The Benderosa

Sally's Dream at the Moose Lodge

(Ed. note: SALLY'S DREAM is a Bloomington based women's band playing original Pop & Roll. They recently appeared in Indianapolis at the Vogue for the A.I.M. benefit and will be returning soon to a club near you. Gus Travers in an itinerant Bloomington DJ at WQAX-FM and critic of all he surveys.)

Invading new territory is always fun and what other chance would I get to go to the Moose Lodge, I ask you? Snowball's chance in hell, buddy. So, like any good investigative reporter I took my opportunity when I got it. The Moose Lodge is located out West 2nd street, at Cory Lane. The parking lot was full but this turned out to be deceptive as once inside we saw very few people. We never discovered where all those Meese were, in the woods perhaps, or watching MTV in another room.

We waited in the handsome foyer chatting with the very pleasant lady behind the counter as we waited for a band member to sign us in. It was Chrissy, the lead guitar player, who was very happy to see some familiar faces. We were led into a spacious auditorium with a high ceiling that was covered with some kind of strange fur. There was also a huge balcony that I was never able to explore, maybe that's where everybody was. Band friends were seated at the front so we occupied a table near them. A very efficient waitress took our orders while a few disgruntled Meese could be heard complaining about all the non-members that had invaded their sanctum sanctorum. Sorry, guys, but you could have a little fun if you'd just loosen up your assholes a little.

We probably would have viewed more Moose if we'd caught the first set but were unavoidably detained by my companion's insistence on watching an episode of Mike Hammer. She said that Stacey Keech was a "hunk," with which I agreed, but couldn't decide just what he was a hunk of. This particular episode featured a guest appearance by Herbie Hancock as a talentless jazz-rock musician. Never having seen Mike Hammer before I was surprised to note that the plot and dialogue were lifted almost verbatim from that old favorite of mine, Cannon. The big difference being that in a brawl Cannon dispatched his rivals with fewer motions. Also Frank Cannon always made friends with the women he met, unlike the hump and kill approach favored by Mr. Keach.

The start of the third set was marred by technical difficulties and the unfortunate spectacle of a middle-aged gentleman in a leather jacket mimicking singer Cyndi Hammond's body english as he and his friends left. You're the one that lost out, fella, because after wading through three cover tunes the band hit their stride and performed a cover of Boys Cry that would grow hair on a melon ball. I saw old Jay Clay dancing the short hop with a long-legged woman from outer space. Some game Moose got up to have some fun and they danced tolerably well. The dance floor was a little slippery like a bowling alley. With the right shoes you had a freedom of movement impossible to achieve in a place like the Bluebird where spilled beer gums up the floor. Keyboardist/Guitarist Jenny Davis cracked a few jokes to keep things loose. I've often felt that her contribution to the band is as much psychological as musical. She completes the chemistry of the band onstage, provides another focal point for audience attention and heightens the dimension of their sound. Drummer Emily Jackson, on the other hand, like every good drummer, provides the framework upon which the band constructs its sound. What I like about Emily's drumming is not just the originality, which is the first thing you notice, but that it is spare, clean and always correct.

I overheard someone at the next table saying that they thought the band was "kinky" but that table was bombed level and a might kinky themselves judging by their not too discrete but nevertheless playful lusting for one another. About this time the band was burning down a ragged, though inspiring, Jack of Hearts that featured Chris Dickinson's right pretty voice. Besides being an ace guitar player Chris has come a long way in confidence about her singing, adding that dash of paprika to Cyndi Hammond's basic white sauce. I'd love to hear her sing Honky Tonk Girl or Sleepless Nights or anything really.
There is no doubt that Sally's Dream gets much of its stage presence from Cyndi Hammond who seems natural there. She has complete control of the stage, expressing the band's mostly original songs in a way that the audience can feel and understand. After seeing a series of bands that seem to shrink or curl up on stage, like they don't know quite what to do with their hands, it's refreshing to see someone who knows what she's doing and can breathe a little soul into her performance.

A boss Moose kept approaching the stage asking them to play something contemporary like Barbara Mandrell, something people knew. They had spent a lot of time working on a country set but unfortunately concentrated on country classics which is fine but where were the hits? It's an old argument and the Moose did see them perform before they hired them and should have known what they were getting into but you can't blame them for wanting their members to have a good time and I guess that I'm impressed that they tried to bring their people something different.

