3-10-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Where in the world did you get that beautiful rocking chair? I've been looking for one like that all my life.

-- Basculant in Basarabeasca

Dear Basculant:

It's a beauty, isn't it? Hand-carved and exquisitely detailed, polished by age and use until the wood feels like silk. A true heirloom, handed down with pride from mother to daughter. Been in our family for generations, ever since it was stolen by great-grandfather Poindexter from a Mormon family that was being driven out of Redbone by a torch-bearing mob of enraged anti-polygamists. In a darkish room you don't even notice the bullet hole.  

3-11-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I have a cat and a dog who get along well enough. They do a lot of things that make me laugh. But now I hear that PETA says animals are sensitive to derision and their feelings get hurt when they are laughed at. Should I seek psychiatric help for my pets?

--Worried in Wausau

Dear Worried:

Not for your pets, no.

You have to understand that PETA is a activist group filled with people who are unhappy that they're human beings and think that animals should be running things. Remember "Animal Farm" and the phrase "four legs good, two legs bad"? That pretty much sums up PETA's philosophy of life. They read all sorts of human feelings into pets and livestock to prove that, say, a Maltese Terrier would be an excellent school board member, or that Shetland ponies are natural airline pilots.

Now, if this was true, you would expect cattle, all of whom are going to wind up as Big Macs, to have feelings of existential despair. I can assure you from personal observation of multitudes of beef cattle that despair of any kind is the farthest thing from their tiny minds as long as there's grass or grain in front of them. If PETA's views reflected reality, you'd expect stockyards to look like a Jean-Paul Sartre discussion group, with bunches of Black Angus sipping muscatel and smoking vile tobacco as they pondered the role of imponderability in a meaningless universe, or tried to deconstruct the hidden symbolism represented by those golden arches.

3-12-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie:

Why are adults all so uptight?

-- Grounded in Grove Hill

Dear Grounded:

Basically it's because of the delusion that when a person reaches an age when he or she *looks* like a grownup, they should begin *acting* like a grownup. And the role model for a grownup is supposed to be someone who's serious, follows the rules and colors inside the lines. 

One of the Seven Warning Signs of Impending Adulthood is the pathological need to balance a checkbook. I have seen otherwise normal young adults spend an entire Sunday trying to figure out what happened to 17 cents. Let me state this as clearly as I can: It doesn't matter whether you balance a checkbook or not, and it will never, ever, be worth the time you spend doing it. That's what banks are for. If they screw up, sue them.

Another one of the Warning Signs is going to places you don't enjoy out of a sense of obligation. This includes visiting most relatives, going to formal dinners and attending the opera. An independent study has shown that no one in the entire history of the world has enjoyed a dinner with more than 3 courses or four utensils. Beyond that it becomes an obligation to be endured. One reason highly qualified people don't run for public office is the thought of the formal dinners they'll be required to attend, or worse yet, to host. The only positive thing formal dinners accomplish is increasing the sale of Maalox and related nostrums.

And don't get me started on grand opera! To enclose otherwise intelligent people in a large hall to be shrieked at by fat people in a foreign language is nobody's idea of fun. And what passes for plots in opera wouldn't make the grade in broadcast TV-- not even "Friends." 

The only salvation is to put off adulthood for as long as you can. Once you've been trapped there's no escaping.

3-13-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

How can you state such calumnies about grand opera-- that the plots aren't fit for American television, even?! What blasphemy! 

-- Bouffe in Buff

Dear Bouffe:

Oh yeah? Just listen to this plot outline from one of the world's allegedly great operas, "Rigatoni," by Joe Verdi:

ACT I
Scene 1. The kitchen of the palace of the Duke

A meal is in progress. The cook tells the scullery boy about a beautiful girl who has caught his eye in church, but to whom he has not spoken. The scullery boy, who is deaf, does not care. They sing back and forth for 14 minutes, or until the rigatoni is al dente. 

(NOTE: In the age before decent timepieces, singing was the only way you could time certain events. Horse races back then were unendurable. And no, we don't know how a deaf scullery boy would learn how to sing, especially in a foreign language. Things like that don't seem to matter in grand opera.)

