I have been asked if I still act in such a manner which is conveyed within the stories of mine. The answer is a resounding "NO". As proof of that, I offer the following example of my subdued demeanor of only five years ago.
I hope some of y'all enjoy, but please empty your bladders beforehand. Thank you.
One old goat deserves another....
My wife, Miss Debi, and I used to kick around Eureka Springs, Arkansas several times a year, mostly just junkin' trips to see whatever we could find worthwhile. Miss Debi was known quite well for her unique ability to find and purchase specific items which would rub my hair the wrong way.
On one such trip, the item of incitement was a life size three dimensional billy goat made from metal by an eclectic local artist, complete with a full set of horns and other rather large body parts.
Miss Debi said the item was a very good purchase for only a few hundred dollars of my walking around money, and it would then give her two old goats around the house. I thanked her for my newest gift from her and informed her I had just the right place for it, and I did have just the perfect place in mind.
For those of you that haven't been by our home, our front yard has a park like atmosphere enjoyed by us and in plain view of the nosy, but well- meaning neighbor lady across the street. Weather permitting, the neighbor lady is working in her overly gaudy front yard some thirty-six hours each day. I might add she always seems to have good advice for me dang near every time I am out and about, which she relays to be via verbally shouting the advice to me from across the street.
Yep....I had just the spot picked out for the new anatomically correct gift I had received from Miss Debi.
Once home, and after a subtle additive of a fresh coat of bright red paint in the proper area, I installed the new "artistic lawn sculpture" after dark one evening.
I could see the envy in my neighbor lady's eyes every time she was working in her yard for the next couple years. Not only had the "gift" improved our yard, but it had ended the well meaning advice from across the street.
Miss Debi couldn't remember the paint scheme, but I swore the goat was the very same as the day she had acquired it.
It was about a year or so later after the billy goat was given free reign of our front yard. By free reign I admit to having moved him around in different sections of the yard. For example, if the lady across the street was working her flower beds on the South side of her yard, overnight "He/she" (the billy goats name) would simply move to keep a better eye on her and vice versa if y'all know what I mean.
One day, Miss Debi decided we needed to go junkin' again in Eureka Springs. So off we went, plain and simple.
The next to last day of our junkin' venture, I casually mentioned as to the fact we had not visited her eclectic artist. Once it became Miss Debi's idea, we went.
Well, lo and behold it came as a total surprise that he just happened to have a full sized three dimensional female goat made from steel and sheet metal. Who would have thought?
After convincing me to the simple fact as how He/She was lonely looking and all, Miss Debi spent more of my walking around money, and we were the proud new caretakers of a female goat. I know, I know, it was as if Divine Providence was behind the entire junkin' venture.
The goat was carefully placed into the back of Miss Debi’s cruiser carefully wrapped within a fuzzy pink blanket kept in the car for just such an auspicious occasion.
That evening back at the motel, Miss Debi decided I needed to bring the forty pound goat to our second floor room for inspection and protection. It was beyond me as to who would break into a car and rustle a goat, but after all we were in the hills of Arkansas.
An hour or so had passed when we heard them roll in. By them, I mean a group of twelve bikers. Yep, as luck would have it. They were not the doctor and lawyer weekend type bikers. They were the real deal complete with tats, scars, cuts and bruises...and that was just the bikers' bitches.
I could tell right away the group was highly impressed with Miss Debi’s pimped out PT cruiser in the parking lot, for they all had to walk around it while talking among themselves. In fact, they were so impressed that seven of them decided to park their Harleys next to our cruiser in Indians-circling-the-wagon train fashion. From what I could tell peeking out from our upstairs window, at least they had left walking room around our car, if one was to walk sideways that is.
The night turned out to be rather noisy at times, as bikers can make as much noise as two or three coyotes. They just leave a tad more residue behind as they wander about.
My plan was to quietly load our bags into the cruiser early the next morning when no one was around. I wasn't certain as to how to get around the Harleys blocking me in, but something would come to me.
The next morning, when I thought the time was right, I grabbed the first two bags and tip-toed down the outside staircase steps. No such luck. The bikers had taken the row of rooms directly under ours. To make matters worse, some of them were stirring. Others were setting out in the chairs provided in front of the ground floor rooms.
It was too late, so I edged my way between the bikes and stowed the first trip's bags.
A few of you may remember how Miss Debi travels. One would think she was going on an extended trip by the amount of baggage and necessities required in her endeavors. I, on the other hand travel lightly. The first two small bags were mine. It would take four or five additional trips up and down the stairs to transport Miss Debi's wares. Plus one trip after that.
Each trip to and from the car roused more attention and jibber jabbering from the now fully assembled audience of proud Harley owners. One would think they had never witnessed someone playing pack the PT before.
Hoping as I might for their speedy departure, the bikers appeared to not be in any hurry to get on the road. A few were busy wiping the morning's dew from their bikes let alone enjoying the current situation.
Miss Debi was still busy getting ready for an exciting new day, and there was now only a couple last items to load... the fuzzy pink blanket.... and the damn goat.
After much thought on my part, I figured I would just have to suck it up and go for it. Tucking the life sized female goat under my arm and carrying the fuzzy pink blanket, I began walking down the staircase steps.
By the third or fourth step I could feel all forty-eight eyes of the group upon me. There was nowhere for me to go but forward. Forward on I went ... probably where no other pimped out PT cruiser owner had gone before.
The chuckling and small talk from the group rapidly grew as the goat, blanket, and I gingerly squeezed by the bikes. Managing to have barely opened the rear hatch without dropping the cargo held firmly under my arm, I had finally had enough of the bikers' B.S. .
With the goat still tucked under my arm, I turned to face the group sporting my meanest Clint Eastwood scowl and yelled, " WHAT THE HELL Y'ALL SNICKERING ABOUT? HER NAME IS SARAH....AND I LOVE HER!!!! ANYBODY GOTTA PROBLEM WITH THAT?!!!!!!!"
The next few intense moments were slowly passing by. The guys had stopped their morning wipe down, others were standing up from their chairs. And then it happened. Laughter broke out as if all the bikers were in one accord. They were looking at each other and me as laughter came from their bellies and tears from their eyes.
The next thing I heard was from their apparent leader, "Hey....yore okay!!! Ya wanna beer??"
Two of them came over and helped me put Sarah safely into the rear of the cruiser, and even tenderly wrapped her within the safety of the folds of the fuzzy pink blanket.
I was sitting in a chair having my second "breakfast beer" with the group as Miss Debi finally came down the steps. The look on her face was priceless as she spied me sittin' and drinkin' with my twenty-four new BFF's.
Within a few minutes the bikes surrounding the cruiser were moved, and the three of us, Miss Debi, Sarah, and I were back on the road.
I'm pretty sure a few stories involving that particular morning have been told by the bikers since then. I'm just glad Clint and I didn't have to get rough with them.