At intermission Arthur Staggs won $525 in a lodge contest but the poor sap wasn't present so he couldn't collect. I went out to take a pee and noted the bulletin board where there was a long list of Moose who had yet to pay their dues. C'mon, you guys, your lodge needs your support.

For their last set the Dream decided to play for their ravenous fans who were about the only people left. And they kicked it hard, let me tell you. You follow a band around long enough and you know what its like when they're good and you know what its like when they're bad and if you're lucky you get to know what it's like when they're everything that they're meant to be and, good buddies, that time for Sally's Dream was their last set at the Moose Lodge. God knows what the remaining Moose made of all those funny looking people with bushed up, dyed hair, dancing a hole in their floor but by that time we'd drunk enough of their beer that we didn't care and had about as much fun as you can have anywhere which is why I go out. How about you?

—Gus Travers 1984

A Christmas Moment

He was born. With a gasp he remembered his previous life. For once it hadn't ended so badly, he hadn't died violently or alone. Oh! Now he remembered all the times he had lived. He was doomed to live all lives because, one day, when he had lived them all, he would understand—become, you know, god.

He wondered where he was. This must be Mother, and her warm breast, which she offered him.

“And Father, he's quite a bit older than the last guy. And who are the three coots offering gifts?

That looks like a donkey! In my bedroom! My folks have shacked up in a manger! Where the hell am I?” He looked around desperately for escape.

Then he yawned. With every sip of Mother's milk the baby's thoughts became a little more cloudy. He forgot the shopkeeper's life he'd lived in Memphis, the cobbler in Macedon, the farmer in Gaul, the dancing girl in Rome. He forgot them all as he started his new life, in a manger, in Bethlehem.

The 3 Wise Asses--Bear's Christmas 2014

The story that poses the question: If there were three wise men, what did they ride?

It was a cold evening, the sky clear and dark as the three wise asses stood tied up beside the humble manger in the little town of Bethlehem. A boy passed among them, giving each a handful of parched grain.

“What's the special occasion?” grumbled the one called Meg, but the others were too busy chewing to answer.

Suddenly, the door swung open and the boss came out. “Bring Meg over here,” he hissed. “Quickly!”

The boys untied her and led her inside the shabby building where the animal was brought before a tableau of a tired looking couple and their newborn child. Meg snorted nervously.

Impossibly, the infant began speaking.

“Don't be afraid, Meg.”

Meg looked around but no one seemed to notice. “I didn't know you little ones could talk . . . for that matter, I didn't know I could speak Aramaic!”

The baby smiled. “You can't, but that won't stop you.”

“Right . . . well what can I do for you? . . .”

“Jesus . . . I guess I just wanted to talk to somebody before all this . . . rigmarole begins.”

“Say what?” the ass brayed.

“You and I are a lot alike,” Jesus said. “We take on people's burdens with very little thanks. In your case, you carry people and their belongings until the day you can't do it any more, then they get rid of you.”

“Hey, Buford-Saul has been good to me.”

“No doubt,” replied Jesus with a laugh.

“Well, what burden do you have, baby?”

The infant sighed. “Just the whole fuckin' world.”

Shocked, Meg backed away a step. “It's not right for a baby to use language like that, even if he is only pretending to talk.”

Jesus smiled sadly. “Here's the deal, Meg. Once I've grown up I'll give people a message of compassion and hope and the secret for a happy, fulfilled life—treat others as you wish to be treated yourself. Pretty simple.”

“Even an ass can remember that!”

“Then I'll sacrifice myself to drive the point home.”

Meg stared at him. “That seems . . . extreme.”

The baby shrugged. “Believe me, it'll be worth it. But what chaps my ass is that I'll barely be with the angels above when men start harnessing the power of my words to their own ends—for power, for money, for plain ornery meanness.”

Distressed, Meg wailed, “What can I do? I'm just an ass!”

Jesus laughed as his mother lifted him to her breast. “At least you admit it, dear Meg, at least you admit it!”

God is only standing there, ego eyes watering like a typhoon. Eye here, eye there, watch 'em join together. A woman wants to hold his hand but he won't let her. The unfortunate occasion of which we speak, begotten son of Pan, standard drift on nightmare Ert, doing some bizarre rendition of a Russian squat dance, extending his long legs and clicking his cowboy heels on the street.

A red-faced girl laughed as she watched him, beer bottle in one hand, a cigarette between her fingers.

