year, and by "horse," I mean a heaping helping of Boo Malcolme, Crowell, Bruce Figgins and Zander Ogletree. Zander's brother, Alec, could reproduce Tony Gilbert's sack from his new linebacker position, so we got that going for us, which is nice. (+1 for Caddyshack reference)
Game 10: Auburn
Song: "Got Money" by Lil Wayne
Quote: "Locksley! I'm gonna cut your heart out with a spoon!" -Alan Rickman, Robin Hood : Prince of Thieves
So, the song choice, total cheap shot at Auburn and their impending NCAA violations. Winn Dixie grocery bags full of money in the VIP section? Ha! Try Piggly Wiggly and Cam Newton's house. Nah, I hope it doesn't happen, it cheapens later victories. They can always say, "yeah, but we were on probation..." Last season's game was close in the first half but Auburn blew the doors open in the second. They were clearly the better team. That does NOT alleviate the cheap shots delivered upon our QB by Nick Fairley, who has since moved on to the NFL. So, we have to exact our revenge on their new linemen. Ben Jones and Cordy Glenn, our senior O-Linemen who were party to Fairley's shenanigans last year, are going to road grade us to victory at home. (I really enjoy the Auburn game actually, it's always physical and usually produces some nasty hits)
Game 11: Kentucky
Song: "Heartache Tonight" by the Eagles
Quote: "I got a hockey record, ya know. I tried to stab a guy with my skate once. I'm the only guy to ever do that." - Adam Sandler, Happy Gilmore
The Kentucky Wildcats, the walking question mark. They get new coaches every five minutes. Nobody really knows how they recruit, who they recruit, or where....they just kinda show up to the stadium with 85 guys. I chose the song because they absolutely can scare the bejesus out of you with trick plays, random fast white guys, and a couple of defensive linemen that play with a chip on their shoulder because the bigger teams overlooked them. I chose the quote because they always have one guy who is a complete freak (Tim Couch, Jared Lorenzen, Randall Cobb) and can cook up so many BS plays that somehow work, driving you insane the entire time. I swear they draw their plays in the dirt. I cringe when we play Kentucky.
Game 11: Georgia Tech
Song: "Regulate" by Warren G
Quote: "They're bugs, Wyatt! They say live and let live, well there ain't no live and let live with bugs!" -Bill Paxton, Tombstone
There is no team in the SEC that I hate. None. After the game, we can all hang out, have a drink and enjoy a little trash talk. Not with Tech. I hate them. I hate everything about them: their fans, the school, the campus, the stadium....I hate North Avenue because it touches property owned by Georgia Tech. I have never had a good experience there, although we absolutely have made a mockery of the so-called rivalry. Tech has only won once (fair and square) since 1990. I chose the song mainly for the title, we need to regulate on Tech every chance we get. Maul them into submission and never look back. Some UGA fans think my hate should be placed elsewhere but I counter with this...be at a game when we lose to them. Nothing can prepare you for the unbridled tickle pile that ensues. Ask Jim Donnan how much it matters, it was one of the reasons he was fired. As far as the quote goes, it's self explanatory. To Hell with Tech? I say to Tech with Hell....because I'd rather burn in eternity than associate with that sack of rat guts in cat vomit (+1 for Hook reference) Bangarang.
Song: "Welcome to the Jungle" by Guns N' Roses;
Quote: "It's a helluva thing, killin' a man. You take away all he's got and all he's ever gonna have." - Unforgiven, Clint Eastwood
Basically, we are going to give the Blue Turf Bimbos another mollywhopping, SEC style. I remember the first time we did it in 2005. Jared Zabransky had to be removed from the field due to "heat exhaustion" aka three turnovers and four sacks. We'll hate to do it to them on national television, but we've got something to prove. The national media wants Boise to knock us off for shock value, but we aren't taking these guys lightly. Our speed and talent will overwhelm them early. I fully expect a 100 yard game from Crowell and a monstrous coming out party for our new look D. Our newest defensive lineman, Johnathan Jenkins (6'4 340) may actually eat their center (5'11, 288) and quarterback before the game is over.
Game 2: South Carolina
Song: "We Ready" by Archie Eversole
Quote: "I'm your Huckleberry, that's just my game." - Val Kilmer, Tombstone
Last year's game in Carolina was an abomination, to say the least. We played terrible offensively and our defense allowed true freshman Marcus Lattimore to fly by us like we were cardboard cutouts. And yet....we nearly won the game. But for Ealey's fumble on their 1 yard line, I think we would have knocked them off. It was a fun trip though, as Brock, Vinny and I stayed at the fabulous Sleep Inn in western Columbia, complete with a vanload of strippers from Atlanta in town to entertain an electrical worker's convention. We also learned how to make an "Irish Pancake," increased Corona's stock by 1.3% and Vinny talked to a dog for about 30 minutes. Fun times.
Nonetheless, it's a new year, we are at home, and we are tired of the "cockadoodle-dooing" coming from the East. We've been called out, and we will be ready.
Game 3: Coastal Carolina
Song: "Let the Bodies Hit the Floor" by Drowning Pool
Quote: "Who are these f****** guys? - Neil Flynn, Major League
The Chanticleers. That's who. Seriously, I know nothing about them. Just like the fabled Indian squad from Major League, nobody knows who they are, much less what a Chanticleer is. It must come from the same land as the Hokie. Looking at their roster, they have a monster O-line (averages 299 lbs) and several D-1 (sorry, I don't do the new distinctions, they suck) transfers. Still, I'm thinking 72-2, they sack our third string waterboy for a safety with 0:04 seconds left. No Wild Thing or Jobu can save them.
Game 4: Ole Miss
Song: "Last Dance With Mary Jane" by Tom Petty
Quote: "Look for low and away....but watch for in your ear." - Ray Liotta, Field of Dreams
Why this song? Because if this new realignment happens with the SEC, we will play Ole Miss in Oxford again in about....hmmmm.....2053. I am not a fan of this expansion, we don't need an even harder road to the national championship. Then again, it may force a playoff system if a couple of conferences disappear, so stay tuned. Ole Miss gave us hell in Oxford last time we played them in 2006, and they weren't supposed to put up a fight. Even the Rebel fans were conceding defeat the night before, between shots of Southern Comfort. 14-9 was the final and I wanted to gouge my eyes out all game long because our offense was so anemic. Ole Miss always gives us a scare, you never know what to expect with them, especially with Houston Nutt as the coach. We'll go in with confidence but we will tread lightly....and we won't wink either, kid. (+1 for another quote reference)
Game 5: Mississippi State
Song: "Go To Sleep" by Ludacris
Quote: "The man in the black pajamas Dude, worthy f***** adversary." John Goodman, The Big Lebowski
We took Mississippi State lightly last year, went into Cowbell Central and came out with a loss. It was one of the worst performances of a dismal season. However, Dan Mullen has them believing in Starkville and they are no slouch, to be honest. I chose the song because it's mean, which is what we need to be in Athens when they come to town. If we hit them in the mouth early, no amount of trick plays and onside kicks will help the other Bulldogs pull out another win. They will have to meet us "eyeball to eyeball" and I don't see us flinching this time. (+1 for another quote)
Game 6: Tennessee
Song: "No More Mr. Nice Guy" by Alice Cooper
Quote: "Nazis. I hate these guys." - Harrison Ford, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade
Last year, we clobbered Tennessee at home. We brutally murdered their secondary with passes all over the field, ran by their line like they were stuck in the mud and raided their backfield like meth head in a Sudfaed factory. In the first half. My highlight was Da'Rick Rogers getting booed off the field after his one catch for -2 yards. Coach Richt took the foot off the gas and the second half was a punting exhibition. Maybe because it was Derek Dooley on the other side? I don't know. We could have scored 65 at the rate we were going amd I vote that we do so in Knoxville this season. Tennessee is my least favorite team in the SEC (remember, I don't hate anyone). So the quote is a little misguided, but it more or less expresses my sentiments towards the "Looks like somebody barfed Cheetos" Volunteer nation.
