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!