April 23 (UPI) — Police in Georgia are hot on the trail of a “hoofed Houdini” — an escaped goat — spotted running loose in Duluth.
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The Duluth Police Department said on social media that numerous calls came in Tuesday reporting a loose goat “trotting” on Peachtree Industrial Boulevard “like it had somewhere very important to be.”
“Officers responded and attempted to corral the hoofed Houdini as it made its way toward Albion Farm Road, where it hopped a few fences and outsmarted us by disappearing into backyards,” the post said.
Police suspect the goat might be the same animal seen running loose recently in Suwanee.
“Apparently, it had unfinished business in Duluth,” police wrote.
We endured periodic visits from Mother’s bizarre relatives, Cookie and Uncle Riley. Whether or not they were actually deranged was debatable, they definitely teetered somewhere between eccentric and maddening. Most people who had to interact with them on a regular basis held out for just plain crazy. Both held Master’s Degrees, Cookie’s in Education and Uncle Riley’s in Mathematics. Cookie was head of a large public school system in Texas. Uncle Riley worked for the government as a mathematician in the 1950’s. I won’t press that any further, except to say that somehow, they miraculously collided and produced Cousin Barbie, The Wonder Baby. On their way to an Easter visit in 1957, Cookie and Uncle Riley made a few stops.
I digress, but needed to set the scene for their visit. Because my mother had married a blue-collar worker, a man they considered “beneath her” and had three children, Cookie and Uncle Riley held the impression that my parents ran an orphanage and would be grateful for any gift of apparel, no matter how useless they might drag in. This particular trip, they came bearing refuse from a fire sale: ten pairs of boys black high top basketball shoes in a wide range of sizes, six identical but slightly singed, size eight, red and green sateen dresses trimmed with black velvet collars and waist bands, six dozen pairs of size two cotton satin-striped Toddler Training Pants, and three six-packs of men’s silk dress socks in a nude tone, a color I’d never seen anyone wear. In addition to these useless prizes, they’d stopped by a fruit stand and gotten a great deal on a box of fifty pounds of bruised bananas and an Easter duck for Barbie. By the time they’d reached our house many hours later, four-year-old Barbie, Easter Duck, and Bosco Dog had romped in the back seat and pretty much-made soup of the bananas. Fruit flies circled the old black 1943 Ford merrily as it rocked to a stop. Uncle Riley, the mathematician, anticipating breakdowns didn’t believe in wasting money on new car parts. He always carried a collection of parts extracted from a junker in his back yard to keep his old clunker running. He also split the back of his old jeans and laced them up with shoe strings when they got too tight, but that’s s story for another day.
I know Mother must have dreaded their visit, with its never-ending pandemonium, especially since for some reason, the only thing they shared with Daddy was a healthy contempt and barely concealed animosity for each other. The five of us kids were always delighted to see them, in spite of their bizarre offerings. One pair of the smoky-smelling shoes did fit my brother, but shredded in a few steps, due to its proximity to the fire. The dresses were put back for “Sunday Best,” Thank God, never to be seen again, since neither of us girls was a size eight, nor was partial to singed, scratchy dresses. Fortunately, for my parents, at the moment, they had no size two toddlers for the training pants, though they did manage to come up with a couple just a few years later. Easter Duck, however, deeply interested four-year-old Billy.
Sensing misfortune in his future, Mother tried to run interference for Easter Duck, fearing for his health. For some reason she was distracted by the madness of intervening between Daddy and her whacked-out relatives, getting dinner ready for the whole crowd, dealing with out-of-control kids, and finding places to bed everyone down for the night. Not surprisingly, her concerns for Easter Duck were pushed to the bottom of the list. Never having been deprived of anything she wanted, ever, Barbie had no intention of being parted with Easter Duck. Billy needed a better look, and having had plenty of experience dealing with mean kids, patiently waited for his chance. Forgetting Easter Duck, Mother and Cookie went back to their visit, leaving the two four-year-olds to play. As you might expect, before long, they heard the screaming. Barbie held poor Easter Duck by his head; Billy had him by the feet. Between them, they had stretched the poor duck’s neck way past anything God ever intended, even for a swan. Neither exhibited the Wisdom of Solomon and was determined to maintain possession, at all costs. Poor Easter Duck paid the price! Though he was rescued, sadly his neck was not elastic and did not “snap back.” He didn’t get to spend the Easter holidays with his new friends, Barbie and Billy.
My husband I are both retired RNs so we frequently spot errors in commercials. The other evening, one of those frequent “Help, I’ve fallen and can’t get up!” commercials came on.
Bud watched the poor woman intently for a moment and said, “I know damn good and well she didn’t fall. She didn’t piss her pants.”
