A Little Town in the Middle of Nowhere

by

Bill MacWithey

From time to time, I still have the nightmare about that little town where I grew up. One would think that after all these years; the dream would at least mellow. But, every time, it is as vivid as the first time I awakened from that horrendous dream, soaked in sweat and frightened half to death.

There was something strange about my little hometown; something you couldn’t really put your finger on and say, "Aha! There’s the fault - there’s the problem. I guess it was more a compilation of bad feelings, than anything. But, you know how every once in a while, you wake up in the morning and just know it’s going to be a bad day? It was like that every morning in our little town. Nothing, I mean, nothing seemed to be exactly right. The law of averages would seem to dictate that at least one other person in that desolate place would come close to being normal. But, I can honestly say, although my memories of every day I lived there are as clear as they were when they passed on the calendar, I don’t remember one other person, besides myself, that is, who came close to being what the world would consider normal, possibly with the exception of Eleanor. And even she was a little strange. It seemed someone had gathered up all the folks in South Texas who were a bit off balance and put them down in one spot.

Even as a small child, I sensed everything was sort of half a degree out of sinc. I was constantly in trouble with my parents, because they thought I was different than everyone else. Looking back, I realize I probably did seem different, because it seemed no one else in our town sensed the strangeness underlying all our lives. It was as if I had been given this special gift to feel what others didn’t.

Having a dread fear of being stuck in that place forever, I worked at any menial little job I could find during high school and saved every dime. Lord, I cleaned so many toilets for old folks, and did their laundry, well, it was sometimes hard to continue, even though my goal was worthy of working for. The same day I graduated from Tri-City High, I looked for work in earnest. I wanted to break out of there as soon as I could. Three months later, I packed my granddaddy’s old brown leather suitcase with the broken buckles, tied a rope around it to be sure my three good pairs of panties would arrive in Dallas along with my three holy pairs, and jumped on the bus before anyone could talk me out of it.

It would have been nice if someone, anyone would have tried to talk me into staying. Of course, I would have declined their invitation faster than a jackrabbit can cross the road, but, at least, I would have felt someone cared. Mama and daddy stood on the sidewalk, their arms folded, and stared. My two younger sisters and younger brother watched without a word. My best friend, Ellie May McCartle, watched without a word. Leroy Huggins, the boy who had tried all through high school to get into my jumpsuit, watched without a word. Blacky, the old Labrador Retriever I’d rescued after he got cut all to heck by a cotton picking machine, sat and watched, without so much as a single wag of his tail.

After staring from the door of the shiny, air conditioned bus for a moment, I stepped back off the bus and asked, "Isn’t anyone going to try to talk me out of leaving?" They only stared. No smile, no tears, no sort of clue to any kind of emotion, only that blank expression that said, "If’n yer set on goin’, ya better git on the bus." Daddy did shrug his shoulders ever so slightly. I guess we weren’t what one might call a close family. Or, perhaps it was because everyone viewed me as a misfit, whom they were better rid of.

Needless to say, even though I was anxious to get the heck out of there, I was somewhat disappointed no one begged me to stay. I guess old Leroy finally figured it out; I was saving my virginity for someone special, and even if I stayed, he’d never get even the top button undone. As I sat down on the bus, I leaned out the window and said defiantly, "One of these days, I’ll show you all. I’ll come back to visit you in my spiffy new powder blue sports car." Still, they only stared blankly, daddy looking back toward home, as if he couldn’t wait to be rid of me. I guess their emotional goodbye tells you they didn’t give a good darn if I stayed or left, as long as they didn’t have to put up with me anymore. I think down deep, somewhere inside, mama was sorry to see me go. At least, that’s what I told myself all the way to Dallas. I knew they viewed me as pretty much of a stubborn ass, because I wouldn’t take the full time job old man Creavers offered me at his general store on Main Street.

Yeah, the main drag in our little town shared its name with most every other small town in the country. The biggest thing to ever happen in our town was when Mr. Krueger built a new Dairy Queen at the end of Main Street. Or perhaps it was when Minnie Ayala took a trip to Nashville and came home to tell us for the next six months about how she had seen Loretta Lynn’s limousine going down the street. Of course, Loretta wasn’t in it, but just the fact that she’d seen Loretta’s car made Minnie somewhat of a celebrity. That, too, should give you some insight into how exciting life was in our little town and why a beautiful, vibrant young woman, such as myself, wanted to get the heck out of there.