Minestrone, the hunchbacked figure skating champion bursts in demanding a plate of rigatoni. Taunted by the cook for his tardiness, he curses the cook, the scullery boy and the plate of rigatoni itself. This takes 16¾ minutes to get through, sufficient time to prepare an order of osso buco Milanese with fries.

Scene 2. A street outside someplace

Brooding on the curse, the cook is accosted by Scungilli, an aspiring freelance fry cook, offering his services to the duke. The cook hires him, and to compensate his heartbroken gypsy parents, who wanted him to become a thief, he sells them the deaf scullery boy, who takes the opportunity to sing the touching aria, "Non ho Comprensione di che Cosa sto Cantando" ("I Have no Idea what I'm Singing About"). 


ACT II
A room in the duke's palace

The duke has had a sudden craving for a nice plate of rigatoni. Alas, the cook explains that there is no more left, as he and the ex-scullery boy polished off most of it for lunch, and, anyway, that batch was cursed by Minestrone. He offers to whip up some nice ravioli, but the Duke is incensed, assailing the cook with the sarcastic duet, "Sì, non Abbiamo Banane, neanche, Io Supponiamo," ("Yes, We Have No Bananas Either, I Suppose") during which the cook points out that bananas give the Duke the runs. The quandary is resolved when the Duke sends his equerry for take-out Chinese.

ACT III
A tumbledown saloon near a mining camp 

A sudden change of scene prompted by the inexplicable loss of the scenery for Act III of "Rigatoni," and the hurried substitution of Act III of "La Faniculla del West" ("The Mountain Tramway of the Golden West") which is set in California. Glinda, the Good Witch of the North, hitching a ride after her bubble crashed and burned only 3 weeks out of warranty, meets the cook, who is slinging hash at the Ruptured Buffalo, a considerable comedown from the ducal palace, as he lets everyone know between shots of red-eye. Scungilli, the apprentice fry cook, tries to hit on Glinda, but she turns him into a horned toad. Scungilli attempts to sing "La Strega," ("Black Magic Woman") but all that comes out is a croak.

Eventually the Duke shows up at the saloon and is killed by the treacherous Minestrone in a gunfight. He manages to sing 8½ minutes of the aria "Frankie and Johnny," ("Frankie e Johnny") with a hole the size of a silver dollar through his liver before a horse steps on his head. All the other players but Minestrone stab themselves in places where they can sing for half an hour before expiring. Minestrone, having worked up an appetite, eats the plate of cursed rigatoni and perishes of the dry heaves in an abandoned outhouse.

CURTAIN

3-14-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Can you explain our nation's new color-coded alert system and how we're supposed to behave at each stage?

-- Concerned in Concordia

Dear Concerned:

Glad to oblige. It's quite simple, really. Here's the official guide from the United States Office of Homeland Insecurity:

Condition Mauve -- Everything is carefree, the weather is fine and the coffee is good. Neighbors are helping neighbors, the crime rate is down and spontaneous group hugs occur among total strangers in public places. SAT scores are the highest ever. Television is watchable again and better than ever. Foreign countries hold American Gratitude Days. Every evening near sundown there's a beautiful rainbow in the sky.

Condition Viridian -- Things are generally good, the weather is okay for this time of year, the coffee's not as good as it used to be back when it only cost a nickel. Good fences make good neighbors and help keep the crime rate down. People smile a lot in public places. SAT scores aren't too bad, and anyway we want our kids to be normal and have fun, not like those Asians who always have top scores but their kids spend their whole lives in cram schools and commit suicide if they don't get into the best college. Television is so-so, but there's lots of other choices on satellite and cable. Foreign countries look upon America with respect, but are concerned about our hubris. Sometimes late afternoon showers ruin the commute and produce distracting rainbows during the rush hour.

