TALES OF THE SOUTHWEST: ROTISSERIE CHICKENS AT THE FUNERAL

by Grant McGee

                 One of the family was off to a recent funeral for a friend.  As they were going out the door I said, “Now if the preacherman at the funeral starts hootin’ and hollerin’ that you’re horrible for not believing like he does it’s okay to leave the place.”

                The door closed and I felt the gaze of The Lady of the House upon my personage.

                “What was that about?” she asked, looking over the top of her glasses.

                “Well let me tell you a story,” I said.

                “I’m sure you will,” said The Lady of the House.

                It was long ago and far away, the story of a radio co-worker I’ll call “Jack” who died in a car wreck.  Jack had been to a party in another town about 90 miles away.  He was the front seat passenger in a car driven by a pal of his.  On the way back from the party the buddy fell asleep at the wheel, the car ran off the road, hit an embankment and Jack, who wasn’t wearing a seatbelt, was rocketed through the windshield on to Glory.

                Jack was popular, there may have been 300 or so folks at his funeral.

                Jack’s parents brought the preacherman in from their town miles away.  Things began alright, the guy saying nice things about Jack’s life on earth.

                Then the fire and brimstone began.

                To our surprise we learned that Jack was probably burning in the fires of hell because he didn’t belong to his momma and daddy’s denomination.  And even more to our surprise we all learned that if we weren’t a member of this particular denomination we’d all roast in hell like so many rotisserie chickens. 

                This preaching and condemnation went on for what seemed the whole afternoon but was only about 45 minutes.  Many of us in attendance shot glances at each other like, “Is this a funeral or Sunday church?”

                But we didn’t leave, I reckoned, because we’d been taught that once a ceremony begins you’re kind of locked in.

                “And that’s why I mentioned that it’s okay to leave some ceremony if things get weird,” I said.

                “Well that’ll never happen to me,” said The Lady of the House.  “We’ll just play some of your favorite songs, serve snacks and cremate you.”

                “I feel better already,” I said.

                                                               -30-

APPALACHIAN TALES: A SOCIALIST IN THE MOUNTAINS

Eugene V. Debs the actual factual American Socialist campaigning in the early 1900's

by Grant McGee

            Well, that was a hot time in the old town with that big ol’ presidential election.  To tell you the truth I had a gut feeling that Trump fellow would win.  It occurred to me when The Lady of the House and I went to early vote and we stood in line with a phalanx (maybe it’s not the right word but that’s how I’d describe it) of people who had arrived in cars with “TRUMP” bumper stickers.

            Now my grandma told me you don’t talk about politics or religion with friends, but hey, it’s just you and me here.

            So are you a Republican?  Democrat?  Independent?  Green?

            I registered as a SOCIALIST once.

            Now, now, now, don’t get your dander up.  If you study American history you’ll see that once upon a time you’d find a Socialist on the ballot during the presidential elections from 1900 to 1920.  Just look up the story of Eugene V. Debs.

            Following Debs’ idea wasn’t quite as radical as European Socialism.  It basically called for American workers to take over the government and the “means of production,” then everyone would live happily ever after.  At least that’s the way I interpreted it from one of my college classes.

            Yeah, I registered as a Socialist in West Virginia where I was living at the time.  I hadn’t been out of college very long and I was kind of disillusioned about a few things.  I thought there was a groundswell rising on the grass roots level of general disillusionment with the country during the Reagan years and surely I was on the leading edge of something by becoming a Socialist.

            Of course being a Socialist during the time when President Reagan referred to the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics as the “Evil Empire,” during one of the more tense times of the Cold War, was probably not a good idea.  But hey, I was banking on the idea that America is “land of the free” and that we pride ourselves in our philosophy of free speech.

            I signed up for the party paper and got a little freaked out when the first issue arrived.  It was addressed to “Comrade Grant McGee.”

            Then I started getting mail from some old Socialist dude who lived in Brooklyn, New York about 400 miles away from me in West Virginia.  He addressed me as “comrade” too, wanted to know if I’d make it up to the “Big Apple” for the big May Day rally (the first of May is known as “International Worker’s Day”).  He told me I was the only Socialist on his list for the whole state of West Virginia and there were only a handful of others in Washington, D.C., just over the mountains.

            Maybe a month after I registered as a Socialist my mail started coming to me already opened.  Well, okay, not all of it, but enough to make me wonder what was going on.

            I marched down to the local post office, about as big as four standard outhouses roped together.

            “My mail is being opened by the government,” I said with all the self-righteous, testosterone and vinegar 20-something indignation I could muster whilst thumping my index finger on my opened envelope I had tossed on the counter.

            The guy behind the counter looked over the top of his glasses at me.

            “Really,” he said.

            “Yeah, and I think it’s because I registered to vote as a Socialist.”

            I think he tried to keep from laughing out loud.

            “Um, there’s been a problem with the mail coming out of our processing center,” he said.  “A lot of people’s mail is getting damaged.”