Others did the Herky Jerky, catalepting a frantic mosh. That's how it started. The heat and motion had them warping like cardboard, feet planted solidly, firm bodies arched . . .

But I wasn't dancing tonight, things were too damn scary.

The Last Christmas Story

It was Christmas morning and a child played with his new toy, a “L’il Scientist” kit. There were test tubes and beakers, scales and diodes, a microscope and telescope, a mass spectrometer, and a pristine particle accelerator buried in the back yard.

He mixed up chemicals for awhile: turning water into wine and back again, learning the joys of vinegar and baking soda, nickel-plating his sister’s glass eye—until the fumes from the sulfur volcano he’d built caused his parents to suggest he play outside.

Disconsolately, he kicked around the faded clumps of grass in the back yard, sharp wind cutting through his hoodie like a knife through the frog he’s dissected and left in the bathtub. “I guess they ain’t found that yet,” he grumbled while kicking at a rock that turned out to be frozen dog poop. To get out of the cold wind he entered the particle accelerator’s bunker. Soon he was flipping switches and watching the readouts as a deep and delightful thrumming filled the building.

Suddenly, fireworks erupted as relativistic heavy ions collided.

“Let’s see what we got here,” he muttered while wheeling out his new double-ultra-microscope. Broken chunks of gold atoms littered his screen like jalopies at a demolition derby. “Cool!” he enthused.

Then he saw a speck of light. Focusing, he realized that it was actually a quickly growing bubble. “Outstanding!” he said, ramping up the magnification. Specks of light were embedded in the bubble like raisins in a muffin. “Imagine that,” he muttered, seeing tiny vortices. He focused on one of the little whirlpools and saw it was composed of millions of tiny sparks, some red, blue, orange, ultramarine and white. He chose one of the sparks near the edge, a yellow-whitish one.

He found that it had dark companions, small clumps of dirt and gas circled about it like horses on a merry-go-round. The big ones looked like swirly marbles and were cool enough, he supposed, but he quickly honed in on the one that had oxygen in its atmosphere and lots of water. He saw land, too, mountains, deserts, and verdant forests. He gasped—roads and buildings! He pushed his microscope all the way to its limit, wishing he’d asked Santa for the triple-ultra kit, until he was just able to make out a small building outside a village, where animals were housed—a barn or manger he supposed. There, three ornately garbed gentlemen offered gifts to a newborn child.

“Billy!” he heard his mother call, “Time for church.”

Reluctantly he turned off the monitor. Too bad, he thought, the bubble universe he’d accidentally created would be gone by the time he returned, evaporated back into the vacuum from where it had emerged. He’d just have to make another one tomorrow, he supposed, turning out the lights as somewhere a wise man noticed that the star that had guided him and the others to Bethlehem had disappeared.

And so will I.

Zardoz

John Hodgman: A brief digression on matters of lost time

Good Eye/Bad Eye

He met her in church on a Sunday morning. Since he was in town for only one day he invited her to breakfast afterwards. They got along so well that he gave her a couple of passes for the evening’s match in Boofterville. To his surprise she showed up with her brother. They returned with him to the dressing room for a few minutes and her brother got his autograph, saying that he was a huge fan. She wished him luck and then they went back to their seats.

He was slated for a later match, against Sgt. Big Bo Scrumble, 400 pounds of fighting Marine. Finally he heard the announcer, slapped the patch over his left eye, did a couple deep knee bends, and made his way to the ring. “And now, at 367 pounds, all the way from Vinegarroon County, Indiana, the most schizophrenic man in professional wrestling—Good Eye/Bad Eye!”

People strained to see which eye was uncovered. “It’s Good Eye,” the disappointing word spread. He stepped into the ring to cheers and shouts. He had just made her out in the crowd when Big Bo attacked him from behind, before the bell had even rung! Before he knew it he was on the canvas and Big Bo was applying a sloppy arm-bar-drag. Good Eye screamed in pain as Big Bo nearly pulled his arm from its socket. He struggled to his feet.

Big Bo kept the pressure on as he shouted epithets: “Ten hut! Stand at attention when I’m talking to you, maggot!” Then he kicked Good Eye in the ribs knocking him back onto the canvas. As Good Eye struggled, gasping for air, Big Bo showed his contempt by performing a few calisthenics while Good Eye pulled himself painfully to his feet.