He knows whereof he speaks, having worked on a physical rehab floor for more than twenty years.
I am usually not much troubled by envy. Still, I was savagely attacked a few days ago in the checkout line at the garden center. I was behind a mother/daughter duo with three large wheeled carts of plants, everything from cyclamens to ornamental trees. Don’t get me wrong. I buy my fair share of plants but nothing like this bonanza. I hadn’t been incapacitated by envy at this point. I was busy rubbernecking, admiring their choices and wondering how long it would take to get this garden in the ground.
As I eavesdropped in the checkout line, envy nearly dropped me to my knees. The daughter of the pair, a woman in her thirties told the cashier, “It’s my birthday. Mom’s buying me all this for my birthday.”
Then Mom chimed in. “Now all we have to do is get out in your yard!”
”That’ll be $967.” replied the checker. “What a wonderful gift!”
At that moment, I wished that young woman had a feather up her butt and I had her plants so we’d both be tickled to death!
Easter egg hunts with my cousins were a lot more like cage boxing than gentle competitions. I had more than forty first cousins, mostly wild animals and heathens. By the time their parents herded them to the scene of the festivities, their hellions had exhausted them so just opened the car doors and all Hell broke loose. Exhausted from defending themselves and their babies on the ride over, it was every man for himself. God help anybody in the way,
The monstrous kids ripped through the house under the guise of needing the bathroom and a drink of water, destruction in their wake, before being cast out into the yard like demons into swine. Actually, they were cast out onto the other cousins. We’d get a baseball or football team going, all the big kids on one team, so the little ones never got a chance to bat, or got mowed down in football. They’d go squalling in to their daddies who’d come out long enough to straighten us out a vague semblance of fairness, often lingering to play a while.
Once the egg hunt started, it was chaos. It was survival of the meanest. The horrendous kids showed no favoritism between their sibligs and cousins shoving all the smaller kids down, stomping the hands of little ones reaching for eggs. The event was a melee of squalling, battered young ones, and sometimes even a few bloody noses. More than a few times they hurled eggs. My antisocial cousin, Crazy Larry, kept trying to pee on us while we were distracted by the madness.
One aunt in particular didn’t think her big kids ought to have to share at the end of the hunt, even though they’d hoarded a basketful and babies had none.
“They found ‘em!” my aunt asserted, sticking up for her devilish offspring.
It didn’t matter that she’d only brought a dozen eggs to the hunt. She resented the host confiscating her evil progeny’s bounty and redistributing them so every kid got a few, and converting most to the Easter Delight of deviled eggs.
Ah, family. Better get busy. I have company coming. But not Crazy Larry. He’s in the witness protection program.
This is a guest post by my friend Harvey Hughett. You can follow him on Facebook at Musing Appalachia
This story is about a man who lived in a holler close to Papaw’s place in the backwoods near Mohawk, East Tennessee. He was married to Miz Kitty. Everybody called him “Squint.” His real name was Commodore Ledbedder.
Squint was just a nickname, but he hated to be called Commodore because it was the same name as Commodore Hughett and he didn’t want to be confused with him. Commodore Hughett was known to git hog-nosed on Nathan Gulley’s moonshine ever so often and do things Squint didn’t approve of. Squint got his nickname from the funny way he held his eyes when he was about to get upset with somebody. He’d squint his eyes a certain way, and when he did that you knew you’d better get your butt out of his way. He got his left eye messed up when his first wife shot him in the face for messin’ around. She left him for another man, and Squint joined the army, went to World War II, and fought in France against the Krauts.
He was a big man, about six foot tall, and had big arms and a gruff voice from when he once drank some really bad hootch. There was a time when he served some time in prison for killing a man, but they let him loose because he got a mean lawyer, and they couldn’t make the charge stick.
However, all that was behind Squint. He quit drinkin’, quit carousing, and got religion. However, he didn’t attend my Papaw’s church very often except when there were homecomings and lots of food and activities with the boys in the parking lot. I write in detail about that in my book, Musing Appalachia (You can buy it on Amazon.com. Just search Musing Appalachia by Harvey Hughett).
For the most part, Squint was a loner and made spending money by trapping muskrats in Bent Creek, digging ginseng roots and selling ’em to the hardware store in Morristown. He wasn’t getting rich, but he and Miz Kitty made out good. And he treated her like a queen. Whatever she wanted, he tried to get it for her. Miz Kitty was French by birth. Squint brought two things back with him from the war: a 1901 Springfield rifle and a young French bride.
Squint was descended from strong Scotch and Irish people, and they say, along with his size, that made him a good soldier. His hero was another Tennessean, Sargent Alvin York. You can read about Alvin in Volume One of my book too.
