Diffle County Report - Jack Taylor and the Civil War Inheritance - Chapter 2

Rabbit Run 

 
When he turned twenty, Jack Taylor married  his high school sweetheart Bonnie Weatenly and it wasn't very long before they had children,  Brandon and Marigold.  Jack built a modest 4-bedroom ranch house, dark green siding with white trim, with an attached two car garage, 200 feet back from Rabbit Mountain Road.  He snuggled the house as close to the gentle stream called Rabbit Run as possible,  He used a dirt road built by the previous owner as a driveway and that road follows Rabbit Run all the way to the bridge at the rear of the property where, according to local press, John Shenk of Shenk Auto died when he fell off the bridge while intoxicated and fracture his skull on a rock.  

Of course John Shenk's family found empty beer cans that were pierced all over and his pistol had been fired, and a tuft of black bear fur was lodged between his teeth.  Did he bite a black bear before he died?  Why was the gun empty of bullets?  Besides, John needed a case of beer to get drunk enough to fall off the bridge he built himself, his family concluded.  Some questions never get answered.

Behind the house, Jack built a 4 bay garage with a loft- man cave perpendicular to the house- with identical siding and trim.  He bought  4 ATV's, 4 Snowmobiles, several rifles and pistols. He built an inground swimming pool in the backyard of the house and built a small bathhouse in the corner of the detached garage with a doorway to the pool area.  He added 6' high privacy fence between the house and the garage.  Then he hired landscapers to to tie everything together with mulch, trees, rocks, and plants.

The Taylors were proud of their homestead and careful with their money.   They decided that it was no one's business where the money came from. They made modest donations to their Church and their favorite charities, placed their children in public school, and Bonnie got her Bachelor's Degree in Art Design online while Jack opened a gun and tackle shop at the old Batchelor Market, a few hundred feet south on the State highway from the Grinold Township building.

Of course, people talk in small towns and Jack's sudden purchase of  a large tract of land, a dilapidated Storefront property in the center of a rural township,  a new house built to spec, several adult recreation toys, a new Ford F-350, a complete remodeling of the Batchelor building, an all new inventory of guns and fishing gear, jackets and ammunition, hats, boots and hunting knives, and a year later, the addition of an indoor gun range, as well as a diamond ring on Bonnie's finger the size of a Kansas cow, and a modest donation to the Diffle County Food Pantry of $75,000 so they could afford commercial refrigerators- well that raised a few eyebrows and soon enough the gossip train left the station.

Jack didn't build his empire overnight.  Jack Taylor was 29 years old when stopped by the Township office to talk to Big Don about the State highway permit he needed for the shop that was painfully slow in arriving, holding up Jack's Grand Opening. It had been 11 years since he received his first inheritance check. Without fuel, even the gossip train slows back down over time. Jack Taylor didn't talk much and Bonnie was alrighty fine with that.  Still, Big Don had to ask,

" Jack, I'll call the State and see what I can do, but they aren't a friendly bunch,  Mind if I ask you a personal question?"

Jack smiled,  "Sure, go ahead. I may not answer if its too personal."

Don smiled back, "Did you rob a bank?  You may be the wealthiest young man in Diffle County!  I saw your dad last night at the Willow Inn, he was his usual self, a bit tired and muttering about a stolen inheritance. I'm told he's been drowning himself nightly in beer and whiskey, always talking to himself  and others.  I know that can be hard on family.  If there is anything you need..."  Jack interrupted him.

"Don, I never stole a penny in my life.  My dad needs help but until he admits he needs it, there isn't much I can do for him.  Yeah it's sad and at times I get angry but mostly I miss the dad I remember.  That isn't the guy drinking himself to death at the bar. I don't know that man. "  Jack paused for a moment before speaking in a quieter tone,

"As for the money, and I tell you this confidentially,  I was blessed with an ancestor from long ago who chose me without knowing who I am, on the chance that the alcoholism in his family wouldn't carry through more than three generations.  He held his fortune from civil war in trust on a prayer that one day our family would have an heir worthy of his fortunes. Don, I don't drink or smoke, I don't do drugs.  I never will and we will do great things with the money."  

For moment Big Don was speechless. He nodded his head as Jack's words sunk in.  "Jack, that sounds like a lot of money." 

Jack picked up his coffee and sipped after blowing on it to cool it down. He stood up and smiled at Don,

"The gesture is greater than the result.  My responsibility is to make the result greater than the gesture. We are blessed for it."  With that Jack readied himself to leave, but leaned in close to Big Don and whispered " Billions, not Millions"  and then Jack Taylor looked at Big Don with concern,

"If this gets back to me I will know it was you.  But if you can keep this to yourself,  there's a chance that Grinold Township will receive a blessing as well."   Jack winked at Big Don, who laughed, a merry smile on his face.

