I'm Not Looking Forward To This

I need to find a new doctor in Georgia. One thing I’ve learned about selecting a general practitioner: if you are a man and have reached a certain age, always look for a family doctor with a slender index finger and a gentle touch.

My Florida GP said I needed a colonoscopy in the near future. This did not make me happy. I hate going to doctors, waiting rooms put me in a foul mood, and colonoscopies are humiliating affairs.

When I had my last one, Meredith went with me to drive me home after the procedure. After filling out multiple pages paper work, I sat down in front of the intake lady. It’s a safe bet she was not voted “best personality” in high school. She looked like a real tight ass. Maybe that’s a protective mechanism when you work in a colonoscopy clinic.

After reviewing the paper work, she asked me, “Do you want us to notify anyone if there are complications during the procedure?” I stared at her trying to comprehend the question. Was it a trick question? Of course I want you to tell someone if something goes wrong. My mind was telling me to say, “No, let’s just keep it a fucking secret.” But I managed to control myself and said, “That would probably be a good idea.” Then she asked, “Who shall we notify?” Maybe I’m missing something, but I thought the answer was obvious. My paper work clearly identified Meredith as my wife and next of kin. I couldn’t help myself. “Oh, I don’t know. Just pick out any fucking stranger walking down the street.”

Things were not going well. Then it occurred to me that my life, or at least my ass, was in this lady’s hands. She probably had the ability to make a note on my chart that I was an obnoxious pain in the ass so that the medical staff would assure that I really would have a pain in the ass. I had a vision of them using an industrial sized video camera to do my scope.

Fortunately, Saint Meredith stepped in and sent me to sit on the far side of the waiting room while she handled the rest of the intake. Which leads to another question: why is the reading material in a doctor’s waiting room always out of date? What good is a three-year-old Time magazine? I turned to the guy sitting next to me. “Hey, look here, it says they’re inventing something called the cell phone. Imagine that.” And have you noticed that doctor’s waiting rooms always have magazines like Yachting World, Conde Nast Traveler, and Unique Homes? Most of us can’t afford the magazines, much less their subject matter.

Eventually a nurse took me into a room to change into one of those gowns where your ass hangs out. Now that made sense to me since it exposed the crucial part of my anatomy for the procedure, but I wondered if I would put the gown on backwards if I was going to get a vasectomy.

In the days before the procedure, I had what I thought was brilliant idea. I wanted Meredith to write a message on my ass cheeks with a magic marker for the doctor to read. I was thinking it could say, “You are boldly going where no man has ever gone before”, or “Whatever you find is mine”, or “I bet you see a lot of assholes in your line of work”. Meredith refused the task, and, not surprisingly, I couldn’t find any other volunteers.

I was heavily sedated and do not remember the procedure. The next thing I remember is waking up on a bed surrounded by screens in a large room. I was very groggy, but I knew there were other patients in the room. The main clue was the reverberating farts that came from all corners. No one informed me that they pump a massive quantity of air into your butt when they do a colonoscopy. I must have gotten enough to fill the Hindenburg. I let one rip and was afraid that I was going to fly around the room like a balloon. It must have been a good one because I heard an old lady say in a plaintive voice from across the room, “Oh, God, I wish I could do that.” Holy Jesus, lady, it’s not that hard when you’ve been inflated to 150 pounds per square inch.

There were a number of patients in the room to judge by volume of flatulence. The variety sounds was amazing. There were bass rumbles, high pitched squeakers, baritone ass-flappers, loud rips, explosive thunderers, and assorted barks, duck calls, croaks, snorts, flurpies, and flutter blasts. It was a veritable cacophony of flatulence. Maybe it was the effects of the anesthesia, but I swear the collective fart chorale reached a thunderous crescendo with the final bars of the 1812 Overture: Dah, dah, dah, dah, dunt, dunt, dah, boom, boom. It was awe inspiring. I contributed my part to the symphony, and I’m telling you it was hard work. Sweat beaded on my forehead. When the final lingering notes faded, I lay there exhausted and deflated, but feeling a sense of accomplishment. I was a little worried they were going to move on to the opening movement of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony because I had given my all for the first selection on the program. Fortunately the concert was over.