Squint wasn’t without his strange habits. Other than being a loner, he didn’t like anybody coming around his place in the holler or, especially, gittin’ near his woman, Miz Kitty. She was easy on the eyes and had a quaint accent that everybody liked. Her language wasn’t like what the flatlanders talked.
Mamaw used to trade eggs to Miz Kitty and she’d send me over there to deliver them. As a young boy, I was a little afraid but I did what I was supposed to. Papaw always warned me, “Be careful and don’t you make him mad. He killed a man onest.” The first time I saw Squint was when I was fishing on Lick Creek and ran into him. He was busy tending his trapline and I slipped away before he could see me. I went on fishing downstream.
A few days later, I was at Miz Kitty’s house delivering eggs and Squint was there. He squinted his eyes at me and said, “Boy, don’t you dare tell nobody where my traps is, you unnerstand?” I quickly replied, “Yes Sir. You bet, Sir. I ain’t gonna tell nobody.”
He squinted at me a little harder and then said, “Do you know they say that I killed a man? I answered, “Yes Sir.”
He said, “Well, that’s not all true. I wiped out a bunch in the war, and they tried to blame a killin’ on me after I got home. But the fact is, that man needed killin’. He was beatin’ his woman and kids.” Squint never admitted to killin’ his neighbor but people figured that since he was used to doing that kind of thing in the war, and suffered from shell shock in battle, he most likely did.
The facts are that he was a neighbor to the dead man and, being a loner and of a mean disposition, everybody suspected him of the murder. What got him in trouble was when they took him in for questioning and he said, “That scoundrel deserved ever thang he got!”
To clinch a solid confession out of Squint, the mountain sheriff did something that almost always got a man to fess up: he took him to the funeral home in Bulls Gap and left him alone in a room with the body for an hour. That usually unnerved superstitious mountain folk and they soon talked.
After an hour, Squint just said, “That man there is way better off dead than he was alive.”
Pretty sure that was almost a confession; the sheriff then threatened to leave him in the small room with the body all night, with the casket open and with no lights on. Squint, in his matter-of-fact way, just said, “I warn’t never skeered o that sorry bastard when he wuz alive and you can bet yore best coon dog, I shore in Hell ain’t now!” That pretty well sealed it and he was locked up until a smart lawyer got him off the hook.
I wonder if he squinted at the jury?
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I live in a biome of extreme Northwest Louisiana. Ten months of the year, the weather is reasonably moderate. Winter assails us with a few frosty days, tantalizes the kiddies with an occasional impotent attempt at snow, and a rare, unwelcome ice event that deprives us of power, schools, and the robs the public of its ability to drive.
One memorable winter, we got six inches of ice. Bud drove the two of us to work in his Jeep, so we weren’t too much disfurnished. Mother is terrified of ice, so she moved in for the duration. The power and internet were off as expected. School was canceled so my kids were iced in with Mother. None of them were happy. Mother occupied herself by supervising them in the constant fetching of firewood and futilely trying to make the unmotivated kids do chores., reasoning it would be a nice surprise for us to come home to a spotless house. Indeed, it would have but not surprisingly, the lazy lumps didn’t share her vision. Her disappointment and their resistance grew each passing day.
Mother is cold-natured, so her firewood needs were extreme. She kept the temperature above eighty as much as possible. Frustrated at her demands, the unhappy, overheated kids escaped to their rooms where they threw the windows open. When not obsessing with keeping the home fires burning, Mother busied herself with cooking, though the kids were perfectly willing and capable of fending for themselves. Mother was confused by the variety and scope of my well-stocked pantry and gravitated toward combining multiple unrelated, easy choices. Her bizarre menu one lunch consisted of chili, fish sticks, and a tomato and okra combo she dubbed “gumbo,” despite the fact it contained no spices, chicken, sausage, or shrimp. The kids were repulsed and Mother judged them.
Time dragged for the prisoners. One the evening of day four, the street was slushy but well-trafficked. The kids suggested Mother could make it home. Irately, she refused. “I’d slide in the ditch. Besides, l’m out of firewood!” On day five, though the street was totally dry, Mother’s car tires were still encased in six inches of pristine ice. It wasn’t going anywhere.
Day six was balmy. As I pulled in the driveway, I was amused to see the kids industriously breaking up the ice behind Mother’s tires. I pitched in to help free it. I backed it out for her so she could head home. Coincidentally, Bud met her driving toward her house about twenty mph at the head of a long line of frustrated drivers.
Original art by Kathleen Holdaway Swain
My husband I are both retired RNs so we frequently spot errors in commercials. The other evening, one of those frequent “Help, I’ve fallen and can’t get up!” commercials came on.
Nutsrok 