Anyway, I didn’t want to be stuck there for the rest of my life. Besides, old man Creavers was said to have propositioned every young girl who ever went to work in his store for the last forty years. He had offered me a dollar more per hour than his regular starting salary, saying it was because I was such a "purty little thing." All the while he spoke, he stared directly at my perfectly shaped, untethered 38C chest.

I’ll not bore you with a long winded tale about how I managed to survive in Dallas, or how I happened to enroll at Southern Methodist University, or how I received a law degree and passed the bar on the first try, or how I was hired by one of the more prestigious law firms in Dallas. Of course, it didn’t hurt that I was beautiful and had a body a man would kill for. And, please, don’t think me conceited. I only offer this description of my physical attributes to explain who I am, not to brag or seem egotistical. Maybe that’s why no one in my little home town was sorry to see me go. Perhaps I made them all realize how plain and ordinary they were. Many of them, in fact, were downright ugly. Thinking back, I guess I would have been well worth the extra dollar an hour, to look at, if nothing else.

I’ll not bore you with the story of how, after several years at the firm, being pursued by every male there, married or not, I decided to strike out on my own and opened my own, now, very successful firm. None of that is really important to the story I want to tell you about that little town in the middle of nowhere and its people.

My little home town sat in the South Central part of Texas, well south of San Antonio. The highway didn’t go through our town, but ran about ten miles to the west. So, there we were, isolated from the rest of humanity by ten miles of greasewood, mesquite, elephant ear cactus, a few jackrabbits, lots and lots of rattlesnakes, a few deer, and a whole, huge lot of nothing.

The highlights of my childhood were the times when Ellie May McCartle and I rode horses to a hill overlooking the highway, some quarter of a mile away. We’d sit for hours atop our bareback mounts, or on the rough, rocky ground, watching the cars and trucks speeding back and forth between Laredo and San Antonio. We discussed who might be in the cars, where they were going and why. A good number of stories about these travelers emerged from our imagination atop that rocky hill.

Can’t you imagine the romance a young girl would attach to those towns? Aren’t the names, themselves, romantic? San Antonio! Laredo! Nuevo Laredo! There are two reason I won’t tell you the name of our little town. I don’t want to hurt the feelings of anyone who might still be living in that place God forgot. (Or, deliberately ignored.) The other reason is, the name is too comical and ridiculous for you to believe, anyway. But, it’s there. If you consider that Texas has such names as "Woman Hollerin’ Creek" or Biglittleton, well… early Texans must have had a real sense of humor. Fact is, I’ve made up a hundred stories about how that creek got its name. My favorite is, a pioneer woman got this far south in Texas and refused to go any farther. She stood on the bank of the dry creek bed and hollered, "TAKE ME BACK TO BOSTON!" until she collapsed and died of terminal desolation.

To get to my story, though. I’d not been "back home" except for a number of funerals over the years. And, on those occasions, I got to heck out of town just as fast as my powder blue Mercedes would carry me. Headed toward the highway, I raced across that rough gravel road, up and down the dry washes, as fast as I dared. And, there was a gang of dry washes in that ten-mile stretch. Culverts or bridges were unheard of in that poor part of Texas. When I scooted out of there after paying the necessary respects to the family of the deceased and saying "Hi" to mama, it was like a ten mile roller coaster ride, with a madman at the controls.

Every time I had to go back to that miserable place for someone’s funeral, the nightmare would return. I was in my beautiful powder blue Mercedes, huge chains wrapped all around it, their ends anchored in the ground. I had to sit there twenty-four hours a day and listen to every village idiot tell me how good it was to live in our little town. Since I wouldn’t move back voluntarily, they were going to keep me chained there for the rest of time, or until I died - whichever was the longest. I always awakened from the nightmare sweating and shaky, then lay in my bed, wide awake, trying to figure out how I could avoid going "home."

On one funeral trip I saw Ellie May McCartle and couldn’t help but laugh aloud, right in front of her. She had gotten FAT! I don’t mean plain old fat. I mean, really fat. I have always managed to keep the figure I had at eighteen. Of course, I’ve been awfully careful not to get pregnant. Ellie had married the butcher, who owned a small shop and barely eked out a living. I don’t know if she had gotten fat from having six kids or if her husband had brought home too much meat that was too fat to sell. Ellie May had been a good looking girl, and it was a real shame what time had done to her. After I’d lived in the big city for so many years, Ellie and everyone else in our little town seemed like characters from a grotesque comedy play that didn’t quite turn out funny.

