Humor

The Writer's E-Zine Home

Writers' Village University - F2K: Free Fiction Writing Course - ePress-online
Writers' Village University Membership Information

Humor

Harvey L. Gardner

Confessions Of Trailer Park Trash

I’m having trouble with my self-image. More specifically, I’m trying to come to grips with being a Tennessean.

I love my state. I love living here. I’ve noticed that nobody here retires and moves away. It’s the other way around. Because when a person from a northern state moves here, they fall in love with the place.

My freshman English professor, Ed Chenette, came to Tennessee from Minnesota in the early 50’s to teach English for just one summer at The University of Tennessee, Martin Branch as it was called in those days. He never returned to Minnesota. Just sent for his family and proceeded to live in Martin for the rest of his life.

That’s a pretty typical story. Our state is full of transplanted Yankees. They complain about our ways, think some of our customs are a little strange, but they never move back. They were delighted to learn that nearly everybody here wears shoes, and that some of us have college degrees, and many never attend the Grand Old Opry. All-in-all, they like us and they like Tennessee.

It’s the people who live out-of-state who give us a bad rap. Like the ESPN sportscaster who referred to The University of Tennessee football fans as "trailer park trash." That put his life in danger. What he didn’t realize is that football isn’t a sport in Tennessee. It’s a way of life. Some say, a religion.

It will be years before relations between ESPN and Tennessee football fans, even the University of Tennessee, are normalized. What made it worse for the sportscaster was Tennessee’s winning the national championship that year. Tennessee fans will never let him forget that unfortunate remark.

Like I said, when people move in with us, marry our women, eat our food, attend a Tennessee game, they’re hooked. They’re Tennesseans for life.

The reason my self-image is hurting a little is some stuff I read in our newspapers recently. Talk about shooting ourselves in the foot. It’s more like in the head.

I was shocked to learn that Tennessee ranks among the Top Ten Toothless States. That dubious distinction is earned by counting the number of people over 65 in the state without teeth. Damn, brother, I don’t think I’d have told that. I mean, that isn’t need-to-know news, is it?

Then close on the heels of that revelation came a new law in Tennessee, passed by our very own legislature. It is now legal in Tennessee to eat road kill.

Come on, guys. Raise taxes or something. But don’t whack our state’s image up alongside the head like that!

We’ve worked most of my lifetime to legitimize poke sallet, sausage and biscuits, hush puppies, and catfish. Now this. Just because a poor animal loses its life crossing the highway doesn’t mean we should eat it. At least the legislature didn’t make eating road kill mandatory. They’re not stupid, just crazy.

But I haven’t talked about my dilemma. I’ve decided to take up fishing again. I really never quit, but I’m going to do more of it than I have in recent years.

You’ve heard all the sayings about fishing. "If you’re too busy to go fishing, you’re too busy." Signs hanging on doctors' offices saying, "Gone fishing."

Well, I’ve decided I need to fish more. I own a fly rod and reel, spinning and casting outfits, and my fair share of artificial lures. But I have to confess. I like fishing with a cane pole, and a hook, line, and sinker. And I like fishing for and catching the lowly, but tasty, catfish.

But catfishing, like other kinds of fishing, has advanced. We have technology we didn’t have when I was a boy. The advancement I’m most excited about is bait. No, I’m not talking about anything artificial. I’m talking about all-natural ingredients. I’m talking about stink bait.

Even as a kid, I knew that catfish like things with strong odors, foul-smelling things like bad liver and spoiled shrimp. But recently I heard about a product in Texas called J. Pigg’s Stink Bait®.

I read about it in a Fort Worth newspaper column written by Curtis Martin, the son of my long-time friend, Monte Martin. Apparently Curt’s Uncle Jerry Martin makes this stuff down there in Stephenville, Texas. According to Curt, his Uncle Jerry contracts with slaughterhouses to buy pig brains, and with cheesemakers to buy rancid cheeses. Then he dumps these into old oil drums along with some other awful stuff and lets it sit around in the hot Texas sun until the neighbors complain about the stench.

Then he hires unsuspecting high school kids to throw in some sawdust as a binding ingredient and put the stuff into buckets and bottles for sale. Monte tells me his brother is hesitant about selling the stuff on the Internet for fear he can’t keep up with the demand.

I can understand that. I searched the Internet for "stink bait" and found several sites that sell some variation of the stuff. Of course I’m planning to use J. Pigg’s Stink Bait®, since my friend Monte sent me a jar of it for Christmas.

Lucky for me, and for other users, Jerry warns on his label to push the bait onto the hook with a stick. I don’t think it’ll burn your skin. It’s just that the wife won’t let you back into the house until your hands stop stinking. Apparently that can take months.

My dilemma is this: When I come home with a truckload of catfish that couldn't resist J. Pigg’s Stink Bait®, do I tell people around here what I used for bait? I mean, I’m having enough trouble living down the "trailer park trash" stigma, "Top Ten Toothless State" status, and eating legal road kill.

I have to keep up appearances, you know. Should I tell people I use stink bait?

HLG