"Jack, I don't know how you do it."  Big Don stood up and stretched and the two men nodded to each other.  "See ya 'round Mr. Taylor."  

"Don't forget my driveway permit, Don."  Said Jack as he walked out the door,

A few months later Big Don was sitting , well.... where he pretty much sits every day, behind the big desk in the meeting room when town secretary Julie Winters walked in and handed him the mail.  Big Don opened the mail, as he had done the past 15 years. Inside one envelope with no return address was a check from the Taylor Foundation and a deed to the old Hasker farm, directly behind the Township building.

Don stared at the check for several minutes then, chuckled softly to himself, saying to no one in particular,  "I don't know how he does it."   The check was made out to Grinold Township in the amount of $250,000.  On the memo line there were instructions that read...

     Build a park with a playground. -Jack and  Bonnie

Diffle County Truths- The Everybody Principle

There is one simple Diffle County truth that rings true year after year, generation after generation and that is everybody knows everybody.  While that may appear to quite impossible, everyone who lives here actually knows everyone else who lives here. We know where the strangers are living too.  And not one of us  "Difflers"  will rent out our home to strangers from other lands. That would require proper cleaning and adding amenities.

When Aunt Mary Rose  (everyone calls her Aunt Mary and everybody agrees we have no idea who she is related to) received a mailer that an internet vacation rental company wanted to list her summer home in Maine for vacation rentals, she nearly melted down like a grilled cheese sandwich at the diner  ( she actually was at the diner when this happened ).

"Well,  the extra income would be nice" she said to her neighbor Rudith Holmes who sat across from her in one of the the older booths in the original section of the diner ( two additions on opposite ends turned a 30 seat diner into a 120 seat restaurant but the locals prefer the original section ).  Rudith blew her nose into the napkin and then used it to wipe her mouth.  I know- that is kind of gross but everybody knows you only get one napkin unless you ask for another.  Rudith stuffed a thin, dry, bite-sized portion of pork chop she had just sawed off the main course into her tiny, prim mouth.

"I don't know why I order the boneless pork chop here.  Everyone knows that shoe leather is boneless too." she griped back at Aunt Mary, who was mixing her corn with her mashed potatoes, right next to over-sized slice of meatloaf,  " and I am not very sure if this is pork chop or shoe leather."  Ask anyone in town. Rudith Louise Cynthia Holmes complains a lot.

"Rudith I tell you every time do NOT order the stuffed pork chops and then you order it anyway. Now just stop your complaining. Everyone can hear you and we don't need everybody knowing our business." Aunt Mary sipped on her unsweetened iced tea through a plain, white straw, standard issue at the Westville Diner.

"Now if I rented out the Maine house when I wasn't there then I couldn't just pack up my bags, grab Forty-Niner  (there isn't a person in Diffle County who doesn't know that the medium-sized , multi-colored Cockapoo named Forty-Niner belongs to Aunt Mary) and head North for a few days.   I would also have to buy new towels, new sheets, and remove all my personal belongings.  And then total strangers would be living in my house, doing whatever they wanted on my furniture."   Aunt Mary filled her mouth with a fork-full of corn/mashed potato/meatloaf, chewing silently.  However, the money would be helpful, she thought.

"I was having breakfast here yesterday morning when I overheard Pastor Thompkin's wife, complain about having rented out their home for two weeks while they traveled and they came home to over twenty thousand dollars worth of damage to their house." Aunt Mary signaled the waitress to bring a box.  "She said her husband spoke words to the Lord that she never even knew existed."

Rudith started sawing off another slice.  " Ginnie Radcliffe told me that everyone in church knows he has a wicked tongue, forged by the devil.  Serves him right for trying to turn the parsonage into a vacation rental. You know everyone I talk to to agrees with me."  She sighed as she ate another piece of diner shoe, this time adding gobs of gravy to wetten the slide down her aging throat.

Aunt Mary looked over at the counter seat, where Frank Kagen was sitting. Frank turned to face Aunt Mary and smiled a hello.  Aunt Mary frowned.  "Mr. Kagen, Whatever are you staring at?"

"Aunt Mary, I couldn't help overhearing your conversation with Rudith.  I know some folks who rented out their home for the weekend last summer for two thousand dollars.  Everybody is talking about it.  Thought you should know."Frank turned back to his plate of creamed chipped beef on toast.

"While that is a lot of money,  I just don't think the aggravation is worth it.  Are you on you lunch break, Mr. Kagen?"  Aunt Mary peered down through her readers that were perfectly perched on the end of her nose.

"Yes Ma'am.  Just taking a short break."  Frank replied.