Things didn’t get any better after that. Big Bo dropped him on his head a couple of times, even tried a DDT, which Good Eye managed to slip out of before he was knocked unconscious. Then Big Bo slapped him through the ropes and he lay on the ring apron, lights whirling around his head. The roar of the crowd seemed very far away.

He could barely make out the referee counting him out as Big Bo capered in the ring to the boos of the fans.

Suddenly someone was standing over him. “He’s killing you!” she anguished. “Ah, ’tain’t nothing,” he smiled unconvincingly through bloodied teeth. Someone tried to shepherd her away but Good Eye stopped him. “Wait.”

“You’ll never beat him, this way. I’m sorry,” she said as she grabbed his eye patch and pulled it over his one good eye. The crowd gasped. Big Bo stopped his prancing and a look of fear crossed his face. “It’s Bad Eye!” Someone screamed.

Without looking back Bad Eye climbed into the ring and viciously raked his fingernails over Big Bo’s face, blood flowing like the Red Sea. After a couple of good forearm shots Bad Eye had him down, stomping him unmercifully with his big black boots. After a couple of elbow drops he climbed to the top rope where he waited like some monstrous malevolent crow while the shaken Big Bo struggled to his feet. As Bo turned around Bad Eye pounced, leaping over his stunned opponent, capturing Bo’s head between his boots and performing a Flying Head Scissors that sent his opponent whirling into ear-ringing oblivion. “1–2–3,” the referee counted, it was over but Bad Eye wasn’t done yet. He chased the referee out of the ring, grabbed a chair, clobbered the announcer and would have finished off Big Bo except Captain Ace Hardy and his tag team partner, XNOID, led a group of wrestlers out of the back and subdued Bad Eye after twenty minutes of frantic pummeling that left the ring area shattered, several tables broken, three wrestlers and two managers unconscious, and the refreshment booth a wreck. Hotdogs, ice, popcorn, and soda were strewn from one end of the arena to the other. The crowd shouted for more.

Finally, six wrestlers held Bad Eye down as he growled and snapped at them. “We can’t hold him long, get that gal up here!” yelled Cap Ace and soon Bad Eye was glaring up at a young woman, tears in her eyes as she gently grasped his sweaty, bloody eye patch. He tried to pull away but she slid the patch across his battered nose until it covered his one bad eye.

Good Eye looked up and smiled.

He was in love.

Manipulating the Monkey

Winter was the quiet time in Jocobo. Most of the shops closed up and those who could afford it went to Florida or some other warm far-off place.

But, believe it or not, some people actually lived in Jocobo year round. When the cold north wind whipped off the slopes of Mt. Elb and the legendary Vinegarroon snowstorms left 45 feet on the ground these hardy folks brought a few more cans of food up from the basement and checked their e-mail for messages. If they had to go out they’d fire up the old 4-By and churn across the frozen wastes for a candy bar, to return a DVD, or maybe even go to work if they were fortunate enough to have a job.

Winter could be just as trying for a cat.

Squeeks, asleep the moment before, sat up suddenly, listening carefully. Yes, the Monkey was home and he was in the kitchen. Squeeks jumped off the bed and made his way quickly downstairs.

There he was, rooting around behind the door where he kept the good stuff—the meat, the gravy, the yogurt, and the milk. C’mon, big fella, give it up.

“Squeeks, how many times do I have to tell you to stay off the table?”

Hearing his tone of voice the cat immediately lay down amongst the books, papers, pliers, styrofoam coffee cups, couch innards, paper clips, pizza rinds, etc., etc.

“You are so bad,” the Monkey said, picking the cat up and placing him on a chair. Squeeks stayed for a moment, watching the big ape move about the room, then hopped back onto his table.

“Look,” said the Monkey while sticking a spoonful of applesauce in front of the cat’s nose. “This is what I’m eating. Do you really think you’d like some?”

Squeeks turned away with disgust, dropping off the table with a loud flatfooted thud.

“Good cat, look, I saved a little cooked chicken for you.”

Later, Squeeks stood by the door waiting for the Monkey to let him out but when the door opened the landscape was white, cold, and uninviting. Squeeks stood there, tail twitching back and forth as a frigid wind blew in.

“Will you go out, already?” The Monkey complained until Squeeks turned around and came back inside. Five minutes later Squeeks was back at the door again. The Monkey was usually good for three or four of these little rejections before he wised up. Then Squeeks would go stand in front of a closet until it was opened. The Monkey usually responded because he was afraid of having mice in his closet.

Then it was time for a snooze.

