In local news, the town over to the west, the one that had a tornado come ripping through last month has had the foresight to disallow residents trying to recoup a couple or three hens in yards under one acre in size. In a statement, the mayor advises "he grew up on a farm and had chickens...they were hard work, smelly and messy." Having caddied as a boy of 13, I certainly understand. A Kangaroo bag full of clubs is a lot for a young lad to carry around for eighteen holes, and the grip end of a nine iron still feels odd in my hands. His reasoning was not completely without, however, suggesting that there were plenty of farmers in the area willing to sell "safe, farm-fresh eggs that you can buy inexpensively." A councilman added, "You know where they came from and they are local."
Front page, mind you, along with another article outlining where the different stores in the region get their milk. And a follow-up on the aftermath of the twister. Pictures and articles all by one intrepid reporter. I imagine she is pleased with herself and a certain symmetry, even if exhausted, for every byline is hers in the eight front pages. Four pages worth of column inches are ads, lest Denise find herself covering a wider area for the parent company or worse, dismissed for her obvious agenda.
And while I'm at it, I might as well mention the guy who stands by the bridge into town. After all, he's been out there for weeks now, holding his sign, "Work Wanted," toward whichever way the traffic is coming. He used to stand in front of the Safeway, but that didn't last too long; then, continuing to target an appropriate audience, in front of the library. All this long after sitting in front of a local watering hole all day smoking butts left by the patrons who stepped out for a moment for a few drags before his chatter drove them back inside. Longer butts. In a small town, you're a walking resume and cover letter. He's out there every day, rain or shine, and with a full backpack. I'd like to imagine in some way he's seeking redemption.
I bothered to count and I can tell you a full twelve of the thirty players in the weekly pub tourney are blood relatives of each other.
Not much in the way of mail today.
Charlie Louvin passed away a couple days ago.