Game 7: Vanderbilt
Song: "Once Bitten, Twice Shy" by Great White
Quote: "Only to people he know! He don't be doin that to them fools around the corner!"- Chris Tucker, Friday
Vanderbilt is like Ole Miss, they always play us tough at their place. Heck, in 2003, it was 3-2 at halftime! Seriously. We had a field goal and they had a safety. There were about 30,000 UGA fans and about 3,000 Vandy fans there. The dork in front of me kept remarking how "this is like a baseball game" and giggling like he saw a naked female for the first time. In 2007, we were a fumble away from losing to them and in 2006, at home, we did the unspeakable and let Vandy whip us. I've witnessed two Vandy wins in Athens actually (the other in 1994) and I would liken it to having a root canal while somebody scrapes a fork across an empty plate with John Mayer singing "Why Georgia" over and over. We just play apprehensively and they take full advantage every time. It seems we are the ONLY school that allows this, hence the quote. This is a year of change. Vandy is going to play Red and we will be Deebo, squeaky bike wheel and all. Let's hope their daddy shows up in the Ford Escort to haul their body away.
Game 8: Florida
Song: "Over" by Drake
Quote: "At my signal, unleash Hell." - Russell Crowe, Gladiator
Since 1991, we have basically laid an egg in Jacksonville every year. We play with two left feet, crossed eyes, bad luck and warm butter hands. I can still see Terrence Edwards dropping that wide open pass in 2002. I nearly threw myself into the St. John's River, instead, I invaded the Landing and enjoyed some warm Heineken....mmmmmm. If we played Florida like we play Tennessee or Auburn, this series would not be going this way. Forget moving the game to home and home, we just need to flush the mental toilet and know we can win. Dooley made a career out of stomping Florida, he ruined their season so many times that they lost count. Ask any older UF alum, they freaking hate UGA. I want the hate back! Evil Richt will have our guys ready and we will introduce Will Muschamp to the Benedict Arnold treatment that he deserves. Branden Smith and Boykin will get some special teams TD's and the Gators will fold like a cheap tent....just like their former coach.
Game 9: New Mexico State
Song: "Welcome Back" by John Sebastian (Welcome Back Kotter theme song)
Quote: "Our calvary will ride them down like grass. Send the horse." - British lord, pre-battle, Braveheart
New Mexico State visits us again in Athens. We are glad to have them after such a brutal stretch. Last time I saw them, we unleashed a beating that was culminated by Tony Gilbert nearly killing their quarterback on a blitz that nobody picked up. Their guard literally stepped aside and said, "look out!!" I look for much of the same this year, and by "horse," I mean a heaping helping of Boo Malcolme, Crowell, Bruce Figgins and Zander Ogletree. Zander's brother, Alec, could reproduce Tony Gilbert's sack from his new linebacker position, so we got that going for us, which is nice. (+1 for Caddyshack reference)
Game 10: Auburn
Song: "Got Money" by Lil Wayne
Quote: "Locksley! I'm gonna cut your heart out with a spoon!" -Alan Rickman, Robin Hood : Prince of Thieves
So, the song choice, total cheap shot at Auburn and their impending NCAA violations. Winn Dixie grocery bags full of money in the VIP section? Ha! Try Piggly Wiggly and Cam Newton's house. Nah, I hope it doesn't happen, it cheapens later victories. They can always say, "yeah, but we were on probation..." Last season's game was close in the first half but Auburn blew the doors open in the second. They were clearly the better team. That does NOT alleviate the cheap shots delivered upon our QB by Nick Fairley, who has since moved on to the NFL. So, we have to exact our revenge on their new linemen. Ben Jones and Cordy Glenn, our senior O-Linemen who were party to Fairley's shenanigans last year, are going to road grade us to victory at home. (I really enjoy the Auburn game actually, it's always physical and usually produces some nasty hits)
Game 11: Kentucky
Song: "Heartache Tonight" by the Eagles
Quote: "I got a hockey record, ya know. I tried to stab a guy with my skate once. I'm the only guy to ever do that." - Adam Sandler, Happy Gilmore
The Kentucky Wildcats, the walking question mark. They get new coaches every five minutes. Nobody really knows how they recruit, who they recruit, or where....they just kinda show up to the stadium with 85 guys. I chose the song because they absolutely can scare the bejesus out of you with trick plays, random fast white guys, and a couple of defensive linemen that play with a chip on their shoulder because the bigger teams overlooked them. I chose the quote because they always have one guy who is a complete freak (Tim Couch, Jared Lorenzen, Randall Cobb) and can cook up so many BS plays that somehow work, driving you insane the entire time. I swear they draw their plays in the dirt. I cringe when we play Kentucky.
Game 11: Georgia Tech
Song: "Regulate" by Warren G
Quote: "They're bugs, Wyatt! They say live and let live, well there ain't no live and let live with bugs!" -Bill Paxton, Tombstone
There is no team in the SEC that I hate. None. After the game, we can all hang out, have a drink and enjoy a little trash talk. Not with Tech. I hate them. I hate everything about them: their fans, the school, the campus, the stadium....I hate North Avenue because it touches property owned by Georgia Tech. I have never had a good experience there, although we absolutely have made a mockery of the so-called rivalry. Tech has only won once (fair and square) since 1990. I chose the song mainly for the title, we need to regulate on Tech every chance we get. Maul them into submission and never look back. Some UGA fans think my hate should be placed elsewhere but I counter with this...be at a game when we lose to them. Nothing can prepare you for the unbridled tickle pile that ensues. Ask Jim Donnan how much it matters, it was one of the reasons he was fired. As far as the quote goes, it's self explanatory. To Hell with Tech? I say to Tech with Hell....because I'd rather burn in eternity than associate with that sack of rat guts in cat vomit (+1 for Hook reference) Bangarang.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Solving the World's Problems...One Marlboro at a Time
If you drove by Cass Grocery in the 26 years that my Dad owned it, you know what it looked like on the front. Three gas pumps with areas on both sides to park your car, the ice machine, a Coke machine and the benches on either side of the front door. The benches have been there since anyone can remember, before my Dad took over, before my great uncle R.B. owned it, before the Bible was translated out of Hebrew, you get the idea. Every generation can recall a large group of local men who sat on those benches every morning, drinking coffee, smoking and telling stories or discussing world events. (by world events, I mean how many cops got called out to Cedar Creek Road last night or how much copper was stolen at a construction site in Kingston.)
As an innocent young bystander, I was not truly included in the group. Although I was welcome to stand and listen, I did not meet the qualifications set forth by the patriarchal society that ruled the roost that was the benches of Cass Grocery.
1) Age and Gender
You must be over 40. That's old enough to have worked a long time, had children that are "growed" and probably gone through a divorce or two. I was 13, all I cared about was White Water, NBA stats, and Georgia football.
No women. Ever. Absolutely not allowed. No exceptions.
2) The Look
You MUST
a) wear a John Deere hat; or
b) wear flannel regardless of temperature; or
c) smoke cigarettes; or
d) never wear shorts.
This is very important. The look. The John Deere hat is a badge of honor, to say the least. I'm talking the about the ones that sit tall on your head, not these low riders they make now. (You can see plenty of them on college campuses, worn by suburban kids whose fathers own a John Deere lawnmower.) This hat validates any statement you make on the benches, especially if you are referring to anything regarding construction, farming, car repair or tools. Don't ask these men where they bought their hat, however. This will give you away. John Deere gives away free hats with large purchases, so they'll laugh at you and say, "This damn hat cost me $58,000." Any man worth his salt knows this. You are then branded as "soft" and "don't work for a livin." Or even worse, "I'll bet he puts cream in his coffee."
Flannel is also a sign that you know a little something. Flannel indicates you probably are into construction, farming or car repair, can likely work with your hands, and may have killed a deer or two. These are big ticket items on the benches. You cannot work in an office, wear a tie all day, and watch Entourage or anything like that. You will be ousted before you can say "Dale Earnhardt, Seven Time Winston Cup Champion."
** A deer kill MAY get you included, but it depends on where, how, when and the circumstances. For example, if the pull on your compound bow is less than 80 pounds, then you are disqualified. You are a sissy.
Cigarettes. Almost as validating as the John Deere hat. Nothing puts an exclamation point behind a statement about installing sprinkler pipe in Pine Log quite like a huge drag off a Marlboro Red. You MUST be able to hold it in your mouth without squinting from the smoke. You MUST also have smoked long enough to "try and quit" (not try to quit) but fail miserably (usually due to the aforementioned "growed" kids or divorce). Having a Zippo is a plus. Soft pack or box is optional, there are no rules there. You can get away with 100's or Lights, but it better be a serious brand. No generic crap. The use of smokeless tobacco is also acceptable, if not welcomed.