I was inspired to write this story after returning home for one more funeral, my mother’s. It was a sad occasion, and the preacher loudly proclaimed in prayer, (more like preaching hell and damnation if we didn’t change our ways and put more money in the collection plate on Sunday) that my mama was in a better place, now. I looked around at the unkempt cemetery and shook my head. When I looked back up, I was surprised that it was hard to remember the names of many of the older folks gathered to tell mama goodbye.

And, it amazed me how everyone but me had aged so much. My eyes kept wandering back to a little old lady dressed all in black, with a sheer black veil covering her face. There was something there I recognized, though for the life of me, I couldn't’ figure out who she was. Heck, I'd been gone nearly thirty years. She was so small and fragile looking, yet she stood erect; not like so many of the people, with their backs bowed by the ravages of time and from a lifetime of hard work. After every sentence the preacher said, the little black-clad lady loudly proclaimed, "Hallelujah!" Not once did she raise her eyes from the casket, about to be lowered into the ground.

I sniffed and dabbed at my eyes with a handkerchief that cost more than most of these folks’ entire wardrobe. The little lady in black finally raised her head slightly, and I thought I saw a thin smile on the shriveled old lips behind her veil. She looked back at the casket one more time, then gazed across the grave, directly at me.

The preacher finally exhausted himself to the point where he could barely speak, because of his wheezing, and motioned for the casket to be lowered into the ground. He quickly walked behind the crowd and into the trees at the edge of the small cemetery, where he had a wracking fit of coughing. When the coughing finally subsided, he lit a non-filtered cigarette and coughed some more.

As the people drifted slowly away to return to their normal pursuits, I stood staring down at the dull gray concrete lid under which my mama lay and thought, "My gosh, Mama, you never got to go anywhere outside this stinking little town. Never even got to go a few miles south to Mexico to shop. I sure wish you could have traveled some, Mama. There’s a whole world out there you never even knew about. If you’d seen some of it, maybe you could have forgiven me for wanting to be a part of all that. Gosh, Mama, I’ve been to Greece, Spain, France, Italy, all over South America, and I even went to Alaska and Hawaii. Sure wish you could have gone with me."

After speaking in my mind to mama for several minutes, I returned to the real world and found only the little lady in black remained. I stared at her, still thinking of what might have been for my mama. My daddy, my brother and my sisters were gone, without even so much as saying hello. Come to think of it, they hadn’t uttered more than a grudging, "Hi" to me since I arrived, earlier that morning. I’m not sure how long I stood silently staring into the earthen hole to which mama had been committed, before I bent down, grabbed the obligatory handful of dirt and threw it into the hole. As I quickly turned and walked away from that sad ending for mama, the little lady in black moved forward to the grave and followed the ritual. I’d gone but ten paces when she called out in a croak-like voice, "Francis Ann!"

Her voice seemed terribly familiar. When I turned back, she was trying hard to catch up and, I waited, as she walked across the unmowed weeds that passed for grass, being careful not to step on some dearly departed’s grave. Her circuitous route cost me at least five minutes, as I again felt the panic return at being in that place, and the panic of the possibility my nightmare might come true. After all, mama always said your dreams looked into your soul and future and were precursors of things to come.

When she finally arrived where I waited next to my powder blue Mercedes, she lifted the veil and smiled broadly. "You don’t remember me, do you, Francis Ann?"

I stared into that shriveled old face and the keen blue eyes, undulled by her advanced years, trying to pick her out of the shadows of memory. When I finally realized who she was, I threw my arms around her and gave her a big hug. "I remember, but it can’t be. You’re Eleanor! But you were … I’m so sorry I didn’t recognize you sooner."

"Don’t be sorry. It’s been thirty years. Why should you recognize me? My God, girl, I’m ninety-one years old. A body changes a lot when they get that old." Her smile grew wider, revealing teeth stained by nearly a century of jams, jellies and those tiny black cigars she smoked.

"Oh, Eleanor, if there’s one person in this town I’d have liked to recognize, it’s you." I probably shouldn’t have said it, but I blurted out, "You’re the only one in this stupid damned little town that ever made a lick of sense to me."

"Now, Francis Ann, you can’t blame the people here for being backward. It’s all they know. My goodness, girl, you’re just as purtty as you ever was. How do you manage that?"

