Tales from the holler

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.