Local News, Barbed Wire, and Deer Poop

Nothing captures the flavor of small town America better than a small town newspaper. The local paper, the News Observer, is no exception. Published in Blue Ridge twice weekly, the paper covers Fannin County here in Georgia and Polk County just across the Toccoa River in Tennessee. It continues to provide fodder for this blog.

Copperhill, Tennessee, is located on the other side of the Toccoa River from McCaysville, Georgia. Talk about a small town. The headline of a recent News Observer story was “Radar added in Copperhill.” The subheadline read “Council votes to equip both city police cars.” I guess that’s one car for Andy and one for Barney.

Since I came up with the theory that the squirrels around here are zombies because of their odd behavior, I’ve kept my eye on the pesky animals. The following News Observer headline caught my eye: “Squirrel kills power to 6,000.” According to the story, a squirrel took out the power to 6,000 customers in Fannin and Polk Counties for 45 minutes. That sounds like something that a mindless zombie squirrel would do. I mean how many squirrels try to bury their nuts in a power line? Unfortunately there was not enough left of the squirrel to do an autopsy to confirm my zombie theory. The image of a crisply charred squirrel reminds me of the line in the movie O Brother, Where Art Thou?: “Gopher, Everett?”

It doesn’t take much to be a newsworthy item in the News Observer. In an article titled, “Suspicious fires investigated in Fannin County,” I learned that ten firefighters, two engines, a tanker, an ambulance, and an Air and Light unit responded to a house fire only to discover that the home’s occupants “had already extinguished the fire with a garden hose and pots of water.” That was some two alarm fire, wasn’t it? It sounds to me like the local fire brigade was sitting around scratching their asses for something to do that evening. I have no idea what an air and light unit is. Is there an Earth, Wind and Fire unit?

Turning to another matter, I’ve discovered that the only thing worse than putting up barbed wire is taking it down.

Years ago, we let our neighbor run his cows on our field. The cows would come up to the front steps in the evening. It was a symbiotic relationship: we would watch them, and they would watch us. There were many evenings when I sat eye to eye with a cow contemplating what a cow’s life is like. This works best after several beers. I know that doesn’t sound very entertaining, but watching a cow chew its cud is very calming. I came to understand that a cow is just a big cellulose digesting factory. It’s a brilliant scheme. It has four legs to get to the grass, a mouth to take in the grass, multiple stomachs to digest the grass, and a very active waste elimination system.

My enjoyment with these close cow encounters ended early one morning when I came down the steps, stepped in a fresh cow plop, and slid half way to Mineral Bluff. There is nothing more slippery than fresh cow shit. It has a coefficient of friction approaching zero. NASA scientists cannot improve on it.

That was the end of bovine appreciation nights at the Yacavone homestead. I promptly built a barbed wire fence around the cabin to keep the cows out. Eventually a new neighbor moved in, and he fenced his pasture so that the cows cannot get on our property. This eliminated the need for our barbed wire enclosure so I decided to take it down the other day.

If you don’t know, barbed wire comes in tight coils, and you have to stretch it out when you put it up. It has a remarkable ability to remember it was once coiled and a strong desire to resume its coiled shape. That means when you cut a stretched strand, it whips through the air at slightly less than the speed of sound. That’s a problem when, because of age and a dissolute lifestyle, you have the reaction time of a banana slug. I spent most of the morning trying to remember when I last had a tetanus shot.

Based on this experience, I’ve determined that there are three types of barbed wire. There’s the “I’m going to scratch you and give you lockjaw” type. There’s the “I’m going to scar your face so you can scare the crap out of kids on Halloween” type. The worse is the “Have you been circumcised?” type. The lesson here is that if anyone asks you to help take down barbed wire, find an excuse to do something else. It’s probably safer to defuse bombs.

Finally, I was laying on the couch watching TV the other night, and Meredith started to read to me from a book she checked out at the local library. The section she read informed me that deer poop is shiny when fresh and that male deer tend to stand still when they crap while female deer tend to crap on the move; thus, small piles of deer poop indicates a buck and scattered deer poop indicates a doe.

