Poem: "From an Uncle to a Niece"

It was the stormy morning of November 24th,
In the delivery room, at a quarter ‘til 8.
From room 3213, a cry burst forth.
It was the cry of my new niece, Faith.

That thick black hair, those bright blue eyes,
So delicate are those hands and feet!
By the way, you can call me Uncle Erik,
Such a pleasure it is to finally meet!

Hold on, what's wrong? You're crying!
There's no need to wail and sob!
Just relax while your uncle administers the bottle,
and gives a description of his job:

An uncle’s responsibility is not based on his ability,
Or, in my case, the lack thereof?
My chief aim, dear Faith, is none other than this:
to make you feel special, cherished, and loved.

“Well, that sounds great,” you’d probably say,
“But let’s put it in practical terms.
Can I ride on your shoulders? Will you buy me ice cream?
Or, maybe that bag of sour gummy worms?”

“Will you remember my birthday? Tell funny jokes?
Or, play me in a game of checkers?
And, if you’re far far away, will you give me a call?
Or write the occasional letter?”

All that and more, I’ll do, my dear Faith,
All that and more, I’ll try.
How about piggy-back rides? High-fives, and lullabies?
How about holding you when you cry?

On second thought, let's leave that to mommy –
the whole holding-you-when-you-cry-thing.
She's an expert, don’t worry, she's very skilled
in the art of burping, feeding, and wiping.

When you're three or four, I'll tuck you in at night,
and oh, the wild stories I'll tell!
You'll laugh so hard when I tell my version of
Jonah and the Whale!

The Cat in the Hat! Green Eggs and Ham!
Oh, the fun bedtime stories we'll read!
I'll glance over to gauge your reaction,
and realize you've fallen asleep.

When you're four or five, we'll walk to the park,
on my shoulders you can ride.
We'll stop by the store on the way,
I'll buy you refreshments - oh, look! A kite!

We'll take that kite to the park and find a nice field,
a field where there are no trees.
I'll show you how to tug or unravel the string,
how to sail it in the breeze.

After a while, you'll might get tired of kite flying.
Come sit on the park bench with me.
We'll partake of those refreshments, have a little chat
about anything you please.

We'll head over to playground, like we originally planned,
You can play to your heart's content.
I'll push you on the swings, maybe compose a little poem
as I watch you from the bench.

At about the age of eight, you may say,
"This homework is too hard! It's ridiculous!"
I'll lend you a hand. I'll show you how to do it.
And, maybe even teach you big words, like "serendipitous"!

When you’re about 10, we’ll go to the fair.
We’ll have fun. I’ll win you a stuffed pig!
But don’t be surprised if it takes a few tries,
Those fair games aren’t so fair – they’re rigged.

You'll grow and grow, and pretty soon,
you'll be twelve, or sweet sixteen.
But when you're one day old like this, it's difficult to envision
what you'll look like, or your personality.

If you're anything like your mom or grandma,
You'll be slender, athletic, and tall.
And if you're anything like your dad or grandpa,
chances are, you'll be short, goofy, and bald.

In high school, I'll encourage you to play basketball,
volleyball, or some other cool sport.
I'll show you a few moves, try to make it to your games -
I can't wait to watch you dominate the court!

My, oh my, how time will fly!
Before you know it, you’ll graduate and be eighteen.
You’ll be a young woman, headed off to college.
I wonder what you’ll grow up to be?

You see, an uncle's love is not predicated upon,
your achievements, accomplishments, or awards.
There's no prerequisite. It's not circumstantial.
Nor is it to be earned or striven for.

An uncle's love is more like a gift.
There are no strings attached - it's free.
My job is one that mostly consists
of just being there, and loving you unconditionally.

The Latest Gossip at Ralph's (November)

Well, it's November here in Rocky Top. The vast heavenly expanses above have become gray and dreary, while the once colorful foliage below have all but fallen away, leaving the tree limbs bare and naked. The only thing more depressing to look at, perhaps, are my empty cupboards at home. So bereft and devoid of consumable goods they are, in fact, had a thief broken in with the intention of raiding these cupboards, they would be sorely disappointed with the lack of spoils and booty. So disappointed, perhaps, that they might even leave a few dollars on the kitchen counter out of pity, along with an apology note for the busted window. My food supply had dwindled recently and was in dire need of replenishing. And hey! I needed to catch up on the latest gossip anyways. So, on the cloudy Saturday morning of November 20th, I headed to Ralph's, the local five-and-dime down there on the corner.

Rocky Top Discovers the Power of Social Networking

Despite the recent dreary weather, not all was bad. Why, you ask? Well, first of all, Ralph's had advertised 50% off all RC Cola products. Second of all, Ralph himself promised to take group pictures of everybody at 8 am sharp that morning, which brought the whole town out in droves, creating a borderline fire hazard. I had to park further than I've parked before - over by Lee's Laundromat, two blocks away. I parked, crossed the street and ambled up the sidewalk, waving hello to Bruce and his wife Olive who were loading cases upon cases of RC Cola into their truck. A friendly old couple, Bruce and Olive are.

As much of a surprise as this may seem, the big RC Cola sale and the group pictures only served as a side topic of conversation compared to the much hotter, sizzling topic of gossip - the newly discovered world of Facebook. For the reader's background knowledge and understanding, the citizens of Rocky Top have historically lagged behind when it comes to the latest technology. Research has shown that over the years, new technology has filtered its way into Rocky Top via word-of-mouth, i.e., someone goes to the big city and returns with a report of everything they saw, similar to what Joshua and Caleb did in the land of Canaan. Well, not quite. But anyways, up until last year, for example, the preferred method of contacting someone was the beeper, but when Charlotte Davis returned from a vacation in Charlotte, North Carolina, she came back speaking of things that far exceeded the versatility of the beeper - mysterious and fabled things like... cellular technology! the information superhighway! e-mail! The initial reaction to these reports are usually disbelief, which slowly subsides as word-of-mouth spreads, as it often does in small towns. Pretty soon, the words "cyberspace" and "internet" and "AOL" became household names.

Well, just last week, somebody else returned with another report of modern marvels. Eugene Patterson flew out to see some relatives in Eugene, Oregon, which is where he heard about social networking. Some were curious, while others rejected the idea. "Bah! It's useless!" Grumpy Frank would say. After this initial bout of disbelief subsided, word began to spread about social networking websites like Facebook. "Oh, how great it is!" they would all exclaim. Suddenly, everybody in town was spurring everybody else to join Facebook and add them as a friend. People like Thelma already had 19 friends! Norma had 25! And, Myrtle, my neighbor, had more friends anybody had ever seen - 46!

Some, like Arthur and Myrtle, viewed Facebook as a suitable avenue to proclaim great achievements:



Or, perhaps, vent their frustrations:


Some status updates were powerful messages of inspiration, like Pastor Clarence's:


Others used Facebook to announce important events around town, like Clara Hogan:


Still others, like Jim Russell, saw it necessary to post every minute detail of their daily life:




And, still others, viewed it as a great way to stay updated on the latest gossip:


Oh, how the whole town loved it! It was like a whole new world! Collectively, status updates were nearly constant, almost like an intravenous injection of hot saucy gossip. Old lost friends and relatives were found! Relationships with old girlfriends and boyfriends were rekindled! Funny YouTube videos were shared!, such as the one where that squirrel is chasing the dog. Or, maybe the one where that cute baby duck is snoring. Or, maybe that one that Myrtle posted, where Professor Snugglepuss plays with the ball of yarn for 5 minutes. Oh, how the whole town adored that video! Others posted pictures, some of which were quite controversial, like the one a certain local man by the name of Josiah Glaufenhein posted.

