Thursday, January 5, 2012
Morgan County Commissioner, District 3
I am supporting and endorsing Robert Dotson for Morgan County Commissioner, District 3. He is a client and a friend of mine that has shown me he has integrity and honesty for the job. He always has been, is now, and will be a Republican. Please go to www.Dostson2012.com and take a moment to read his credentials and consider voting for him in the Alabama Republican Primary in Morgan County on March 13th.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
My Hometown – Jerry Springer
An installment story about my hometown in North Alabama.
Hartselle, Alabama is like most other places of 12,000 or fewer souls in the South. Most everyone is moderate to middle class, as the area prospered only when the Tennessee Valley Authority came in the 1930’s to change our area from an agrarian economy to a service economy. With the advent of the aerospace and defense industries in a nearby county, our hometown evolved into a bedroom community.
Folks live here, but work and spend their day elsewhere. Because of this suburban evolution, we have lost the days of porch sitting and story telling, now that we commute and no longer really know our next door neighbor. That doesn’t mean that funny things don’t happen here, but that fewer connections are available to tell them. This is a story from my hometown:
My Hometown – Jerry Springer
My family has a long history of pranks that we like to pull on each other, some are slight and some are epic. Probably the greatest and most epic was the time my late brother convinced us al that TV chef and writer Anthony Bourdain came to Hartselle. He had a solid back story and a minor corroboration from my nephews who later broke down under intense interrogation from their uncle and admitted that is was a grand hoax. My grandest prank was the day I bought the black Jerry Springer Show golf shirt.
In the early days of the internet in the 1990’s, I was enthralled by the possibilities of the inter-connectivity of all the computers in the world and was monitoring this technological marvel from its beginnings in the old BBS packet system, the first reliable email delivery system, prior to the world wide web. Later, websites became available and telephone modems got faster than 300 baud. Internet commerce was still in its infancy and only the hard core nerds even knew about it. One could order goods from all over the world while commerce in Hartselle was limited to shopping at Maison-Morgan or in catalogs.
At this time, I was a big fan of the Jerry Springer Show. I had enjoyed off mainstream television for years, beginning with the Morton Downey Show that came on late night on a new network called Fox. Jerry’s guest were over-the-top, and too strange to be believed, but with just enough credence to be real. Little people, transvestites, and other abnormalities in the human existence were all paraded in front of the nation every week. It was like watching a train wreck, you knew it was going to be horrible, but for some reason, you just couldn’t look away. The Jerry Springer Show is a shell of its former self and I have not seen it in years, but it is still on and running most U.S. TV markets with impressive ratings in its time slots.
The gist of the program, every week, is a guest with some salacious twist in their lives comes onto the show and confess it in front of a TV audience. Jerry Springer is the host and keeps the interactions between the guests lively with his quips and humor. Jerry was a former Mayor of Cincinnati, Ohio and a former TV anchor in that market. Jerry’s notoriety came from an incident while in office as Mayor. He went across the river into Kentucky and solicited a prostitute, then paid her with a personal check for her services, which is how he got caught. He actually won the election for Mayor for another term after that incident, so the voters must have liked him.
The Show had on of the first websites on the internet, and you could order hats, t-shirts, and black golf shirts with the show’s logo on the front and in big white letters across the back “SECURITY”, just like the large security guards wore on the show. I had to have one and ordered it. A few days later, my shirt arrived and I promptly wore it. People who knew me around Hartselle knew I was always a little off, so they asked me how I got it and commented that I shouldn’t watch such trash. The shirt was cool and upset all the right people, so I wore it often.
The fun began when we went to I-65 and Highway 67 in Priceville to a new truck stop with a pretty nice restaurant in it. In this arena, few knew me, so every time I went there with the shirt on, I’d get solicited by a line of people wanting to know if I was “with the Show” as everyone must have watched it, too. Of course, I’d say yeah, and then get the greatest stories of the seedy under side of Morgan County that I could ever imagine. Not knowing of any Springer –Show-Security-Team – Guest confidentiality, I played along and told them to call the 1-800 number and talk to a producer to get their story on the Show. I learned about the gory details of unholy unions, addictions and relationships whose descriptions should never be discussed, but yet all laid out for me while I had the Security shirt on. I soon realized that I had stumbled onto pure comedy gold with my shirt purchase, so I made sure I wore it whenever I went out of town. My shirt opened a door to another wold that would have been closed to me and I could not wait to see what else would happen.
Lines would form around me wherever I went, because everyone thought that the only way to get the official-looking shirt was to actually be associated with the Show. I had my bona fide credentials on my back and commanded respect and attention with the crowds of people who would do anything, say anything, and reveal anything to get on TV. The situations got more unbelievable as the Show gained popularity and moved to a post-news time slot in the Tennessee Valley. Later, as on the Show, women (old and young) would now frequently flash their chest to me to get on TV and that’s precisely when my wife demanded the shirt and abruptly ended my Jerry Springer Show Security experience. She gave the shirt to one of the guys who worked for me and I understand that he used it to pick up girls in Huntsville with laser precision.
We had caught lightning in a bottle and became drunk with power. The shirt has lost its power as everyone knows that you can order anything from anywhere on the computer, but for a few short weeks in Morgan County, Alabama, I learned the lucrative power of the television, a Force that be used for good, or the dark side.
Hartselle, Alabama is like most other places of 12,000 or fewer souls in the South. Most everyone is moderate to middle class, as the area prospered only when the Tennessee Valley Authority came in the 1930’s to change our area from an agrarian economy to a service economy. With the advent of the aerospace and defense industries in a nearby county, our hometown evolved into a bedroom community.
Folks live here, but work and spend their day elsewhere. Because of this suburban evolution, we have lost the days of porch sitting and story telling, now that we commute and no longer really know our next door neighbor. That doesn’t mean that funny things don’t happen here, but that fewer connections are available to tell them. This is a story from my hometown:
My Hometown – Jerry Springer
My family has a long history of pranks that we like to pull on each other, some are slight and some are epic. Probably the greatest and most epic was the time my late brother convinced us al that TV chef and writer Anthony Bourdain came to Hartselle. He had a solid back story and a minor corroboration from my nephews who later broke down under intense interrogation from their uncle and admitted that is was a grand hoax. My grandest prank was the day I bought the black Jerry Springer Show golf shirt.
In the early days of the internet in the 1990’s, I was enthralled by the possibilities of the inter-connectivity of all the computers in the world and was monitoring this technological marvel from its beginnings in the old BBS packet system, the first reliable email delivery system, prior to the world wide web. Later, websites became available and telephone modems got faster than 300 baud. Internet commerce was still in its infancy and only the hard core nerds even knew about it. One could order goods from all over the world while commerce in Hartselle was limited to shopping at Maison-Morgan or in catalogs.
At this time, I was a big fan of the Jerry Springer Show. I had enjoyed off mainstream television for years, beginning with the Morton Downey Show that came on late night on a new network called Fox. Jerry’s guest were over-the-top, and too strange to be believed, but with just enough credence to be real. Little people, transvestites, and other abnormalities in the human existence were all paraded in front of the nation every week. It was like watching a train wreck, you knew it was going to be horrible, but for some reason, you just couldn’t look away. The Jerry Springer Show is a shell of its former self and I have not seen it in years, but it is still on and running most U.S. TV markets with impressive ratings in its time slots.
The gist of the program, every week, is a guest with some salacious twist in their lives comes onto the show and confess it in front of a TV audience. Jerry Springer is the host and keeps the interactions between the guests lively with his quips and humor. Jerry was a former Mayor of Cincinnati, Ohio and a former TV anchor in that market. Jerry’s notoriety came from an incident while in office as Mayor. He went across the river into Kentucky and solicited a prostitute, then paid her with a personal check for her services, which is how he got caught. He actually won the election for Mayor for another term after that incident, so the voters must have liked him.
The Show had on of the first websites on the internet, and you could order hats, t-shirts, and black golf shirts with the show’s logo on the front and in big white letters across the back “SECURITY”, just like the large security guards wore on the show. I had to have one and ordered it. A few days later, my shirt arrived and I promptly wore it. People who knew me around Hartselle knew I was always a little off, so they asked me how I got it and commented that I shouldn’t watch such trash. The shirt was cool and upset all the right people, so I wore it often.