After a time, a staffer finally came to tell me I could dress and leave. On my way out, I glimpsed an enormous woman being wheeled in to the operating room. She had the biggest ass I had ever seen. It deserved its own area code. I wondered how they were going to pry her ass cheeks apart to do the procedure. It would take at least two five-ton bottle jacks, in my opinion. If I were the doctor, I wouldn’t have attempted the procedure without a miner’s lamp and safety equipment. Maybe they have a special tool for that. “Nurse, please hand me the hemostat and the ass-spreader, please.”

On the way home I contemplated what it must be like working in a colonoscopy clinic. It can’t be uplifting and inspirational. You’re not exactly dealing with the best side of people. You probably sit at the family dinner table every night dreading the question, “See anything new at work today?” How does one end up working at a colonoscopy clinic? I don’t remember seeing that occupation on any job placement questionnaire I ever took. Maybe it’s one of those vocations that is revealed on an aptitude test. You know, the ones with questions like “how do you feel about snakes?” and “do you dream of deep dark tunnels?” I took one of those tests after college, and it said I should be either an insurance salesman or a lawn maintenance technician, so I became a lawyer.

The bottom line is that while I’m looking forward to moving to Georgia, I’m not looking forward to getting another colonoscopy after I get there. Maybe the moral of the story is that you have to take the good with the bad.

(For a comprehensive list of fart synonyms, check out this website.)

Mineral Bluff

My cabin is a couple of miles from the town of Mineral Bluff in the Mineral Bluff zip code. There’s not much to Mineral Bluff. It is unincorporated and has no government. According to one source, 150 people live there.

The town has one intersection where the two lanes of the Lakewood Highway (Route 60) meet the two lanes of the Route 60 spur which goes to Murphy, North Carolina. Mineral Bluff cannot lay claim to being a proverbial one stoplight town because the intersection is controlled by four-way stop signs.

A ramshackle wooden building sits at one corner of the intersection, and there is always an old man in overalls sitting out in front with stacks of firewood for sale. This strikes me as a hard sell in a county that is 70 percent National Forest.

I could not find any significant or even insignificant history associated with Mineral Bluff. At one time it was a stop on the railroad line that runs through town, but the railroad is no more. The small railroad station has been restored and is now a designated historical site on the National Register. While I appreciate the preservation of history, but I have no clue why anyone would visit the station since nothing of any historical note took place there. I’d be pissed if my father dragged me there on vacation and said, “Look. Remember this. Absolutely nothing happened here.”

4,333 people lived within the Mineral Bluff zip code area in 2010. About 36 percent of those over 25 years of age had a high school education, 6.5 percent had a college degree, and 7 percent had a graduate or professional degree. And I was worried that I was over-qualified for the job of greeter when the new Walmart in Blue Ridge is completed.

Over one-third of the people in the zip code area identified their ancestry as Irish, English, Scottish or Scotch-Irish in the 2010 census. Another 18 percent said their ancestry was American, and they did not mean Native American. I do not think it is a coincidence that’s about the same percentage of people who never finished ninth grade. No one confessed to being of Greek, Lithuanian, Norwegian, Portuguese, Ukrainian, Arab, or sub-Saharan African ancestry. No offense, but I don’t think I would have confessed to some of those even if I was being water-boarded. Too bad about the absence of Greeks; I guess I’m out of luck in finding a gyro shop in the area.

According to one website, Mineral Bluff ranks 57th on the list of the top 101 cities having the largest percentage of men working in building and grounds cleaning and maintenance. I have no comment on that statistic. I’m not sure one is necessary.

* * * *

I saw this on a Fannin County chat board. Someone was commenting on a construction project by the City of Blue Ridge.

Q.  Noticed the contractors are from out of town. When attempting to talk to one of the workers, quickly realized he didn't speak english. Wondering why local contractors didn't get the work

A.  It's Turkey season.

At least they have their priorities right.