They went through the whole routine again in the afternoon except maybe Squeeks would sit by the window looking sad, expecting the Monkey to open it. The stupid primate could never seem to remember how to operate a window in the winter and would stand there gibbering even when it was plain what Squeeks wanted him to do.

If the Monkey happened to be sitting asleep in front of the television, as he often did on Sundays in the winter, there was some amusement to be had in lying three or four feet in front of him, crying repeatedly until the dumb animal opened its eyes.

The idiot would then fall back to sleep until Squeeks meowed again. Over and over, it could go on the entire afternoon until the Monkey would finally get up and let Squeeks lead him into the kitchen where he would stare dumbly at a cat bowl full of that dry stuff and ask once again what Squeeks wanted. “Like it’s not obvious, you big dummy! I want what you’re eating. Monkey food! Why do you get all the good stuff?”

Monkeys, what can you do with them? As servants they’re second rate, as companions they’re only fair . . . but they sure are warm on a cold winter’s night!

The Pirate of Peppercorn Creek

It was the time of year that many in the Liars Bunch lived for. When the streets of the village of Jocobo were packed with strangers looking for a good time. They were searching for an answer and the Liars Bunch—a’settin’—on their bench, were there to give it to them.

Some of the boys even dressed up for the part although it was hard to figure out what part exactly they were playing. Joe “Peets” Moss might have looked the artistic type if it hadn’t been for the cheap all-sport shoes he was wearing. Zack Hardy affected the hog farmer style, with the bibs and the softball sized chaw tucked demurely in his cheek. The expensive watch on his wrist kinda gives his game away, though. Erv Roadapple looked like a bum, but it’s only because he’s not married and hates ironing his clothes. Harry Whelp, the one-eyed dentist, rarely bothers changing from his work “whites” with their splotches of dried blood arcing across his shirt and pants. Old Bart, however, is the very picture of a small town sage in his black slacks, white shirt, and thin black tie with a silver clasp. A cowboy hat wards off the hot sun and his silver belt buckle is cast in the shape of a lone American eagle, pouncing, with its wings flung high and talons extended.

A stuffed eagle sat in one corner of Calamine Pete’s cabin. It was a trophy he’d taken from an English “naturalist” right before he’d made him walk the plank. He hadn’t even bothered to pause and watch the lubber drown. “Let Nature take her course,” he chuckled.

Oh, yo ho ho
You dirty old dog,
Gonna cut you up
Like an ol’ fat hog!
Yo ho ho
And a bottle of beer . . .

“Jimmie!” He heard his mother calling him. “Jimmie!”

“All right,” he thought, “make that a bottle of root beer.” He got up from his favorite spot along the bank of Peppercorn Creek with a sigh, watching as the little reed boats he’d made that afternoon floated forever downstream. He wished he could go along, he thought, while starting home for supper. He could still hear the pirates singing their song.

Yo ho ho,
And a cask of scum
Effin’ you see us comin’
You better run . . .

Vinegarroon County was not the kind of place you’d expect to find a band of scurvy pirates but there they were, inside the head of the dreamy little boy sitting in the back row of the classroom. They were starting classes earlier every year it seemed. Why, summer wasn’t even close to over and here they were already learning geometry! He’d show them some geometry, by golly—the geometry of chasing Spanish treasure off Haiti and Jamaica! The geometry of a well-placed shot into ships’ rigging! The geometry of walking the plank! Ho ho ho!

“Um, could you repeat that question again, Mrs. Greech?”

Abby Greech shook her head with disdain. “Jimmie Bartholomew, you may want to stay after today’s class and clean the blackboards.”

“Aw.” Pa would have a fit if he wasn’t home in time to start his chores.

Later, with the room empty, as he stood beside her desk, Mrs. Greech said. “Jimmie, I told a little fib. I don’t want you to clean the blackboards.”

Jimmie looked up at her questioningly. Mrs. Greech was an old woman, at least 30, but she came from the city and had university training and so she was a little bit scary.

“I want you to write on the blackboard exactly what it is you’re daydreaming about during my class. You can go home as soon as you’ve finished.” She handed him a piece of chalk and walked out of the room.

“Gee whiz,” he thought, scratching his head. He stared at the board for quite some time before shrugging. “Why the heck not?”