Josiah's Controversial Photo

I walked into Ralph's and, oh, how it was bustling! So much excitement in the air! I grabbed a shopping cart, said hello to Barb at the checkout lane, and strolled over to the produce area. Everyone I passed by seemed to be laughing at the video with Professor Snugglepuss and the ball of yarn, or laughing about so-and-so's latest status update. I strolled over to the banana display and, as I searched for the perfect bunch, I could overhear a nearby conversation taking place between Grumpy Frank Van Popple and One-eyed Sam. Eavesdropping is not something I typically do, but in this case, my curiosity overcame me. Grumpy Frank, as you may be aware, is a staunch pessimist, who had been in a particularly foul mood since he started working the night shift a couple weeks ago at the local sawdust mill. One-eyed Sam, on the other hand, was the antithesis of Grumpy Frank. He's a nice fellow with an optimistic attitude. And, aside from his eye patch and irregular hair patterns that made you think he hit puberty near a nuclear power plant, he was a pretty handsome fellow as well. They were talking about "the photo".

"Well? What do you think, Mr. Van Popple?", asked One-eyed Sam. "Do you think Josiah really nailed that buck? You know.. in that photo he posted on Facebook? The whole town can't stop talking about it!"

Grumpy Frank scoffed at the idea. "Bah! No way in Hades!"

I recalled seeing a photo earlier in the week, which was probably what they were referring to:


Grumpy Frank insisted that the deer was already dead, or napping, and Josiah just found him lying there. He thought it might impress the local Rocky Top gals, so he posed all pretty beside it, snapped a photo and posted it to Facebook for the whole town to see. I listened a little closer.

"Josiah can't shoot worth a lick!", Grumpy Frank growled angrily. "Rumor around here is that he doesn't even know how to load a rifle, or shoot a gun! I wouldn't be surprised if he fills those ammunition cartridges with gummy bears and fruit snacks!"

The more cool-headed One-eyed Sam thought for a second, and retorted in Josiah's defense."We all have our flaws, Grumpy Frank. For some, it's pride. For others, gluttony. For Josiah, maybe it's... poor marksmanship? We learn to live with our flaws, like you learned to live in that green mobile home on the outskirts of town..."

The loudspeaker above announced 25% off all tube socks, resulting in uproarious shouts of excitement around the store, which drowned out One-eyed Sam. Grumpy Frank's side of the argument wasn't unfounded - there was indeed a rumor floating around that Josiah's marksmanship was sub-part, but whether or not he posed beside the deer to impress the ladies was mere speculation. From what I heard though, I agreed with One-eyed Sam. Accepting our flaws and imperfections is an important step towards maturity in life. I wanted to listen in more of this riveting conversation, but I was probably looking suspicious seeing how I had inspected every banana bunch at least 4 or 5 times.

A Narrow Escape from a Potentially Boring Conversation

I grabbed some apples and bananas and made my way over to the grains aisle, where I bumped into the Chicowski family. There was Dean, his wife and three children, who were all debating how Myrtle had so many friends on Facebook. "46 friends! That's preposterous!", his wife said. Personally, I was of the opinion that Myrtle created an account for each of her cats. In fact, I knew it to be true, but I didn't say anything.

The Chicowski family were all wearing matching orange & white sweaters, in support of the Volunteers in the game against Vanderbilt later that day, which reminded me of the recent sporting events I had attended. So, I told them about it:



Well, Dean and I chatted for awhile about the prospects of the Volunteers this season. Being a chicken breeder, he was realist, and was of the opinion that, all things considered, we had a tough season ahead of us. I agreed reluctantly, but still expressed how my optimism remained stalwart.

Over the last week, Dean Chicowski had posted several individual pictures of his prize-winning chickens on Facebook, and was probably hoping I would say something. I recall seeing one of "King Charlemagne", who had recently won top prize in the Tennessee Valley Fair:


Understand, dear reader, that having a conversation with Dean is risky business. Any lull in the conversation can potentially lead to a disastrous wrong turn - Dean's chickens. I say "disastrous" not because conversations about chickens are inherently hazardous. Most aren't. I say this because Dean is known to be incredibly passionate and longwinded when it came to "that" topic. Don't get me wrong. Dean is a great guy, and I enjoy the informative conversations like anyone else - cage cleaning tips, the pros and cons of various breeding methods, the farmer's market outlook for poultry prices, etc. But, after multiple hour-long lectures about the subject, one tends grow weary, and naturally develops certain avoidance mechanisms or evasive maneuvers, such as avoiding eye contact. It was too late for those, obviously, since he had already engaged me in conversation. Thankfully, just when it looked like I was about to bogged down in another long drawn-out monologue about the merits of free-range chickens, old man Herschel whipped around the corner in his electric powered cart whistling a tune popular during the World War II era:

"A wise old owl sat perched in an oak
The more he saw the less he spoke
The less he spoke the more he heard.
Why can't we all be like that wise old bird?"

This momentary distraction provided me just the opportunity I needed to narrowly escape unnoticed. It wasn't wasted.

Love is Rekindled on Aisle 6

I zipped past the frozen foods aisle, where I overheard multiple references to that video that Horace had posted. It was a video of a beagle howling to an Elton John tune. "Oh, what a hoot that video that was!", they all said, followed by hearty guffaws and bouts of laughter. I continued on to the soft drink aisle to cash in on the big RC Cola sale, where I ran into Daisy and Marshall, who were strolling down the aisle together, chatting about the noteworthy status updates and YouTube videos they had seen throughout the week:

"Ho, ho! Did you see what Arlene wrote on MyFace yesterday?" Daisy said. She often confused Facebook and MySpace, and simply combined the two into "MyFace".

"Yep. I saw it. I made a funny comment, too! He, he.." Marshall answered. Marshall is one of those guys who feels it necessary to make a funny comment about anything and everything.

"And, I read where Arthur Moore finally got promoted at Larry's Plaid Pants Warehouse. And, Myrtle cleaned out those gutters. And, hey, did you hear about the Bingo game tonight..." Daisy stopped in mid-sentence at seeing me waltz down the aisle. They both said in almost perfect unison, "Well, well! If it ain't the birthday boy!"

"We saw those pictures you posted on MyFace, sweetie." Daisy said. "What a hoot!"

And, it was a hoot! I explained to Daisy and Marshall how a whole crew of friends and I indulged ourselves in a hearty Korean meal. Kal-Bi ribs! Bul-go-gi! Kim-chee! Mandoo! Woof woof!


"And, hey! They gave me free green tea flavored ice cream for my birthday!" I added.


I then told her about how we all convoyed down to Big Mama's Karaoke Cafe, and wreaked havoc on the establishment for hours!

"Big Mama's....", she said with a nostalgic sigh, squeezing Marshall's hand gently. "That's where Marshall and I first met. July 10th, 1954. He told me I had a nice pair of birthing hips. Isn't that right, Marshall?" Her eyes gazed upon Marshall with a rekindled affection - a kind of affection that only longstanding cherished memories of one another can create. I let them have their moment, while I pretended to check out the assorted selection of soft drinks. This lasted an uncomfortably long time, until Daisy suddenly said:

"Hold on! Wasn't that the Glaufenhien kids in that one photo?
Ezra 'The Junkyard Dog' Glaufenhein?
Caleb 'The Bone Collector' Glaufenhein?
Josiah 'Welcome to Pound Town' Glaufenhein?
Bethany 'Climbin-in-your-window-and-snatchin-all-your-people-up' Glaufenhien?
And, wasn't that 'DJ Julie J' aka Jivin' Julie Jenkins?
And, didn't I see 'Big Mama Shirlz' aka Swingin' Shirley Hibbard in there somewhere?"

To all of these, I responded in the affirmative.

A Special Surprise from Ralph

Well, we talked for awhile about everything under the sun, Daisy, Marshall and I. They both asked me if I had seen that hilarious video that Myrtle had posted.

"You know, the one where ol' Professor Snugglepuss batted and pawed at that ball of yarn for 5 minutes? So funny!"

But, right before I could respond, the loudspeaker overhead called everyone's attention for an important announcement. Ralph, the jolly old man, beckoned everyone in the store to the front. I had almost forgotten - it was 8 am sharp! It was time for the big group photo!

I snagged two cases of RC Cola - one for me, and one for Myrtle - and zipped towards the front in a hurry. Past the frozen food aisle. Past the grains aisle where Dean Chicowski and old man Herschel were still locked in a riveting poultry-related disquisition. Past the produce area, where Grumpy Frank and One-eyed Sam were still shootin' the breeze. Past the Moon Pie display and to the front, where everyone was huddling up for the big picture. The rumor on the street that morning was that Ralph might even tag everybody in the photo on Facebook, which, as you can imagine, stirred up quite a bit of excitement.