The fun began when we went to I-65 and Highway 67 in Priceville to a new truck stop with a pretty nice restaurant in it. In this arena, few knew me, so every time I went there with the shirt on, I’d get solicited by a line of people wanting to know if I was “with the Show” as everyone must have watched it, too. Of course, I’d say yeah, and then get the greatest stories of the seedy under side of Morgan County that I could ever imagine. Not knowing of any Springer –Show-Security-Team – Guest confidentiality, I played along and told them to call the 1-800 number and talk to a producer to get their story on the Show. I learned about the gory details of unholy unions, addictions and relationships whose descriptions should never be discussed, but yet all laid out for me while I had the Security shirt on. I soon realized that I had stumbled onto pure comedy gold with my shirt purchase, so I made sure I wore it whenever I went out of town. My shirt opened a door to another wold that would have been closed to me and I could not wait to see what else would happen.
Lines would form around me wherever I went, because everyone thought that the only way to get the official-looking shirt was to actually be associated with the Show. I had my bona fide credentials on my back and commanded respect and attention with the crowds of people who would do anything, say anything, and reveal anything to get on TV. The situations got more unbelievable as the Show gained popularity and moved to a post-news time slot in the Tennessee Valley. Later, as on the Show, women (old and young) would now frequently flash their chest to me to get on TV and that’s precisely when my wife demanded the shirt and abruptly ended my Jerry Springer Show Security experience. She gave the shirt to one of the guys who worked for me and I understand that he used it to pick up girls in Huntsville with laser precision.
We had caught lightning in a bottle and became drunk with power. The shirt has lost its power as everyone knows that you can order anything from anywhere on the computer, but for a few short weeks in Morgan County, Alabama, I learned the lucrative power of the television, a Force that be used for good, or the dark side.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Bigfoot Sighting - By Lee Y. Greene, Jr.
An installment story about my hometown in North Alabama.
Hartselle, Alabama is like most other places of 12,000 or fewer souls in the South. Most everyone is moderate to middle class, as the area prospered only when the Tennessee Valley Authority came in the 1930’s to change our area from an agrarian economy to a service economy. With the advent of the aerospace and defense industries in a nearby county, our hometown evolved into a bedroom community.
Folks live here, but work and spend their day elsewhere. Because of this suburban evolution, we have lost the days of porch sitting and story telling, now that we commute and no longer really know our next door neighbor. That doesn’t mean that funny things don’t happen here, but that fewer connections are available to tell them. This is a story from my hometown:
During the cold winter months of December and January, deer hunting season is in full swing in Alabama. The season for hunting with rifles opens around the first weekend of Thanksgiving and ends promptly on January 31st every year. Hunters head to the deep woods of rural Alabama and don the most complicated green and brown camouflage they can to fool the whitetail deer into thinking that they are just a part of the harmless landscape.
During the summer months, hunters plant food plots, or small patches of cultivation for forage crops to grow. The whitetail deer eat the beans, rye grass, and other legumes often planted in these fields. The hunters usually occupy a deer stand or “shooting house” around the perimeter of a field so they can see the animals as they eat. These shooting houses are very basic and spartan structures, usually nothing more than a few sawmill slats nailed together in the form of a box with a roof and a floor, mounted between a few trees for support. A trap door in the bottom allows access and small rectangular slits are cut into all of the sides for viewing and shooting.
During early December, one of my hunting buddies went to Central Alabama to spend the weekend hunting. Luther had been down to the hunting lands earlier in the year preparing food plots and had not been to this particular green field since the early Fall. After lunch, he left the hunting camp, which was an old homeplace from a previous generation, and drove his ATV to the property. He went through the dilapidated entrance gate, that was only good for deterring honest poachers, and rode the mile-long trail to get to the food plot and shooting house. The sun was passing its zenith as the shadows of the longleaf southern Alabama pine trees cast parallel lines across the planted field. The entire area would be pitch black dark at 4:30, so he did not have a lot of time to get ready for the maximum hunting time at twilight.
As Luther climbed the makeshift ladder and entered the shooting house, he noticed some fur and debris in the bottom of the box. Obviously a raccoon had made a temporary home here during the summer, so he kicked the detritus out of the bottom of the box, and closed the trap door. He then got out his binoculars and studied the surrounding timberline for movement. Tree limbs and deadfall look suspiciously like deer antlers in the darkness of dusk, so he wanted to make sure he was familiar with the surroundings.
The usual sounds of the woods continued during the rest of the afternoon, as one’s hearing becomes acute during the silence of the absence of civilization. The sounds of the wind whistling through the longleaf pine needles on the trees and the oak laves dancing across the planted field become the only noises one hears, so a hunter can detect the sounds of animals walking or running more clearly.
Luther watched and listened intently as the afternoon waned and the temperature dropped. He was at least a mile from anyone else and had the large acreage to himself that afternoon. As the afternoon slowly crept into eventide, Luther heard the sound of something moving underneath his shooting house. He could not see it ,because the shooting portals were all on the sides, not the bottom. It was possible that a deer had walked up behind him and he had not heard it’s hoof prints in the plowed earth of the food plot. If he opened the trap door, the noise would startle his prey and would run off.
Eventually the sounds below him became creaks on the ladder that he used to get into the shooting box. Deer don’t make those sounds, so Luther thought someone was messing with him in the box. The noise on the ladder was scaring off any hope that a deer might find the food plot inviting, so he angrily packed his things and was ready to go down and curse whomever had just ruined his hunt. About that time, the trap door started moving, as if someone was opening it to get inside. Furious, Luther kicked his foot on the door and yelled “Get the hell out of here, you just screwed up my hunt!” Ready to confront the intruder, he thew open the trap door and to his shock no one was there.
It was now dark so Luther got his flashlight out to check the view down from the trap door and sure enough there wasn’t a soul under the box or on the ladder. Puzzled, and trying to come to grips with what he experienced, he suddenly saw a long hairy arm with a human-like hand came through the shooting house slit and grabbed his arm. Needless to say, Luther freaked out and without regard to the fear of this turn of events, he hit the creature’s arm with the flashlight and reached for his rifle. The box was not very large and the animal’s long hairy arm could reach inside almost anywhere. It was flailing about wildly and grabbed the barrel of Luther’s gun in the box, so he had to fight and pull it back to keep it in the shooting house.
During the melee, Luther got the rifle back, chambered a round of ammunition, and fired through the slit to scare off the animal. The ploy worked, and Luther heard the creature run off into the dark woods. He climbed down the ladder with great speed, hastily got on the ATV, and sped out of the woods like he was on fire.
Back at the hunting camp, Luther came in and looked white as a ghost. He told all of us about being attacked by Bigfoot and that he was lucky to be alive. The description he gave of the long hairy arm and human-like hand was clearly not a raccoon or any of the other animals that we knew in the woods. Luther was a very serious guy, and was not the kind of guy to make a tall tale up, so he definitely had our undivided attention. Luther was so shaken by his experience, he packed up and went back home that night, making his claim more believable. Everyone else was accounted for, so no one from our hunting camp was playing tricks, and no one was stupid enough to scare someone they knew for a fact was holding a high-powered rifle and 20 rounds of ammunition.
The next day, we were heading back to the food plot to see if there was anything we could find to give a clue to what on earth we were dealing with in the Central Alabama forest. As we drove to the property, we stopped for gas at the local rural filling station. The locals were all inside around a pot-bellied stove keeping warm. We bought our gas and as we were leaving the man behind the counter said “Hey guys, if you are hunting down here, keep a watch out for an escaped orangutan from the local veterinarian’s office.” He then pointed to an old poster on the wall of an picture of an adult orangutan and a phone number..
I called the number on the poster and let them know where the simian was recently, so they could track it.
Eventually, we told Luther about the orangutan, but let considerable time elapse before we did.