He wrote down what was in his head until he’d filled up one blackboard and continued on to another. When he’d filled that one up he continued writing on the one in Mr. Grassgold’s room, then the room across the hall. Oh, Pa was mad that night and he’d gone to bed without supper and grounded for a month, but the growls his belly made were like the sweet groans of the mast as the sails shifted with the evening breeze.

Mrs. Greech had made him a writer. And he had had a wonderful career as the gadgets columnist in Popular Morbeau Magazine. Over six million readers worldwide and they even paid him, too, somewhat.

The warm breeze felt good to Old Bart as he snoozed on the Liars Bunch’s bench.

The fury of a storm just passing had left Calamine Pete and his scurvy crew helpless as a British frigate approached. The King Canute had no mercy for pirates. The battle was short and brutal as the Canute battered them from afar. Explosions ripped the deck and killed his men as Calamine Pete labored in vain to strike back. Finally the British ship of war approached deliberately, menacingly, grappling hooks pulling at what rigging was left. Calamine Pete and a few crewmen made it over the side and into a dinghy only moments before the bomb they’d set in the magazine took both ships in a towering gout of flame.

Old Jimmie Bartholomew sighed as he opened his eyes and gazed benignly out on the peaceful scene in downtown Jocobo on a warm summer’s evening.

A Quick and Dirty Tour of The Liars Bunch

“Vinegarroon County is one of those places where anything can happen,” reflected Babe Martin to the visitor as he absent-mindedly guided his hurtling pickup down the steep, winding mountain road. The guardrail was bashed and bumped and occasionally breached but Babe never gave it a thought.

When they reached the overlook he pulled the truck to a sudden halt, tossing a few empty beer cans into the trash barrel there. “The cops in Jocobo are getting a mite ambitious,” he reflected. “They don’t need much encouragement to open an investigation.” Babe roamed Vinegarroon County like a nervous dog, never able to lie down long.

They could see a good part of the county down below. Every ledge and rocky outcropping had a home, small farm, or small community nestled there.

“Jocobo is down that way,” Babe pointed towards the county seat part way down the side of the old volcano. “It was named for "The Kissing Saint" by the first white man who may or may not have passed through this way over 200 years ago.

“Lake Doofus is over there and you can just see an edge of Clyde’s Fungal Growth Park and below it there is Bone Head and Sleepyville. This place is full of legends and ghosts, artists, writers, wannabees, and just plain folks—like you and me.” Babe slipped the truck back into gear and soon they were once again hurtling down the state highway.

They soon reached Jocobo. “Whataya want to see first? Don’t blink. Ha ha! Hey, there’s old Quink Otis. Street-singer, but he ain’t much appreciated.

There’s Eustice Wigg—don’t look!—the nosiest gal around. What was that? You think calling her a gal is demeaning? Jeez, Louise, get used to it, the ’90s are so over!”

Suddenly Babe stopped the truck.

“Here’s some guys you really ought to talk to,” he said after they stepped onto the sidewalk. They were as far downtown as Jocobo got, by an old brick courthouse in the shade of an immense sycamore tree. There wasn’t much moving, especially on a long bench outside the courthouse where several mostly old men sat peacefully.

“No, they’re not dead,” Babe snorted. “Well, not so’s you’d notice, anyway. Let me introduce you. This is Chas Boatwell, Pops McCreakle’s the one that needs a shave. The fella on the end is Horse Chotely, ’cause he’s so pretty. Harry Whelp, the one-eyed dentist, is over by the Vietnam War plaque and Taney Applegaw is the one coming over here with an ice cream cone and his sweet little crying granddaughter, Tweena.”

“Rawk!”

“Oh, yeah, that’s Nevermore, the Liars Bunch’s raven. Why are they called the Liars Bunch? Guys?”

“It’s because we’re short men with tall tales,” replied Pops McCreakle.

“Some of us are tall men with short tales,” Granpappy Labas immediately contradicted.

“Every small town had its liars’ bench where crotchety old coots set a spell, carefully watching the world go by, careless with their opinion,” Babe said quietly, after looking around to make sure no one was listening to them. He needn’t have worried. They were all listening to themselves. “I blame the tourists, they encourage ’em,” Babe added. “But what can you do?”

Old man Croesus was holding his own conversation at the other end of the bench. “Have you noticed how people say ‘absolutely’ nowadays when they mean yes? Like yes isn’t good enough anymore, it’s too vague or something. I guess yes isn’t definite enough.”

“Yeah, absolutely,” replied the others without cracking a smile except for one young fella who said sincerely, “You know, I never noticed that before.”