Shorts. A sure sign that you are a sissy. If you do any kind of hard work, then shorts cannot be worn. There are no exceptions. You better be in jeans, coveralls, overalls, Dickie's work pants or Carhartts.
I had no John Deere hat and only wore flannel if it was below 40 degrees. I could not smoke because my Dad would have sacrificed me like an Aztec virgin, plus it's hard to run up and down a basketball court hacking up a lung. And I wore shorts all year long with high top Michael Jordan basketball shoes. (cue the Price is Right loser music)
3) The Talk
Numerous topics were touched upon out there, from construction and car repair, to politics, the weather, the Braves and women. Now, anybody from anywhere can talk about these topics. What differentiates the men on the benches from everyone else is HOW they talked about it. You must use colloquialisms, hyperbole and swearing.
"Hell, if that damn Obama keeps raisin' taxes, I'm gonna be paddlin' my ass to Cuba!"
Everyone nods in agreement. Further discussion ensues. If you had said, "I'm very disappointed in the tax increase this admininstration is proposing, I fear that I may enter a new tax bracket. I need to call my accountant.," you would have gotten the bewildered look from everyone. Then they would all look at each other and grunt, sending the message to the others (almost like whales and raptors) that you are not to be included.
4) The Ride
Another extremely important factor in your inclusion is your vehicle. A truck, American made, 4 wheel drive, covered in red clay with various tools in the bed is the ride of choice. If you have a diesel, you are automatically elevated to a higher status. A 2007 F-250 with mud all over the tires, with a coondog cage and three Skilsaws in the bed? You're money. There are certain variations that are acceptable, like if you are driving a car instead of a truck, you need a weedeater to be in the backseat. If your truck is clean, you need to claim that it rained on your way back from south Georgia. (I say this because they know the weather within a 50 mile radius, so use south Georgia as your reference point, it throws the dogs off the scent. See? You gotta use your head.) If the vehicle is foreign, say it is your brother's and you had to fix it because he "don't know nothin' about fuel injection." Also, as previously mentioned in this blog, you MUST back into your parking space. No self respecting man has to back out of his parking space when he leaves.
What It Meant
I watched this subculture for years and picked up on their habits. I listened to stories about bar fights, deer hunting, fishing, work, women, drinking, and stories about people from Cassville who had died years before. Just as with Elvis, these dearly departed citizens were held to a God-like status by those who remained.
"Hell, they weren't nobody tougher than ol' Jack. By God, that man could lay brick in 100 degrees and drink a fifth of whiskey the whole damn time. I wouldn't wanna meet that sumbitch in a dark alley, boy."
I could not question the truth of such statements (see earlier disqualifications), so I learned to accept them as part of life up there. I actually enjoyed the extremity of it all. In my mind, the toughest, meanest, hardest working people in the world all existed in Bartow County, Georgia. They never took a day off, never lost a fight and never said no to a drink. As I got older, I knew it was not ALL true, but it honestly gave me a ton of pride to call these guys my friends. They had their way of life, like it or not, and they did not ask the world if it was OK. When I passed the Bar, they couldn't have been prouder. When I would come up to the store afterwards, they would all say laughing, "oh hell, here he is! Hide your wallets, boys!" They all hated lawyers (a topic of discussion over the years) but I guess they made an exception with me. As I've said before, people in Cassville actually are happy for you when you do well.
So, if you are ever in Cassville, or any small town, and you see a group of men sitting in front of a store, stop by. Stand and listen. Observe them in all their glory. And if you get a chance, put a flannel shirt on and say,
"By God, it's hotter than two rabbits doing it in a wool sock out here. I was Bush Hoggin' my field and ran out of cigarettes, must've left my other pack at the VFW bar last night."
Solid gold.
As an innocent young bystander, I was not truly included in the group. Although I was welcome to stand and listen, I did not meet the qualifications set forth by the patriarchal society that ruled the roost that was the benches of Cass Grocery.
1) Age and Gender
You must be over 40. That's old enough to have worked a long time, had children that are "growed" and probably gone through a divorce or two. I was 13, all I cared about was White Water, NBA stats, and Georgia football.
No women. Ever. Absolutely not allowed. No exceptions.
2) The Look
You MUST
a) wear a John Deere hat; or
b) wear flannel regardless of temperature; or
c) smoke cigarettes; or
d) never wear shorts.
This is very important. The look. The John Deere hat is a badge of honor, to say the least. I'm talking the about the ones that sit tall on your head, not these low riders they make now. (You can see plenty of them on college campuses, worn by suburban kids whose fathers own a John Deere lawnmower.) This hat validates any statement you make on the benches, especially if you are referring to anything regarding construction, farming, car repair or tools. Don't ask these men where they bought their hat, however. This will give you away. John Deere gives away free hats with large purchases, so they'll laugh at you and say, "This damn hat cost me $58,000." Any man worth his salt knows this. You are then branded as "soft" and "don't work for a livin." Or even worse, "I'll bet he puts cream in his coffee."
Flannel is also a sign that you know a little something. Flannel indicates you probably are into construction, farming or car repair, can likely work with your hands, and may have killed a deer or two. These are big ticket items on the benches. You cannot work in an office, wear a tie all day, and watch Entourage or anything like that. You will be ousted before you can say "Dale Earnhardt, Seven Time Winston Cup Champion."
** A deer kill MAY get you included, but it depends on where, how, when and the circumstances. For example, if the pull on your compound bow is less than 80 pounds, then you are disqualified. You are a sissy.
Cigarettes. Almost as validating as the John Deere hat. Nothing puts an exclamation point behind a statement about installing sprinkler pipe in Pine Log quite like a huge drag off a Marlboro Red. You MUST be able to hold it in your mouth without squinting from the smoke. You MUST also have smoked long enough to "try and quit" (not try to quit) but fail miserably (usually due to the aforementioned "growed" kids or divorce). Having a Zippo is a plus. Soft pack or box is optional, there are no rules there. You can get away with 100's or Lights, but it better be a serious brand. No generic crap. The use of smokeless tobacco is also acceptable, if not welcomed.
Shorts. A sure sign that you are a sissy. If you do any kind of hard work, then shorts cannot be worn. There are no exceptions. You better be in jeans, coveralls, overalls, Dickie's work pants or Carhartts.
I had no John Deere hat and only wore flannel if it was below 40 degrees. I could not smoke because my Dad would have sacrificed me like an Aztec virgin, plus it's hard to run up and down a basketball court hacking up a lung. And I wore shorts all year long with high top Michael Jordan basketball shoes. (cue the Price is Right loser music)
3) The Talk
Numerous topics were touched upon out there, from construction and car repair, to politics, the weather, the Braves and women. Now, anybody from anywhere can talk about these topics. What differentiates the men on the benches from everyone else is HOW they talked about it. You must use colloquialisms, hyperbole and swearing.
"Hell, if that damn Obama keeps raisin' taxes, I'm gonna be paddlin' my ass to Cuba!"
Everyone nods in agreement. Further discussion ensues. If you had said, "I'm very disappointed in the tax increase this admininstration is proposing, I fear that I may enter a new tax bracket. I need to call my accountant.," you would have gotten the bewildered look from everyone. Then they would all look at each other and grunt, sending the message to the others (almost like whales and raptors) that you are not to be included.
4) The Ride
Another extremely important factor in your inclusion is your vehicle. A truck, American made, 4 wheel drive, covered in red clay with various tools in the bed is the ride of choice. If you have a diesel, you are automatically elevated to a higher status. A 2007 F-250 with mud all over the tires, with a coondog cage and three Skilsaws in the bed? You're money. There are certain variations that are acceptable, like if you are driving a car instead of a truck, you need a weedeater to be in the backseat. If your truck is clean, you need to claim that it rained on your way back from south Georgia. (I say this because they know the weather within a 50 mile radius, so use south Georgia as your reference point, it throws the dogs off the scent. See? You gotta use your head.) If the vehicle is foreign, say it is your brother's and you had to fix it because he "don't know nothin' about fuel injection." Also, as previously mentioned in this blog, you MUST back into your parking space. No self respecting man has to back out of his parking space when he leaves.
What It Meant
I watched this subculture for years and picked up on their habits. I listened to stories about bar fights, deer hunting, fishing, work, women, drinking, and stories about people from Cassville who had died years before. Just as with Elvis, these dearly departed citizens were held to a God-like status by those who remained.