The first thought that ran through my mind was who does she think she marries, Hiawatha? Do I really need to know whether I am looking at a male or female deer turd and whether it is fresh or not? It’s not like I’m Daniel Boone. I really doubt that the answer to any question on Jeopardy will be, “What is shiny scattered deer shit?” I can just imagine it: “I’ll take Deer Poop for $200, Alex.” The next thing you know, we’ll be talking about weasel piss.

Squirrels, Wooly Caterpillars, and Falling Branches

One purpose of this blog is to document my observations and discoveries about rural life. I don’t know whether you should call the following an observation, a discovery, or some other word that I can’t think of that means, “No shit, Sherlock.”

I’ve discovered that things-big things-fall out of trees all the time. I’m not talking about leaves, acorns, and the occasional squirrel. I’m talking about tree limbs big enough to injure you. It has happened several times in the three weeks that I have been living here. A couple of times it has happened with no warning on a calm day with barely a breeze in the air.

I could not find any statistics on the number of injuries caused by falling tree limbs, but a Google search revealed scores of reports of people being injured when a branch fell on them. I’m surprised I haven’t seen an ad from Morgan and Morgan about this: “Injured by a falling branch? Call Morgan and Morgan.”

I think the public should be warned about this little known and under appreciated threat to our health and safety. I’ve seen public service announcements about the danger of lightning, but I’ve never seen anything about that danger of being conked on the head by a falling branch while in the woods. Instead of Smokey the Bear, we could have Gravity the Squirrel warning us that only you can prevent traumatic brain injuries from falling tree limbs. I envision posters with the slogan, “Look up and look out.”

My major concern about shining a light on this issue is that the government will get involved. The next thing you know, the EPA will generate reams of regulations requiring us to wear hard hats when we go in the woods and to place warning labels on trees: “Caution: Hiking and Camping Can Be Hazardous to Your Health.” On second thought, forget I even brought the subject up.

 

Squirrels. There is something strange about the squirrels here. They don’t act like Florida squirrels. When you drive up on a Florida squirrel in the middle of the road, it acts like it’s overdosed on amphetamines; it has a nervous breakdown and can’t make decision on which way to flee. The squirrels here act like they’re stoned. They just sit there and look at you and then casually meander to the side to let you pass. 

 

One explanation is that country squirrels are unfamiliar with automobiles and haven’t learned that cars can make squirrel toothpaste out of them. But that doesn’t make sense. It seems to me that the first reaction of any wild animal, especially small ones, would be to flee a large unfamiliar object bearing down on them. Maybe the squirrels here are stoned and have an acorn buzz (“Try this, dude. This is some powerful nut”). But there are acorns in Florida, and the squirrels there do not act like Cheech and Chong. 

 

No, there has to be another explanation. My theory is that they are zombie squirrels in the classic Haitian voodoo meaning of the word. You laugh, but people laughed at Arthur Holmes when he first proposed the theory of plate tectonics. Because I have only seen this unusual squirrel behavior during the day (Do you think I’m going out at night if I suspect there are zombie squirrels?) and couldn’t remember whether zombies or vampires or both only come out at night, I did some research. According to the Federal Vampire and Zombie Agency:

Since zombies can go out in the daylight, their choice of hideouts is somewhat more varied than that of a vampire. A zombie can simply rest against a tree in the woods, while a vampire must find a cave or construct a crude hovel before the sun rises. Because they lack the vampire's supreme adaptability, zombies rarely proliferate in urban areas. Zombies do much better in the country, where they can disappear into the landscape.

 

I think this supports my zombie squirrel theory. If I ever see a sleeping squirrel leaning against a tree, I will have the proof I need. 

 

Spiders. I am not afraid of spiders. In fact, I pay so little attention to them that Meredith is worried that I will get bitten by a black widow or a brown recluse, both of which are supposed to be common here. But I have noticed that this place not only has a lot of daddy long legs, but they are the biggest ones I’ve ever seen. Their legs are incredibly long. They look like those machines in War of the Worlds. I’m waiting for one to shoot a miniature death ray at an ant. 