            I stood there for a minute.

            He and I looked eye-to-eye.

            “Well,” I said.  “Don’t I look like an asshole.”

            He laughed out loud.

            “You’re okay buddy,” he said.  “Trust me, I’ve heard worse.”

            Then I tried to vote in a primary.  Though there were no Socialists on the ballot there were some other folks I wanted to vote for.

            I walked in to the polling place.

            “You can’t vote, you’re registered as a Socialist,” said the lady behind the desk after she looked up my name.

            “What?  What?”  I said (again) with all the self-righteous, testosterone and vinegar induced 20-something indignation I could muster.  “What kind of deal is this!  It’s a free country, I should be able to vote as I choose.  This is a right-wing conspiracy!”

            The lady leaned back in her chair.

            “You didn’t grow up around here, did you,” she said.  “You can’t vote in the primary because there are no Socialist candidates.  If there were any Socialist candidates we’d let you vote all you want one time.”

            “Oh,” I said.  “I’m sorry.  I reckon I look like a real…jerk.  Sorry.”

            The lady smiled.

            “We’ve had worse,” she said.  “You should see some people when they come down here and find out they’ve been removed from the rolls for not voting for years.”

            Not long after that I went down to the county courthouse and changed my registration to one of the more mainstream American political parties. 

            Not long after that my mail stopped coming to me damaged.

            I reckon they fixed the machine at the central processing center.

                                                        -30-

APPALACHIAN TALES: THE NIGHT I DROVE THE HAND-PAINTED ’56 T-BIRD

By Grant McGee

            The political candidate collapsed at the campaign event.  The cameras were rolling, she was stumbling, she didn't look so hot.  And they whisked her away to her house.

            “Why didn’t they take her to the damn hospital?” The Lady of the House said to the TV.

            “I would’ve,” I piped up.  “I learned that lesson a long time ago.  In my Boy Scoutin’ days.”

            “Oh do tell,” she said turning to me.

It was a camping trip in the Appalachians.  I was part of a rogue Boy Scout troop.  Actually there were several accidents in the years I was part of my rogue Boy Scout troop.  You should know the troop I was in was in an unnamed state and was not representative of what goes on in most Boy Scout troops across the country…I think…that’s why it was a rogue troop.  It was run by a cadre of men who wanted to get away from their wives for a weekend of drinking and carousing under the guise of taking a bunch of kids camping.

            Anyway, one night after all the scouts were asleep in their tents Scoutmaster Ray and his pals decided to sit around the campfire drinking copious amounts of Canadian Club, the official whiskey of Troop 62.  At one point Scoutmaster Ray stood up, lost his footing and fell into the campfire.  It wasn’t the fire that injured him, it was the spout of a coffee pot.  It pierced him deeply between the ribs.

            Scoutmaster Ray was injured and needed medical attention, there were weird noises coming out of his chest.  Assistant scoutmasters Henry and Bob were too drunk to drive him to town.  “Get McGee,” said Scoutmaster Ray.  “He’s got a learner’s permit.” 

            I was roused from a deep sleep.  I stumbled down to the lodge and was told of the situation.  Being a kid of 15 I was more excited about driving Scoutmaster Ray’s ’56 T-bird with the hand brushed exterior of yellow house paint.  We got him into the car. 

Scoutmaster Ray’s ’56 T-bird was one of those fickle cars that seemed to only start under it’s “master’s” touch.  I tried and tried and tried to start the thing.  Loud cussing by Scoutmaster Ray as to why the hell I couldn’t start his damn car didn’t help.  Finally, “va-ROOOOM,” it started up.

I smiled big.

I was told to take Scoutmaster Ray to the hospital.  I eased the car down the fire trail out of the woods, Scoutmaster Ray cussing along the way as each bump jarred him.

“Damn, McGee, I’m gonna call you ‘Cowboy’ from now on, you drive this damn thing like a cowboy.”

When we got out to the pavement Scoutmaster Ray bellowed at me even louder to take him to his house.  I figured he knew what he was talking about ‘cos I was a kid and he was Scoutmaster Ray so that’s where I headed.  I dropped him off and left him in the care of Mrs. Scoutmaster Ray.  And I got to drive the hand-painted yellow ’56 T-bird back to my house.

            The next morning I got a phone call from Henry wanting to know why I hadn’t taken Scoutmaster Ray to the hospital.  I told him the man wanted to go home so that’s what I did, besides, he was an adult and I was a kid.  Henry said I should have known Scoutmaster Ray was in shock and I shouldn’t have paid attention to him, just gone to the hospital which is where Mrs. Scoutmaster Ray ended up taking him. 

“You have a First Aid merit badge, you should’ve known better,” Henry said.

“And that’s how I got my lesson about you need to take people to the hospital when you need to take people to the hospital,” I said to The Lady of the House.

“Somehow,” she said turning back to the TV, “I don’t see you getting the job of political candidate chauffeur anytime soon.”

                                                -30-