"Smile on three!" Ralph said, as everyone made last second adjustments to their hair. "1, 2, 3!"


Well, the group photo was a great success, everyone agreed. Everybody was so excited to go home, pop open a can of RC Cola, log into Facebook, check out the photos and maybe even make some hilarious comments!

And, that's the latest gossip from Ralph's! Happy Thanksgiving!

Bulletin Board Updates

Stay updated with the latest news around town! The following advertisements and notifications have been contributed by readers:

• Itching to add that "utilitarian flair" to your wardrobe? Well, find your favorite fanny pack, stuff it full with your favorite things, and join the "Fanny Pack Fan Club" as they host their annual fun-filled "5k Fanny Pack Attack" on November 10th, 2010. Don't miss out! For more information, call Pearl. (Author's note: This is so much fun! At the end of the 5k, they even have a fanny pack beauty pageant. And last year, Pearl made the front page of the local newspaper with her special extra-cute zebra stripe edition fanny pack.)
  
  
• Crocheting enthusiasts, mark your calendars for November 18th! The Rocky Top Crochet Guild is gearing up for the big Autumn Crocheting Exhibition. Aside from being a great networking opportunity with other local crocheters, "Fancy" Nancy Lark will be offering crochet lessons all the livelong day, ranging from basic crocheting techniques such as chain-stitching to more advanced techniques such as the Tunisian triple stitch. Come join us! (Author's note: Rumors have been circulating around town that Fancy Nancy may even reveal her fabled secret technique, the "Appalachian Double-Cross Herringbone Stitch"! Can't wait!)
  
  
• This Thursday, November 11th, marks the 40th anniversary of Dr. Glover's Proctology Clinic. In celebration of this momentous occasion, the clinic will offering free rectal exams from 1 pm to 5 pm. Don't forget! November 11th. Stop by Dr. Glover's Clinic and get your free exams! (Author's note: I can't pass this up. Anybody care to join me?)
  
  
• Perhaps, this announcement should have been posted at the top, given its apparent urgency. This comes from Detective Dan at the Knox County Sheriff's Department: The county wide investigation to unravel the mystery behind a chain of disturbing events continues. According to official police reports, last weekend several pumpkins were allegedly found smashed on the porches and sidewalks of citizens residing in the vicinity of northeast Knox county. Eye witnesses are reporting the suspect to have disheveled brown hair combed to the left side, a thin wiry mustache, brown eyes, and general lack of respect. One eye witness further described the suspect as "probably some young hooligan that don't have a lick of sense". Based on these descriptions, I've created this composite sketch of what the suspect might look like:
  

(Author's opinion: It's a bit subjective, I know, but I feel like this sketch portrays the general lack of respect quite well. Unfortunately, my artistic skills plateaued at the age of 7, BUT! After I created this composite sketch, it dawned upon me that our suspect here bears a striking resemblance to "Shaky" Jake Higgins, the young hooligan who lives down the road in the mobile home. Keep an eye out for him.)

• Ralph's General Store will be closed this Wednesday, November 10th, due to an asbestos scare. Old ceiling tiles were dislodged after Larry Ingles, the associate manager at Ralph's, was trying to retrieve some canned goods from storage. Barb didn't realize Larry was up there, saw particles falling from the ceiling, and started coughing, which made her suspicious. Test results should be in by Thursday or Friday. (Author's note: Bad news for Ralph's. I'd check out Al's across town. They have some good deals there sometimes.)
  
  
• Tuesday, November 8th, will mark the release of "Uncle Ray and the Whiskey Drinkers" much anticipated hit single "She's Gonna Bite You".
  

• Finally, I am pleased to announce my latest publication - coinciding with Uncle Ray's big release - a motivational tape-series entitled "How I Made it Big in Rocky Top, and You Can Too!". My first book, "The 21 Irrefutable Laws of Snake Wrangling", was released in August. Despite overwhelming enthusiasm that surrounded its release, however, only 6 copies have been sold thus far. I guess they can't all be winners, eh? But, hey! I will be signing autographed copies at the Chestnut Hill Bookstore tomorrow from 12-4 pm. Stop by and see me!

If you would like to post to the Rocky Top Bulletin Board, send your request to erikjohnson06@gmail.com.

Myrtle Goes to a Yardsale

A confession must be made, most gentle readers. Truth be told, I have no idea what events have transpired over the last fortnight here in Rocky Top. A fusillade of mid-term exams has demanded the author's time and attention, throwing a wrench in his news collecting efforts. These exams, as one might imagine, have left me in the dark and out of the loop, not even allowing me to stop by Ralph's Five-and-Dime! Or, even the Rocky Top Cafe! - those two interminable wells of juicy town gossip. The most scintillating and savory slice of news I can offer is something that had the whole town abuzz with excitement - the yardsale at the Chicowski farm this past weekend.

But, fret not, dear readers! There exists yet another interminable well of juicy town gossip, albeit a less desirable one - Myrtle, my neighbor. Being a steady patron of "Loretta-Lynn's Cut & Curl" downtown, she's able to stay abreast of all the latest and greatest here around town. And, hey! I hadn't seen her in a while! So, on the beautiful Saturday morning of October 23rd, I ate my oatmeal, finished the daily crossword puzzle, and decided to pay Ms. Myrtle a visit.

Myrtle's House

Outside I went, and across the gravel road I ambled. It was early, around 7 am, but not too early for Myrtle. She's an early riser, as are most elderly people - she typically awakes at 4:30 am to watch the weather channel and cook breakfast for the cats. The sun was just peeking over the mountains, and the morning dew was fresh. In her yard is an old oak tree, probably as old as Myrtle herself. Its leaves had fallen, layering the well manicured lawn with golden reds, oranges, and yellows. Next to the oak tree was a birdbath with a small fountain. It was occupied by two mockingbirds who both splashed around, probably refreshing themselves after a weary night of migrating. Or, perhaps mating. The birdbath was surrounded by mulberry bushes, and the mulberry bushes were protected under the watchful eyes of garden gnomes, who had been faithfully guarding the same mulberry bushes for at least 10 years. Veterans, they were. Down her sidewalk I went, up the weathered porch steps I ascended, and upon her front door I rapped. Thrice. The door creaked on its hinges as it opened as usual; the man standing before me, however, was not the person I expected to meet.

Jugglin' Dale Jones - Rocky Top Hero

"Jugglin' Dale Jones?" I asked, somewhat surprised. "What brings you here?"

Jugglin' Dale Jones was a gregarious old man of sanguine and pleasant disposition. He was the beloved local juggler, as the name implies. He was classically trained, and had been known to juggle everything from bowling pins to live grenades. According to legend, his career in juggling began in 1969 in Vietnam. Back in those days, soldiers did anything they could to pass the time. So, one day after a patrol, SGT Jones decides to entertain the platoon by juggling live grenades. Oh, how they loved it! "Give us more!", they would shout. "I bet you can't juggle 5! Or 6!" they would bellow. And, SGT Jones would, until one fateful day when misfortune struck. One of the grenades pins came loose mid-juggle and the grenade detonated in mid-air. SGT Jones survived the blast, but lost an arm in the process. To most aspiring jugglers, this would signal an end to their career, but not to ol' Dale. He was an eternal optimist. He taught himself to juggle with one arm, and returned to Rocky Top a hero. The rest, as they say, is history.

"What do you know, young buck?" Dale exclaimed with his usual effervescence, opening the door. Noticing my slight state of confusion, he added, "You must be lookin' for Myrtle, eh?"

I answered in the affirmative.

"Well," he began, shading the rays of the morning sunlight with his hand, "she should be back anytime now. She's out at the big yardsale, you know the one at the Chicowski farm? She asked me to babysit her cats while she was out! Hey, why don't you step inside? It's chilly out there!"

Jugglin' Dale Jones is Strugglin' Sawin' Bones?