 

I’ve also noticed that quite a few daddy long legs have less than eight legs. I saw one yesterday that had three legs; it was just limping along like everything was normal. This got me wondering whether it is unusual for daddy long legs to have less than the standard allotment of legs. What happened to the missing legs? Do they just fall off? Do daddy long legs lose them in fights or forget to attach them in the morning? Are daddy long legs with less than eight legs ostracized by ones with the right number of legs? Does a seven legged daddy long legs outrank a five legged one? Does the spider world have a Spiders with Disabilities Act? 

 

There were a lot of daddy long legs on the workshop walls when I spray painted it this spring. They are now permanently frozen in position. The entire back wall of the workshop is a three dimensional tableau of daddy long legs action figures. They’re like those little plastic army men, only they’re spiders. It’s actually a little horrifying, like a Matthew Brady photograph of dead soldiers on a Civil War battlefield. I hope the daddy long legs nation is not seeking retribution. They may be small, but there are millions of them. 

 

Wooly Caterpillars. If you’ve never seen a Wooly Caterpillar, they look like Groucho Marx’s eyebrows crawling across the ground. I’ve seen several of them recently. At least I think they were wooly caterpillars; they were fuzzy, and they were caterpillars. I’m told that not all fuzzy caterpillars are Wooly Caterpillars. At any rate, the locals tell me that Wooly Caterpillars are abundant this year and that this is a sign it will be a cold winter. I don’t know if I’m buying that. I think the Wooly Caterpillars are moving out because the neighborhood is being taken over by defective daddy long legs and zombie squirrels.

Getting a Feel For the Place

It will take me a while to get a true feel for this place. All I have at this point are random observations.

People sure are friendly here. They wave at you as you drive by. They smile and say hello. They chat with you when you meet them. They freely offer a helping hand. They hope you have a good day when you leave. I feel like I’m in a 1950’s TV sitcom. I keep waiting for Aunt Bea and Opie to show up. I have yet to meet an asshole. I guess that means I have a real opportunity to stand out in this community.

The friendliness seems genuine, though I am suspicious. I figure everyone has a bad day now and then and gets a case of the ass. Maybe people here are conditioned not to take it out on others like people do elsewhere. What would get you a “fuck off” in Florida gets a polite “no thank you” here.

You’d think it would be great to live in a place where everyone is good natured and neighborly, but it has its drawbacks. I’m no good at making small talk, and that’s what you have to do in a friendly place. I don’t care whether Uncle Charlie bought the same foot powder. You want to talk about the amount of rain recently, and I want to talk about the development of Neolithic culture after the last great ice age.

The smiling offer of assistance from every Home Depot employee gets old after a while. I know where the hardware is, and I want to get on with my business. Instead I have to pause and say something polite. What is even more irritating is that I find myself adopting this counterfeit southern accent and sounding like Andy of Mayberry. The other day I almost tipped my hat to the lady in the paint section.

All this affability is wearing on me. I’m not used to people treating me like I’m a guest at Disney World, and I feel obliged to respond in kind. I’ve spent my entire adult life developing this glowering scowl that says, “Fuck you. Go away.” Now I have to feign a smile, and it’s not pretty. I’ve seen pictures of myself when the photographer has asked me to smile for the camera. My fake smile is best described as a rictus grin. I look like Fess Parker as Davy Crockett trying to grin down a bear. I’ve seen more convincing smiles on ball players who have been hit in the nuts and are pretending it doesn’t hurt. My fake smile may be more horrifying than my scowl.

Still, I suppose there are worst things than living in a friendly place.

Maybe this general conviviality accounts for another phenomenon here in north Georgia: Georgia time. Everybody warns you about it, and it’s true. Life is much slower paced here than in Florida. No one is in a rush to get things done. When the refrigerator repairman says he’ll be out to fix your fridge next Wednesday, the odds are 9-5 that he’ll be there on Thursday or Friday. I’m told there is no cure for this, so I’m just going to have to get used to it.