Condition Beige -- Everything's about as well as can be expected, given the state of the economy and all. It's dry in the croplands and wet in the tourist areas and there's that El Niño thing kicking up again. Sure are a lot of Starbucks around, and have you seen their prices? Good deals on home security systems-- better safe than sorry. Looks like it's time to build more jails, according to the paper. People aren't making eye contact as much as they used to-- don't want to spook the crazies. What is it with schools these days? Half the kids can't read or write when they get out of high school, and every year the taxes go up to pay for it. The crap on TV isn't worth watching-- 500 channels we get and there's nothing to watch. And what's with those Europeans? We bail them out of WWII and they stab us in the back. Air pollution's getting worse-- when's the last time you saw a rainbow?

Condition Vermilion -- What the hell is this society coming to? Those jokers in Washington don't know their asses from a hole in the ground. Weather's rotten-- half the Midwest is under water, and what's left of East Coast after six hurricanes in a row? L.A. is expecting The Big One any day now. Who would have believed a fungus would wipe out the entire coffee crop this year? Good deals on bomb shelters at least. Can't trust anyone these days-- they'll kill you as soon as look at you. Kids running wild in the streets a whole year after the national teachers strike they said would last six weeks on the outside. Never thought there'd be full-frontal nudity and snuff movies on prime time, but, hey, times are tough-- we can use the distraction. Especially with the United Eurasia fanatics calling the USA the axis of evil. They ought to bomb them all back to the stone age. Nuclear winter couldn't be any worse than going outside since the ozone layer disintegrated-- sky is always that funny color nowadays. Creepy.

Condition Sable -- ...If you are hearing this automatic broadcast, please be advised that the shadow government is in full control and will have conditions back to normal as soon as possible. Martial law applies until further notice. You are safer indoors than outside unless you are in the path of a megatornado or firestorm. It is not safe to drink the water. AntiRad 3000 salve should be applied to all exposed body parts if you are driven from your shelter. Remember that the Canadian-Mexican Coalition has promised to uphold the Geneva Convention regarding treatment of refugees. Beware of roaming packs of feral children; shoot first, ask questions later. All television and Internet communications were destroyed by the EMP that formed the Washington Crater, soon to be a national preserve. Scientists expect the sun to reappear in another 6 months. Eat the elderly first. 

...If you are hearing this automatic broadcast....

3-15-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I just noticed that you've been writing your column day in and day out for a year and a half without a break. I'm impressed! Don't you ever want to take a vacation or something? 

-- Persistent in Persepolis

Dear Persistent:

I've also been breathing since the late 19th century and I have no intention of taking a break from that, either! 

Why, once you become a hundred-something it's little daily chores like this that keep you going. When my neighbor Elspelth Buttforth turned 100 last year she was still splitting stovewood every morning before she started breakfast. Just think of it! She said it was her reason for getting up in the morning. It drove her family crazy, though, since they had had a gas stove since 1923. 

But I have been thinking about taking some time off. I have some relations in Tennessee, the "Never Volunteer" state, that I've been meaning to visit if they're still alive. I wouldn't dare to fly, though, not the way they treat you at airports these days. If some young whippersnapper with an attitude tried to frisk me on the grounds of national security he'd need a proctologist to get all his teeth back.

But thank you for the suggestion. These old bones do get mighty tired some days, and all the mushy junk they're connected to could use a rest as well. Let me think on it. I'll get Horetense down in reception to give my relatives a call and politely inquire as to whether they're alive or not. I should get a new telephone number for them too, since I doubt that Possumbutter 139, One Long, Two Short Rings still works....

3-17-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

So which is it-- evolution or creation?

-- Aboriginal in Aboukir

Dear Aboriginal:

This whole debate comes down to the difference between science and faith. Science gathers tiny pieces of a puzzle, figures out what the pieces are made of and hopes to see the whole picture someday. Faith has a seamless, glorious picture, but there are no pieces to analyze. 

The faith people are disturbed by the idea that the universe and everything in it is ruled by physical laws and governed by chance. They prefer a nice neat god someplace behind the curtain pushing the buttons and flipping the switches, smiling at the good and smiting the bad. This attitude annoys the science people, who don't see the need for a god and think that faith is for people who can't do calculus. 