* * * *

In addition to the two showers in the cabin, we have an outdoor shower. There is nothing more refreshing on a hot day than taking a shower outdoors. That is until your wife tells you there’s a spider eating a scorpion in the shower. It’s very difficult to wash your face with one eye open.

* * * *

Haiku to a Wasp

                                                            Disturbed, the wasp flies

                                                            and bites me on my ankle.
                                                            You motherfucker.

* * * *

We are only a few days from moving to Fannin County permanently. Once we move, the next post on this blog may be a delayed since we do not have internet yet. It looks like we are going to have to get our internet and email via satellite. That’s great. Now the NSA will know exactly where we are.

Festivals, Events, and Places to Visit



 If I ever get bored with retired life in the country, I have a fall-back option. I will buy a camper and set off to get to know this country of ours. I am not interested in the big cities so much as the spaces and people in between. Here are some of the destinations on my list.

There is nothing more American than corn liquor, whiskey, and bourbon. I have an interest in distilling, and I like my bourbon. There are few products more organic than whiskey. Only four ingredients are used in making it: grain (predominantly corn), water, yeast, and oak wood. One of these days I will make a pilgrimage to the Mecca of whiskey, Jack Daniel’s Distillery, in Lynchburg, Tennessee, where they have been making sour mash whiskey since 1866. Here are three interesting facts about Jack Daniel’s whiskey. First, the water source is iron free. The absence of iron stresses the yeast that convert the sugar into ethanol, giving a unique taste to the whiskey. Second, the yeast strain used by Jack Daniel’s has been handed down from generation to generation and is proprietary. Third, Lynchburg is located in a dry county, so you cannot drink Jack Daniel’s product in the county of its origin.

I had the privilege of living in Kentucky for a year. There are bourbons made in Kentucky that never leave the state. It is only natural that I would want to go to the Kentucky Bourbon Festival held in Bardstown, Kentucky, where they have been making bourbon since 1776. Bardstown is considered the bourbon capital of the world. The festival lasts six days, and you can make reservations to attend bourbon sampling parties. Sounds like a winner to me.

Finally, I must give homage to American whiskey's roots, corn liquor, otherwise known as moonshine. Therefore, I think a trip to the Dawson County, Georgia, Moonshine Festival is in order. The festival explores Dawson County's history during the prohibition era when liquor was illegal and running moonshine through the foothills of the Northeast Georgia Mountains was a way of life. NASCAR has its roots in the drivers and souped-up cars who would deliver the shine.

An event I don’t want to miss is the Wisconsin State and Cow Chip Throw Festival held in Prairie du Sac, Wisconsin. My interest has nothing to do with the tired witticism that lawyers are good at slinging the bull. I once took an overnight trip to Wisconsin to take a deposition in Milwaukee, and I couldn’t help noticing the number of breweries and beer houses in town. I’ve heard that Wisconsin has some good local beers. The western prairie begins there, and there is interesting early American history associated with Wisconsin, not to mention that a cow chip tossing festival sounds like fun. Incidentally, the current record for throwing a cow chip is 248 feet. I can't throw a baseball that far.

Another must see is the West Virgina Road Kill Cook-off and Autumn Harvest Festival held in Pocahontas County, West Virginia. From what I understand, contestants compete for making the tastiest dish from wildlife (though not necessarily road-killed wildlife). It would be my chance to taste squirrel, bear, and other varmints and critters prepared by cooks who know what they are doing. Besides, I wouldn’t want to miss that chance to see the crowning of the roadkill queen. As an aside, I once had a drink with a young lady who had been crowned Miss Large Mouth Bass of Palatka. Enough said.

While we are on the subject of unusual food, I want to visit the several testicle festivals throughout the United States. Believe it or not, there are testicle festivals in Montana, California, Minnesota, Missouri, Texas, and probably a few other places. I didn't know that mountain oysters were so popular, but it makes sense. Think of how much beef we eat in this country and how large a bull's balls are. That's a lot of protein going to waste. Based on the pictures it looks like a testicle festival can get pretty rowdy. I definitely need to attend one or two or many.