On another note, Meredith and I stopped off at the small Mineral Bluff Post Office. It’s like something out of the movie “Abe Lincoln in Illinois.” I was expecting a Ben Franklin stove and a cracker barrel. Then I met the Postmaster. She’s in her late thirties, chatty, and friendly as hell. She was wearing tight jeans with holes in them and stitched patterns on the rear pockets, a low cut blouse, and sporting a couple of large mail bags, if you know what I mean. I thought post office employees had to wear uniforms. I wonder if she wears Daisy Dukes in the summer. Through sleet, wind, hail, and snow, to the post office I shall go…often.

The police report in last week’s edition of the News Observer shows there were four recent arrests for the sale of methamphetamine. I’ve heard that there are a number of meth labs tucked away in these mountains. Some make the analogy that meth is the modern day moonshine, but I reject that. Moonshine has an honorable tradition dating back to the highland people of Scotland and Ireland. In the early days of this country it was the only way that the back country pioneers could convert their corn into a transportable cash crop. When George Washington was president he led an army against those pioneers (who were protesting a tax on distilled spirits) in the Whiskey Rebellion. I doubt there will be a Meth Rebellion.

Last weekend Meredith and I met this attractive young couple while eating dinner at the Blue Ridge Brewery. The young woman had grown up in Blue Ridge, then moved away and worked for several years in Savannah. She recently returned to Blue Ridge to live and work. She was well dressed and well spoken without the north Georgia twang that you encounter so frequently here. There was nothing about her to suggest she had grown up in a small rural town. I think it’s a good sign that at least one young person is returning to Fannin County after experiencing life in the big city. Of course, for all I know, she could be the methamphetamine queen of Appalachia, the Pablo Escobar of mountain meth.

This weekend we tried another place called The Boro Inn and advertised as an Irish pub. What attracted me to the place is that it’s located on the west side of the railroad tracks that split Blue Ridge and had a sign outside that said, “Westies Rule.” I thought it might be a place where true locals go, and it appears to be. The place is not fancy, just a large room with a bar, tables and chairs, and a pool table. The walls and ceilings are decorated with a variety of odd items. The food sucks, but the beer is good. Turns out that the proprietor is a middle-aged former Catholic priest with a slight Irish lilt to his voice by the name of Brendan Doyle. Half the patrons call him Father. He is a very friendly guy, and he sat and chatted with us for a while. What a surprise−a friendly, chatty person in Fannin County. At any rate, I thought it was interesting to encounter a former priest running a bar. It’s just another unexpected discovery in my new home.

Time To Start

I am living proof that sometimes serendipity is better than brilliance. A couple of days ago two friends visited us, and we took them on a tour of Fannin County. Taking a tour of Fannin County is not like sightseeing in New York or Paris (though sometimes the locals in Fannin County can be just as unintelligible as in New York or Paris). As far as I can tell, there are four places to go in Fannin County: McCaysville, Blue Ridge, Lake Blue Ridge, and Mercier’s Orchards. All of them are worth a visit, but the real surprise was downtown Blue Ridge.

In the twenty plus years that I have been coming to Fannin County on vacations, my visits to Blue Ridge consisted of going to Home Depot and the supermarket, both of which are located away from the downtown. This time I went to downtown Blue Ridge, and I discovered that it is crowded with interesting places to shop, eat, and drink. It is not very large, but it has an old timey look and feel that reminds me of a Colorado ski town. Many of the places have porches and outdoor patios where you sit and eat or drink, and there are benches and rocking chairs in front of many of the businesses where you can take a load off.  

My friends were impressed that I choose to retire to a rural area that has an attraction like downtown Blue Ridge. I had to confess to them that I no idea what downtown Blue Ridge was like when I moved here. I came to Fannin County because it’s rural. The fact that downtown Blue Ridge is a pretty neat place is pure serendipity. What is it they say about blind hogs and acorns?