Hartselle, Alabama is like most other places of 12,000 or fewer souls in the South. Most everyone is moderate to middle class, as the area prospered only when the Tennessee Valley Authority came in the 1930’s to change our area from an agrarian economy to a service economy. With the advent of the aerospace and defense industries in a nearby county, our hometown evolved into a bedroom community.
Folks live here, but work and spend their day elsewhere. Because of this suburban evolution, we have lost the days of porch sitting and story telling, now that we commute and no longer really know our next door neighbor. That doesn’t mean that funny things don’t happen here, but that fewer connections are available to tell them. This is a story from my hometown:
During the cold winter months of December and January, deer hunting season is in full swing in Alabama. The season for hunting with rifles opens around the first weekend of Thanksgiving and ends promptly on January 31st every year. Hunters head to the deep woods of rural Alabama and don the most complicated green and brown camouflage they can to fool the whitetail deer into thinking that they are just a part of the harmless landscape.
During the summer months, hunters plant food plots, or small patches of cultivation for forage crops to grow. The whitetail deer eat the beans, rye grass, and other legumes often planted in these fields. The hunters usually occupy a deer stand or “shooting house” around the perimeter of a field so they can see the animals as they eat. These shooting houses are very basic and spartan structures, usually nothing more than a few sawmill slats nailed together in the form of a box with a roof and a floor, mounted between a few trees for support. A trap door in the bottom allows access and small rectangular slits are cut into all of the sides for viewing and shooting.
During early December, one of my hunting buddies went to Central Alabama to spend the weekend hunting. Luther had been down to the hunting lands earlier in the year preparing food plots and had not been to this particular green field since the early Fall. After lunch, he left the hunting camp, which was an old homeplace from a previous generation, and drove his ATV to the property. He went through the dilapidated entrance gate, that was only good for deterring honest poachers, and rode the mile-long trail to get to the food plot and shooting house. The sun was passing its zenith as the shadows of the longleaf southern Alabama pine trees cast parallel lines across the planted field. The entire area would be pitch black dark at 4:30, so he did not have a lot of time to get ready for the maximum hunting time at twilight.
As Luther climbed the makeshift ladder and entered the shooting house, he noticed some fur and debris in the bottom of the box. Obviously a raccoon had made a temporary home here during the summer, so he kicked the detritus out of the bottom of the box, and closed the trap door. He then got out his binoculars and studied the surrounding timberline for movement. Tree limbs and deadfall look suspiciously like deer antlers in the darkness of dusk, so he wanted to make sure he was familiar with the surroundings.
The usual sounds of the woods continued during the rest of the afternoon, as one’s hearing becomes acute during the silence of the absence of civilization. The sounds of the wind whistling through the longleaf pine needles on the trees and the oak laves dancing across the planted field become the only noises one hears, so a hunter can detect the sounds of animals walking or running more clearly.
Luther watched and listened intently as the afternoon waned and the temperature dropped. He was at least a mile from anyone else and had the large acreage to himself that afternoon. As the afternoon slowly crept into eventide, Luther heard the sound of something moving underneath his shooting house. He could not see it ,because the shooting portals were all on the sides, not the bottom. It was possible that a deer had walked up behind him and he had not heard it’s hoof prints in the plowed earth of the food plot. If he opened the trap door, the noise would startle his prey and would run off.
Eventually the sounds below him became creaks on the ladder that he used to get into the shooting box. Deer don’t make those sounds, so Luther thought someone was messing with him in the box. The noise on the ladder was scaring off any hope that a deer might find the food plot inviting, so he angrily packed his things and was ready to go down and curse whomever had just ruined his hunt. About that time, the trap door started moving, as if someone was opening it to get inside. Furious, Luther kicked his foot on the door and yelled “Get the hell out of here, you just screwed up my hunt!” Ready to confront the intruder, he thew open the trap door and to his shock no one was there.
It was now dark so Luther got his flashlight out to check the view down from the trap door and sure enough there wasn’t a soul under the box or on the ladder. Puzzled, and trying to come to grips with what he experienced, he suddenly saw a long hairy arm with a human-like hand came through the shooting house slit and grabbed his arm. Needless to say, Luther freaked out and without regard to the fear of this turn of events, he hit the creature’s arm with the flashlight and reached for his rifle. The box was not very large and the animal’s long hairy arm could reach inside almost anywhere. It was flailing about wildly and grabbed the barrel of Luther’s gun in the box, so he had to fight and pull it back to keep it in the shooting house.
During the melee, Luther got the rifle back, chambered a round of ammunition, and fired through the slit to scare off the animal. The ploy worked, and Luther heard the creature run off into the dark woods. He climbed down the ladder with great speed, hastily got on the ATV, and sped out of the woods like he was on fire.
Back at the hunting camp, Luther came in and looked white as a ghost. He told all of us about being attacked by Bigfoot and that he was lucky to be alive. The description he gave of the long hairy arm and human-like hand was clearly not a raccoon or any of the other animals that we knew in the woods. Luther was a very serious guy, and was not the kind of guy to make a tall tale up, so he definitely had our undivided attention. Luther was so shaken by his experience, he packed up and went back home that night, making his claim more believable. Everyone else was accounted for, so no one from our hunting camp was playing tricks, and no one was stupid enough to scare someone they knew for a fact was holding a high-powered rifle and 20 rounds of ammunition.
The next day, we were heading back to the food plot to see if there was anything we could find to give a clue to what on earth we were dealing with in the Central Alabama forest. As we drove to the property, we stopped for gas at the local rural filling station. The locals were all inside around a pot-bellied stove keeping warm. We bought our gas and as we were leaving the man behind the counter said “Hey guys, if you are hunting down here, keep a watch out for an escaped orangutan from the local veterinarian’s office.” He then pointed to an old poster on the wall of an picture of an adult orangutan and a phone number..
I called the number on the poster and let them know where the simian was recently, so they could track it.
Eventually, we told Luther about the orangutan, but let considerable time elapse before we did.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Hunting Season - By Lee Y. Greene, Jr.
An installment story about my hometown in North Alabama.
Hartselle, Alabama is like most other places of 12,000 or fewer souls in the South. Most everyone is moderate to middle class, as the area prospered only when the Tennessee Valley Authority came in the 1930’s to change our area from an agrarian economy to a service economy. With the advent of the aerospace and defense industries in a nearby county, our hometown evolved into a bedroom community.
Folks live here, but work and spend their day elsewhere. Because of this suburban evolution, we have lost the days of porch sitting and story telling, now that we commute and no longer really know our next door neighbor. That doesn’t mean that funny things don’t happen here, but that fewer connections are available to tell them. This is a story from my hometown:
In the South, the day after Thanksgiving to the end of January is widely known as “hunting season”. In most Alabama counties, this means the time of year when the Alabama Department of Conservation allows white tail deer hunting with a rifle. There are other times of the year when only a bow and arrow can be used. There is even a time of year when a spear can be used. Deer hunting is enjoyed by many hunters in the state, but also vilified by animal rights interests as well. The arguments of managing the state’s deer population to eliminate starvation from limited food resources to animal cruelty are heard around this time of year from each side of the sport.
Needless to say, the hunters outnumber the animal rights folks by a vast margin. Evidence of this was a certain PETA demonstration at a bass fishing tournament on the Tennessee River a few years back that did not go well for the anti-fishing protesters. The protest group greatly underestimated the number and strength of the bass fishing sympathizers. They also did not think about the revenue to the locals from the tournament event, so the PETA folks had to be escorted out of town, for their safety.
There is no hunting season, however, for animals considered a nuisance or vermin. One of these, coyotes, is an invasive species that have migrated to our state. There is no closed season and no bag limit for hunting them. You apparently can hunt them in daylight hours and in certain times with dogs. Coyotes prey on small animals and are a nuisance in urban fringes of habitation.