We have a couple of hard-core fundamentalist types here in the Home who are convinced that the Earth was created in 4,004 BC at 9:30am Eastern Standard Time, because if you run the "begats" in the Bible back to Adam and Eve, that's what you end up with. Their god hid all those fossils out their just to test people's faith. The science people say this is utter codswallop and point out that 98% of our DNA is pure chimpanzee and that people were drawing on cave walls 30,000 years before Adam and Eve magically appeared. From their point of view it's no accident that "fundament" is the root of the word fundamentalism.

I tend to stick with the science types because they're wrong so often. They test their ideas and theories, and if something doesn't work, or a better idea comes along, they junk the old and go with the new. If faith people are faced with persuasive evidence that their god is actually a three-headed duck, their response is to burn the questioner at the stake. 

Personally, I think it takes a lot more courage to live a good life in an accidental universe. Your mileage may vary....

3-25-2002

Dear Reader: 

I must first apologize for my abrupt departure last week. One of you good readers put a flea in my ear (metaphorically speaking) about taking a vacation from slaving over a hot keyboard.

As luck would have it, I happened to hear Caleb Dottlepacker, our part-time unhandyman, talking about towing his cousin Lem's pick-em-up truck to Tennessee last week, and since Tennessee is where the remains of my partially-living relatives cling to life, I thought I would jump at the opportunity and accompany him. It was an adventure, to put it mildly.

First of all, it turned out that cousin Lem's pickup truck was not, technically, Lem's at all. Caleb let slip that he had been hiding the truck in his barn until "the heat was off." Lem had apparently gotten hold of a brand new truck by claiming a line of credit at the bank based on his "assets." When those assets turned out to be exactly that-- a pair of pygmy donkeys Lem had acquired in a crooked poker game, the bank naturally desired to take the vehicle back, at which point it was discovered to have mysteriously been relocated to Caleb's barn in Redbone, Arkansas disguised as a large pile of hay.

Returning the truck was dicey, of course, since it was still on the "hot sheet" as Caleb described it, which meant that we couldn't drive it, nor could we take the main roads for fear of attracting the attention of the constabulary.

This meant keeping the new truck in its disguise as a pile of hay, while towing it behind Caleb's classic 1948 Nash pickup truck. And before all you car buffs get on my case, I'm fully aware that Nash never made a pickup truck. However, the registration Caleb happened to find specifies a 1948 Nash, so he had added a Nash nameplate and hubcaps and gearshift lever to throw Doubting Thomases off the scent, as it were. He also tends to drive without lights for fear of attracting attention. Modesty runs in the Dottlepacker line, especially where intelligence is concerned.

So last Monday after dark we slunk out of Redbone in a Nash non-truck towing a load of wheeled hay to Murfreesboro, Tennessee, a trip which, under ideal conditions, takes about 6 hours.

The operative words in that sentence are "ideal conditions...." 
--------------------
Tomorrow: "It's the Weather, Stupid!"

3-26-2002

 Episode 2: "It's the Weather, Stupid!"

... so there we were, me and Caleb Dottlepacker, towing a fake Nash pickup disguised as a haystack across Arkansas' back roads to reach Caleb's cousin Lem in Murfreesboro, Tennessee. As you can well imagine, these picturesque country roads are long on quaintness and short on maintenance. I have never before seen a sign that said: Trucks Use Low Gear When Exiting Potholes.

There were also genuine Burma-Shave signs dating back to before these roads had been supplanted with the interstate highway system. Signs like:

He struck a match 
To check the tank
That's why they call him
Skinless Frank.
~ Burma-Shave

and:

Don't stick your elbow
Out too far
It may go home
In another car.
~ Burma-Shave

and:

Joe McCarthy's 
Got a list
If you're on it
You'll be missed.
~ Federal Bureau of Investigation

I'm sorry, that last one was a message from J. Edgar Hoover. Mr. Hoover was the scourge of Communists in the United States, and of un-Americanism in general. He and his boyfriend, Clyde Tolson, battled against perversion on all fronts, usually while dressed as ballerinas.