He ushered me into the living room of the old house. We both sat down in Myrtle's vintage upholstery and a polite conversation ensued. We talked about the weather. We talked about football. We talked about everything under the sun. I guess he felt comfortable, because he began to share with me why he was babysitting cats in the first place. He told me how misfortune struck again not to long ago, albeit in a different way - the juggling business experienced a sudden downturn, and carnivals everywhere had no choice but to lay people off.

"Whatever was necessary to make ends meet, I did." he said. "At times, this meant helping Papa Goose down at the prosthetic limb factory. At times, this meant helping Earl in the cesspool pumping business. Shoot! I even worked with the Jefferson boys from time to time, scraping dead animals off the highway. Anything I could do to survive until the next carnival! Well, this went on for a few months, and suddenly a grand reversal of fortune took place. A silver lining in a dark stormy sky! First off, Myrtle asked me to start babysitting these cats, which," he whispered, "pays pretty well. And yesterday, I was browsin' through the classified section of the Rocky Top Times, and I came across this!" He showed me the advertisement, which he had kept folded in his wallet:


"Well, I gave Leo a call down there at the slaughterhouse, and - whatta ya know? - I was hired! I start next week!"

There has always been something about Dale that I admire. Perhaps, it's his optimism in the face of hardships? Perhaps, it's the way he uses his greatest liabilities and leverages them as his greatest assets? I'm not sure. But, then again, I guess if your chosen career path is a one-armed juggler, optimism is an indispensable quality one must be firmly in possession of.

cats, Cats, CATS!

Our conversation meandered for awhile, but eventually gravitated towards the most salient object, or objects, in the room - Myrtle's nine cats. I mentioned earlier that Myrtle was a less than desirable option for the latest news, but I neglected to mention why. The reason is that Myrtle is, to my great dismay, a cat lady. I will withhold my personal opinions on felines for now, but suffice it to say this: I do not like them. Myrtle, however, DOES like them. A lot. To the stray cat population in Rocky Top, Myrtle's house is a glorious beacon of light emanating eternal rays of hope. Her affection for felines began that one Sunday when Pastor Clarence gave the sermon about the ancient Israelites and how they wandered through the desert. As Myrtle sat listening to the sermon, she had an epiphany. All she could think of was stray cats. To her, the sermon sounded like this:

"The Israelites (the cats) wandered for 40 years (in cat years) throughout the vast wasteland (east Knoxville) in before reaching the Promised Land (Myrtle's house)! Under the guidance of Moses (cats are independent, so it's doubtful they would follow a leader, even a charismatic one like Moses), they arrived at the Jordan River (small creek that forms in Myrtle's culvert when it rains), courageously forged through (courageously circumvented) and took the land by storm (sat and meowed on Myrtle's porch) and lived on the fat of the land! (feasted themselves on the bowls of Nutrina dry tuna-flavored cat food that Myrtle keeps on her porch!) As long as the Israelites were obedient to the laws of God (as long as the little kitties listened to Mama Myrtle), then God promised to bless them abundantly! (then Mama Myrtle promised to cook for them every morning and give them lots of hugs and kisses!)"

Every day since, her house has been a cat hospice where all cats lived in lavish luxury and opulence. They lived the good life, those cats did.

Professor Snugglepuss stirs up trouble, as usual

Which was precisely the topic of our conversation, Jugglin' Dale and I. Luckily, Myrtle had taken the time to knit cute individualized sweaters bearing each of their names, so that we wouldn't get confused when she was away. Hey! There was Mr. Whiskers and Monsieur Mittens over there napping under the rocking chair! There was Professor Snugglepuss laying on the mantle! Then there was Horatio! (who was rumored to be named after an old lover) There was Mr. Socks and Brother Freckles over there busily engaged in cleaning themselves - one licking its paws, and the other licking its crotch! And hey! There was Albert Feline-stein, who boasted of a perfect track record of not using the litter box! Then there was Captain Cuddle Wuddles up there on the bookshelf, also taking a nap! And finally, there was Sir Snuffle Muffins who had just leaped up on my lap! Hooray!

Well, Professor Snugglepuss witnessed this and grew green with envy. Bolting across the room, he leaped right onto my lap with Sir Snuffle Muffins. Well, Sir Snuffle Muffins was NOT pleased. Despite the cute name, he was actually a hardliner renegade cat that had done hard time in the local pound. He wouldn't take crap from anyone, and much preferred to monopolize my lap over sharing it with the likes of Professor Snugglepuss. A terrible fight ensued. Fearsome claws, which had hitherto remained retracted, were now unsheathed and readied for battle. Oh, how paws flew with fury! How long dreadful fangs were revealed! How they tumbled, wrestled, and batted at one another! All on the battleground of my lap! Ouch! I'm not sure if you, the reader, have had the misfortune of a catfight raging on your lap, but it hurts. A considerable amount of collateral damage takes place as the razor-sharp claws pierce through your clothing and plunge into untold layers of epidermis. Ouch.

"Hey, cut it out!" scolded Mr. Jones. "Break it up, you two!"

"And, Brother Freckles! Go somewhere else to do that!" he commanded somewhat vexed at Brother Freckles' public display of nether region cleaning.

Brother Freckles ignored the words of Dale, but thankfully, Sir Snuffle Muffins and Professor Snugglepuss, the instigator of the skirmish, scurried off into the kitchen, probably to make amends and bury the hatchet over a warm saucer of milk.

Myrtle Returns with a Surprise

Just at that moment, Myrtle pulled up in the driveway in her lime green '88 Lincoln Towncar, nicknamed the "Banana Boat". You could see her eyes, magnified by her thick glasses, peering through the steering wheel. To me, the fact that she could even see through the steering wheel was a miracle - she was only 4'8". Perhaps, even more miraculous was the fact that she could see anything beyond the steering wheel. At the sound of the gravel crunching under the tires, the cats instinctively scurried for the front door, all meowing in unison. Myrtle opened the door, with arms full, and greeted her babies in one of those annoying high-pitched falsetto voices.

"Why, hello babies! Mr. Whiskers, have you been a good boy? Come here, Mr. Socks, Brother Freckles, and Professor Snugglepuss! I got you something, Monsieur Mittens, Horatio, and Alfred Feline-stein! Come give Mama Myrtle hugs and kisses, Captain Cuddle Wuddles and Sir Snuffle Muffins! Yeah..."

I couldn't watch. I averted my eyes until the initial cat greeting scene was over. Dale and I both assisted with her armful of newly acquired goods from the Chicowski yardsale. She seemed overjoyed, and asked me how I was doing. I could've expounded much more than, "Fine", but thanks to multiple collateral wounds incurred during the cat-fight, I suddenly was overwhlem by the desire to return home and nurse my lacerations. I guess I could've told her in detail about the wonderful hiking excursion I recently had in the Great Smoky Mountains. "Chimney Top" - a trail named so because the peaks' resemblance to chimney tops poking through a forest of trees. But, I didn't really feel like it. I didn't feel like telling her about....

.... the waterfalls and rivers that gushed downstream!

..... how the rays of light seemed to illuminate the forest on the way up, like something from a Robert Frost poem!

..... the majestic view from 4,000 ft. above see level!

..... how I wanted to just leap off the edge and sail over the mountain crests like a red-tailed hawk!

No, no. Perhaps, I'd tell her another time, I thought.

"Well, I should be leaving", I said politely, but in reality sensing the ever-increasing necessity to sterilize the wounds as soon as possible.

"Oh, sweetie. This is for you!" she replied, handing me a 7 lb can of Van Camps pork & beans.

"Geepers, Ms. Myrtle! Thanks!" I exclaimed, in shock. Never in my life had I seen a can of beans that large.

"That can was at the yardsale, and I thought of you when I saw it." she said.

Well, I took the can, bid farewell to Myrtle and Jugglin' Dale Jones, and hobbled back home. Past the oak tree, I staggered. Then past the mulberry bushes and birdbath, where a new pair of birds splashed away. Past the garden gnomes. Back across the gravel road and finally back to my home. The bad news is that my efforts to draw upon that interminable well of news was a dismal failure. The good news, however is that I have a month's supply of Pork & Beans at my disposal.