While we are on the subject of cojones, there is a turkey testicle festival in Huntley, Illinois. According the festival website, a thousand pounds of turkey balls are consumed during the event. To be honest, I did not know that turkeys had testicles. I wonder if they are like bar nuts? I guess the only way I'll find out is by attending the festival. 

One of these days it’s off to Spivey Corner, North Carolina, to attend the Hollerin’ Heritage Festival and see the National Hollerin' Contest. Hollering is a forgotten art used by early mountain farmers to call their livestock. The event is put on by the Spivey’s Corner Volunteer Fire Department. You can’t get any more local than that. In looking at the photographs of last year’s winners on the festival’s website, I noticed there were photos of the winners of the Corn Hole Tournament. I sure as hell hope that has something to do with golf.

I’m not sure about Mike the Headless Chicken Days in Fruita, Colorado. The festival celebrates a chicken named Mike that lived for 18 months after having his head cut off. Sounds morbid to me. However, Fruita looks like a Colorado cowboy town, so it might be worth the trip.

I certainly do not want to not miss the annual North Georgia Flintknappers and Primitive Arts Festival in Cartersville, Georgia. Flintknapping is the art of making paleolithic stone tools. The festival has demonstrations of arrowhead and spear point making, bow and arrow crafting, fire building, hide tanning, basketry, cord making, and trap and snare making. I’m not joking when I say that I am interested in all that stuff. Not only would this be a learning experience, but I imagine you encounter some interesting characters at a flintknapping festival. Do you think the Geico caveman is the poster boy for flintknappers? I would like to learn flintknapping, but I’m afraid it would be like shop class in high school where everything I tried to make turned into an ashtray. If I ever got good at flintknapping, I’d try to knap something more modern like a stone cell phone case.

Those are just some of the festivals, events, and places that are on my bucket list. There are many more. Only in America.

A Week of Hard Work

The big move is getting close. Meredith, Mike and I drove a big truck full of boxes and furniture to the cabin last week. Jake drove up from Tallahassee a couple of days before we arrived. It was good to have the entire family together.

It was week of hard work unpacking and trying to get organized.

I don’t know where we are going to put everything. I fear we were too optimistic or, perhaps, materialistic in deciding what to bring and what to discard when we packed for the move. We probably will have to dump more stuff after we move in. Those choices will be more difficult because we have already culled the easy stuff. Maybe the singing turtle will have to go after all.

For the time being boxes and possessions that don’t fit into the house are going into the garage. The garage is a 24 by 48 foot building. We call it the garage but over half of it was intended to be open space for my eventual workshop.

At this point there is anything but open space in the garage. Aside from all the overflow boxes from the cabin, the garage holds a dune buggy, the engine for a 1968 Dodge Charger, a transmission for Jake’s old truck, my large stack of bass amplifiers, acetylene tanks and a MIG welder, a large sandblasting cabinet that Jake built, cut lumber that we are drying, a sickle bar mower, a lawn mower, a giant mounted Mule Deer head, a table saw, Mike’s extensive beer bottle collection, my weights and dumbbells, and an endless array of tool boxes, hand and power tools, and garden tools.

Jake and I struggled mightily to bring some order to the chaos. We built shelves to store the tool boxes, chain saws, and other assorted hardware.

The number of hand tools that we have accumulated over the years is ridiculous. I discovered I own eight claw hammers. I think I counted a bazillion screw drivers, box wrenches, crescent wrenches, and socket wrenches. How in the world did I end up with seven axes and three machetes?

Jake mounted 18 feet of peg board across the north end of the garage, and I started to mount hand tools on the board. If you have never mounted assorted hand tools on a peg board, I will tell you that it is not a job for anyone who is even slightly anal retentive. Metal mounting pegs are used to affix tools to a peg board. The pegs come in assorted shapes and sizes. Some pegs are a straight piece of metal that projects from the peg board. I discovered that the straight pegs come in several different lengths. Other pegs are hooks. They too come in various sizes. Complicating the matter further, not all hooks are rounded; some are flat-bottomed, and some are v-shaped. Deciding what shape and size of peg to use for each tool and where to place the tools on the board is a painfully deliberative process if your mother over-emphasized toilet training as a child. I still can’t decide whether pliers should go with crescent wrenches or screwdrivers. Hammers and mallets clearly belong in the same genus, but I’m not sure whether saws are related to tin snips.