On another note, I have been exploring the back roads in my travels to and from Home Depot for supplies. On a couple of recent mornings, as I was driving on a winding country lane with the windows open and the local country station on the radio, I found myself grinning from ear to ear and humming John Denver songs. I’d like to take some photos and post them on this blog, but the roads are narrow and have no shoulders, so it’s difficult to find a place to pull over. If you don’t get completely off the road, you risk being taken out by an F250 pickup coming around the corner.

Meredith and I are beginning to bring some order to the house and workshop, and it’s time for me to start doing the things I came here to do. Many have asked me what I am going to do in Georgia. Finding things to do is not going to be a problem. 

 

Among the first priorities is figuring out where my garden will be and getting it in shape for planting in spring. I have two choices for the location of the garden. One is near the house, and the other is in the lower field. The lower field has the better soil, but that would mean a 200 yard walk down a hill and back up a hill every time I wanted to work in the garden. I’m not going to be running down for a couple of tomatoes if I put it there. I would prefer having the garden next to the house, but the soil is harder and drier and has more clay. 

 

Once I decide on a location for the garden, I need to fence it. I’m thinking the garden plot should be at least a 1,000 square feet. If I put a fence post every eight feet, that’s well over 60 fence posts to set. In addition to having a lot of clay, the soil is rocky. That’s great for stone wall building, but not so good for digging. The fence must be tall enough to keep the deer out and secure enough to keep out smaller critters. I know we have wild hogs, squirrels, raccoons, possums, weasels, and chipmunks around here, and maybe even a Bigfoot or two. It will be like Alcatraz when I’m finished. The bottom line is that the garden fence will be quite an undertaking. 

 

I need to lay out my garden beds and prepare the soil this fall and winter. Preparing the soil means breaking it up and tilling in organic matter, so I’m going to have to buy a plow for my tractor and a sturdy rototiller. There is no way in hell I’m going to dig up the garden by hand.

 

I’m need to get a lot of organic matter to till into the soil. Some of this will be grass I cut from the fields. After I cut it, I have to gather it and place it on the garden beds. That’s a lot of raking and hauling. I’ll probably try to grow a cover crop to turn under in the spring. Finally, I need to find a place to get large quantities of manure to till into the soil. There are some horse farms in the area, and there has to be someone who raises a lot of cows. I find this ironic. I spent my entire career trying to fend off the bullshit; now I’m eagerly seeking it.

 

Other things on my to do list:

1.  Get a pole barn built.

2.  Expand the side porch. There is a side door that enters the kitchen. You have to walk up stairs to a landing to get to it. I want to expand the landing into a porch large enough for Meredith to place a gas grill and a chair or two. This will be a large project for me. With my vast carpentry experience, I figure it will take me about as long as it took to build the pyramids.

3.  Write that novel I’ve always wanted to write. That means I’m going to have to be disciplined and set aside several hours a day to write.

4.  Get involved in the community. This will take some consideration. I could join a civic club, like the Jaycees, Rotary, or Elks, but I’m not much for organizations. I may try to join the county library support group since I intend on visiting the library often. I am going to sign up for the Georgia Master Gardner course that starts in a couple of months. It would be a good way to meet people and learn something useful at the same time. My fear is that the people who join gardening courses are either blue-haired old ladies or sensitive, save the planet, tree hugger types. While there is nothing wrong with either group, they’re not the type of people I tend to hang out with. I have a greater affinity to a ruder and cruder class of mankind. Rather than discuss the benefits of juicing or high colonics over herbal tea, I prefer sucking down a few beers and making fun of fat tourists. But, hey, now that I’m retired I may need to get civilized.

 

There are other tasks and chores to attend to, but this list should give you the idea that I will not lack for things to do here in my new rural home.

Here at Last

Here at last. Here at Last. Thank God I’m here at last. Meredith and I are finally here and in the process of unpacking.