"Hell, they weren't nobody tougher than ol' Jack. By God, that man could lay brick in 100 degrees and drink a fifth of whiskey the whole damn time. I wouldn't wanna meet that sumbitch in a dark alley, boy."
I could not question the truth of such statements (see earlier disqualifications), so I learned to accept them as part of life up there. I actually enjoyed the extremity of it all. In my mind, the toughest, meanest, hardest working people in the world all existed in Bartow County, Georgia. They never took a day off, never lost a fight and never said no to a drink. As I got older, I knew it was not ALL true, but it honestly gave me a ton of pride to call these guys my friends. They had their way of life, like it or not, and they did not ask the world if it was OK. When I passed the Bar, they couldn't have been prouder. When I would come up to the store afterwards, they would all say laughing, "oh hell, here he is! Hide your wallets, boys!" They all hated lawyers (a topic of discussion over the years) but I guess they made an exception with me. As I've said before, people in Cassville actually are happy for you when you do well.
So, if you are ever in Cassville, or any small town, and you see a group of men sitting in front of a store, stop by. Stand and listen. Observe them in all their glory. And if you get a chance, put a flannel shirt on and say,
"By God, it's hotter than two rabbits doing it in a wool sock out here. I was Bush Hoggin' my field and ran out of cigarettes, must've left my other pack at the VFW bar last night."
Solid gold.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Thank God for Football!
Get the picture....It's Saturday, September 4, 1999. I'm wearing a brand new "G" shirt with khaki shorts and New Balances. My trusty fifth pair of Ray-Bans affixed to my head with a visor to block the 98 degree sun beating down on us. I looked about 15 years old, I think. I stride into Sanford Stadium, as I had so many times before, with the Bulldog Nation in tow. We were playing Utah State and it was going to be a cakewalk. We had Seymour and Stroud. We had Charles Grant and Boss Bailey. I knew the roster like the back of my hand because I studied it much harder than anything I was forced to read in Psychology 1101. Seriously, what is more important....dopamine levels in your brain or that Terrence Edwards was born and raised in Tennille, Georgia? Tennille wins, hands down.
I went to the seat that my ticket instructed (section 308, row 12, seat 8) and sat down. I would find out later that this is NOT the cool thing to do. You are supposed to crowd into the student section twelve deep and pray there are no stampedes. The band fired up. The special teams players came out for warmups. We booed Utah State's kickers as they came onto the field. In all the pomp and circumstance, I took inventory. See, although this was probably my 20th game in Sanford, it was my very first as a student. My first without my parents. My first without tossing the football with my brother for three straight hours before kickoff. My first without going to our usual spot on Hull Street with Bojangles chicken, mashed potatoes, macaroni, and something sweet that Mom made for us. I felt a lump in my throat. It was one of sadness and extreme happiness at the same time. Sad for days gone by but completely ecstatic that this dream had come true. I had always wanted to be here, in this spot, since I could remember. I could see my dorm from my seat. My fellow freshmen, wide eyed (or not, depending on the night before), gathering all around me to enjoy their first game really moved me. I watched them for a few minutes, everybody was grinning from ear to ear. I wondered if any of them felt as I did?
We clobbered Utah State 38-7. We ended up going 8-4 that season and we beat Purdue in the Outback Bowl 28-25. It may not have been a magical season in terms of wins and losses, but it was beyond perfect in my eyes. I had three more great seasons and so many things happened during that time. We beat Tennessee for the first time in nine years. Then we had the Hobnail Boot game. We lost to Tech, and then got our revenge tenfold (51-7 was my favorite, I wish it had been 151-7). Mark Richt became our coach. We won the SEC and the Sugar Bowl in the same season, 2002. Pollack stealing the ball from Carolina's QB in the rain. Michael Johnson's catch at Auburn. The Man Enough game in Tuscaloosa. The road trips with the guys. It was an unbelievable year and to celebrate with my friends in New Orleans after whipping Florida State was just icing on the cake. Memories that are absolutely priceless.
That is why I do not truly "hate" another school in the SEC. There are some fanbases that I do not particularly care for, towns that are more fun than others and stadiums that I could do without, but there is no "hate" in the simplest definition of the word. We may give each other hell, talk smack for hours and be hostile from kickoff til the end of the game, but at the end of the day, we are all the same. I know there are people like me, who have great memories with their wives, their best friends and their families, at other schools all across the South. I bet it was a great year to be a student at Auburn last year or at Bama in 2009. What about Carolina? Finally getting to the SEC championship game after so long. Although they were soundly defeated, it had to be fun to be part of that season. Or Vandy a couple of years ago, getting to a bowl game and actually winning it? The people who were there will be talking about it for years to come. They'll call their friends and say, "remember that time...?"
Flash forward twelve years. It's 25 days until kickoff and I am as giddy as I was in September 1999. I have a beard now, so I don't look 15. I have gone back to sitting in my assigned seat because alumni tickets are slightly more than the $3.00 student tickets we used to get. I still get a lump in my throat every game, but it's from Munson highlights on the Jumbotron. Work production is grinding to a halt. My wife thinks I am nuts because I am so excited that one of our defensive backs runs the 40 in .2 seconds faster than last year. My dad calls me about it every day. I talk to my friends Vinny, Jeremy and Jemel constantly. We are like Pavlov's dogs, salivating with every day that passes until we meet Boise in the Dome. I am sure there are tens of thousands just like us, from Arkansas to Florida, gearing up for another great year.
Funny though, I still find myself looking up at section 308, row 12, seat 8 during the first home game every year. I can almost see an 18 year old kid with a visor and a brand new "G" shirt who is just happy to be there. I hope he gets to have the same great memories that I have. Good luck to everybody this year! See you in 25 days!
Disclaimer: None of this applies to Georgia Tech, whatsoever. =)
I went to the seat that my ticket instructed (section 308, row 12, seat 8) and sat down. I would find out later that this is NOT the cool thing to do. You are supposed to crowd into the student section twelve deep and pray there are no stampedes. The band fired up. The special teams players came out for warmups. We booed Utah State's kickers as they came onto the field. In all the pomp and circumstance, I took inventory. See, although this was probably my 20th game in Sanford, it was my very first as a student. My first without my parents. My first without tossing the football with my brother for three straight hours before kickoff. My first without going to our usual spot on Hull Street with Bojangles chicken, mashed potatoes, macaroni, and something sweet that Mom made for us. I felt a lump in my throat. It was one of sadness and extreme happiness at the same time. Sad for days gone by but completely ecstatic that this dream had come true. I had always wanted to be here, in this spot, since I could remember. I could see my dorm from my seat. My fellow freshmen, wide eyed (or not, depending on the night before), gathering all around me to enjoy their first game really moved me. I watched them for a few minutes, everybody was grinning from ear to ear. I wondered if any of them felt as I did?
We clobbered Utah State 38-7. We ended up going 8-4 that season and we beat Purdue in the Outback Bowl 28-25. It may not have been a magical season in terms of wins and losses, but it was beyond perfect in my eyes. I had three more great seasons and so many things happened during that time. We beat Tennessee for the first time in nine years. Then we had the Hobnail Boot game. We lost to Tech, and then got our revenge tenfold (51-7 was my favorite, I wish it had been 151-7). Mark Richt became our coach. We won the SEC and the Sugar Bowl in the same season, 2002. Pollack stealing the ball from Carolina's QB in the rain. Michael Johnson's catch at Auburn. The Man Enough game in Tuscaloosa. The road trips with the guys. It was an unbelievable year and to celebrate with my friends in New Orleans after whipping Florida State was just icing on the cake. Memories that are absolutely priceless.
That is why I do not truly "hate" another school in the SEC. There are some fanbases that I do not particularly care for, towns that are more fun than others and stadiums that I could do without, but there is no "hate" in the simplest definition of the word. We may give each other hell, talk smack for hours and be hostile from kickoff til the end of the game, but at the end of the day, we are all the same. I know there are people like me, who have great memories with their wives, their best friends and their families, at other schools all across the South. I bet it was a great year to be a student at Auburn last year or at Bama in 2009. What about Carolina? Finally getting to the SEC championship game after so long. Although they were soundly defeated, it had to be fun to be part of that season. Or Vandy a couple of years ago, getting to a bowl game and actually winning it? The people who were there will be talking about it for years to come. They'll call their friends and say, "remember that time...?"