"Clean living and a huge bill each month from the beauty shop."

She laughed and put her frail little arm around my waist. "Whatever it is you’re doin’, don’t stop. I gotta admit, you’re right about most folks here being a little backwards."

"Oh, it’s much more than being backwards, Eleanor. These people are backwards, upside down, crossways … everything but right side up."

I hated to leave her, but the old panic was beginning to set in, for sure. I had to get back to the highway. Once I got through all that "nothing" country on the tiny gravel road, the panic always subsided, and I felt safe again. "Eleanor, I hate to run off and leave you, but I have to get back to Dallas."

"Could you just go far enough out of your way to give me a buggy ride home. I rode out with that crazy old Mister Zook. He already left. Probably forgot I was even with him. Guess I’ll have to call to make sure the old fool remembered where he lived and got home okay."

She cackled at her little joke, but I was in no mood for jokes. I wanted to get back to Interstate 35. I was nearly to the point of shaking, as I glanced around to see that there were no village idiots with chains lurking behind the trees. But, how could I refuse her a ride home? I couldn’t just leave her standing there at the cemetery. "Okay, I can take long enough to get you home, but then I have to run. It gives me the willies being here."

"Good. We can talk on the way."

When I held the door open for her, she glanced inside my powder blue Mercedes and gasped. "Goodness sakes, Francis Ann, what in the world does a carriage like this cost?"

"Lots. But I make a lot of money."

"Oh? Exactly what is it you do in the city?"

"I’m a lawyer. In fact, I have my own law firm and employ eight other lawyers."

She looked at me in astonishment. "Naw, you don’t say? Eight lawyers? What in the world would a city need that many lawyers for? Why’d you get to be one a them ornery critters?"

"So I could have nice things like this powder blue Mercedes. I buy a new one every year."

"It is a nice car. You remember them McCafferty twins?"

Eleanor could change the subject as quickly as the South Texas weather could change. I laughed, remembering the McCafferty twins well.

Eleanor launched into the story of how she cured them of their terrible rash. I hadn’t had too much to laugh about for some time, and even though I knew the story by heart, it did make me laugh. I’m a criminal lawyer and have to deal with the real scumbuckets of society. They certainly aren’t the kind of people who can make you laugh.

She continued her story about the twins, even though I’d heard it at least two dozen times, years ago. The story rambled on until I pulled into her driveway, which was completely overgrown in three foot tall Johnson grass. It was evident Eleanor never drove the ’56 Chevrolet Biscayne, with seven thousand miles on the odometer, and which she had covered with old blankets in the half fallen down, open front garage.

As I held the door open for her she asked, "Francis Ann, did you ever get married?"

"Yeah, I got married once. Lasted seven months. Turned out to be a real creep. All he wanted was my money, while he played around with a dozen other women."

She laughed, as she pushed the passenger door of my powder blue Mercedes closed. "Francis Ann, why don’t you come in for a few minutes and have a cup of tea before you start back for Dallas? Doggone, I was havin’ so much fun talkin’ to someone with a little sense for a change. I’d sure like to visit with you some more. It gets awful lonely around this big old house, bein’ all by myself, and all."

I wanted to tell her no, but something, perhaps the fact that she was closer to normal than anyone in this pitiful place, kept tugging at me to stay for a bit. I found myself following her to the sagging screen door, and holding it open while she fumbled with the sticky front door lock for what seemed an eternity. Eleanor talked all the while, and continued to talk, as she put the teakettle on the kerosene stove and lit the burner.

The mixture of familiar smells in Eleanor’s house amazed me. Smells I hadn’t known for years and which I had forgotten. The yeasty odor of home-made bread lingered in the air, and somewhere, in one of those pretty antique cookie jars lined up on the linoleum covered countertop, rested a batch of home-made ginger cookies. The memory made me realize only Eleanor knew the secret of such cookies. I’d eaten of ton of them as a young girl and, for a moment, was transported back to those days of innocence and lack of knowledge of the real world. Just for a moment, I was innocent again.

Being a criminal lawyer had hardened me, I guess. I hadn’t cried in years. But now, tears found their way down my cheeks, as I thought about the same smells in my mama’s dilapidated old kitchen. My oldest, and I guess my fondest, memory was standing on a chair, helping mama roll little bits of cookie dough into little balls and placing them on a metal cookie sheet. Then, the excitement of the beautiful aroma filling the room, knowing I would soon be the first to get a sample cookie, while they were hot out of the oven. That was a time before I became aware our little town in the middle of nowhere was a half bubble off level. It was before I realized there was a whole world for the exploring out there beyond the pasture filled with skinny cows at the edge of this outpost of humanity. They never should have let me see that first geography book in second grade.