I was reflecting on life in 1950s America when I noticed a curious sight through Caleb's dirty and pockmarked windshield. At first I couldn't believe my agéd and deteriorating eyesight, but Caleb soon confirmed what I thought I fancied I saw. "Can't be snow," he remarked. "as it never snows in these parts this time of year." But snow it was, one of the rare freak spring storms that strikes our region about once every five hundred years, usually after a mild winter. And when it hits it throws five hundred years of pent-up fury at humankind's pathetic attempts to tame nature, starting with roads. After 15 minutes we were in a white-out, unsure of where the road ended and the Valley Full of Great Sharp Upturned Rocks began. After half an hour we could see hardened gypsy truckers-- the kind who would drive overweight loads on bald tires through Hell itself with a sneer on their collective faces-- these same men were kneeling in the snow sobbing uncontrollably while reciting the Act of Contrition. It was obvious that we couldn't continue, and Caleb looked frantically for shelter from the storm as we skidded hither and yon. 

Suddenly there was signpost up ahead. Our next stop: the Bypassed Backroad Tourist Trap.
-----------

Tomorrow: "Say what you will about Norman Bates, at least he loved his mother."

3-27-2002

Episode III:  "Say what you will about Norman Bates, at least he loved his mother."

... so we rolled out of the snowstorm into the town of Tourist Trap (pop. 330) on the Arkansas-Tennessee border. 

There are few sadder sights in this great country of ours than a once-flourishing wide spot in the road that used to cater to the needs of those passing through to other locations back during the glory days of the early automobile and the first two-lane blacktops. The folks in these towns who were fortunate enough to be located alongside various route numbers quickly learned that as much as half of their annual income could be extracted from the new breed of automobile tourist. They at once set out to exploit the accident of their location to the fullest, putting up signs that drew attention to their regional specialties and abusing words like "famous" and "world-renowned" and various combinations of the two.

Tourist Trap still has these faded signs on its outskirts. We passed:

* Try Uncle Bubba's World-Famous Sardine and Rhubarb Sandwich!

* Friday Nite is All-U-Can-Eat Famous Possum Surprise at the Hotel Leroy!

* Ralph's Famous "Better 'n' Fresh" Coffee Still Just a Nickel a Cup!

* Have Your Picture Taken by the Famous Big Wall of Rock!

* See the World's Biggest Manure Pile!

* Free Admission for Kids at the Old Leper's Prison!

Nowadays, of course, all these are but a distant memory in the addled minds of the oldest residents, but desperation, poverty and low animal cunning can still be seen in the few services that still operate, hoping for bad weather or out-of-date maps to draw the unwary into their lair. In Tourist Trap these have been reduced to just two:

* The "Olde-Tyme Colonial Gasoline Shoppe," where fuel is still pumped by hand in the manner of the early pioneers, and flats are fixed for free (no trucks, no tractors, no tubeless)

and

* Norman's Roadside Adventure All-Modern Motel ~ Featuring Electric Lights, Spring Beds and Real Running Water (Hot in Season)

It was in front of Norman's that Caleb's "Nash" pickup finally gave up the ghost, and we realized that, like it or not, we were doomed to take advantage of Norman's hospitality, praying that his last name wasn't Bates. Caleb got the attention of someone on the inside by pounding on the door for half an hour. An astonished ferret-like face appeared in the doorway after illuminating an overhead porch light whose wattage must have been measured in fractional numbers for all the good it did against the dark and the storm. It was obvious from the outset that no one had stayed at the "Roadside Adventure" for a good many years, judging by the Jayne Mansfield pin-up calendar behind the desk and the manual cash register with the "No Sale" indicator rusted in place.

The ferret-faced man turned out to be the grandson of the original Norman of lamented memory, who had died of food poisoning in 1951 along with most of the guests of the time when the cook mistook Rat-No-More for baking powder. Norman Junior had then run the place during the Decline and Fall, when the Interstate was built and Tourist Trap failed to raise sufficient funds to bribe the Highway Commission to include an exit ramp. Norman the Third, our present host, had acquired the business after Norman Junior ran off to Florida in 1977 with the church organist and the Christmas collection. Norman Three lovingly showed us the Wanted poster of his dad and Miss Evangeline Carlisle, accessory before the fact. 