Flash forward twelve years. It's 25 days until kickoff and I am as giddy as I was in September 1999. I have a beard now, so I don't look 15. I have gone back to sitting in my assigned seat because alumni tickets are slightly more than the $3.00 student tickets we used to get. I still get a lump in my throat every game, but it's from Munson highlights on the Jumbotron. Work production is grinding to a halt. My wife thinks I am nuts because I am so excited that one of our defensive backs runs the 40 in .2 seconds faster than last year. My dad calls me about it every day. I talk to my friends Vinny, Jeremy and Jemel constantly. We are like Pavlov's dogs, salivating with every day that passes until we meet Boise in the Dome. I am sure there are tens of thousands just like us, from Arkansas to Florida, gearing up for another great year.
Funny though, I still find myself looking up at section 308, row 12, seat 8 during the first home game every year. I can almost see an 18 year old kid with a visor and a brand new "G" shirt who is just happy to be there. I hope he gets to have the same great memories that I have. Good luck to everybody this year! See you in 25 days!
Disclaimer: None of this applies to Georgia Tech, whatsoever. =)
Friday, August 5, 2011
Wrong Side of the Tracks....L-I-V-I-N
In every county, city and town in the USA, especially the South, has an area they call the "wrong side of the tracks." (WST) The WST can encompass an entire town or just one street, it just depends on who you are talking to and where they live in relation to the specific area. The definition of a WST also varies from person to person, what is one man's WST is another man's Martha's Vineyard. There is always a certain tone in the speaker's voice when this area is mentioned, or if somebody lives there, it's like a black eye on their life resume. You know what I mean...I use Bartow as an example:
(Imagine two guys, Ricky and Shane, who work at Georgia Power, talking about a new hire)
Ricky: "You know that new boy on the job? I think his name is Leon."
Shane: "Yeah, he's aight but he acts funny. Why?"
Ricky: "You know he's from Kingston, right?
Shane: "Oh lord, that explains it..." (insert sarcastic tone)
See? Anybody from any county can imagine a similar conversation about a WST in their county. Me personally, I don't have anything against Kingston. Kingston doesn't tax me. Kingston has not bedeviled me with speeding tickets. Actually, some of my best 10 and under basketball memories took place in their old gym. But some people I know always have that tone when referring to it. "I wouldn't go to Kingston if you paid me!" You get the picture.
You also better be careful not to accuse someone of being from a WST when they are not. Many people, especially in small towns, will differentiate and claim unincorporated areas as their home. If you look at an old map of your county, you may see some named areas that you have never heard of. Many of these were simply old voting districts, a crossroads or an old train stop that found their way into the topography. However, many of the residents of these places, while having an address of the nearest post office, will claim the area as their actual home. I once accused an old man of being from Cartersville and he retorted, "Sheeeeeyat, I'm from Rodgers, boy." Rodgers? I looked it up. It's a crossroads on Cassville Road that encompasses maybe half a mile inside the city limits of Cartersville. But, by God, he "ain't from no Cartersville." When I was at the store, I used to purposefully accuse old men of being from another place, just to get that reaction.
Me: "You're from Acworth, right?"
Old Man: "Boy, you better quit talkin that mess. You know I'm from White(s)."
Much merriment for yours truly.
In Cassville, we didn't have a ton of square mileage, but we had a couple of WSTs just the same. Honestly, our WSTs were not crime ridden, moreso it was just full of characters that may commit petty crimes from time to time. The main one was a trailer park that was situated about half a mile from the store. It had about thirty trailers with a paved road running between them, with their mailboxes at the entrance. Two things in Cassville were a sure bet: 1) if you checked the police blotter, somebody from this address went to jail the night before and 2) they were probably drunk from the last twelve pack they bought from me. These people certainly came by the store every single day and I got to know them very well. I knew their habits, their mannerisms, their families, and their life stories. They weren't all "wrong" or "bad" so to speak, they just had a peculiar way about them, and it defined everyone who called it home.
Like George, who drank more than anyone I have ever seen and still managed to hold a job. Every morning, he would meet us at the door when we opened at 6AM, shaking violently with DTs (unfortunately you can't drink beer in your sleep). He would say "hey big guy!" as he blew past us to the beer cooler. He would be shaking so badly, he would have to go to the bathroom, chug a 22 ounce Budweiser and come back out to pay for it. He literally could not reach in his pocket to get his wallet.
Or Randy, who used to abuse morphine and meth at the same time. He somehow pulled off being completely relaxed and wound tighter than a snare drum at the same time, which I thought to be impossible. But accomplishing the impossible happened every day in Cassville. This man once brought his electric guitar to the store, plugged in an old amp, and unleashed a methed out version of "Crossfire" by Stevie Ray Vaughan in the parking lot. You know what? It didn't suck. He would pace the floor, sweating like a hamster running in a wool sock, order an ice cream, forget that he ordered it, buy a Mountain Dew and ask who's ice cream I was holding. He once tried to steal about 20 Dixie Outfitters t-shirts, got caught by my brother, and proceeded to cry on his knees in the parking lot. "I love y'all, man, I'm sorry. I love y'all!" He died during a party in the trailer park sometime in the early 2000s. The coroner said he had been dead for four hours but nobody noticed. He was stranded, caught in a crossfire. RIP Randy.
My grandmother lived near this trailer park and she noticed the comings and goings of its citizens. One day, she was working in her garden and young man walked by and asked to borrow $2.00. She wanted to know what it was for..."milk for my baby," he said. She gave him the $2.00. Unfortunately for him, he was walking and she had a lot of work to do. So, when he came walking back by with an obvious Olde English 800 malt liquor bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag, she confronted him. You know the Southern woman confrontation.....hand on the hip, one eyebrow raised, pointing with her tiny shovel. "Don't you ever ask me for money again, you heathen!" ("Heathern" is also acceptable). The kid actually apologized. Nothing like a guilt trip from 75 year old woman standing amongst her cala lilies and 150 birdhouses. I love you Neen and miss you every day.
The population of this trailer park was fairly transient over the years. However, their transience did not seem to affect the WST cloud that blanketed the modular metropolis. I remember one family that lived there for years, until one day they pulled up in the man's pickup truck with what seemed to be all their wordly possessions. Clothes, shoes, toys, food, lamps, a recliner, and various NASCAR memorabilia stacked in the bed of the truck, with their three children sitting on top to hold it down.
"What the hell? Where y'all goin'?" I said.
The man replied, "Hell, her damn car backfired last night and burnt the house up. This is all I could get out, we're movin to Kingston. Thank God I was able to save that Earnhardt helmet, huh?"
I didn't see them for years. Although Kingston is 4 miles away, that's light years in small town Georgia. It's like a black hole sucks them up and they are sent to another galaxy. I remember one guy moved out of the trailer park and I asked where he went. His old neighbor said, "Hell, he moved to Rome," in a tone that would be more appropriate if he had moved to Sri Lanka. Rome is apparently unattainable from our particular location, that 24 miles might as well be 24,000.
A new trailer was installed and a new family moved in. A guy named Junior, who could not read, his wife and son. Junior would come in and hand me a list that his wife had written and I would get the groceries for him. He drank like a fish, smelled like an old gym bag and had zero teeth. He once peed his pants while I was getting yet another twelve pack of Natural Light for him. As I watched the stain expand across his pants and his boots get wet, he just stood there with an expressionless face, open mouth breathing. It was about 2:00 in the afternoon. Just another day in Cassville. A year later, they were gone too.
Then you had the guy who had a "new" car every week. By "new" I don't mean late model, I mean simply a different car than last week. He pulled up one day in a '86 Chevy Van with an airbrushed wolf on the side. Apparently, the airbrushing doesn't just apply to Gatlinburg t-shirts. This wolf was snarling over a canyon with lightning striking in the background. Forget "Starry Night." This is artwork. It was about 37 shades of brown, only half of the windows were tinted and there was a bullethole in the back glass. The week before he had a Firebird.
"Yep, traded that, three shotguns and a fly wheel for this baby. Sweet deal, huh?" Sweet. That's the word.
There are a million stories from this tiny map dot. One may call the entire town of Cassville a "WST." That's alright with me. If it gets me stories of missing appendages from fights over catching your woman with another man (another story, another day); Fudge Rounds and Yoohoo for breakfast for your kids and blowing your paycheck on Jumbo Bucks while you are geeking on meth.....bring it on. God bless em all.
(Imagine two guys, Ricky and Shane, who work at Georgia Power, talking about a new hire)
Ricky: "You know that new boy on the job? I think his name is Leon."