Then there are the combination pegs. These are designed to hold several similar items, like screw drivers. Naturally, you want to place screw drivers from the same set together. The problem arises when you discover the number of screw drivers in a set is more or less than the number of holders in the peg. Even worse is when one of the screw drivers in a set is missing. Let me put it this way: I would not assign the task of mounting tools on a peg board to someone with a full blown case of OCD. I can tell that once I move to the cabin, I will spend many an hour arranging and rearranging that peg board.

After supper, in the cool of the evening, we relaxed on the front porch drinking, talking, gazing at the mountains, and watching for the fireflies. Meredith kept her eyes out for deer crossing our field. She gets more excited when she sees one than Darwin did when he discovered saltwater iguanas in the Galapagos. I did not have the heart to tell her that deer are so common in the area that they are reckoned as garden pests.

Slowly but surely we are making progress in getting moved. One more truck load, and our house in Clearwater will be empty. If everything goes well, we will take up permanent residence in Fannin County is three weeks. How scary is that?

The Changing Face of Blue Ridge

The City of Blue Ridge has changed since I first started going to north Georgia in 1989. Blue Ridge back then was a tired country town with a feed store, an old time hardware store, and a few Mom and Pop businesses. Now it boasts antique shops, art galleries, upscale restaurants, coffee shops, and several boutiques. A lot of people from Florida and elsewhere have retired into the area or are buying second homes there with the intention of retiring there eventually. This has caused resentment among some of the locals as evidenced by comments on chat boards.

I can remember being the only adult male wearing shorts in the grocery store. All the other men were wearing long pants. Those old boys would look at me and wonder whether I was on the happy side. Now you not only see men in shorts, but I’ve even spotted a few wearing sandals. 

 

You still see a lot of pickup trucks and old cars in the parking lots, but there are also a good number of hybrids and luxury cars. A lot of them have Florida license plates. 

 

I even saw a Chevy Volt recently in a supermarket parking lot in Blue Ridge. That surprised me. I didn’t think that an electric car was practical on the hilly roads of Fannin County. For one thing, there is no room for an Easy Rider gun rack. It was probably owned by some poor schmuck who got lost coming out of Atlanta. He was probably resting it up so it could make it up the next hill.

 

Fannin County used to be a dry county. I remember ordering pizza and a beer at the Pizza Hut and being told that they don’t serve beer. What’s the point in ordering pizza if you can’t have a beer to wash it down? Now Blue Ridge has its own craft beer brewery, and very recently passed a law allowing restaurants to serve hard liquor cocktails. But you still cannot buy hard stuff by the bottle. Alcohol is a controversial subject in a county where small Baptist churches out number stoplights, as witnessed by this 2010 discussion thread on the internet:

Blue Boring: we need bigger businesses in blueridge and the only way were gonna get them is with liqour stores and liquor by the drink

Jason: Go back To Floriduh or Asslanta theres already liquor stores there.

Blue Boring: ok dumba*s where is one at then

Yes: ellijay, where everything else is.

Blue Boring: well that's not blueridge like my original post said

Git R Done: It takes away from shine runners!!! Moon shine is better anyway.

It’s comforting to know that some traditions, like moonshine, still hold sway.

 

I’m not sure how I feel about the changing face of Fannin County. Blue Ridge feels less country now and more, well, yuppie. Some of the places convey the impression they are trying to imitate country rather than actually being country. It’s the difference between a Cracker Barrel restaurant and a real country restaurant, the difference between a good fake and the genuine article.

 

I guess the growth and change is better for Meredith and me. We will have more convenient access to things and be less isolated. On the other hand, I like the idea of moving to a place that is genuinely country, a place with a real feed store and a real old fashioned hardware store. I suppose I have this romantic desire to live in a place like Mayberry or Smallville, but then it dawns on me that Mayberry and Smallville are not real, but rather the figments of writers’ imaginations. Regardless, I hope Blue Ridge and Fannin County don’t change too much.