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/ )
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