“Psst!” Babe hissed. “It’s past time we were moving on.”

2009 Flickr

by unvmebad86

What I'm Watching.

Ergo Proxy

My Goodness

“My goodness, it’s Christmas time again,” said old Aunt Sallie. “Wonder what the Claus brought you this year?”

“Socks,” said little Agamemnon, disbelieving. “And turtle eggs.”

“Chinchilla coat,” Louise reported. “Again!”

“Got me a choo-choo,” Tarvis grinned and then chugged out of the room in the general direction of the kitchen where Maw was serving up breakfast—lots of biscuit, a little bit of gravy, and eggs on the side with a whiff o’ ham squeezins. The only day of the year they ate like this—or wanted to, really.

“Oh, give me a Rome where the buffalos home and the uhm-a-mm-mm-mm-mmm,” she never knew the words, who did?

“I’m going to the Mall tonight.”

“You can’t, stupid, it’s Christmas.”

“Awk. What am I going to do?”

“Come over here, honey, and help me set the table.”

“Do I gotta?”

“If you want some squeezins, honey.”

In one corner of the room, way down on the floor, was an area that didn’t get much attention. It was a place where dust settled despite everyone’s—well, Ma’s—best efforts. Most of this time the area sat behind a big old potato chip can, forgotten, collecting things: a twist-tie, a dried blade of grass, a ball of cat hair, pinhead sized clumps of dirt from who knows where, and hundreds—yes, hundreds—of tiny, almost invisible, dust-mite skulls. Above the ossuary, within an old and dusty web, sat the ruler of this corner of the world, a tiny yellow spider.

Most of the time she snoozed peacefully, waiting for a wayward gnat or some other critter to stumble into her web—it only had to happen once—but this morning was different. Someone finally took the potato chip can away.

“Ew,” cried little Davy. “That’s just gross!”

The cat headed immediately for the corner. “Diego, no!” they cried. “Stop him!”

Diego’s tail swished through the tiny skulls, dust, and webbing like a . . . well, a . . . dustmop. Anyway the next thing the little spider knew she was scurrying ass over teakettle into the middle of the floor. Ominous dark clouds rolled back and forth across her sky, emitting threatening bellows of fear and confusion that she couldn’t hear—but certainly could feel. She was almost trampled many times before reaching the far shore where she skittled beneath immense boxes, bows and ribbon, toys, clothing, fruitcake, and crumpled wrapping paper. Every once in awhile a huge pine needle crashed thundering down. There she found a soaring metallic framework, and realized with joy that the god of spiders had shown her the perfect place for a web.

Sure enough, in the spirit of Christmas, the spider found a little present of her own underneath that Christmas tree: a blue-spruce pox beetle, an invasive species that had hitched a ride in from the country. Cracking open its carapace, the little yellow spider sat down for a fine holiday feast, one that would finally allow her to fulfill her destiny by implanting her eggs in the beetle’s nourishing body before dying in peace, fulfilled. She smiled lovingly down upon the quivering beast beneath her. Sensuously, she impugned its integrity.

“Merry Christmas to all,” she whispered, “and to all a good night!”

WOMEN THROUGH THE AGES

This three-minute video created by EggMan consists of images from 500 Years of Female Portraits in Western Art.

From: The Saatchi Gallery : London

Old Jack City

“Dang,” thought Banner Brummett as he listened to the sound of axes falling in the distance. It had been hardly a year since he and his family had built their cabin on the high point between Salt and Greasy Creeks and it was already getting crowded, the way it’d been up by Scarcity Fat before he’d left. Back there Fleenersburg was growing so fast they said that someday it might be bigger than Bloomington itself. As soon as the rumor about the new county had been confirmed he and his brother Pierson had lit out and bought land as near the middle of it as was reasonable. Now it was official. This was where the county seat would be.

“Goin’ over to Dawson’s now, Maw,” he called to his wife, Esther, who was working inside. Out in the yard he passed their tall, ungainly ash leach. Behind it an old hound lay in the shade. Banner stopped beside the yarb garden to bite off a chaw of ‘baccy from the well-gnawed plug he kept in his overalls. He tongued the wad deep into his jowl before ambling off again on his short journey.