(For more information on Jugglin' Dale Jones, follow this link: http://www.dalejones.com/ )

Official Public Service Announcements

Dear benevolent readers,

The author has been contacted by Tennessee's Public Relations Committee and, in addition to recognizing this website as "Rocky Top's #1 News Source", they have requested that the author use this medium to disseminate the following official announcements:

• In a landmark decision this past week, all 5 members of the Rocky Top Town Council have unanimously overturned a longstanding ban which prohibited any citizen from raising chickens in their backyards. Hard-line progressives are celebrating the experimental move, calling it a "great leap forward" in reflecting the values of the people. Pragmatists object, however, claiming that the move could cause many unforeseen problems, such as renegade chickens pooping on the hoods of cars.
  
  
• Willy and the Whistlin' Quartet are back in town again! They will be performing this upcoming Sunday evening at 6 PM at Rocky Top Community Church, and Willy himself will be signing autographs from 4 PM. (Author's note: Willy is approaching 95, and the other three members of the quartet have recently passed away. Nonetheless, Willy's whistling ability is nothing short of electrifying. You can count on me being there.)
  
  
• The much anticipated 2011 edition Rocky Top telephone books are now available and are being distributed at Ralph's General Store, the local five-and-dime there on the corner. The Yellow Pages have been updated to reflect new numbers for new local business establishments "A.J.'s Hearth & Kettle" and "Goodman's Glue and Adhesive Shop". Also, the White Pages have updated the listings of Dean Chicowski, who has recently changed his mobile phone number, as well as removing Jugglin' Dale Jones, whose mobile service plan has recently been suspended and may or may not be restored due to recent financial difficulties in the juggling business. Please stop by Ralph's and pick up your latest copy today.
  
  
• It's that time again! The Annual Spooktacular Pumpkin Carving Competition is set to take place this Friday evening at 6 PM at the Chicowski Farm. As always, contestants will be given one hour to carve their finest creative designs. All finalists will receive a complimentary hat donated by the Sugarhill Slaughterhouse, and if that's not exciting enough, the champion will receive the grand prize, which consists of a blue ribbon and a complimentary orthopedic back pillow donated by "Rocky Top Gas & Electric". Hayrides will follow. (Author's note: if the past is any indication, this should be a hoot.)
  
  
• Lastly, the Sugarhill Slaughterhouse would also like to announce that it has upgraded its bonesaw, and will be offering free facility tours from 5-7 PM this Wednesday. Please bring your families to the Sugarhill Slaughterhouse and see the new bonesaw.

Stay tuned. More to follow as the news trickles in!

Chatter in the Rocky Top Café

It's been an exciting week here in Rocky Top. The acorns are falling in earnest. The pumpkin carving euphoria has begun. But, the most exciting action was to be found downtown, at none other than the Rocky Top Café.

The Rocky Top Café

Oh, how the Rocky Top Café was bustlin' on the beautiful evening of October 10th! Large Marge, the voluptuous 340 lb cashier, was busily barking out customer orders to Charlene, whose ability to operate the various brewing machines came nothing short of masterful. The café had the best brew in town. The conversation was lively, too. Some were discussing the upcoming gubernatorial elections. Others were debating the merits of various pumpkin carving techniques. Dean Chicowski was winning the hearts and admiration of everyone with his newest prize-winning chicken. But, the centerpiece of chatter around the café was none other than Dorris Mayweather's homemade apple butter. She had brought a few jars to the café for everyone to sample. Oh, how good it was!, they all exclaimed.

And how about that live music? This week, Uncle Ray and the Whiskey Drinkers were performing all the local favorites including "The Sweetcorn Blues", "Tennessee Two-Step","Smoky Mountain Sweetheart" and their smash hit "40 Cent Meat and 10 Cent Whiskey". Everybody just loved it, especially Old man Herschel. He sat in the corner browsing through a car dealer magazine and tapping his toes to the familiar tune, which reminded him of how grand life was back in the roaring '20s.

Grumpy Frank Van Popple

Yes, sir. The whole café was in good spirits- that is except for Grumpy Frank Van Popple. He was a man who lived in a green mobile home on the edge of town, as well as a man of generally haggard appearance. What was left of his hair was always disheveled. Those glasses were so thick that his eyes looked like that of a bug, or maybe a lizard. His right hand had been mysteriously lost long ago, and had been replaced with a large shiny hook, which he used to scare the children. He was a grouchy old curmudgeon of choleric disposition, Frank was. But, hey, what town is complete without an old grouch?

Well, Grumpy Frank was in a foul mood, as usual. "Oh, how bad the year had been!", he mumbled with folded arms. "Unprecedented!", he added for emphasis. He was the kind of man who was very skilled in the sacred art of complaining. I once asked old man Herschel about him. He explained how Frank's plight was similar to that of Job. Back in 1949, unprecedented misfortune had indeed struck, and he lost everything - livestock, crops, automobiles, home, servants, and, as if that wasn't bad enough, he was covered in painful boils from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. Well, the difference was, Herschel explained, that Job was rewarded in the end and Providence doubled his original fortunes. Frank, on the other hand, suspects that Providence sorely miscalculated his misfortunes. All he received was a winning Rocky Top lottery ticket for $250, which was later lost speculating in the pig belly market. He's been known as Grumpy Frank ever since. At least, that's the story I've been told.

Today, Grumpy Frank's subject of complaint was Pastor Clarence's latest sermon. It was a sermon that was intended to encourage, but instead left the congregation of Rocky Top Community Church scratching their heads. It was about ducks.

"Every Sunday morning in Ducktown, all the ducks would waddle out their doors, waddle up the road, and waddle into the pews of the Church of the Heavenly Flock. The choir would waddle out and sing classic hymns such as 'I'll Migrate Away', 'Let Us Not Waddle Far from Thee', and 'His Eye is on the Water-Fowl'. Then the duck preacher would waddle out and preach an eloquent sermon. He would pound his bill on the pulpit and say, 'My dearly beloved, did not God give us wings? He wants us ducks to fly! He wants us ducks to soar like the eagles!'. 'Amen!', shouted the congregation, and they all waddled home."

Pastor Clarence had been struggling with sermon material lately. Nothing seemed to flow like it used to. He was even beginning to recycle old sermons, like the one he preached last week - "All Things Considered, Nice Guys Finish Pretty High in the Standings". It was the third time this year he preached that sermon! Grumpy Frank hated that sermon. But, hey, even that sermon was better than the previous week's. It was entitled "Vermin on the Mount", which was nothing more than a collection of spiritual reflections made when Pastor Clarence was dealing with that terrible rodent infestation in his house last year. Grumpy Frank hated that sermon, too. In my opinion, the sermons were improving, but Grumpy Frank didn't see it that way. Bah-humbug!, was all he said.

Dorris and the Apple Butter

I walked over to Dorris Mayweather to have a taste of that fabled apple butter that everyone was so excited about. She gave me some, and a conversation ensued.

"Well, well! If it isn't ol' father time himself!", she said. "Rumor around here was that you've been out of town, young man! What in high-heaven would compel you to leave Rocky Top? ", she said with her motherly smile, distributing her apple butter to the many patrons of the cafe.

"Yes, ma'am," I said with a sigh, "the rumor is true. I embarked upon a most painstaking mission last week which necessitated my absence. The dreaded 'Triangle of Pain' - an 800 mile mission which commenced by descending from Rocky Top into the rolling plains of middle Tennessee, and concluded by emerging from deep within the heart of Georgia."

"Oh, dear! The Triangle of Pain!" she said with surprise. "You mean, you went to the big city, sweetie? From Rocky Top to Nashville to Atlanta and back??"

I nodded in taciturn acknowledgment, sampling some of that apple butter. My, oh my, was it good!

About this time, Grumpy Frank sounded off. "The old Triangle of Pain! Bah! Worst road trip ever, I tell ya!" He continued on, describing how much he despised Georgia drivers in no uncertain terms. "Wait a second," he said with a scowl, "didn't you make a sacred vow never to leave Rocky Top again?" He mumbled a few more words, which not even my young ears could discriminate. Pleased with my decision to leave Rocky Top, he was not.

