I meant to write this post about a month ago, but hey, this
is summer, right? Where time has no meaning except when you're standing
barefoot on the asphalt at noon.
Anyway, last month I took a little trip to the mighty
homeland of east Tennessee. Well, actually about three hours north of what I
might consider the homeland, but let's pretend I'm from the northeast portion,
which is friendly and inviting, as opposed to the southeast, which is
judgmental and full of meth addicts. But I digress. I was going to Knoxville to
finally experience my lifelong dream of seeing Alice Cooper in concert, and
since Broke Friend's family lived less than 20 miles away in a town we call M'ville, I was going to stop
in there as well.
I got to Knoxville a few hours early and walked around a
little. Then got dressed and made up in the car while parked in a parking
garage with people all around. Don't worry, I'm pretty much a pro at this.
You'd be surprised at how often, while it looks like I'm just tuning the radio
or adjusting the mirrors, I'm really sitting there in my underwear waiting for
the crowd to disperse so I can finish putting on pants.
The concert was held at a beautiful restored theater in
historic downtown. I met a sixteen-year-old in line who made clay jewelry of
classic rock band emblems, and who thought I was totally awesome (probably
because she thought I was also in high school, and admired my homemade AC
shirt). Uncle Al did a fantastic show and proved that time has not tarnished
his status as the king of shock rock, even though he found Jesus and stopped
dismembering chickens. I had an okay seat, but snuck up front during the first
song and weaseled my way into the fifth row. There were guillotines, electric
chairs, straitjackets, swords, and everything else you could hope for at an AC
show. He threw a couple of canes into the audience (thankfully not the swords),
and although I was not close enough to catch one, I tracked down one of
the lucky recipients in the lobby afterwards and she let me touch it. I
loitered outside the theater's back door where the bus was parked with a
handful of other fans for awhile around midnight, but finally started off to
M'ville.
Here's where our story really starts. M'ville is a town of
less than 2,000 people in northeastern TN, and as far as I can determine, it is
the largest town in its county. M'ville is a place where roads share the name
of the family that once owned the land they run through, and in reality, the
families that still live there. BF's family lives on a road that bears their
last name. Some of the mailboxes only have first names on them. All the
churches along the route are led by BF's great-uncles and relatives, despite
their memorable run-ins with the law. There's a sign when you turn off the
highway that says "legalize cockfighting." M'ville is a world I did
not think existed anymore, but I am so glad it does.
M'ville is a place where people remember you and hug you
hello, despite the fact that you've only been there once a year before and
almost rolled your car into their barn at that. It's a place where the grandmas
won't let you leave without veggies from their garden and honey from the
hive, and the grandpas tell epic tales of wild cattle that terrorized the
neighborhood and defied the Texas cowboys that came to catch them. Perhaps most
importantly, M'ville is a place where they know they may be rough, they know
they may be country, but at least they ain't as bad as them Beasons.
The Beasons are a local family (Tribe? Clan? Cult?) that
would make even a sheriff-shootin' minister shake his head. I overhead BF's
family talking about a weird country family that lived nearby, so naturally I
tuned in. From what I could gather, the Bs are a largish group of brothers, one
of whom is married, who either co-habitat or live in very close proximity. I
kept picturing the wife as Snow White in a house full of redneck dwarfs.
Anyway, this conversation centered around the B's latest exploit, namely,
removing all the metal parts from their wooden house and then burning it to the
ground. Yes, you heard correctly. Someone asked where the Bs were living now,
since their house was destroyed by their own hands for an unknown purpose. BF's
mom answered that she had seen one of the Beason boys early one morning
standing by his truck and combing his hair, so she assumed he was living in the
truck.
During this whole exchange, I kept looking between BF's mom
and BF, waiting for a punchline that never came. It never came because it's not
a joke. The Beasons and their world are real. As BF's cousin said whenever the
countryness of a situation defied logic or surpassed belief, "You're in
Beason Holler now."
***
I've started saying "You're in Beason Holler now"
every time something scary-country happens, which is sadly not that often. But
then again, my uncle's not a renegade pastor, and there's currently a fire ban
in my area that precludes any serious house-burning.
Nothing much else going on here,
except it's really hot and my dad tried to pry the CD that's stuck in my car
stereo out with a knife. Actually, a homemade knife, made by my bro when he was
in his high school "let's run a handmade knife business out of my dad's
garage" phase.
What was I saying? Oh, yeah:
You're in Beason Holler now.
