“They call me a clown, but what’s wrong with being a clown once in a while? Clowns are happy, humorous and witty; and I don’t know any in prison,” - Governor Lester Maddox addressing an enthusiastic audience while running unsuccessfully for re-election.

I’m never really quite certain about much of nothing. Not to clear why that is. Seems like stuff just bubbles up all drowsy and peaceful and happens.

Never sure these renderings offered in this media are actually digested, taken in context, or cognitively understood as intended.

That’s not necessarily reason enough to give it up, though at times it’s been tempting. But, out of some crack it all strangely, slowly seeps.

At times I’m reminded of a baseball sized boil on my knee, somewhere around age twelve, that hung around almost all summer, no matter how many times it was jabbed with my momma’s hot sewing needle.

I had absolutely no idea how many of us felt so deeply about old country stores. It is amazing.

One reader from Huntsville even went so far as to send photographs of his favorite derelict country stores that had apparently been seminal in his alleged miss-spent youth.

Abandoned, faded and aged classic two lane road Southern architecture, that somehow became imprinted on the soul.

The photos were of a poor man’s idea of rural connivence, now sadly defunct and idle, weathered, wasted, marginal at best, weed strewn, country realtor nightmares.

Antique community meeting ground, where low tier hustles were imprinted and taught, and not too tragically died. Think slick traveling salesmen, sporting pencil thin mustaches, driving almost new cars, and assorted grifters of that era.

Pitching pennies, potted meat on stale crackers, or white bread. Hoop cheese and RC colas, or some occasional weak watered-down chocolate concoction. Sufficed as dinner, in nearby shade of a tall pine, piss-elm or porch.

Maybe it all dredges up a simpler time when hard earned labor paid short pay that actually went somewhere. Somewhere that you considered affordable.

Affordable is a concept we’ve all witness drastically transform. What of this transformation? Is it real? Or is it possibly; “now from a decade in the life which passed like a malarial dream, in which the unthinkable becomes commonplace, the surreal the familiar.”

That quoted phrase above was stolen. I can’t for the life of me remember from whom. I just copied it and can’t seem to throw it away. It’s just too good to forget.

An all this, due to a brief encounter with an immigrant minnow peddler, strikes some decaying memory nerve.

Why we ask? Do we miss nickel bags of p-nuts branded by some guy named Tom? Do we still long to languish in the hot shade of yesteryear and wonder why, or who, trained us to stuff salted nuts in a cold bottle of glass, only after we’d figured out if we know where that bottle was bottled?

One reader commented on the length of the telling of old country stores and the economics of modern minnow dealing. He even questioned if the thing had been plagerized

I later gleaned from a mutual gossipy acquaintance the reader may have become miffed about references made to Memphis Democrats being involved or responsible, in a nefarious scheme to bilk local duck lovers out of their money. It appears that this particular reader is a known, card carrying, life long Southern Democrat, as well as a long time frequenter of fundraising banquets of the said, implied nonprofit unlimited organization.

Let’s not open the can containing all manner of night-crawlers that is this particular political party, but do allow me to elucidate why I may have been somewhat harsh with the concept of the use of the word “Ponzi Scheme” associated with wetland huggers unlimited.

I’ll admit that may have been considered to be a tad hyperbolic by a good many duck/goose lovers and wetland huggers.

As a way of explanation, or a left leaning apology of sorts, here follows why this sort of feeling that some low level crime has been committed occasionally bubbles up from time to time.

The duck lover and wetland hugger web master claims 80% of “donations” (read multiple of millions of dollars here) of heartfelt, freely and philanthropically given monies, are applied to preventing the dastardly commercial food factories, thirsty AI data centers, subdivision developers on other assorted evil doers, who are intent on destroying duck factories. Millions of dollars gladly donated to halt the elimination of North American duck factories. This is a noble goal indeed. The good fight for sure.

So, let’s talk money, local free money, banquet/fundraising dollars and cents so freely given by locals who profess conservation as a mantra in need of millions.

If you’ve never attended a duck lover banquet you need to go to at least one just to get a feel for the excitement and frivolity each includes. Donating your disposable income to any noble cause is always exciting, and who knows, you might even win a donated new cooler, or maybe get to sit at an expensive sponsor table with a bunch of local high roller wetland huggers!

Now just for the sake of illustration of how a bunch of locals get grifted by this non-profit, let’s assume every annual banquet in near driving distance, of say 100 miles or so, clears a $10,000.00 profit after expenses for every event. (We will likely never know if it’s nearer to $5,000.00 or $20,000.00.) And, let’s assume there a multiple banquets in Chattanooga, Dalton, Dunlap, Dayton, Lafayette, Spring City, Athens, etc, etc.

Just for the sake of math, let’s say that within our easy driving area, there have been ten to twenty banquets held every year for the past ten to thirty years. Why that math means that local wetland lovers donated millions of dollars to save wetlands somewhere other than here.

If you know of any monies, of our millions donated from here, that was spent by this organization, in our local area, let me know. I may have missed the big rollout. Just ask anyone local in this organization the following question; When do they plan to build our duck factory here, with our money? You’ll be stunned with the answer.

The Almighty knows no local mall developer, apartment complex developer, subdivision builder or County Commissioner in Hamilton County would ever allow a duck factory to be set aside in this neck of the woods. We’ve got plenty of golf course geese around here as it is.

There is still some positive here though. Somewhere west of Fargo North Dakota, an aquifer is being saved from some thirsty AII data center, so waterfowl can be raised to winter on one of Ted Turner’s 300,000 plus acre ranches in New Mexico or Montana. It’s a win-win for us all! Makes all kind of sense if you’re a wealthy wetland hugger.

In my humble opinion we, the locals, have all been fleeced by some pretty slick grifter, like we were all some overall clad hayseed in an old country store. Maybe it could be called Fat Stupid Sheep Unlimited. It’s for the ducks!

There was this one other interesting comment from another infrequent reader. This one came from a young nephew who had recently escaped from Hollywood California for Roswell.

One who to the best of my recollection, missed the era of Mom and Pop country stores, the pre-neon era of rural convenience. One who, I’m guessing, never sucked the juice out of a can of Vienna sausages because he was still a little hungry and couldn’t afford some cream filled Ho-Ho, or Dolly Madison cake.

This from a young man who likely never sat around a pot bellied stove stuffed with a sack of coal, trying to thaw out his fingers after a frigid January morning of kicking rabbits out of briars, brush and sage grass fields. Never spit a good load of juice in a banana box half filled with sand, or listened to horrific tales of death in North Africa, or island hopping for Japs in the jungles of the South Pacific.

One who never pulled a cold drink from a red metal box of almost cold water. One who missed the symphony of a squeaky slamming screen door emblazoned with a bread advertisement on rotting, fly festooned screen, held in place for perpetuity by cracked old rulers and bent finishing nails.

No, this was a more modern day reaction to a story about minnow sales in today’s country stores.

He commented dryly; “ Lesson learned, never go into banjo music country carrying a gay looking minnow bucket.”

At least he escaped the evil that is Democrat California with his wit intact. You can always look back on California withdrawal and feel good about that. It’s not all that nostalgic by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s got to feel right good.

As my dearly departed Grandmother often exclaimed; “Ah, youth, youth.”

Thanks for the feedback. I owe you a cold one.

You’ll have to spring for your own p-nuts though.

I wonder why p-nuts are so $%^& expensive these days?

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