Large Marge suddenly shouted from behind the counter, "one large black country roast and rhubarb scone!"

Dorris continued on. Her affable and sanguine disposition was in stark contrast to Mr. Van Popple's. "Well, we're glad you survived, young buck. You know many a good men have been lost in that terrible triangle! They say that strange things happen!"

Thrust in the Jaws of the Beast

I think she was confusing the Triangle of Pain with the Bermuda Triangle?, but I didn't say anything. After all, strange and inexplicable things did happen. "There I was, Dorris, thrust into the jaws of the beast - the cafeteria of Moore-Magnet Elementary. A hundred screaming kids! The terrifying lunch lady Ms. Outlaw! I shudder at the mere thought of it all! I was engaged in the consumption of the school lunch with my lovely nieces, Hosanna and Grace. The world's best kids, those two are!" Regretfully, I couldn't say the same about the school cafeteria food. My New's Years resolution was to speak no ill, but, despite all my efforts, I couldn't hold back. "Many a years have passed, Dorris, without my taste buds having encountered the woes and trials of school cafeteria food. Overcome with curiosity, I wanted to try it again. Maybe things had changed? But, alas! A more reprehensible concoction, I cannot recall!"

"Serves you right!" growled Mr. Van Popple, shining his hook with his shirt.

The strawberry milk. The mass produced pizza. The smiley face fries. And, perhaps the worst coleslaw humankind will ever know. Oh, what wretch I am!

Dorris expressed her sympathy for having suffered greatly at the hands of the Moore-Magnet cafeteria cooks. She consoled me with more apple butter, and asked in a tender tone, "What about the children, sweetie?"

"The nieces are warriors! They're steamrolling over homework and ghetto-stomping their enemies on the playground, just like Uncle Erik taught 'em!" I exclaimed. "And, the conversation at the lunch table was particularly lively, almost as lively as it is here in Rocky Top Cafe! Although not as intellectually stimulating as one might hope, the children seemed to have endless knock-knock jokes up their sleeves. Oh, what a hoot those kids were!"


"Kids! Bah! I got your knock-knock jokes right here!" mumbled ol' Frank, releasing a tremendous belch.

"Oh, Frank!" scolded Dorris, shaking her head in embarrassment.

Large Marge shouted from the behind the counter again, "one large french vanilla and pumpernickel pastrami!"

A Longstanding Mystery Unraveled

I continued on. "My mission required that I next penetrate deep into the heart of Georgia. Atlanta, to be precise. There was to be a rendezvous between myself and the author of that mysterious letter of old - Cho In Kyu."

These words seem to catch the attention of Mr. Van Popple, whose ears suddenly perked up.

"In Kyu had just finished subjugating the daunting LSAT exam, sending into the nether regions of Hades. And, at his suggestion, we both commenced operations to subjugate something just as massive and daunting - Stone Mountain. We ascended by means of cable car, as was the popular choice, but descended by foot, which turned into a hour long hike. With the major operation complete..." I stopped mid-sentence in awe of Grumpy Frank.



The café grew quiet. So quiet one could hear a pin drop. Uncle Ray and the Whiskey Drinkers had stopped playing. I think even Dean Chicowski's prize winning chicken was listening attentively. Grumpy Frank was in tears. He never cried. Ever. No one could believe it. How could it be?

Mr. Van Popple sobbed and sniffled. Finally, he pounded his hook down on the oak table, puncturing the wooden surface, and spoke. "This hook! This wretched hook!", he shouted, scrutinizing the room. "This hook was the result of a duel with 'Sureshot' Larry Leonard atop Stone Mountain in 1949! He was the one who suggested I speculate in the pig belly market! I lost everything, and challenged ol' Larry Leonard to a duel atop that wretched rock!"

A tear drop fell down the old man's cheek, and before anybody could say anything, the doors on the café swung open and he was gone. Back to his green mobile home on the edge of town.

Gradually, things lightened up. Some just sipped their coffee. Others admired Dean's prize-winning chicken. Herschel awoke from his nap and continued to browse through the car dealer magazine. Dorris continued to dole out more apple butter. Finally, Uncle Ray and the Whiskey Drinkers restarted their tune "Smoky Mountain Sweetheart", and all was merry once again.

All in a day at the Rocky Top Café!

The Latest Gossip at Ralph's (October)

October. It's that time of year again here in Rocky Top. The foliage is beginning to turn all hues of oranges, yellows and reds. The windows are foggy with condensation in the morning, and the sun sinks earlier and earlier in the evening. The cooler weather is prompting everyone everywhere to unpack their favorite fall sweaters, which, by the way, was precisely the hot topic of conversation this morning down at Ralph's General Store, the local five-and-dime there on the corner.

Ralph's General Store

October 2nd, 7:00 am. It's a lovely Saturday morning, and I thought I'd take a trip down to Ralph's to check out the sales on tube socks, and listen in on the latest town gossip. Besides, Myrtle, my next door neighbor, had asked me to pick up some Moon Pies the next time I was out and about. Ralph's had been busy preparing for the big sale all week. Their weekly paper had advertised half-off on Metamucil, and the whole town, ecstatic with the news, came out in droves. This made parking tough, so I had to double park in front of the ol' pinball arcade down the block. It made me wish I had some pocket change to see if I could top my old high score of 22,00,000 on the Bonanza machine. But, I didn't, so I just ambled past and into Ralph's.

According to the weekly paper, the Moon Pies were on aisle 5, but on my way there I noticed Herschel and Dorothy over on aisle 2. Herschel is the oldest man in Rocky Top. How old he was precisely was a local mystery, but since he had fought in both World War I and World War II, the general consensus on the street was around 110. But ol' Herschel was a real trooper, and had been awake since 4 am that morning watching the weather channel. In fact, Herschel had been coming by Ralph's every Saturday morning since it was founded in 1949. Well, he and Dorothy were engaged in a riveting conversation about their favorite fall sweaters. Dorothy was wearing hers - a dark brown polyester/cotton blend with a 6-point buck embroidered on the front. Herschel was impressed with the embroidery, and remarked that it reminded him of a similar sweater he once had in the early 1960's, only there were two bucks, not one. Well, actually, they weren't bucks, they were wolves howling at the moon, he said.

Oh, the store was a bustlin' with good conversation. And for many, Saturday morning at Ralph's was the highlight of the day, if not the highlight of the week. I thought I might swing by the deli and say hi to Darlene. But, lo and behold, on my way there, I ran into an old man Jerry, who works in the artificial knee-cap factory down the street, and who goes by the name "Papa Goose". He was raising eyebrows all around Ralph's with his favorite fall sweater, which was homemade and had one of those iron-on pumpkins on the front. Papa Goose had attracted a small crowd, who all stood around in admiration. "Oh, what a pumpkin!", one said. "That sweater sure is something, Papa Goose. And homemade, eh?", another one said with a grin. I didn't see Darlene in the deli, so I continued on until I bumped into Earl on aisle 4, the frozen food aisle.

Now, I don't subscribe to the evolution theory, but with people like Earl in the world, I begin to think maybe I should. They say that there's a lack of evidence for ape-to-man transitional fossils, but archaeologists obviously have yet to discover Earl, who had once been mistaken as Sasquatch at a local campground. He is the burliest man in Rocky Top and, with the exception of his face and palms, every visible square inch of his large stout body is covered with thick black hair. He seemed to be doing well, though. He told me how, despite the economic recession, the cesspool pumping business was a boomin'. "We pumped a record 6 cesspools last week!", he said with enthusiasm. I was glad for him.

Tennessee Valley Fair

I related to Earl my recent experience at the Tennessee Valley Fair, from the funnel cakes to the Ferris wheel.

"Oh, yeah?", he said. "Did ya see Jugglin' Dale Jones? He's such a hoot, ain't he? My personal favorite is the arm-wrasslin' contest. Ya know, they say the old man Herschel was the Knox county arm-wrasslin' champion back in late 60's."

"Herschel? Knox county champion?", I said with amazement. "Hot diggity dog..."