Shane: "Yeah, he's aight but he acts funny. Why?"
Ricky: "You know he's from Kingston, right?
Shane: "Oh lord, that explains it..." (insert sarcastic tone)
See? Anybody from any county can imagine a similar conversation about a WST in their county. Me personally, I don't have anything against Kingston. Kingston doesn't tax me. Kingston has not bedeviled me with speeding tickets. Actually, some of my best 10 and under basketball memories took place in their old gym. But some people I know always have that tone when referring to it. "I wouldn't go to Kingston if you paid me!" You get the picture.
You also better be careful not to accuse someone of being from a WST when they are not. Many people, especially in small towns, will differentiate and claim unincorporated areas as their home. If you look at an old map of your county, you may see some named areas that you have never heard of. Many of these were simply old voting districts, a crossroads or an old train stop that found their way into the topography. However, many of the residents of these places, while having an address of the nearest post office, will claim the area as their actual home. I once accused an old man of being from Cartersville and he retorted, "Sheeeeeyat, I'm from Rodgers, boy." Rodgers? I looked it up. It's a crossroads on Cassville Road that encompasses maybe half a mile inside the city limits of Cartersville. But, by God, he "ain't from no Cartersville." When I was at the store, I used to purposefully accuse old men of being from another place, just to get that reaction.
Me: "You're from Acworth, right?"
Old Man: "Boy, you better quit talkin that mess. You know I'm from White(s)."
Much merriment for yours truly.
In Cassville, we didn't have a ton of square mileage, but we had a couple of WSTs just the same. Honestly, our WSTs were not crime ridden, moreso it was just full of characters that may commit petty crimes from time to time. The main one was a trailer park that was situated about half a mile from the store. It had about thirty trailers with a paved road running between them, with their mailboxes at the entrance. Two things in Cassville were a sure bet: 1) if you checked the police blotter, somebody from this address went to jail the night before and 2) they were probably drunk from the last twelve pack they bought from me. These people certainly came by the store every single day and I got to know them very well. I knew their habits, their mannerisms, their families, and their life stories. They weren't all "wrong" or "bad" so to speak, they just had a peculiar way about them, and it defined everyone who called it home.
Like George, who drank more than anyone I have ever seen and still managed to hold a job. Every morning, he would meet us at the door when we opened at 6AM, shaking violently with DTs (unfortunately you can't drink beer in your sleep). He would say "hey big guy!" as he blew past us to the beer cooler. He would be shaking so badly, he would have to go to the bathroom, chug a 22 ounce Budweiser and come back out to pay for it. He literally could not reach in his pocket to get his wallet.
Or Randy, who used to abuse morphine and meth at the same time. He somehow pulled off being completely relaxed and wound tighter than a snare drum at the same time, which I thought to be impossible. But accomplishing the impossible happened every day in Cassville. This man once brought his electric guitar to the store, plugged in an old amp, and unleashed a methed out version of "Crossfire" by Stevie Ray Vaughan in the parking lot. You know what? It didn't suck. He would pace the floor, sweating like a hamster running in a wool sock, order an ice cream, forget that he ordered it, buy a Mountain Dew and ask who's ice cream I was holding. He once tried to steal about 20 Dixie Outfitters t-shirts, got caught by my brother, and proceeded to cry on his knees in the parking lot. "I love y'all, man, I'm sorry. I love y'all!" He died during a party in the trailer park sometime in the early 2000s. The coroner said he had been dead for four hours but nobody noticed. He was stranded, caught in a crossfire. RIP Randy.
My grandmother lived near this trailer park and she noticed the comings and goings of its citizens. One day, she was working in her garden and young man walked by and asked to borrow $2.00. She wanted to know what it was for..."milk for my baby," he said. She gave him the $2.00. Unfortunately for him, he was walking and she had a lot of work to do. So, when he came walking back by with an obvious Olde English 800 malt liquor bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag, she confronted him. You know the Southern woman confrontation.....hand on the hip, one eyebrow raised, pointing with her tiny shovel. "Don't you ever ask me for money again, you heathen!" ("Heathern" is also acceptable). The kid actually apologized. Nothing like a guilt trip from 75 year old woman standing amongst her cala lilies and 150 birdhouses. I love you Neen and miss you every day.
The population of this trailer park was fairly transient over the years. However, their transience did not seem to affect the WST cloud that blanketed the modular metropolis. I remember one family that lived there for years, until one day they pulled up in the man's pickup truck with what seemed to be all their wordly possessions. Clothes, shoes, toys, food, lamps, a recliner, and various NASCAR memorabilia stacked in the bed of the truck, with their three children sitting on top to hold it down.
"What the hell? Where y'all goin'?" I said.
The man replied, "Hell, her damn car backfired last night and burnt the house up. This is all I could get out, we're movin to Kingston. Thank God I was able to save that Earnhardt helmet, huh?"
I didn't see them for years. Although Kingston is 4 miles away, that's light years in small town Georgia. It's like a black hole sucks them up and they are sent to another galaxy. I remember one guy moved out of the trailer park and I asked where he went. His old neighbor said, "Hell, he moved to Rome," in a tone that would be more appropriate if he had moved to Sri Lanka. Rome is apparently unattainable from our particular location, that 24 miles might as well be 24,000.
A new trailer was installed and a new family moved in. A guy named Junior, who could not read, his wife and son. Junior would come in and hand me a list that his wife had written and I would get the groceries for him. He drank like a fish, smelled like an old gym bag and had zero teeth. He once peed his pants while I was getting yet another twelve pack of Natural Light for him. As I watched the stain expand across his pants and his boots get wet, he just stood there with an expressionless face, open mouth breathing. It was about 2:00 in the afternoon. Just another day in Cassville. A year later, they were gone too.
Then you had the guy who had a "new" car every week. By "new" I don't mean late model, I mean simply a different car than last week. He pulled up one day in a '86 Chevy Van with an airbrushed wolf on the side. Apparently, the airbrushing doesn't just apply to Gatlinburg t-shirts. This wolf was snarling over a canyon with lightning striking in the background. Forget "Starry Night." This is artwork. It was about 37 shades of brown, only half of the windows were tinted and there was a bullethole in the back glass. The week before he had a Firebird.
"Yep, traded that, three shotguns and a fly wheel for this baby. Sweet deal, huh?" Sweet. That's the word.
There are a million stories from this tiny map dot. One may call the entire town of Cassville a "WST." That's alright with me. If it gets me stories of missing appendages from fights over catching your woman with another man (another story, another day); Fudge Rounds and Yoohoo for breakfast for your kids and blowing your paycheck on Jumbo Bucks while you are geeking on meth.....bring it on. God bless em all.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Just Sayin and Bless Their Heart....Part One
This is a new segment that I am going to do sporadically, where I will point out something and then attach the aforementioned phrases to justify/not apologize for feeling the way that I do.
Just Sayin' Defined
UrbanDictionary.com defines "just sayin" as a "term coined to be used at the end of something insulting or offensive to take the heat off you when you say it." For example...
Man: "Honey, you look like you've put on a few pounds."
Woman: "What the hell?! What is your problem?"
Man: "Just sayin."
Woman: "Oh ok."
See? No explanation, no apology. I love it. It's extremely versatile as well, I can apply to people, places and things. It usually applies to something that is obviously bad and the listener knows it to be true, but just won't admit it.
Bless Their Heart Defined
"Bless Their Heart" is a Southern term that is used to excuse insults and offensive statements. It's exclusively used down here, as I have never heard anybody say it above the Mason-Dixon Line. It is often used prior to the offensive statement or directly thereafter, to soften the blow of the offensiveness. For example...
"Bless her heart, but Tammy is dumber than a bag of hammers."
This is more of an apology that "just sayin." It's also not quite as versatile as "just sayin," as it only applies to people, but that makes it no less useful. It's telling the listener, "look, I'm going to say this, it may not be very nice, but here goes...." You can hear this anywhere and anytime because people don't feel as guilty when they attach "Bless Their Heart." You don't believe me? Go to a Baptist church at 12:05 when everybody is standing outside talking before hitting the lunch buffet. You'll hear more "bless their hearts" than "ummms" in a George W. Bush speech. (I'm a Baptist.....just sayin')
I've always wanted a day where I could say what I feel without consequences. I know that day will never actually come, but with "just sayin" and "bless their heart," it's the next best thing. So, here are five examples for your reading pleasure:
1) When are people in large metro areas, specifically Atlanta, going to "believe" that a murder took place in their neighborhood? Undoubtedly, when somebody is gunned down in Atlanta, the news teams sprint to the scene and interview the neighbors. Every single time, the interviewee will say something like "I just can't believe this happened here." You can set your watch by it, just like the "train" comments in a tornado aftermath interview. White or black, young or old, man or woman, it's always the same. Never do you hear, "yeah, it was 2:30 AM, what do you expect? This place is dangerous, my neighbors suck and I wish I could move." Nope. Shock and disbelief, like it was snowing in Death Valley in June.