"Mr. Kagen,  Every man, woman, and child in Diffle County knows you haven't worked a steady job in fifteen years.  Your poor wife has had to work night shifts at the County Hospital to keep a roof over your head. And here  you sit at the diner for hours every day.  You aught to be ashamed. "

Frank Kagen chuckled at Aunt Mary. "If you want to know more about my life come on over and move right in.  You can sleep in the spare bedroom.  You know the one we shared about ten years ago when Molly started working the night shift? Everybody was talking about us back then, Mary."

Aunt Mary clucked her tongue as she walked past Kagen to pay the bill at the counter, her nose firmly up in the air.  Rudith remained in the booth, smirking slightly as she finished her meal.  There wasn't a person in Diffle County who didn't remember Aunt Mary's affair with Frank. Molly Kagen came home early one night due to a stomach virus and found Aunt Mary and Molly's serial cheating husband Frank naked in the spare bedroom.  Molly chased that Aunt Mary over a mile down Main Street at three o'clock in the morning, only stopping once to fill Aunt Mary's unclothed ass with a shotgun blast of rocksalt.

Aunt Mary slid into to her shiny black, mint condition, 1979 Lincoln Continental with tinted windows and backed out onto highway.  As she was blindly backing onto the state road, Grinold Township Supervisor Big Don was pulling into the parking lot. He shook his head as her car backed out onto the main highway, forcing a tractor-trailer to lock up his air brakes to avoid crushing her and her car.

"Thank goodness everybody knows Aunt Mary never looks when she backs out of the diner onto the main road.  Otherwise she would've been T-boned by now."  Big Don shook his head in disbelief as he parked the township truck at the Westville diner where he would hold court for the next two hours, something everybody complains about but never directly to Big Don.

(Diffle County is a pretend place located in Eastern Pennsylvania near the Kittatiny Ridge. All characters are fictional and any resemblance  to real country folk is incidental and unintended, generally speaking.)

DIFFLE COUNTY UPDATE: East Greenville Sues East Greenville and Wins!

Historian Randall O'Rourke 

DIFFLE COUNTY UPDATE

East Greenville  held a referendum on the city name after their Town Constable, Johnny “Bearhug” Bartlesky made an amazing discovery. He was driving to Quakertown to pick up a prisoner from the county prison when he got lost, with the help a gas station attendant or two.   He ended up in East Greenville- in Montgomery County!    When he returned home with this revelation, the Town Council was furious and wrote a letter to the imposter East Greenville demanding they change their name.

Since the Montgomery County town was established over one hundred years before the Diffle County town, there was no way they were changing their name.  Instead East Greenville, Montgomery County sued East Greenville, Diffle County to force a name change.

In the course of discovery, it was revealed  that a significant number of tax bills were being sent to the wrong town by a somewhat confused US Postal Service.  Since the homes in Montgomery County were higher in value than the homes in  Diffle County-  our County tax fund greatly benefited.

   “You don’t look a gift horse in the mouth”,  testified Diffle County Chief Tax Assessor Randall O’Rourke at the Superior Court Hearing last April.

That was a sticking point with State Judge Anthony Grube, a former Montgomery County Prosecutor who ruled that Diffle County's East Greenville would be audited, the monies returned to the right and proper East Greenville, and a binding referendum on a new name placed on the ballot in November. Then Judge Gruber sealed the court record.

Diffle County Council formed a Name Committee and by September three names were added to the referendum:  Greenvale, PA ;  East Greenvale, PA , and Westgreen, PA.   The third name was chosen when it was pointed out to the Committee  by the town historian, Randall O’Rourke that the Diffle County seat is located on the West side of the creek, and not the East side as previously thought.

The winning vote was East Greenvale.  There were a few write-ins that gained traction but fell a few votes short. The top write-in three vote-getters   East Greensucksville;  Gruberville,  and West Easterly.