Norman Three chattered on like someone who doesn't get let out to meet people all that often, but we managed to get him off the history of his family's misfortunes and onto the subject of a room to escape our present plight. "Did you want heat?" he inquired solicitously, and we knew we were in for a long night. And possibly a chilly one, judging by the snowdrifts in the lobby.
-----------

Tomorrow: Endurance, or Shackleton Had It Easy 

3-28-2002

Episode IV: Endurance, or Shackleton Had It Easy.

... so Caleb and I resigned ourselves to a night at Norman's Roadside Attraction, an institution that would have been described as a flea-trap 60 years ago, and which age had not improved. Norman Three went into the bowels of the cellar to try to get a fire going in "Old Betsy," as he called the superannuated coal-fired boiler, while Caleb, who is fortunately lots stronger than he is bright, carried me and my wheelchair up to the third floor. Why anyone would assign guests to the third floor of an otherwise empty hotel is beyond me, but I suspect that there were rooms up there which had been waiting for guests since last being cleaned in the late 1940s, which would have saved Norman the effort of making up beds on lower floors with new sheets. My suspicions were confirmed by the copy of the Arkansas Democrat on the chair by the bed, which announced in its headline that Congress had raised the minimum wage from 40 to 75 cents, and warning about the Red Menace in China.

Now, I have seen some sorry hotel rooms in my day, but Norman's third-floor "suite" put them all to shame. First of all, every single strip of wallpaper had unraveled over the decades, and they lay in neat rows of tubes alongside the baseboards. There was one light in the room, with an attached string for turning it on and off. In the socket was an Edison Mazda light bulb, the kind that used to have a little point on the top of the glass bulb. A disintegrated extension cord ran from the ceiling fixture to the side of the bed, where it connected with a Philco radio with a little push-pull coin gadget like you see on the machines in coin-operated laundromats. Inserting a dime would assure you, the sign said, of one hour of "the sweetest music this side of Pine Bluff" from radio station WOK. I resisted the temptation.

The bed itself was a work of art. Any public accommodation on the skids tries to bolster its bottom line by cutting corners, and in the case of Norman's Roadside Attraction they had succeeded in forming a perfect circle. The blanket was so cheap it only had a warp, not a woof, as though someone had gone to a lot of trouble organizing threads along the length of the mattress. The bath was the pièce de résistance, however, with towels the size of doilies, fixtures that were mounds of rust loosely held together with verdigris, and a tub with a tangible ring on it, like those dried-up California lakes. My favorite touch was the soap. Someone had taken the usual tiny and cheap bars of hotel soap and sliced them down for better mileage. Even before they had dried up completely they would have been useless for personal hygiene, although desperate Asian prisoners might have been able to play an abbreviated game of go with them.

At this point there came a noise from the water pipes like a hippopotamus having an intestinal seizure, and one of the sink faucets began to drip brown. A few minutes later Norman Three appeared to say that he had gotten Old Betsy to take a fire, and that, the Lord willing, we'd have heat and hot water by sunrise. He stood there expectantly, as though he expected a tip for the good news. The only tip I would have given him at that point was the one on the end of my cane, and that to its fullest extent, so as to shish-kebob his uvula the hard way, if you catch my meaning.

Eventually I drifted off to sleep to the sound of the radiators trying to give birth to heat without benefit of anesthetic. I had thoughtfully packed away sufficient quantities of Valium and gin to make sleeping possible, if not enjoyable. There are times when insensibility makes the most sense of all.... 
--------------------

Tomorrow: Orphans of the Storm

3-29-2002

Episode V:  Orphans of the Storm 

... we awoke to discover that, in typical Ozark spring storm fashion, every trace of the previous night's blizzard had disappeared. Songbirds were singing, flowers were in bloom, the sky was cerulean with little puffs of white clouds like bunnies' tails, and the sun shone merrily over all. It was pure Disney-- all that was missing were Bambi and Thumper, or somebody singing soprano.