One of our Hartselle residents, named Bill, had enough of coyotes in his neighborhood. He lives in a residential subdivision of nice homes and covenants to protect the neighborhood. None of the covenants protect the neighbors from him, unfortunately. Bill has a dog that he likes very much. He takes his dog walking around his block in the Paradise View Subdivision every day. Bill also says what he means and does not hold back in giving his opinions. One day while walking around with his dog, it barked at lady walking around the block opposite of Bill. The dog took an aggressive stance toward the woman who then told Bill to get the dog “put down” if he was that aggressive. Bill then told her that the dog only barked at fat women and that she should lose a few pounds. It turned out that the lady was a friend of Bills’ wife, so after an ugly homecoming from his walk, an apology was made and Bill was in trouble for a while.
About that time, Bill started noticing coyotes in his yard in the evenings. Bill’s yard borders a deep canyon with a wooded area. This area is a habitat for all sorts of animals, but Bill did not like the coyotes because they threatened the neighbors’ dogs and cats. He wanted to know how to get rid of them, so he called a pest control service in Massey, AL that specializes in varmint removal. Thy told him that they could put out traps and humanely relocate the coyotes to another place, but there was a chance they would come back, as they are apparently territorial. Bill also learned that they charged $400 to perform this task, so he politely declined.
Bill came up with another idea, one that cost a fraction of the price and would solve his problem permanently. He went to Lacon, AL to the infamous Trade Day bazaar and bought four chickens and a wire coop from a Spanish-speaking vendor. He went back home and tied a string around the chickens in his back yard to use as bait for the coyotes. He then loaded his .22 rifle and sat in his backyard gazebo to wait for darkness to fall. At this point it is probably relevant to mention that some single malt Scotch was involved in this process.
As all of this preparation spelled impending disaster, the coyotes never appeared to take the bait. More than the intelligence of the coyotes, Bill probably fell asleep in the gazebo and his snoring scared them off. After a few days, Bill’s wife and the neighbors wanted to know why there were chickens tied to the ground in Bill’s backyard. Bill revealed the details of his plan and was told to get rid of the chickens and not to do this again, or his permanent home would be the backyard gazebo. The neighbors had a quickly summoned meeting and decided to pay to have the pest control folks remove the coyotes. They also passed some stringent rules against their neighbor, Bill. The amendment had something about firearms in the city and such. In defiance of his neighbors, Bill let the chickens go and roam free in the neighborhood. The “gazebo hunting” plan was only a few weeks ago, and to this day, there are still chickens running around in that subdivision.
Hartselle, Alabama is like most other places of 12,000 or fewer souls in the South. Most everyone is moderate to middle class, as the area prospered only when the Tennessee Valley Authority came in the 1930’s to change our area from an agrarian economy to a service economy. With the advent of the aerospace and defense industries in a nearby county, our hometown evolved into a bedroom community.
Folks live here, but work and spend their day elsewhere. Because of this suburban evolution, we have lost the days of porch sitting and story telling, now that we commute and no longer really know our next door neighbor. That doesn’t mean that funny things don’t happen here, but that fewer connections are available to tell them. This is a story from my hometown:
In the South, the day after Thanksgiving to the end of January is widely known as “hunting season”. In most Alabama counties, this means the time of year when the Alabama Department of Conservation allows white tail deer hunting with a rifle. There are other times of the year when only a bow and arrow can be used. There is even a time of year when a spear can be used. Deer hunting is enjoyed by many hunters in the state, but also vilified by animal rights interests as well. The arguments of managing the state’s deer population to eliminate starvation from limited food resources to animal cruelty are heard around this time of year from each side of the sport.
Needless to say, the hunters outnumber the animal rights folks by a vast margin. Evidence of this was a certain PETA demonstration at a bass fishing tournament on the Tennessee River a few years back that did not go well for the anti-fishing protesters. The protest group greatly underestimated the number and strength of the bass fishing sympathizers. They also did not think about the revenue to the locals from the tournament event, so the PETA folks had to be escorted out of town, for their safety.
There is no hunting season, however, for animals considered a nuisance or vermin. One of these, coyotes, is an invasive species that have migrated to our state. There is no closed season and no bag limit for hunting them. You apparently can hunt them in daylight hours and in certain times with dogs. Coyotes prey on small animals and are a nuisance in urban fringes of habitation.
One of our Hartselle residents, named Bill, had enough of coyotes in his neighborhood. He lives in a residential subdivision of nice homes and covenants to protect the neighborhood. None of the covenants protect the neighbors from him, unfortunately. Bill has a dog that he likes very much. He takes his dog walking around his block in the Paradise View Subdivision every day. Bill also says what he means and does not hold back in giving his opinions. One day while walking around with his dog, it barked at lady walking around the block opposite of Bill. The dog took an aggressive stance toward the woman who then told Bill to get the dog “put down” if he was that aggressive. Bill then told her that the dog only barked at fat women and that she should lose a few pounds. It turned out that the lady was a friend of Bills’ wife, so after an ugly homecoming from his walk, an apology was made and Bill was in trouble for a while.
About that time, Bill started noticing coyotes in his yard in the evenings. Bill’s yard borders a deep canyon with a wooded area. This area is a habitat for all sorts of animals, but Bill did not like the coyotes because they threatened the neighbors’ dogs and cats. He wanted to know how to get rid of them, so he called a pest control service in Massey, AL that specializes in varmint removal. Thy told him that they could put out traps and humanely relocate the coyotes to another place, but there was a chance they would come back, as they are apparently territorial. Bill also learned that they charged $400 to perform this task, so he politely declined.
Bill came up with another idea, one that cost a fraction of the price and would solve his problem permanently. He went to Lacon, AL to the infamous Trade Day bazaar and bought four chickens and a wire coop from a Spanish-speaking vendor. He went back home and tied a string around the chickens in his back yard to use as bait for the coyotes. He then loaded his .22 rifle and sat in his backyard gazebo to wait for darkness to fall. At this point it is probably relevant to mention that some single malt Scotch was involved in this process.
As all of this preparation spelled impending disaster, the coyotes never appeared to take the bait. More than the intelligence of the coyotes, Bill probably fell asleep in the gazebo and his snoring scared them off. After a few days, Bill’s wife and the neighbors wanted to know why there were chickens tied to the ground in Bill’s backyard. Bill revealed the details of his plan and was told to get rid of the chickens and not to do this again, or his permanent home would be the backyard gazebo. The neighbors had a quickly summoned meeting and decided to pay to have the pest control folks remove the coyotes. They also passed some stringent rules against their neighbor, Bill. The amendment had something about firearms in the city and such. In defiance of his neighbors, Bill let the chickens go and roam free in the neighborhood. The “gazebo hunting” plan was only a few weeks ago, and to this day, there are still chickens running around in that subdivision.
Mowing the Beltline - By Lee Y. Greene, Jr.
An installment story about my hometown in North Alabama.
Hartselle, Alabama is like most other places of 12,000 or fewer souls in the South. Most everyone is moderate to middle class, as the area prospered only when the Tennessee Valley Authority came in the 1930’s to change our area from an agrarian economy to a service economy. With the advent of the aerospace and defense industries in a nearby county, our hometown evolved into a bedroom community.
Folks live here, but work and spend their day elsewhere. Because of this suburban evolution, we have lost the days of porch sitting and story telling, now that we commute and no longer really know our next door neighbor. That doesn’t mean that funny things don’t happen here, but that fewer connections are available to tell them. This is a story from my hometown:
Working during construction season, I am exposed to a lot of different people, from wealthy investors who lend money for projects, to the day laborers who build them. The key to a successful project is to find common ground between them all and get things built. Often, I get to hear stories about some of the people I work around.
One of the contractors working a smaller job that we designed is a man named Jim from Trinity, AL. Jim has a few dump trucks, a backhoe, bulldozer, and some other big yellow construction equipment that he owns and maintains for his business. Jim always needs a laborer with him, to do small jobs around the project site, but mainly to be around case something bad happens. Construction is dangerous and safety is always practiced, even on the most stressful jobs, because an on site accident is a tragic, show-stopping event that no one can afford these days.
Jim’s helper was an older man named George, who had a personal demon of alcoholism. George could not and was not able to stop drinking. During work times, at least up until around 3:30 every afternoon, you could not ask for a more dependable hand. Unfortunately, after that time, George was nowhere to be found.