Atlanta is consistently in the Top Ten of every major violent crime category that exists. These murders happen everywhere, every day. Buckhead, Downtown, Midtown, Fulton, Dekalb, it doesn't make a difference. This is no secret. Get a clue, this is a reality in this city and has been for quite some time, so "believe" it. Just sayin.
2) Bless her heart, but Adele's "Rolling In The Deep" is quickly joining my "God, how many times CAN they play this song" list. It's not a bad song, but my goodness, I feel like the faculty in "PCU" when Jeremy Piven locks them in a ballroom for 3 hours and puts "Afternoon Delight" on repeat at max volume. (If you haven't seen PCU, you are missing out). Madness ensues and the faculty basically destroys the entire ballroom trying to get out. That's me, except I'm in the Jetta and contemplating either driving into the Chattahoochee River or going the wrong way down West Peachtree.
3) The recent obesity figures were released and it was not good news for most states in the South. Apparently, we gorge ourselves on bad foods, live sedentary lives, and partake in vices that increase our waistline and decrease our life expectancy. I was at Starbucks last week and a woman was in line in front of me. She probably field dressed at 285. She was wearing house shoes and sweat pants, with a cell phone glued to her ear. It was 3:30 in the afternoon and it was painfully obvious she had just gotten out of bed. You might think, “well, you jerk, it may be her day off.” Stay tuned.
4) Bless his heart, but Will Ferrell’s humor is playing out in my opinion. Honestly, I found “Talladega Nights” boring (I still don’t get the humor from the baby Jesus prayer thing) and “Step Brothers” was simply not funny, with the exception of the drum set scene. I’m not even going to talk about “Semi Pro.” I enjoy slapstick comedy as much as anyone, but it just seems he is forcing his act now. He has resorted to phrases that are just silly toilet humor or make no sense, it sounds like something I came up with in 4th grade. I think his current writers are screwing him up because he was beyond hilarious on SNL.
5) The sports networks need to get rid of halftime interviews with football coaches. Have you ever experienced the awkwardness of watching one of these things? I was watching Alabama and Ole Miss last year and one of ESPN's female reporters approached Nick Saban as soon as the 2nd quarter clock hit 0:00. Bama had played poorly in the first half and Saban was clearly unhappy. The man wears his disdain on his sleeve, you don't have to wonder if Nick Saban is pissed off. She asks a pointed question like...
"Coach, your defense gave up 150 yards rushing in the first half and the offense couldn't score and turned it over twice, how are you going to fix this for the second half?" Then she jams the mike right in his face.
Saban cuts his eyes at her. His mouth starts moving, "we will have to get our act together, re-evaluate our defense, blah blah, coachspeak, blah, blah." His eyes tell another story....
"What kind of dumb question is that? What am I going to do? I don't know, dumbass! I'm so pissed off right now, I'm about to bite through the damn goalpost. I didn't know how many yards they had until you just told me, so I'm going to ream the hell out of my line when I get back in the locker room. I'm so glad that you are here, appeasing the networks and sponsors, asking me these questions with the innate football knowledge you acquired at journalism school at Northwestern. Now get outta the way before I eat your mike."
Then he tersely says "thanks" and runs into the locker room. This is repeated by hundreds of other coaches across the country, especially in the SEC, where a single losing season can send you to the unemployment line. The coaches never tell these people anything of value, never appear to be happy about being interviewed and frankly, it makes me uncomfortable to watch somebody who knows nothing of football strategy ram a mike in a coach's face right after his team sucked for an entire half. It would be like me going to Paula Deen and saying, "hey, Paula, put some salt on that casserole, it will make it taste better." I know diddly about cooking, I just know how to eat. Just sayin.
Just Sayin' Defined
UrbanDictionary.com defines "just sayin" as a "term coined to be used at the end of something insulting or offensive to take the heat off you when you say it." For example...
Man: "Honey, you look like you've put on a few pounds."
Woman: "What the hell?! What is your problem?"
Man: "Just sayin."
Woman: "Oh ok."
See? No explanation, no apology. I love it. It's extremely versatile as well, I can apply to people, places and things. It usually applies to something that is obviously bad and the listener knows it to be true, but just won't admit it.
Bless Their Heart Defined
"Bless Their Heart" is a Southern term that is used to excuse insults and offensive statements. It's exclusively used down here, as I have never heard anybody say it above the Mason-Dixon Line. It is often used prior to the offensive statement or directly thereafter, to soften the blow of the offensiveness. For example...
"Bless her heart, but Tammy is dumber than a bag of hammers."
This is more of an apology that "just sayin." It's also not quite as versatile as "just sayin," as it only applies to people, but that makes it no less useful. It's telling the listener, "look, I'm going to say this, it may not be very nice, but here goes...." You can hear this anywhere and anytime because people don't feel as guilty when they attach "Bless Their Heart." You don't believe me? Go to a Baptist church at 12:05 when everybody is standing outside talking before hitting the lunch buffet. You'll hear more "bless their hearts" than "ummms" in a George W. Bush speech. (I'm a Baptist.....just sayin')
I've always wanted a day where I could say what I feel without consequences. I know that day will never actually come, but with "just sayin" and "bless their heart," it's the next best thing. So, here are five examples for your reading pleasure:
1) When are people in large metro areas, specifically Atlanta, going to "believe" that a murder took place in their neighborhood? Undoubtedly, when somebody is gunned down in Atlanta, the news teams sprint to the scene and interview the neighbors. Every single time, the interviewee will say something like "I just can't believe this happened here." You can set your watch by it, just like the "train" comments in a tornado aftermath interview. White or black, young or old, man or woman, it's always the same. Never do you hear, "yeah, it was 2:30 AM, what do you expect? This place is dangerous, my neighbors suck and I wish I could move." Nope. Shock and disbelief, like it was snowing in Death Valley in June.
Atlanta is consistently in the Top Ten of every major violent crime category that exists. These murders happen everywhere, every day. Buckhead, Downtown, Midtown, Fulton, Dekalb, it doesn't make a difference. This is no secret. Get a clue, this is a reality in this city and has been for quite some time, so "believe" it. Just sayin.
2) Bless her heart, but Adele's "Rolling In The Deep" is quickly joining my "God, how many times CAN they play this song" list. It's not a bad song, but my goodness, I feel like the faculty in "PCU" when Jeremy Piven locks them in a ballroom for 3 hours and puts "Afternoon Delight" on repeat at max volume. (If you haven't seen PCU, you are missing out). Madness ensues and the faculty basically destroys the entire ballroom trying to get out. That's me, except I'm in the Jetta and contemplating either driving into the Chattahoochee River or going the wrong way down West Peachtree.
3) The recent obesity figures were released and it was not good news for most states in the South. Apparently, we gorge ourselves on bad foods, live sedentary lives, and partake in vices that increase our waistline and decrease our life expectancy. I was at Starbucks last week and a woman was in line in front of me. She probably field dressed at 285. She was wearing house shoes and sweat pants, with a cell phone glued to her ear. It was 3:30 in the afternoon and it was painfully obvious she had just gotten out of bed. You might think, “well, you jerk, it may be her day off.” Stay tuned.
She orders a venti (extra large in snooty coffee speak) caramel frapuccino with whipped cream with extra caramel on top. This is about 600 calories of pure sugar, carbs and saturated fat. She never gets off the cell phone. She pays with a credit card, of course. Why carry $4.00 in cash anyway? She then waddles her enormous backside out to her late model SUV with a handicapped tag affixed to the rear view mirror. (thus destroying the day off theory mentioned before). This person is as handicapped as I am. There was no knee brace, no cane, no walker. Maybe you should order a water to go and walk a few miles instead of sucking down pure sugar, live off my tax money and then take advantage of free medical services when you have a massive heart attack….just sayin.