It was going to be another hot August day and Brummett wanted to get over to Dawson’s before the shenanigans commenced. James Dawson had got himself appointed sheriff by his pal, the governor of Indiana. This meant he was the one who organized the elections for all the important county positions. Dawson had recently moved down here from his spread in Georgetown after they’d been turned down for the county seat. He’d hastily thrown up a cabin on the south bank of the Salt Creek and was handing out county offices to all of his pals. They’d thrown Banner a bone by making him county agent. It was the least they could do since Brummett had already given over fifty acres of his best land for the new town. He’d given them cash as well, which was hard to come by thanks to the Bank of the U.S., damn their eyes!

They’d actually followed his advice and named the new county seat Jacksonburg, for Old Hickory, the best danged president since George Washington! Nobody was fool enough to argue with that. Jacksonburg. He liked the sound of that name. Kinda rolled off the tongue.

Today we’ll commence the layin’ out, he thought as he passed by the limits of his own property, delineated by a row of dry, piled brush. He crossed the area where the town would soon be. He’d cleared many of the trees himself—beautiful, huge trees that were of no use. So they’d burned them in huge fires, leaving some of the nut trees and a persimmon or two. Once he’d cut the town into lots it’d be somebody else’s problem.

He tried to imagine a courthouse in the clearing and cabins, taverns, shops, a church or two. “Here’s a good place for a horseshoe pit,” he thought morosely. “Maybe set a bench up there for me and the other old boys to sit around and tell each other lies—a liars’ bench.”

Banner started walking again. It was hard to remember how wild this place had been a short year ago. It still was wild around the edges. The bears were pretty much gone but the wolves still prowled nearby in the hills and “pisonous snakes wuz everywhere to be found.” He followed the trail south and soon was at the cabin of his royal highness James Dawson. It wasn’t particularly well built, the logs had gaps big enough to let a skunk through and the joints were laughable—he’d like to see Dawson winter here. Any number of camps had been set up in the clearing near the cabin. Folks were arriving from all over the county to see what the commissioners were going to decide. Banner nodded to a couple of folks he knew from over the old county line. Sighing, he entered the cabin.

It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the sudden cool dark. The commissioners sat around a thick puncheon table. There was James Alexander of Monroe, David Deitz and Hiram Wilson of Bartholomew County, and Stephen Parks of Jackson County. They’d returned recently from a visit to competing sites for the county seat but there never seemed to be much doubt about what they were going to decide. Georgetown had more settlers but was too far north and Hedgesville as county seat was laughable, the pipe dream of old L.M. Hedges and David Randolph, owner of the grocery there.

“Ah, Mr. Brummett, are you ready?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“Come on over and take a look here at Mr. Dawson’s survey . . .”

Outside a crowd of fifty or sixty had gathered. A deer was roasting over a fire and a hastily constructed table was being filled with eats of all kinds. Some of the boys were swimming in the creek, swinging out over the water on a grape vine and dropping off with a loud shout. The men were drinking mash and shooting at a mark. Some were sitting around a stump playing cards, including Littleton Mathis who looked like he was winning. Even the folks up Harden Hollar were there, along with some Taggarts and a Hamblen or two from up county.

Inside the cabin the table had been moved into a corner. A jug, a tin cup, and a bucket of water sat upon it. Across the room, on a bed, a fiddler played as two barefoot men danced.

“Looks like somebody’s declared a holiday.”

As he left the cabin Brummett saw his son Josh and told him to go fetch his ma and tell her to bring the jug. “Tell her Rolla’s here with his fiddle, we’re havin’ some dancin’ tonight.”

Banner joined a large knot of men where Kentucky Bill Snyder was braggin’ on his horse. Said it was the fastest in this new Brown County. He got a good laugh out of that. Soon they were betting on horses they hadn’t even seen yet and planning to meet later in the month up in Georgetown where there was a good flat field to run.

Banner noticed one of the commissioners, Hiram Wilson, fanning himself with a piece of the county map. Something about it caught his eye.

“Lemmee see that for a minute, Hiram,” Brummett said, reaching out. His jaw swung open as he realized what he was seeing. “You added this new township and now Jacksonburg is outside of Jackson township. It’s gonna confuse people.”

“Don’t worry about that now, Banner, we’ll fix it later,” Hiram tipped his hat and stepped over to speak to the widow Jordan.

ØØØ

Seven months later the Indiana General Assembly officially changed Jacksonville’s name to Nashville, at Banner Brummett’s suggestion, to honor the city and state from where many of the county’s earliest settlers had come and where their beloved Old Hickory made his home.

Originally published in Our Brown County Magazine 1995