Jim was the only friend George had left, as he had alienated most all of his family and friends. As expected, Jim would have to answer the phone at home and come down to the police station in the middle of the night to post bail for numerous public intoxication charges. As difficult as the situation was, the relationship was symbiotic, as each needed the other to make a living.
I saw Jim on a construction site a few weeks ago and noticed that George was not around. I asked, fearing the worst, as he was an older man. Jim said, “Nope. George is in the pokey for a while.” To which, I asked “Well, what did he do this time?” Jim explained that about a month prior to my seeing him, George had been arrested again for driving under the influence, public intoxication, and attempting to elude a police officer in Decatur. This seemed very odd, since George was, even drunk, a peaceful man. Knowing that George did not have a car, and I wasn’t sure he even knew how to drive, I dug deeper to find out how this could have happened. Jim said that it was the strangest story, and he still had trouble believing it.
Apparently, George took a Snapper zero turning radius lawn mower that he and Jim used to mow yards for extra money and best that anyone can tell, he drove it to north Beltline Road in Decatur. From Trinity. Down Gordon Terry Parkway. At 3:30 AM on a Sunday morning. Now this feat is extraordinary at face value. I mean, what kind of gas mileage does a Snapper get at highway speed? What is highway speed on a riding lawn mower? How long had he been on the road? Granted it was 3:30 AM, how did he not get driven over on a four-lane highway for at least four miles? No median grass was cut, so he was obviously riding on the asphalt, undetected by anyone for that distance and length of time, with the blades at full throttle.
As he entered Decatur, the spectacle attracted the attention of traffic leaving one of the manufacturing plants on the river changing shifts. The police were called and an intercept was made. George was having none of the demands to stop or pull over, and continued his ride down one of Decatur’s busiest roadways. As the police car chased the slowly moving Snapper, George refused to stop and kept moving. The officer got out and walked along side the mower, again ordered George to stop, then reached over, and switched the ignition off. The “Easy Rider” was done and there was a price to pay. They properly secured George in the back of the Decatur Police car and put as much of his Snapper in the trunk as would fit. Then George went to jail.
Public Intoxication – Check
Driving under the influence (albeit a riding lawn mower) – Check
Attempting to Elude – Check
George went to jail, but will be out soon, so if you are driving in Northwest Decatur, keep your hands on the steering wheel at 10:00 and 2:00, always look both ways, and watch for riding mowers.
Hartselle, Alabama is like most other places of 12,000 or fewer souls in the South. Most everyone is moderate to middle class, as the area prospered only when the Tennessee Valley Authority came in the 1930’s to change our area from an agrarian economy to a service economy. With the advent of the aerospace and defense industries in a nearby county, our hometown evolved into a bedroom community.
Folks live here, but work and spend their day elsewhere. Because of this suburban evolution, we have lost the days of porch sitting and story telling, now that we commute and no longer really know our next door neighbor. That doesn’t mean that funny things don’t happen here, but that fewer connections are available to tell them. This is a story from my hometown:
Working during construction season, I am exposed to a lot of different people, from wealthy investors who lend money for projects, to the day laborers who build them. The key to a successful project is to find common ground between them all and get things built. Often, I get to hear stories about some of the people I work around.
One of the contractors working a smaller job that we designed is a man named Jim from Trinity, AL. Jim has a few dump trucks, a backhoe, bulldozer, and some other big yellow construction equipment that he owns and maintains for his business. Jim always needs a laborer with him, to do small jobs around the project site, but mainly to be around case something bad happens. Construction is dangerous and safety is always practiced, even on the most stressful jobs, because an on site accident is a tragic, show-stopping event that no one can afford these days.
Jim’s helper was an older man named George, who had a personal demon of alcoholism. George could not and was not able to stop drinking. During work times, at least up until around 3:30 every afternoon, you could not ask for a more dependable hand. Unfortunately, after that time, George was nowhere to be found.
Jim was the only friend George had left, as he had alienated most all of his family and friends. As expected, Jim would have to answer the phone at home and come down to the police station in the middle of the night to post bail for numerous public intoxication charges. As difficult as the situation was, the relationship was symbiotic, as each needed the other to make a living.
I saw Jim on a construction site a few weeks ago and noticed that George was not around. I asked, fearing the worst, as he was an older man. Jim said, “Nope. George is in the pokey for a while.” To which, I asked “Well, what did he do this time?” Jim explained that about a month prior to my seeing him, George had been arrested again for driving under the influence, public intoxication, and attempting to elude a police officer in Decatur. This seemed very odd, since George was, even drunk, a peaceful man. Knowing that George did not have a car, and I wasn’t sure he even knew how to drive, I dug deeper to find out how this could have happened. Jim said that it was the strangest story, and he still had trouble believing it.
Apparently, George took a Snapper zero turning radius lawn mower that he and Jim used to mow yards for extra money and best that anyone can tell, he drove it to north Beltline Road in Decatur. From Trinity. Down Gordon Terry Parkway. At 3:30 AM on a Sunday morning. Now this feat is extraordinary at face value. I mean, what kind of gas mileage does a Snapper get at highway speed? What is highway speed on a riding lawn mower? How long had he been on the road? Granted it was 3:30 AM, how did he not get driven over on a four-lane highway for at least four miles? No median grass was cut, so he was obviously riding on the asphalt, undetected by anyone for that distance and length of time, with the blades at full throttle.
As he entered Decatur, the spectacle attracted the attention of traffic leaving one of the manufacturing plants on the river changing shifts. The police were called and an intercept was made. George was having none of the demands to stop or pull over, and continued his ride down one of Decatur’s busiest roadways. As the police car chased the slowly moving Snapper, George refused to stop and kept moving. The officer got out and walked along side the mower, again ordered George to stop, then reached over, and switched the ignition off. The “Easy Rider” was done and there was a price to pay. They properly secured George in the back of the Decatur Police car and put as much of his Snapper in the trunk as would fit. Then George went to jail.
Public Intoxication – Check
Driving under the influence (albeit a riding lawn mower) – Check
Attempting to Elude – Check
George went to jail, but will be out soon, so if you are driving in Northwest Decatur, keep your hands on the steering wheel at 10:00 and 2:00, always look both ways, and watch for riding mowers.
Hired Hand - By Lee Y. Greene, Jr.
An installment story about my hometown in North Alabama.
Hartselle, Alabama is like most other places of 12,000 or fewer souls in the South. Most everyone is moderate to middle class, as the area prospered only when the Tennessee Valley Authority came in the 1930’s to change our area from an agrarian economy to a service economy. With the advent of the aerospace and defense industries in a nearby county, our hometown evolved into a bedroom community.
Folks live here, but work and spend their day elsewhere. Because of this suburban evolution, we have lost the days of porch sitting and story telling, now that we commute and no longer really know our next door neighbor. That doesn’t mean that funny things don’t happen here, but that fewer connections are available to tell them. This is a story from my hometown:
During the 1990’s employment in our little town was at an all time high. Almost everyone that wanted a job could get one without much effort. That was great, unless you were an employer needing to hire subcontractors that were constantly in demand. The pay rates were reasonably higher that other part of the state during this time, and good workers, that showed up sober, and with regularity, were at a premium.
Our business did not require skilled help, we needed someone to take care of the equipment on a job site and cut brush for the survey crew to see through to do our work. Because of the market, we went through a revolving door of “bottom of the barrel” employees, who had various and sundry personal problems and demons that prevented them from fulfilling their life’s goals. Frustrated with the lack of responsible help, I placed an ad in the Decatur Daily and got a response right away.
Our office was located in the basement of my Mom and Dad’s house in Hartselle. We were just starting out as a cottage industry, a surveying and engineering business that my Dad had started on the side for weekend work. After graduating from Auburn, I came home and with the help of two partners, took the enterprise full-time and incorporated in 1992. We rarely had clients ever come to us, but when they did, they came through the front door, then down to the basement where we discussed their projects.