Once I was back on the ground floor of the Roadside Adventure I was assailed with the smell of a good ol' country breakfast-- bacon and eggs and ham and fried potatoes, country biscuits dripping with pure creamery butter, hot chicory coffee sweetened with sorghum-- the kind of breakfast that made this country great, that allowed our forefathers and foremothers and their forechildren to carve this land out of its primitive savagery by dint of sheer hard work.

The smell was coming from somewhere down the street, unfortunately. All Norman Three could offer us was burnt oatmeal and dry toast, accompanied by a cup of coffee made from one of the earliest attempts to dry out and bottle the beverage for the convenience of the caffeine-deprived. It was all quite awful, and exactly what we get for breakfast every morning at Living Dead "R" Us. So much for the glamorous cuisine of faraway places with strange-sounding names. Maybe Tourist Trap just wasn't strange-sounding enough. If we'd managed to struggle through the storm another mile or two we might have made it to Buffalo Orifice or Upper Mental, both of which would by necessity have decent cuisine to offset their unfortunate choice of names. I sometimes wonder what was going through the heads of the early explorers. Some of the place names in the Appalachians must have been the result of too much corn liquor, or possibly fever dreams from bad water or improperly prepared polecat stew.

Caleb reported that our vehicles had survived the ordeal, although he had been obliged to bail out the passenger compartment of the "Nash," and had taken the opportunity to add additional hay to the truck we were bringing to his cousin Lem. Thus prepared, we bid a fondless farewell to Norman Three, who waved us off with a genuine tear of sadness in his eye, knowing full well that Norman Four would be in charge by the time another guest was driven by chance and inclemency to his doorstep. Speaking of eyes, one of the curtains on the second floor briefly twitched aside as we departed and I believe I spied the elusive Mrs. Norman Three watching us go. Or it just may have been a gigantic frog's eye buried in suet. These backwoods towns do conceal some amazing freaks of nature. It's a real shame that Lovecraft boy never left Providence after his one visit to Redbone-- only he could have done justice to the local inhabitants.

The rest of the trip to Murfreesboro was uneventful, although I did note that the place marking the change from the Central to the Eastern time zone was a sort of shimmery haze in the air, and I got that electric thrill everyone gets in making the passage from one zone to another. Have you ever noticed that if you look to the north when you pass through a time change you can see the "crunch zone" where time speeds up, and if you look south you can see the "stretch zone" where it slows down. A fascinating effect which never fails to impress me.

Caleb left me at Terminal Sunset, the old folks' home where my remaining Tennessee relations still cling to a semblance of life, while he went off to return the haystack-cum-pickup to Cousin Lem and collect his $37 in storage fees. Making sure my VISITOR ~ OK TO RESUSCITATE badge was plainly displayed, I braced myself and entered the main door.
----------

Tomorrow: Relics of the Undead

3-30-2002

Episode VI: Relics of the Undead 

... I found my last living relations in the day room at Terminal Sunset, the home where they have been kept since the last restraining order was enforced by the city of Murfreesboro. My "Aunt" and "Uncle" (the relationship is more complex than that, but it's close enough for government work) are 35% alive and the remainder made up entirely of spare parts and prostheses. I wasn't able to determine exactly where the former ended and the latter began.

The ensuing conversation was less than productive. 

"Uurrnnnggg!" said my aunt.

"No, Nettie," I replied.

"Aarrgghh!" said my uncle. 

"No, Redbone, remember?" I said. 

"Aaaarrggghh!" said my aunt. "Unngghhh!" said my uncle. 

"No, no," I replied, "I've never been married. You're thinking of someone else." 

"Aaaaarngh?" said my aunt. 

"Not particularly, but compared with you two I'm the centerfold for a fitness magazine." I said. 

"Unarghnngghhhh!" they said in chorus.