The last three weeks have been something of a whirlwind. I spent the last two weeks of August saying goodbye to friends and clients. I had my last city meeting, last dictation, and last business phone call. When I went to bed late Friday, August 30, (slightly inebriated, I might add) my retirement officially started. The next day Meredith and I picked up a rental truck to take the last load of possessions to Georgia. By Sunday afternoon, the house was completely empty−no beds, no chairs, no television, nothing. We cleaned the house on Monday, and on Tuesday we headed up I-75 to start our new life in rural Georgia. Wish us the best on our great adventure.

Walking through the empty house on the last day brought back many memories. So much happened there.

I married Meredith and bought the house within four days of each other in 1979. I knew nothing about home ownership and financial planning. I’m still a little vague on financial planning, but that’s another story. I read an article that said that home ownership was a good investment. It urged a young couple to buy the most house they can afford. So we did. Actually, we bought a house we could barely afford.

Looking out the front window, I was reminded of those early days. We had to watch our pennies to make the mortgage payments in the first couple of years. There were many evenings when our entertainment was sitting on the front porch with a six pack of beer watching the thunderstorms roll in off Tampa Bay. Now our entertainment is sitting on the front porch after dinner watching deer. Is it the circle of life or what? Our first furnishings were an old bed, two used dressers, the couch from my apartment, a folding table, and a couple of wooden chairs.

The empty living room brought back memories of the time before children. I immersed myself in the practice of law. I may not have many good qualities, but I know how to work hard, and I did. But it was not all work. We developed a group of crazy friends. Being young and childless, we partied like hell. I will never forget the toga party we had at the house. The house was jammed with people in various states of dress and undress. Meredith’s father came over the afternoon we were decorating and didn’t say a word about the large wooden dildo hanging from the ceiling fan. That was good because I was still new to this marriage thing and not sure of the right thing to say to a father-in-law about a large wooden dildo. Miss Manners didn’t cover that in her book. I made a large tub of grape juice and grain alcohol. It was potent, to say the least. Fortunately, there are no known photographs of the conga line of drunken revelers snaking through the house.

Life went on this way until 13 years into our marriage, Meredith said, “It’s about time to have children.” I had not given it any thought, so I was like, “Sure. Sounds like something to do.” Talk about being clueless. One year later, Jake came along. Walking into in the room where we had his crib made me think of the first time I changed his diaper. No one told me that when a little boy’s peter stands straight up, a gusher is soon to follow. I’m standing there feeling fatherly pride over his little woody and suddenly there was this fountain of pee jetting all over the place. I felt like I was in a bad World War II submarine movie. Then there was the baby shit. Meredith had this ability to take a couple of baby wipes and make the kid’s ass antiseptic. When I was done changing a diaper there was poop all over the place. It was on me, the walls, the ceiling fan, the cat. Hell, I think I may have gotten some on the neighbor’s house. It looked like a 500 pound shit bomb had exploded.

A couple of years later Mike was born. Standing in the TV room, I can remember both kids laying on me on the couch as we watched Barney and endless repetitions of their favorite videos. I must have watched 101 Dalmatians 101 times. It’s a wonder that I didn’t suffer permanent brain damage. I was actually starting to get the hots for Cruella De Ville. She was like a cartoon MILF. As for Barney, I had fantasies of taking that son of a bitch out with a high-powered rifle. As the kids grew older, the TV room was the place for train sets, Leggos, and testing balsa wood gliders.

These and many other memories flooded over me as I wandered through the empty house. So much happened there. But now the kids are off to college, and if Meredith and I have done our jobs right, they will go on to have lives and families of their own. My professional life has ended, and whatever my accomplishments, they are memories now. Staying in the old house would only be a reminder of what has been. There’s nothing sadder than someone who wallows in the past. You can’t go back. The way I see it, this move to Georgia is a good thing. The good memories will always be there, but there are new memories to make. As Joe Dirt said, “You got to keep on keepin’ on.”

* * * * *

 

The Tick

I found a tick, I found a tick.

You’ll never guess where.
It starts with “D” and ends with “ick.”
And that’s all I got to say about that.

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.

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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.

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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.

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Haiku to a Wasp

                                                            Disturbed, the wasp flies

                                                            and bites me on my ankle.
                                                            You motherfucker.

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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.