One afternoon, in response to our ad, Earl showed up at our door. Earl, who was about 32, was from a part of Lawrence County, Alabama called Chalybeate, but pronounced “clebet” by it denizens. On this afternoon, I was out of the office on a project site, and Mom was at home to greet Earl. She invited him in and visited with him for a while awaiting my return. During this time she learned that Earl was really in need of a job, and had scoped out a convenience store to “knock off” on the way home if he could not find employment that day. Earl lived in a mobile home that he was in the process of restoring, behind his parents’ house. He was very proud that he had just completed the plumbing the night before, that consisted of a garden hose from the parents’ spigot to his dwelling so he could have water anytime he needed it. Earl had a son from a previous encounter, and a girlfriend/fiancee named Nancy that sometime hung around, and sometimes not. Nancy was addicted to crack cocaine, so he didn’t want her around his son when she was high.
I got home and met my petrified mother at the door who told me of Earl’s appearance and his announcement of the Plan “B” if he didn’t get a job. I took Earl downstairs and talked with him to see if he was exaggerating, or telling the truth about his situation. As it turns out, he was being brutally honest and was in need of a job. As I was really desperate for good help, I hired him. Earl was at least honest enough to tell me his situation and that was a lot better than what I was getting in my other help. He showed up the next day on time and ready for work of any kind, and so began our symbiotic relationship.
The first thing I noticed about Earl was his attire. He wore work clothes, as we did not know from day to day where our needs would take us. One day we would be cutting miles of brush and killing snakes, the next day, he would wash the company truck while I calculated survey data. Earl always wore dirty jeans, a clean t-shirt, and an ever-present 36” long blade machete strapped to his waist. The machete was a tool of his trade, but wasn’t needed every day, but was worn nonetheless. Everywhere he went, the machete went. No one ever made mention of it, (probably out of fear) but he wore it to lunch, to pick up the mail, and other errands that we had for him. Earl had some front teeth missing from a fight in the Lawrence County jail, so he had a gap in his smile. He was saving up for some teeth, but the replacement dentures were very expensive and seemed unrealistic, but he saved anyway. This appearance was certainly frightening, if you did not know him. At first, I was concerned, too. Later, however, Earl would prove useful in a big way.
We had a certain real estate office in a nearby town that decided that they were not going to pay their bills to us for work we did. They ordered a survey on a lot, but the closing did not happen, or the buyer backed out, so they said “too bad” to my requests for payment. I got the hint, and after getting to know that Earl was a lot of things, he was not violent. Except for the time he beat up Nancy’s crack dealer in NW Decatur, but that another story, I sent him to their office with a bill and told him to sit in their waiting area until it was settled. He regaled the prospective buyers in the office with his stories of how he lost his teeth in a Moulton jail fight and that he liked the food in the Hartselle jail better than anywhere else he had been. He came back very shortly with every penny that group owed us, and they never were late with a bill again.
Earl had several personal problems, to say the least. But to his credit, he was struggling against them to provide for his son, clean up Nancy, and create some sort of normal life for his little family. It would be easy to look at him and condemn, but things are often more complicated than they seem. One of Earl’s demons was a fact that his own mother put succinctly “he’s too dumb to drink”. Many of Earl’s problems were a result of some drinking. He had acquired so many DUI’s that he could not get a valid Alabama driver’s license until sometime around 2020. Because of this high number, he was incarcerated on weekends in the Hartselle City Jail. He would go in on Friday night and serve until Sunday evening, on numerous charges of driving without a license. What puzzled me was the fact that he drove his car to the jail and drove home every weekend. I guess the police never looked outside to see how Earl got there. If they had looked outside, Earl’s car was a spectacle. The 1970’s model Ford LTD had been in a frontal crash that left the headlights inoperable. In their place, were two Sears battery operated flashlights that he would pull over at dusk and turn on. He had a large supply of D cell batteries on the dash for this purpose.
One Friday, I needed to get a big survey done for a closing on Monday. We were behind schedule and needed to work on Saturday to get this job finished. Earl had other engagements on Saturdays, so I called the city judge who happened to be the closing attorney for the transaction (Only in a small town). I explained the situation and as he needed the transaction to occur, as I did, he agreed to release Earl for the Saturday to work. The next morning, I went to the jail to pick him up. My thinking was that working outside would be better than spending the day in jail. The office at the jail told me I had to feed him lunch, which again, I thought Earl would like better than jail food. Wrong. Earl was very upset that I had released him for the day. To my bewilderment, Earl was a trusty, which means that he had been around so long, that they let him do special chores and tasks during his confinement. On Friday nights, the police bring in all the “potential defendants” on their various charges and book them into jail. While the perps are in the back seat handcuffed, they can apparently remove pills and other “evidence” into the seat of the police car. Earl, the trusty, washes the police cars on Saturday. During the thorough cleaning, he collects this evidence and apparently sells it back to the detainees when they are released on Sunday. He made more money doing this than he did working for me all week. During this Saturday, we discussed how that was wrong and that he could be sent away if he was caught. He eventually stopped this practice and revealed the scam to the jailer, who prevented other trustys from doing the same.
A few months later, I had some meetings at the basement-office and did not have anything for Earl to do for those few hours, so I asked him to wash the mud off of the company truck. After my meetings were over, I noticed that he was washing the truck with new sponges, car wash soap, tire brushes, and car wax.
Knowing we did not have these items in our office or upstairs in the house, I asked him where he got them.
My thinking was that he spent his own money and that I needed to reimburse him. Wrong. He stole them from the police station, where he usually washed police cars. I had him finish, put all the City’s property back, and I explained to the police chief what had happened.
A few more months later, Earl found another job, closer to his home in Lawrence County. Later, I heard that he got arrested for beating a man in Georgia, who had assaulted Nancy. He was sentenced to the sate penitentiary in Atmore for a few years. Seems that this was not all bad for Earl. The state paid to have his teeth fixed, cut his hair, and cleaned him up. Apparently, in the joint, they try to teach you job skills so you can enter the workforce on your return. Earl had a choice of several skills such as auto mechanics, welding, construction, etc. The State of Alabama paid to train Earl in a skill that I did not know was in demand. Male exotic dancing. Yes, you read that right. We all pay someone to teach this skill to prevent recidivism in our prison system.
Earl opened my eyes to a different world than the one most folks I know enjoy. A world based on poor decisions, and the struggles that come from them. He had a big heart, but few tools to advance in life. All in all, prison helped him more than any job he ever had. I saw him a few years ago, and he was working as a cook in one of the restaurants in Hartselle. He had cleaned up and left Nancy. He and his son lived in Lawrence County and were doing OK. I learned to pay more for the positions that I needed, and eventually got some really good folks to work for me.
Hartselle, Alabama is like most other places of 12,000 or fewer souls in the South. Most everyone is moderate to middle class, as the area prospered only when the Tennessee Valley Authority came in the 1930’s to change our area from an agrarian economy to a service economy. With the advent of the aerospace and defense industries in a nearby county, our hometown evolved into a bedroom community.
Folks live here, but work and spend their day elsewhere. Because of this suburban evolution, we have lost the days of porch sitting and story telling, now that we commute and no longer really know our next door neighbor. That doesn’t mean that funny things don’t happen here, but that fewer connections are available to tell them. This is a story from my hometown:
During the 1990’s employment in our little town was at an all time high. Almost everyone that wanted a job could get one without much effort. That was great, unless you were an employer needing to hire subcontractors that were constantly in demand. The pay rates were reasonably higher that other part of the state during this time, and good workers, that showed up sober, and with regularity, were at a premium.
Our business did not require skilled help, we needed someone to take care of the equipment on a job site and cut brush for the survey crew to see through to do our work. Because of the market, we went through a revolving door of “bottom of the barrel” employees, who had various and sundry personal problems and demons that prevented them from fulfilling their life’s goals. Frustrated with the lack of responsible help, I placed an ad in the Decatur Daily and got a response right away.
Our office was located in the basement of my Mom and Dad’s house in Hartselle. We were just starting out as a cottage industry, a surveying and engineering business that my Dad had started on the side for weekend work. After graduating from Auburn, I came home and with the help of two partners, took the enterprise full-time and incorporated in 1992. We rarely had clients ever come to us, but when they did, they came through the front door, then down to the basement where we discussed their projects.