With warm tea made from some sort of plant Eleanor picked in the scrubby desert around our little town in front of me, and a plate full of thick, soft, fresh cookies, we talked on and on about the "old" days. Suddenly, I realized it was dark outside and jumped up in a panic. "Eleanor. I have to get out of here! I have to get back to the highway!"

"Good gosh, Francis Ann, you’ll have ta spend the night, now. It’s too dark out there to drive."

I suppose Eleanor had never found the headlight switch on her Chevy. I held back my nervous laughter, but smiled broadly at the old woman. Too dark to drive, indeed. No, it was too dark to be in that town. At least, for me, it was. I could have explained the wonder of the halogen headlights on my powder blue Mercedes to Eleanor, but instead, I headed for the front door, with Eleanor scurrying along behind, telling me how unsafe it was to drive in the dark and begging me to stay. I would have rather slept in my powder blue Mercedes on the side of the highway than spend a night in that town. No way would I give them the chance to chain me down in that place forever or until I died, whichever came first.

With Eleanor on my heels, I grabbed the old glass door knob, twisted it and pulled. The knob came off in my hand! Oh! My God! Eleanor was one of them! She was part of the conspiracy to trap me! Now, I knew why she insisted on my taking her home and coming in for tea - why she fed me those fresh, soft cookies. The tea had something in it! She was part of the plot to keep me in that little town in the middle of nowhere forever or until I died!

"Oh, heck, Francis Ann. Sorry about that. That darned knob keeps coming off all the time. Don’t have enough strength in my hands to tighten the screw good enough."

I’d headed back to the kitchen and was about to heave the knob through the window to escape when Eleanor said, "My gosh, Francis Ann, don’t panic. We can go out the back door."

Now … I guess I seemed like a crazy woman to Eleanor, but I ran out the back door and up the drive to my powder blue Mercedes. My fingers seemed to have a mind of their own, as I fumbled with my purse, trying to get the keys out. Once retrieved, the key didn’t want to go into the lock. Of course, my hands were shaking so badly, I couldn’t have hit the toilet wall, if I’d had my nose against it. Then, just about the time I got the door open, a hand grabbed onto my shoulder. I whirled around the door, out of the hand’s grasp, jumped into the seat of my powder blue Mercedes, slammed the door and hit the door lock button. Eleanor’s face peered in the window at me as I started the engine. I didn’t stop to say thanks for the tea, goodbye, or kiss my butt. All I could think about was getting to Interstate thirty-five, as I slammed the gear selector into reverse and mowed down a bunch of grass, backing out of her drive. I damned near took out a utility pole, as I whipped onto the narrow dirt street and spun the wheels.

The five blocks to the edge of town seemed forever, as I realized I’d stayed far too late in that miserable little town. Every shadow cast by the four street lights I passed under was a threat to my life. My powder blue Mercedes responded like a true hero to my foot pressing ever harder on the accelerator. Someone could be lurking anywhere along the way in the shadows, chains in hand, ready to snag my beautiful car and chain me down forever.

Then, I was on the roller coaster road and headed for I35. Imagine my relief, when I spotted the small bridge ahead that let our small road go under the highway. Then, imagine my relief, as I turned onto the ramp and sped onto the interstate, headed north toward San Antonio. I knew I had escaped that little town in the middle of nowhere just in time, and I’d escaped for the last time. As I drove twenty miles over the speed limit, passing even the speeding semi drivers, I vowed that never again would I return to that place. Never again, would I give them the opportunity to grab me and hold me hostage in my powder blue Mercedes.

I knew it was too late to drive all the way to Dallas. Eleanor had been half right about that. She’d been somewhat right about it being too dark to drive. My night vision has always been really lousy, and it actually wasn’t safe for me to drive at night if I was even a bit tired. I’m one of those people who see strange things on the highway after a while. And, on an open highway, with nothing to see in the darkness but the pavement and the distraction of oncoming headlights, I fall asleep far too easily. I’d find a motel, spend the night, then make a fresh start in the morning. Now that I was well away from the clutches of those who would keep me imprisoned in that little town in the middle of nowhere, I was in no particular hurry, and driving the hundred miles to San Antonio was a distance I could safely handle. It also gave me a quiet time to reflect on my life - where it had taken me and where it might go from here. I also calmly thought about that little town and its people. Mainly, the people I had known as a child and young adult.