"Now that the social pleasantries have been taken care of, the real reason I'm here, " I broached, "is to ask if you remember where the fabled family treasure is buried.* You, "Uncle," were the last keeper of the fabled Map of the Fabled Family Treasure of Redbone, as we called it. So far as I've been able to tell you either still have the map, or at some point committed it to memory so that it wouldn't be found by invading Melungeons during the Redbone-Melungeon Wars. As the last surviving member of the clan, I believe I have a right to the map in whatever form it presently takes."

"Aaaaaaarruuuunnnnnghhhhh? Urk! Urk!" said my uncle.

"Yes, even if it means turning off your morphine drip," I said to show my determination.

And so we passed a jolly afternoon. Long about sunset, when he realized I was serious about substituting Liquid-Plumr for his insulin, he broke down and indicated a tattered volume by his bedside. Not the family Bible I expected, however. Instead it was an 1867 copy of "Bawdy Songs and Backroom Ballads," with all the dirty words underlined in red ink. However, tucked into the pages between "She Was Pure as the Driven Snow Til She Drifted" and "Mama Rolled a Sailor, We Got Whiskey Tonight" was a yellowed envelope with the words "Map of the Fabled Family Treasure of Redbone" barely legible in a faded Spencerian script, obviously done with a steel #303 Gillott nib by a person whose ring finger on the right hand was missing the last knuckle. The telltale signature of great-great-grandfather Buckluck "No Knuckle" Hucklebuck! I slipped the envelope into my capacious bosom next to my amyl nitrate poppers and slunk away to find Caleb, after falsely promising to attend Aunt and Uncle's funerals if they didn't occur on a Bingo night. 

"How are your relations," Caleb inquired as he filled the tank at the Eat & Get Gas store.

"Unnaaarrrrggghhh!" I replied. And I meant every word of it.
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* You didn't think for one minute I would make a trip like this out of sheer Christian loving-kindness, now, did you? HA!

Tomorrow: Homeward Bound, or, The Bridges of Tennessee's Counties

3-31-2002

Episode VII: Homeward Bound, or, The Bridges of Tennessee's Counties

... and so we hit the road, homeward bound, Caleb grumbling about high Tennessee gas prices, me needing any distraction from the knowledge that I had the fabled Map of the Fabled Family Treasure of Redbone secure upon my person. So I began to notice something funny about the way they name bridges in Tennessee ("The Involuntary State"). 

Now, in Arkansas ("Just Like Kansas, but with an 'Ar' In Front, and with More Pigs") we have lots of creeks and streams and things, and whole herds of bridges have been flung over them at various times, but some effort has always been made to remember the name of the body of water over which they pass. Thus we cross bridges over Big Piddle Creek and Little Piddle Creek, Backflush Stream, Schiltz Creek, Upper and Lower Eutrophy Springs, and the tributary of Runoff River.

Tennessoovians, however, have a fondness for naming their bridges after citizens. Every structure over a watercourse has been dedicated, probably with a ceremony involving the UnderSecretary of Bridge Naming and a photo of a sign being unveiled by politicians for the weekend edition of the Gunchburg Whig-Polecat. Thus, in the course of a 5-mile drive, you run across the Daryll "Potsy" Feemish Bridge, the Lloyd Swackhammer Venable Overpass, the Amanda Ranstable Erbtwine Memorial Culvert, the Yancy Throckmorton Fuddermann Viaduct and the Bashimee Hfvrogvel Tipspine Pontoon Causeway. 

One sincerely wonders who these people were-- stalwart citizens, heroes of the republic, founding fathers and mothers, legendary frontierspeople-- or just folks who came up with a $150 bridge naming fee? Lord knows I've never run across any of those names in local history books. And I can't see the town council burning the midnight oil trying to decide who was more deserving of the honor, the community's founding undertaker or the county checkers champion, 1923-1924. 

My ruminations came to an end as we passed once more into Arkansas, over the bridge which is named the Eddie Bostich Hummelspray Skyway on one end and the Pissingintoit Flood Relief Estuary on the other. It was good to be home, back where men are men, the corn is tall and the bridges are sensibly named.
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Tomorrow: Revelation of the fabled Map of the Fabled Family Treasure of Redbone Revealed!

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