One afternoon, in response to our ad, Earl showed up at our door. Earl, who was about 32, was from a part of Lawrence County, Alabama called Chalybeate, but pronounced “clebet” by it denizens. On this afternoon, I was out of the office on a project site, and Mom was at home to greet Earl. She invited him in and visited with him for a while awaiting my return. During this time she learned that Earl was really in need of a job, and had scoped out a convenience store to “knock off” on the way home if he could not find employment that day. Earl lived in a mobile home that he was in the process of restoring, behind his parents’ house. He was very proud that he had just completed the plumbing the night before, that consisted of a garden hose from the parents’ spigot to his dwelling so he could have water anytime he needed it. Earl had a son from a previous encounter, and a girlfriend/fiancee named Nancy that sometime hung around, and sometimes not. Nancy was addicted to crack cocaine, so he didn’t want her around his son when she was high.
I got home and met my petrified mother at the door who told me of Earl’s appearance and his announcement of the Plan “B” if he didn’t get a job. I took Earl downstairs and talked with him to see if he was exaggerating, or telling the truth about his situation. As it turns out, he was being brutally honest and was in need of a job. As I was really desperate for good help, I hired him. Earl was at least honest enough to tell me his situation and that was a lot better than what I was getting in my other help. He showed up the next day on time and ready for work of any kind, and so began our symbiotic relationship.
The first thing I noticed about Earl was his attire. He wore work clothes, as we did not know from day to day where our needs would take us. One day we would be cutting miles of brush and killing snakes, the next day, he would wash the company truck while I calculated survey data. Earl always wore dirty jeans, a clean t-shirt, and an ever-present 36” long blade machete strapped to his waist. The machete was a tool of his trade, but wasn’t needed every day, but was worn nonetheless. Everywhere he went, the machete went. No one ever made mention of it, (probably out of fear) but he wore it to lunch, to pick up the mail, and other errands that we had for him. Earl had some front teeth missing from a fight in the Lawrence County jail, so he had a gap in his smile. He was saving up for some teeth, but the replacement dentures were very expensive and seemed unrealistic, but he saved anyway. This appearance was certainly frightening, if you did not know him. At first, I was concerned, too. Later, however, Earl would prove useful in a big way.
We had a certain real estate office in a nearby town that decided that they were not going to pay their bills to us for work we did. They ordered a survey on a lot, but the closing did not happen, or the buyer backed out, so they said “too bad” to my requests for payment. I got the hint, and after getting to know that Earl was a lot of things, he was not violent. Except for the time he beat up Nancy’s crack dealer in NW Decatur, but that another story, I sent him to their office with a bill and told him to sit in their waiting area until it was settled. He regaled the prospective buyers in the office with his stories of how he lost his teeth in a Moulton jail fight and that he liked the food in the Hartselle jail better than anywhere else he had been. He came back very shortly with every penny that group owed us, and they never were late with a bill again.
Earl had several personal problems, to say the least. But to his credit, he was struggling against them to provide for his son, clean up Nancy, and create some sort of normal life for his little family. It would be easy to look at him and condemn, but things are often more complicated than they seem. One of Earl’s demons was a fact that his own mother put succinctly “he’s too dumb to drink”. Many of Earl’s problems were a result of some drinking. He had acquired so many DUI’s that he could not get a valid Alabama driver’s license until sometime around 2020. Because of this high number, he was incarcerated on weekends in the Hartselle City Jail. He would go in on Friday night and serve until Sunday evening, on numerous charges of driving without a license. What puzzled me was the fact that he drove his car to the jail and drove home every weekend. I guess the police never looked outside to see how Earl got there. If they had looked outside, Earl’s car was a spectacle. The 1970’s model Ford LTD had been in a frontal crash that left the headlights inoperable. In their place, were two Sears battery operated flashlights that he would pull over at dusk and turn on. He had a large supply of D cell batteries on the dash for this purpose.
One Friday, I needed to get a big survey done for a closing on Monday. We were behind schedule and needed to work on Saturday to get this job finished. Earl had other engagements on Saturdays, so I called the city judge who happened to be the closing attorney for the transaction (Only in a small town). I explained the situation and as he needed the transaction to occur, as I did, he agreed to release Earl for the Saturday to work. The next morning, I went to the jail to pick him up. My thinking was that working outside would be better than spending the day in jail. The office at the jail told me I had to feed him lunch, which again, I thought Earl would like better than jail food. Wrong. Earl was very upset that I had released him for the day. To my bewilderment, Earl was a trusty, which means that he had been around so long, that they let him do special chores and tasks during his confinement. On Friday nights, the police bring in all the “potential defendants” on their various charges and book them into jail. While the perps are in the back seat handcuffed, they can apparently remove pills and other “evidence” into the seat of the police car. Earl, the trusty, washes the police cars on Saturday. During the thorough cleaning, he collects this evidence and apparently sells it back to the detainees when they are released on Sunday. He made more money doing this than he did working for me all week. During this Saturday, we discussed how that was wrong and that he could be sent away if he was caught. He eventually stopped this practice and revealed the scam to the jailer, who prevented other trustys from doing the same.
A few months later, I had some meetings at the basement-office and did not have anything for Earl to do for those few hours, so I asked him to wash the mud off of the company truck. After my meetings were over, I noticed that he was washing the truck with new sponges, car wash soap, tire brushes, and car wax.
Knowing we did not have these items in our office or upstairs in the house, I asked him where he got them.
My thinking was that he spent his own money and that I needed to reimburse him. Wrong. He stole them from the police station, where he usually washed police cars. I had him finish, put all the City’s property back, and I explained to the police chief what had happened.
A few more months later, Earl found another job, closer to his home in Lawrence County. Later, I heard that he got arrested for beating a man in Georgia, who had assaulted Nancy. He was sentenced to the sate penitentiary in Atmore for a few years. Seems that this was not all bad for Earl. The state paid to have his teeth fixed, cut his hair, and cleaned him up. Apparently, in the joint, they try to teach you job skills so you can enter the workforce on your return. Earl had a choice of several skills such as auto mechanics, welding, construction, etc. The State of Alabama paid to train Earl in a skill that I did not know was in demand. Male exotic dancing. Yes, you read that right. We all pay someone to teach this skill to prevent recidivism in our prison system.
Earl opened my eyes to a different world than the one most folks I know enjoy. A world based on poor decisions, and the struggles that come from them. He had a big heart, but few tools to advance in life. All in all, prison helped him more than any job he ever had. I saw him a few years ago, and he was working as a cook in one of the restaurants in Hartselle. He had cleaned up and left Nancy. He and his son lived in Lawrence County and were doing OK. I learned to pay more for the positions that I needed, and eventually got some really good folks to work for me.
Deep Freeze - By Lee Y. Greene, Jr.
An installment story about life in North Alabama.
I have lately become obliged to document stories about life in the many communities that dot the rural areas of our home state. They are all true, except that names and some places have been changed to protect the innocent and guilty alike. If you are not from the South, there will be many references and phrases from our dialect that may escape your understanding, so consult a fellow Southerner if you must.
Some of my work requires me to travel to remote places across North Alabama. One of the projects we were working on involved an earthwork job to build a foundation for a new store and parking area in a rural County. I have to make frequent site inspections to make sure the soils are being dug from the correct property, that they are being compacted properly to prevent settlement, and sloped properly to prevent sediment from running off the property and damaging a nearby stream.
The owner has a capable job foreman, Jack, who manages the site work and keeps all the big yellow construction equipment running. During one of my inspections, Jack told me this story.
The construction site is near a half-baked body shop/garage/junkyard. The proprietor is a friendly guy who had two sons. One worked for Jack on the construction site, the other, Tiny, didn’t really do much. In the South if you are named “Tiny”, there is a very high probability that you are not. Tiny liked to hunt and fish, and somehow was eking out a living within those parameters. Tiny was not married, as most women look for breadwinners with a job or a skill set. Unfortunately, Tiny had no interest in pursuing either.