Now, away from there, I could again smile about Eleanor. Surely, she would think I was nuts. That was a shame, because, as I said, besides myself, I think Eleanor was the only person in that town who was totally sane. Not only was she sane, but she was downright smart and truly intuitive about other people. Most high priced attorneys I know are highly intelligent, but few are as smart as old Eleanor. Even the high priced, beauty queen types who work for me and make me wealthier every day would have a hard time competing with Eleanor, when it comes to smarts. You have to understand, I don’t mean book learning smart. I’m talking about smart, smart. Eleanor could listen to people speak and know what they were truly trying to say, even though they never mentioned it. She could answer people’s problems before they told her what the problem was. But, Eleanor’s real talent lay in her common sense psychology, and her ability to perform what seemed like miracles to the folks in that little town in the middle of nowhere. Sometimes, to the unknowing, it seemed truly uncanny when she cured a person of their ills.

That was when Eleanor was at her best, even though there was nothing at all miraculous about her cures. She became know as a Curandera to the locals. Some years later, I would learn the meaning of that word in Spanish is "quack." I was on to her when I was about thirteen and told her so. "Eleanor, I know how you cured old man Carver’s persistent cold."

"Oh, and how did I do that, Miss Smarty Pants?"

I gave her a smug smile and said, "Oh, Eleanor, all that turning around three times under the willow tree in his back yard every hour, then standing perfectly still facing due east for five minutes, not a second more, not a second less, then lying on the ground, concentrating on the first time he had sex was just to enhance your reputation as a Curandera."

Eleanor stood five feet two inches tall, her arms folded across her chest, and tapped her foot on the floor. "Then, what cured his long time cold, Miss Know it All?"

"The Vicks melted in the hot tea with the jasmine root."

She pointed her bony finger at me and shouted, "AHA! You see, you’re not as smart as you thought. The jasmine root didn’t do a damned thing, girly. All it did was make old man Carver think he was taking something besides Vicks for his cold."

Now, I had her! "Then you admit you’re a fraud! Nothing but a big hoax!"

"Not at all, young lady. I cure them, don’t I?"

"Yeah, but not with all that weird stuff and mumbo-jumbo."

Eleanor smiled and put her arm around my waist. "Look, Francis Ann, (I can’t tell you how much I’ve always hated that name) if they’re cured, what difference does it make what cured them? Sure, most of what I do is stupid mumbo-jumbo, but that’s what folks here understand. Long as I’m helpin’ folks, what’s it matter? So, how about you keep my little secret? It’ll be a secret just you and me share."

How could I say no? She was offering to share her secrets with me, and Lord knows, there wasn’t anything else secret in that little town in the middle of nowhere. I agreed I’d never breath a word to a living soul, and I haven’t to this day ever told anyone. Not until now, that is.

As I continued up the highway for Dallas the following morning, I thought about my visit with Eleanor and all her "miraculous" cures. I wondered what the few Mexicans living in our town thought of a Gringo passing herself off as a sure enough Curandera. That’s when I decided to write everything I can remember about Eleanor down, so when I get old and have a hard time remembering the way things were in that little town in the middle of nowhere, I can read what I’ve written and remember.

I hope there are those of you out there who live in little towns in the middle of nowhere who can relate to my story. And, I have a message for you: Either be content to listen to the same old stories over and over for all your life or forever, whichever comes first, or get the hell outa Dodge and go somewhere - anywhere. Living in a little town like that can be rewarding, but it can be confining. And, who knows, the locals might not want you to leave. So, get out while you can. By the way, I told you I wasn’t going to reveal the name of my little town? Heck, most the folks there are dead by now, anyway, I’m sure. To heck with it. I’ll tell you. Or, maybe I shouldn’t. Eleanor’s ghost might put some kind of hex on me. (Shhhhh… Yokelsville.)

Two good ol’ boys were driving down a country road, when they saw a farmer sitting in a bass boat, a rod and reel in his hand, in the middle of a plowed field.

One good ol’ boy asked the other, "Do you suppose we should go out there and tell him he can’t catch any fish in that field?"

"Well, it’d be the neighborly thing ta do, but we don’t have a boat."