"Sure was. Oh, and did you see #957, the reigning dairy cow champion? Ain't she the most beautiful bovine you ever seen?"

I agreed. I described in vivid detail how #957 and I had bonded so intimately that day at the fair. I went on to tell him that thanks to Myrtle, my neighbor, I knew all the sweet spots - The World's Smallest Horse, The Hypnotist and Hypno-dog, the Simulated Cow Milking Exhibit, etc.


Well, I didn't really feel like talking to Earl anymore. He's one of those people who sweat profusely and generally smell bad, probably from working in the cesspool pumping business. So, I bid farewell and strolled on over to aisle 5, which is where I ran into Dean Chicowski and family. They were all wearing matching fall sweaters - olive green with beautiful turkeys on front. They all beamed with bright smiles, and greeted me in unison. I congratulated him on his recent landslide victory in the Bluebell Chicken contest. His chickens had taken home the top prize at the fair, making him the talk of the town. I'd probably be happy too had I won the Bluebell Chicken contest.

UT Symphony

He asked how things were going, and I told him how I had recently enjoyed an afternoon at the UT symphony. Dean loves the symphony. He leaned over real close to me, glanced around to ensure nobody was within audible range, and whispered, "That's my secret, Erik. I play classical music for the chickens in the hen house. There's something about it. They love it. "

"Yeah??", I said in a muffled voice. It's amazing what you can learn in Ralph's.

"Sure is. They looove J.S. Bach, especially the Mass in B Minor", he whispered. He started off on a tangent about his very first Bluebell Chicken contest, which I had heard a billion times, but I quickly steered the topic back to the symphony performance. He was a talker, Dean was.

"Well, I really enjoyed the symphony. They sounded wonderful. They performed contemporary American composers like Aaron Copeland, Lucas Richmond, and Michael Torke." I wanted to tell him about that terrible poetry right before the intermission, but about this time, a loudspeaker paged the Chicowski family to the front of the store for unspecified reasons. I suspected that ol' Ralph himself wanted to shake his hand for the big win at the fair.


We parted ways, and I found myself right there at the Moon Pie display. What luck, I thought. And, Myrtle was in luck, too - Ralph marked 'em down by 25% for today only. I picked up a box and made my way over to see Barb at the checkout lane, who had been working faithfully at Ralph's for over 30 years. Ralph's is kind of small, so there's only one checkout lane, which meant there was a line of about 10-12 people waiting. Luckily, Barb was a pro, and most of them only had one item anyway - Metamucil. Directly in front of me stood Dorothy, wearing that lovely brown 6-point buck sweater. Barb really admired the embroidery, she said. I noticed that, among other things, Dorothy was purchasing a bottle of NyQuil, the original green flavor. A shudder suddenly went down my spine.

I have a lot of questions for God when I get to heaven. Did Creation really only take 7 literal days? What really happened to the dinosaurs? Why was there so much suffering and evil in the world? Why did the wicked seem to prosper, while the righteous struggle? But, more pressing than any of those questions was the persistent question of NyQuil. For me, the mere existence of NyQuil speaks volumes about the paradoxical nature of our universe. It's something that works wonders when you find yourself indisposed with an illness, BUT, was it absolutely necessary for the original green flavor to taste that terrible? How God can allow to exist anything whose ends are so good, but whose means are so evil - this has always been a profound enigma to me. But, I digest.

I nodded to Dorothy, and she smiled back. She bagged up her NyQuil, that wretched vile green fluid, and bid farewell to everyone until next Saturday morning. I laid the box of Moon Pies on the conveyor belt for ol' Barb to scan, and she greeted me with her usual smile.

"Why, hello there?", she said with that Southern hospitality so peculiar to Rocky Top, "is this gonna be all for ya, sweetie?" I nodded in the affirmative.

I asked her how she was doing. She told me that she had just finished a month-long colon cleansing program and was feeling pretty good. I was glad to hear it. She told me how September came in like a lion and went out like a lamb. I heartily agreed. I asked her if she was also experiencing the problem with stinkbugs seeking refuge from the cold inside her house. She replied in the affirmative.

"Those stinkbugs are really comin' in to roost, aren't they? It beats all I've ever seen! But they won't hurt nothin', darlin'. My husband, Clarence, thinks they're good luck!", she said with a wink and a smile. "How's Rocky Top treatin' ya these days, honey?", she asked, as she scanned the barcode on the Moon Pies.

I didn't quite know where to begin. Much had transpired over the month of September. I had my good days and bad days, like we all do. School had kept me occupied. I told her all my classes were going well, and that I hadn't been in any fistfights yet. For the most part, everybody I had met thus far had been friendly, but there were a few stupid people, too.

"Well," she said, "you know what they say. Life is hard, but it's even harder if you're stupid."

Barb is as wise as an old owl, and has a way with words. I told her how I disappointed that I miss "Boomsday", the local Labor Day fireworks show, on account of being out of town.

"Oh, Clarence and I couldn't make it either on account of his enlarged prostate. It swelled up like the dickens that day, so we just stayed home, had some leftover meatloaf, while Clarence iced down his prostate", she said with a sigh. "Daisy down the street went, though, and said the fireworks were spectacular."

I expressed my sympathies for Clarence and wished him well. Barb tabulated the total for the Moon Pies. Ralph's is kind of small, so they don't have those fancy electronic cash registers yet. Instead, they just tabulate everything with one of those calculators with the paper rolls. She showed me the total, and as I fished around in my wallet, I continued to recount the events that had transpired over the month of September.

UT Football Game

"And, last week, I attended my very first UT home football game! Fun, fun, fun!", I said.

"Oh, did ya now? That's where Clarence and I met over 57 years ago - Neyland Stadium", she said looking outside with a dreamy nostalgic expression. "Isn't it... great?".

I nodded in agreement. I tried my best to articulate my feelings at witnessing all the bone-crunching collisions, the intensity of the Volunteer fans, our lackluster second-half performance, the heart-wrenching overtime, and finally the victorious comeback at the end. It was a good game, and Barb heartily agreed.

Before I knew it, Barb and I had been chatting for over 10 minutes there at the cash register, and there was quite line of anxious people that were all wondering what the hold-up was. Earl was still sweating profusely and probably still smelling generally bad while Herschel was sound asleep in his electric powered cart. Fortunately, Papa Goose was still raising eyebrows in the checkout line with his homemade pumpkin sweater. They all loved it, that sweater. I paid for the Moon Pies, I told everyone I'd see them next Saturday morning, and headed out the door in anticipation of the big Bingo game later that evening.

And that's the latest gossip at Ralph's!

A Day at the Carnival

September 18th, 2010. It was a sunny Saturday afternoon here in beautiful Rocky Top. And, just when you thought the summer heat had resigned itself for the year, a warm front had decided to, rather rudely, intrude itself upon the burgeoning autumn weather. The heat had returned with a vengeance, putting all those 24-hour protection claims on deodorant sticks to the test. Mine had worn off long ago, much to my chagrin, but that was only the beginning of my troubles on that fateful September afternoon.