One morning, Jack arrived at the job site, where a terrible stench wafted over the entire project. Knowing some people, who know some people, who can make one “sleep with the fishes”, Jack’s first thought was that someone had buried a body on the site. After asking around at the neighboring garage, he learned the real truth.
A few weeks prior, Tiny was cleaning up around his single-wide and happened to be weed-eating around his most precious appliance, his large, self standing deep freezer. Nothing is unusual about this choice of appliance, as most Southern gentlemen do have one. Some have to work harder than others to get one, but almost every man south of Tennessee has one for the various fish and game that they hunt and gather. The deep freezer is an ingrained tradition that has its roots in ancient granaries where food was stored for the winter.
During his annual weed-eating, Tiny did not notice the he had inadvertently cut the orange extension cord that ran from a working electrical outlet in his bedroom, out the partially closed aluminum window, then to the appliance outside. The grass and weeds were probably tall enough that he did not see the resulting spark that would have happened when the electricity was shorted in the extension cord.
The next few weeks of brutal summer heat, the contents of the now non-operating deep freeze were emitting a sign that there was a problem. This was oblivious to Tiny, as several more weeks clocked on.
Eventually, the smell of the decaying game emanated through the white sheet metal and insulation of the deep freezer to a level that even Tiny could detect. The dogs began to avoid that side of the house when they ran outside. Finally, a few weeks more had passed, and Tiny decided that he had enough of the smell and needed to do something with this problem. He decided to move the deep freezer to another location away from his single-wide abode. He looked around and thought of the construction site next to his father’s garage to bury his problem. Transporting the deep freeze to the site was going to be an issue, so he thought hard about how to accomplish this. Eventually, after a lot of drinking, he came up with a brilliant plan.
Tiny lived about a mile and a half away from the garage and project, and the roads were all paved, except for the dirt road to his single-wide dwelling. Being that he was not the sharpest tool in the shed, Tiny’s plan involved tying a log chain around the appliance and dragging it behind his truck to the construction project. The deep freezer does not have wheels, so he used duct tape to secure the top from opening and spilling the contents. That evening, with the top secured with the ubiquitous silver tape, off he went. Down the driveway to the paved road, dragging a deep freeze with a logging chain. He didn’t want to get caught speeding with his truck, since he was also a candidate for a fresh DUI, so he drove slowly along the route. As expected, the deep freeze in tow on the blacktop pavement created sparks behind it like they were in a Fourth of July parade. A few local residents, sitting on their porches and seeing this menagerie weaving wildly side-to-side out of control down the roadway in front of their houses, immediately called the Sheriff to put a stop to it.
A few minutes later a deputy arrived, saw the spectacle, and pulled Tiny over. The officer smelled the deep freeze and questioned Tiny about what exactly he was doing. Tiny explained “The Plan” and pointed to the construction site a few hundred yards away where he was going to deposit his appliance. The officer, also being mindful of the “sleeping with the fishes” people, made Tiny open his freezer. The now disgusted deputy, satisfied no homicide was involved, wanted no part of the stinky deep freeze. He let Tiny continue to the final resting spot on the construction site and waited for him to fire up the large track hoe, dig a hole, and bury the deep freezer. After Tiny finished, the officer figured Tiny had regained enough of his faculties to execute his plan to remove the rancid deep freeze for the common good of the County, so he let him slide on the DUI. He did not let him drive, and made him wait for his brother to come and take him back home. I have not checked with Sears, but I am fairly sure that they do not condone, in any way, this method for transporting their products.
I have lately become obliged to document stories about life in the many communities that dot the rural areas of our home state. They are all true, except that names and some places have been changed to protect the innocent and guilty alike. If you are not from the South, there will be many references and phrases from our dialect that may escape your understanding, so consult a fellow Southerner if you must.
Some of my work requires me to travel to remote places across North Alabama. One of the projects we were working on involved an earthwork job to build a foundation for a new store and parking area in a rural County. I have to make frequent site inspections to make sure the soils are being dug from the correct property, that they are being compacted properly to prevent settlement, and sloped properly to prevent sediment from running off the property and damaging a nearby stream.
The owner has a capable job foreman, Jack, who manages the site work and keeps all the big yellow construction equipment running. During one of my inspections, Jack told me this story.
The construction site is near a half-baked body shop/garage/junkyard. The proprietor is a friendly guy who had two sons. One worked for Jack on the construction site, the other, Tiny, didn’t really do much. In the South if you are named “Tiny”, there is a very high probability that you are not. Tiny liked to hunt and fish, and somehow was eking out a living within those parameters. Tiny was not married, as most women look for breadwinners with a job or a skill set. Unfortunately, Tiny had no interest in pursuing either.
One morning, Jack arrived at the job site, where a terrible stench wafted over the entire project. Knowing some people, who know some people, who can make one “sleep with the fishes”, Jack’s first thought was that someone had buried a body on the site. After asking around at the neighboring garage, he learned the real truth.
A few weeks prior, Tiny was cleaning up around his single-wide and happened to be weed-eating around his most precious appliance, his large, self standing deep freezer. Nothing is unusual about this choice of appliance, as most Southern gentlemen do have one. Some have to work harder than others to get one, but almost every man south of Tennessee has one for the various fish and game that they hunt and gather. The deep freezer is an ingrained tradition that has its roots in ancient granaries where food was stored for the winter.
During his annual weed-eating, Tiny did not notice the he had inadvertently cut the orange extension cord that ran from a working electrical outlet in his bedroom, out the partially closed aluminum window, then to the appliance outside. The grass and weeds were probably tall enough that he did not see the resulting spark that would have happened when the electricity was shorted in the extension cord.
The next few weeks of brutal summer heat, the contents of the now non-operating deep freeze were emitting a sign that there was a problem. This was oblivious to Tiny, as several more weeks clocked on.
Eventually, the smell of the decaying game emanated through the white sheet metal and insulation of the deep freezer to a level that even Tiny could detect. The dogs began to avoid that side of the house when they ran outside. Finally, a few weeks more had passed, and Tiny decided that he had enough of the smell and needed to do something with this problem. He decided to move the deep freezer to another location away from his single-wide abode. He looked around and thought of the construction site next to his father’s garage to bury his problem. Transporting the deep freeze to the site was going to be an issue, so he thought hard about how to accomplish this. Eventually, after a lot of drinking, he came up with a brilliant plan.
Tiny lived about a mile and a half away from the garage and project, and the roads were all paved, except for the dirt road to his single-wide dwelling. Being that he was not the sharpest tool in the shed, Tiny’s plan involved tying a log chain around the appliance and dragging it behind his truck to the construction project. The deep freezer does not have wheels, so he used duct tape to secure the top from opening and spilling the contents. That evening, with the top secured with the ubiquitous silver tape, off he went. Down the driveway to the paved road, dragging a deep freeze with a logging chain. He didn’t want to get caught speeding with his truck, since he was also a candidate for a fresh DUI, so he drove slowly along the route. As expected, the deep freeze in tow on the blacktop pavement created sparks behind it like they were in a Fourth of July parade. A few local residents, sitting on their porches and seeing this menagerie weaving wildly side-to-side out of control down the roadway in front of their houses, immediately called the Sheriff to put a stop to it.
A few minutes later a deputy arrived, saw the spectacle, and pulled Tiny over. The officer smelled the deep freeze and questioned Tiny about what exactly he was doing. Tiny explained “The Plan” and pointed to the construction site a few hundred yards away where he was going to deposit his appliance. The officer, also being mindful of the “sleeping with the fishes” people, made Tiny open his freezer. The now disgusted deputy, satisfied no homicide was involved, wanted no part of the stinky deep freeze. He let Tiny continue to the final resting spot on the construction site and waited for him to fire up the large track hoe, dig a hole, and bury the deep freezer. After Tiny finished, the officer figured Tiny had regained enough of his faculties to execute his plan to remove the rancid deep freeze for the common good of the County, so he let him slide on the DUI. He did not let him drive, and made him wait for his brother to come and take him back home. I have not checked with Sears, but I am fairly sure that they do not condone, in any way, this method for transporting their products.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)