5) The sports networks need to get rid of halftime interviews with football coaches. Have you ever experienced the awkwardness of watching one of these things? I was watching Alabama and Ole Miss last year and one of ESPN's female reporters approached Nick Saban as soon as the 2nd quarter clock hit 0:00. Bama had played poorly in the first half and Saban was clearly unhappy. The man wears his disdain on his sleeve, you don't have to wonder if Nick Saban is pissed off. She asks a pointed question like...
"Coach, your defense gave up 150 yards rushing in the first half and the offense couldn't score and turned it over twice, how are you going to fix this for the second half?" Then she jams the mike right in his face.
Saban cuts his eyes at her. His mouth starts moving, "we will have to get our act together, re-evaluate our defense, blah blah, coachspeak, blah, blah." His eyes tell another story....
"What kind of dumb question is that? What am I going to do? I don't know, dumbass! I'm so pissed off right now, I'm about to bite through the damn goalpost. I didn't know how many yards they had until you just told me, so I'm going to ream the hell out of my line when I get back in the locker room. I'm so glad that you are here, appeasing the networks and sponsors, asking me these questions with the innate football knowledge you acquired at journalism school at Northwestern. Now get outta the way before I eat your mike."
Then he tersely says "thanks" and runs into the locker room. This is repeated by hundreds of other coaches across the country, especially in the SEC, where a single losing season can send you to the unemployment line. The coaches never tell these people anything of value, never appear to be happy about being interviewed and frankly, it makes me uncomfortable to watch somebody who knows nothing of football strategy ram a mike in a coach's face right after his team sucked for an entire half. It would be like me going to Paula Deen and saying, "hey, Paula, put some salt on that casserole, it will make it taste better." I know diddly about cooking, I just know how to eat. Just sayin.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
The Legend of Yoda: Cassville's finest
Got One on the Front!
The sun beat down on the pavement on a hot summer day in 1994. It was one of those days where the birds weren’t even flying around, it was so hot. I was back in the hardware arranging the cracked corn and scratch feed, pricing the bags and separating them according to their size. I didn’t mind that kind of work, honestly. I always felt like I accomplished something when I put up 200 bags of feed, soil, peat moss and fertilizer. Not to mention 25 blocks of salt for deer season, which weighed 50 pounds, but I swear to everything holy that they weighed 200 pounds a piece. You ever tried to carry one? It’s more awkward than watching “Wild Things” with your parents.
Anyhow, I was tossing bags left and right when Russell yelled, “Got one on the front!” I put down my price gun and sprinted down the first aisle, past the cereal, the paper towels and the medicine. The heat wave just blasted my 13 year old face. There was not a breeze within 100 miles of us. The vehicle parked beside the gas pumps was a common sight for my eyes. A mid 80’s Camaro with a hatch, primer gray, missing muffler, leaking oil, and shaking to a stop next to the regular unleaded pump. The hood is being held down with a twisted coat hanger. There are dead wasps (waw-st-es, remember?) under the glass in the hatch. The driver door opens with a creak and this man gets out. At least I think it was a man. It weighed about 100 lbs soaking wet with a sunken face and missing teeth. It’s arms were down to it’s knees, it was wearing a tattered old flannel shirt, pants, boots and a cap that read, “This cap is mine. Everything else is hers.” He muttered in English, “Gimme two dollars worf.” ($2.00 worth of gas). Back then, $2.00 could get you to Marietta
before you have to use your finger. (Alan Jackson reference +1).
before you have to use your finger. (Alan Jackson reference +1).
The man strides into the store. I unhook the pump and turn the knob to clear the machine for pumping. We didn’t have the computerized pumps with credit card capability. Those pumps were older than me, my brother, and Russell combined. That was part of the charm to be honest, their simplicity. Plus, it was funny to watch people from Atlanta
Genius #1:“My gosh, Bill, where does the card go?” “I can’t turn this on!”
Genius #2: “I don’t know! Excuse me, young man!” (addressing me)
Me(turning the knob for them): “Y’all gotta pay inside, and we don’t take Discover.”
I open the gas tank door. There is a napkin in the place of a cap. I’m sure the cap was stolen when the last person siphoned gas out of their tank. That was a common occurrence back then, strangely. I start the pump and watch the cents tick by on the meter. I stare down at my Air Jordans, covered in dirt and 10-10-10 fertilizer. Neen (my grandmother) is gonna kill me for working in my new shoes, I just know it. Suddenly, the passenger door pops open, startling me. The vehicle rocks, like somebody is getting momentum to throw themselves out of the seat and into the parking lot. A figure materializes.
Close Encounters of the Bartow Kind
It was much shorter than the man, probably 5’0 and hunched over. It had dirty yellow/white/gray hair matted down on its head. It was wearing a housecoat that appeared to have been pink at some point. Now, it was brown/yellow/gray with pink spots. Waddling around the car, it glanced over at me. Making eye contact with it, I was taken aback. Now, we have been subject to many strange looking people, servicing the area that we did. However, this one was especially heinous. One eye was closed, the other was opened, staring at me. The face was wrinkled beyond belief, the chin had stringy white hairs growing out of it. The mouth was slightly opened, revealing brown tobacco stained teeth. The brown tobacco juice had made its way onto the chin and the cheeks. The sight of this figure made me forget how much I wanted a hot dog for lunch.
The figure I assumed was a woman, since the man’s cap said “everything else is hers.” I guess this was “her.” I was so busy staring at her that I messed up and pumped $3.25 in their tank. Sweet. That’s a $1.25 out of my pay and a free trip to Chattanooga
No Joy in Mudville
Into the store I go, following behind her. The smell hits my nose. A combination of body odor, urine, feces and tobacco. That explains the coloration on the housecoat. I clench my jaws, resisting the Waffle House hash browns that were itching to escape my stomach. Russell mouths to me, “Holy shit.” He grabs the Lysol under the cabinet. She waddles past the candy rack, click click click. The smell is permeating the air, destroying the sweet BBQ scent that was wafting amongst the aisles. She comes to a stop at the ice cream cooler. This indicates that she wants one of us to dip an ice cream for her. Russell looks at me, looks back at the hardware and shouts to no one, “Be right there, sir!” He runs away laughing. I’m stuck. There is no joy in Mudville. I open the door and in the best tone I could muster, “What would you like?” The woman looks up at me, one eye still closed, chin whiskers waving in the air conditioning and says, “Gimme a dip a niller.” (A dip of vanilla).
That was the fastest ice cream ever dipped. That vanilla was frozen solid and I had skinny arms but I could have smashed clear to the bottom of that 3 gallon Mayfield tub. I wanted her gone. I hand her the cone. With the tobacco still in her mouth, she begins to lick the ice cream. It gets in her chin whiskers. I see Russell watching from the back, aghast. My gag reflex is working overtime. The man is standing at the counter, ready to pay me. He gets a pack of cigarettes, a can of Bruton snuff for his woman and hands me the cash. Click, click, click. She exits the building. He leaves with a “preciate it” and out to the chariot he goes. Russell is weaving through the aisles, uttering every four letter word in the book, dousing the air with “Country Flowers” or “Summer Rain” or whatever scent we could find to annihilate the foulness left behind. I hear the Camaro rev up and leave in a cloud of smoke and dust.
Aftershocks
For years, when we saw that Camaro pull up, a collective groan would arise. Out would come the Lysol and our eyes would avert to the ceiling because the woman never wore shoes, so the “click click click” happened each and every time she came in. So did the housecoat, the closed eye, the smell and the chin whiskers. She got an ice cream every time, always vanilla. Even now, the thought of that incomparable disgustingness destroys my appetite. We never knew her name, but we bestowed “Yoda” upon her because it was the closest related creature we could think of to describe her. The legend of Yoda grew every time she entered the store, kind of like a big fish that gets bigger every time the story is told. We did figure out a couple of things about her. She lived with about 12 other people in a shack up in Adairsville. Her supposed granddaughters, who were 2 of the 12, worked at a local restaurant, so any trips to that particular establishment were absolutely out of the question. I wouldn’t buy a cup of ice from that place, even now.
I think Yoda died in 1999 (or flew back to the Dagobah System). She was 137 years old. =) (Coming to America reference +1)
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About Me
- Brad
- I'm good at people watching and the memorization of useless facts. I'm voracious eater, reader, Crossfitter and Dawg fan. Shamelessly devoted to the cause of making 9-5 not suck so bad.