A rumor was circulating on the streets that there was a carnival in town. And not just any carnival. The grandmother of all carnivals. That's right, the Tennessee Valley Fair was here, and once again, was the talk of the town. The old fair, the pinnacle of Appalachian pride. The Tilt-a-whirl. The Pirate Ship. The Ferris Wheel. The World's Smallest Lady. The World's Largest Mustache. Various deep fried items on a stick for sale. Yes, sir, it's all there at the ol' Tennessee Valley Fair! This is an event whose origins date back to at least 1916 AD, according to Myrtle next door, who has faithfully attended every year since its inception. She told me the whole history in meticulous detail - how its success and popularity over the years came with the advent of stilts, where it reached its roaring peak in the early-1920's. But, an unfortunate mishap had caused it to plateau shortly thereafter. She explained how everything changed in the year 1924. You see, up to that point, stilts were all crafted by the skillful hands of carpenters, but with the allure of mass production and industrialization, stilts were soon being mass produced by labor unions in large factories. The fatcats of the stilt manufacturing business were in the process of cutting back on costs, trying to offset the increasing demands of the labor union. Luckily for them, a traveling salesman by the name of "Dapper" Dan Dewey was in town. And, with the help of some fancy high-flutin' charts, Dapper Dan dazzled them all with a novel idea - using pressboard instead of real wood. These chairmen, Myrtle explained further, all agreed that this move could really boost their profit margins and motioned to implement the plan. The first shipment was sent to Knoxville, to be tested in the Tennessee Valley Fair. The whole town was abuzz with the news, so much excitement in the air. The evening radio broadcasts sang the praises of pressboard and how it would revolutionize the whole fair. At least that's what the "Dapper" Dan the traveling salesman had said. The fatcats were all high-fiving each other when suddenly the telegraph started going crazy with the terrible news about Betsy, Myrtle's dairy cow. It was the grand opening day of the fair that year, and the new stilts had been left outside in the rain, causing all the pressboard to grow soggy, weaken and snap under the weight of the stiltwalkers. One of those stiltwalkers had fallen right onto poor Betsy - the fair's pride and joy, the "finest bovine from Knox county lines" they called her. Betsy was alright, but was so traumatized by the event that she could never produce another drop of milk again, which disqualified her from future competitions. It was a tragic day in Rocky Top history.

(I'll give you a few moments to gather yourselves.)

And, here I was, almost 90 years later. Oddly enough, nothing had really changed. The Ferris wheel was most likely the very same one that Myrtle rode that fateful day in 1924. The footlong corndogs were most likely fried in the very same fryer that her's was fried in. The trick basketball hoops that were bent in such a way that it was nearly impossible make a shot were, well, in all probability, the same hoops. It was like, ever since that fateful day with Betsy, time had just stopped dead in its tracks. The very same ticket booth was still run by Walter, who was nearing 120 yrs of age by now. You had two options at Walter's ticketing booth: either buy tickets individually for 5 bucks a pop, or elect to go for the fabled $22 wristband so that one could indulge oneself in unlimited rides. This seemed to be the popular choice.

Can one assume that you chose the wristband over the individual tickets, dear Mr. Johnson?

Heavens, no! As they say, "wide and broad is the path that leadeth unto destruction, and many enter through it!" There was no way in Hades that I was about to bear "the mark". Not even the sagacious Myrtle could convince me.

You are perceptive as you are wise, my son. But, what about all the rides? The Tilt-a-whirl? The Defibrillator? The Eviscerator?

Well, it's funny you ask that. I was talking to Myrtle about this earlier. I explained to her that, while I looooove the Eviscerator, I also value my life, my appendages, and my hopes of one day reproducing. I think she understood where I was coming from. I also explained to Myrtle my concerns about sanitization in general. "Isn't it funny how", I said, "when you're a kid, you don't mind that Susie Q had just lost her lunch all over that seat about an hour ago? You don't remember that Little Jimmy next door lost a pinky finger to this very ride a year ago. You don't realize that you could contract some vile disease from touching that scary man. You don't realize that these 'rides' are just rusty old contraptions that just barely passed their minimum safety inspections last month, and can be easily be the cause of your portrait being in the obituary next week. These things don't even cross the mind of a 10 year old." Myrtle seemed to understand. She responded, "Well, that seems to be the beauty of childhood - being completely oblivious to all the danger and infectious diseases around you, and just enjoying the ride." There was some truth in what she said.

So, Myrtle, in all her wisdom and expertise, decided to help me out. She wrote down the names of a few of her favorites attractions. "Here", she said, "these are my favorite attractions. They're safe, and generally sanitary." So, there I was. With her list in hand, I knew all the hot spots:

"Make sure you look at the World's Smallest Horse! It's sooo small!", she said.


"And, don't forget to say hello to the World's Smallest Lady! Her name is Thelma", she said.


"And, oh yeah, you've GOT to see the Hypnotist and his Hypno Dog! What a hoot!", she said.


"While you're there, make sure you watch the Knox county arm-wrestling contest! Those guys sure are impressive, tell ya what!", she said.

"And, try out that cow-milking exhibit in the petting zoo! The plastic utter feels remarkably authentic!", she said.


"And, PLEASE pay your respects to #957, the reigning dairy cow champion! Let her know how beautiful she is, and how much Myrtle misses her!", she said.


And, so I did. The World's Smallest Horse, which, thanks to my height, I was able to get glimpse of without paying. The World's Smallest Woman, Thelma, was a nice lady. The Hypnotist and Hypno-dog were unfortunately not scheduled to appear until later, so I couldn't make that. But, fortunately, I was able to watch the arm-wrestling. It was a hoot! I wasn't too impressed with the makeshift cow utter, but I didn't tell that to Myrtle. What I was impressed with was #957. Myrtle wasn't exaggerating - what a gorgeous bovine! I stroked #957's massive head, whispering a few words of endearment into those furry ears. I told her how well proportioned her hind thighs were, how well-defined her color markings were, and large her eyes were. And, although I exaggerated a little, I told her how respectable the size of her utter was. It was about this time that #957 released a tremendous fart. I think maybe that was her way of saying thank you. We really bonded, #957 and I. And I thought, this must have been how Myrtle and Betsy felt long long ago, almost 90 years ago at the 1916 Tennessee Valley Fair. If Betsy looked anything like #957, then no wonder Myrtle took such a likin' to her.

The one thing Myrtle made sure that I did at the fair was ride the Ferris Wheel. "You can't go wrong takin' the ol' Ferris Wheel for a spin!", she said. So, that's where I found myself - swaying to and fro, suspended high in the air, then brought back low to the earth. And, over and over. It's slow. It's relatively safe. Now, this was my kind of ride. I sat there, pondering the profound mysteries of the universe, slowly devouring my footlong corndog, biding my time, and trying to ignore the ominous sounds of the giant metal assemblage that creaked and grinded on its rusty hinges. I tried not think about the people who had assembled it - they were a people who apparently did not fully understand the benefits of regular flossing, a people who I would not trust to change my light bulbs, and a people who probably had as many screws loose as the massive machine itself. But, Myrtle said they were good people, and that's good enough for me.

The giant wheel turned and churned, stopping occasionally to allow new passengers on and old passengers off. Each time it started or stopped, it would crack, snapple and pop, serving as a potent reminder of your mortality here on earth. But, while I was fully aware of the possibility that this potential wheel-of-death could collapse at anytime leading to a horrid demise, for some reason, it didn't bother me. After all, the view was nice. The air was fresh. The sun was out. The breeze was blowing through my hair. "Hey, maybe life isn't so bad after all?", I thought as I took another bite of my footlong corndog, oblivious of its origin or ingredients.


I was beginning to like this fair. The breeze blew quietly. The lake reflected the clear blue sky above. The trees rustled and swayed below. The crowd was bustling, but couldn't be heard from up here. It was peaceful. All the colors from the myriad of exhibits all seemed to blend together into one mosaic. I could see everything. There was the local town juggler "Jugglin' Dale Jones" down there. There was "Orville the one-legged Unicycler" down there. There was "Hector", a local favorite with the Latino community, who was actually a man dressed up in jalapeno costume. There was Jeremy, the flamboyant man, who pranced around. Then there was "Big Mama's Deep Fried Stuff on a Stick", with a line of people 20 deep all anxiously awaiting there turn to order. Across from her was "Jimmy's Cracked Corn", another local favorite. Across the way the locally famous "Uncle Ray and the Whiskey Drinkers" band playing their smash hit tune, "40 cent meat and 10 cent whiskey". Then there was that Bluebell Chicken contest that everyone had been talking about in town. The general consensus was that Dean Chicowski had the best lookin' chickens in Rocky Top, and from what I heard later, he took home the top prize. It was all so beautiful from up here on the Ferris Wheel.

I could tell that my turn was almost up, so I polished off the corndog as the giant metal assembly screeched to another halt. This time a scary man with bushy eyebrows motioned for me to exit, so I did. All in all, it was great day at the ol' Tennessee Valley Fair. We make the best of what we have in life, as Myrtle says, and I had made the best of my day at the fair. Nonetheless, there was much work to be done back home. I bid farewell to #957, wishing her luck in all her competitions, and high-tailed it back to the prairie.