West Easterly actually won the most votes, if you count the two absentee ballots sent in by the Sean and Maggie O’Rourke. They were vacationing in Ireland at the time of election, and asked their son Randall to drop their absentee ballot off at the post office.   He forgot.

~~~

In other news -  Barry Stettler was plowing snow part-time for Grinold Township when he fell and broke his leg.

 Last October  Barry put up a shed right on the property line and his neighbor Jim Catinera filed a complaint with the zoning office.   Barry had to rent a skid-steer to move the shed five feet beck from the line. That cost him a hundred and seventy five dollars for the machine rental and permit fee. Barry was not a happy camper.

When winter arrived and it came time to plow the roads, Barry was assigned to plow Caterina’s street.  Big Don warned Barry beforehand.   “Don’t even think about doing damage to Catinera’s mailbox. “  Barry politely nodded.

After four sweeps of the street, each time pushing snow closer and closer to the mailbox, finally Barry took one last swipe.  The heavy, wet snow flew, the post cracked, but the mailbox did not fall over.  Furious at this, Barry drove for a fifth time at the mailbox, opened the truck door and gave the box a good hard kick. Then he lost his grip on the steering wheel and fell out of the truck.  His leg hit the step rail awkwardly, then his own weight slammed down and snapped his femur like a big ol' pine branch getting whacked by a chainsaw.

The Truck continued on plowing without him, rolled down an embankment and pinned itself between two oak trees.  Big Don had to rent a crane to remove the fully-loaded salt truck  from its woodland perch.  Barry was fired and Jim Cantinera received a brand new mailbox and half a pound of  deer sausage.

Three weeks later,  Barry’s shed blew up. “Must have been a Meth lab!” Big Don said with a big-ol’ grin.  Breaking Bad - right here in Diffle County.  You just never know.

Diffle County Update: How to Catch a Killer in Diffle County - Chapter 4

Family History

They were third cousins once removed when they met at a family reunion in Dalton, Georgia- spittin' distance from Tennessee's southern border.   She was a fifteen year old raven-haired beauty with a wide mischievous smile, a small pointy nose that gave her mouth an even larger exposure. Her teeth were perfect in order, perfect in placement, and perfectly white.  She was tall for her age, standing flat footed at five feet, ten inches, small-breasted and slim- which made her head seem slightly too large for her body.  She perfectly coiffed her hair to provide a maximum amount of wavy coverage down the small of her back. She was the girl next door, with a bit of an edge because she was also an All-American brat.

Her parents were convinced that she would be a big star one day. In the Spring of her 15th year they packed up and moved to Los Angeles, California- land of swimming pools and movie stars- and pushed her towards their destiny and million dollar paychecks.  With summer smog in the L.A. basin reaching critical levels, she and her mother drove back to Georgia to stay with family for the season.. Her father remained behind to manage the blossoming career of Linda Malone.

He fell in love with her at first sight.   He was twenty-seven at the time, unemployed and high on pot every day from breakfast to bedtime.  He was tall and lanky, his straight brown hair pulled back into a pony-tail, with a few stray whiskers on his face staking claim as a mustache.  He looked younger than his age and he often acted that way too.

He had a few other faults.  He was raised in the North by his mother and step-father - a harsh, bitter man who never liked him and sold him on that truth every drunken day. When he was younger and more impressionable, his mother- Maria was her name-  insisted he take his step-father's name and he did so, but deeply regretted that decision later.  Between the age of twelve and eighteen, he was beaten and spit on more times than he could remember As soon as he turned legal age, exactly 12 hours after his 18th birthday, Mark Westin Jones left home and moved to the Southern side of the Mason-Dixon line. He landed a job in the maintenance shop of a  West Virginia Strip Mine.

He had never met his biological father but he had heard the stories.  Three dead in a  hotel room in Knoxville and his father found guilty of the crime. The crime scene was one of the "worst I've ever seen in my 25 years on the force" said the homicide investigator at the trial.   

Tequilla and LSD will do that to a man if he isn't careful.  They executed his father on an antique electric chair. It took five shots of current and 18 minutes to completely kill him. Johnathan Matthew Marcus Jones, on the morning of his execution, shouted a few short comments for the press.  "We come from a proud family of righteous killers!"  was one comment.  "I wish I had taken out a few more of them cowardly Coles!" Then he swore long and loud making sure everyone would hear him long after he died.  

His last statement was hard to understand with a his head covered in a hood and foam filling his mouth, but some witnesses insist they heard him say, "Make me proud son!"  Johnathan Matthew Marcus Jones knew long before he was removed from Earth that his son was the apple that dropped near the tree.

A Summer Affair

And so they met, at a picnic table with all the fixin's, burgers, dogs, chips, rolls, soda, and her priceless, emerald eyes.  Before long, they were united in purpose as they shared a mocking view of their families, shared a hamburger, shared a joint behind an old Beech tree, shared a soft kiss along the nature trail, and then shared their bodies in a field of high grass.  

The cousins met every day after that and made love, small talk, and future plans.  They found their common bond, the cruel world was against them because of his age, her age, their shared family history, and anything else that didn't seem fair or inconvenient.   It was the greatest summer of his life.  By the time she was packing to return to Los Angeles, his love had evolved into obsession.

Back in L.A. after a torrid summer with her older cousin, Linda Malone soon found friends and work to keep herself occupied and by November her love letters to Mark had dwindled down to one of two a month. Meanwhile he had built a shrine to honor his lover and prayed for her safety and deliverance to him.

Diffle County Report: Three Yellow Roses For You, Darling

Big Don says Father Figure started it.  Father Figure says  Larry started it. Larry blamed it on the kid.   While scraping the shoulder of Township Road #639 with the backhoe (helps keep rainwater from ponding on the road), the road department found dirty plastic flowers lying on the shoulder.  They were the kind of flowers that you buy at the dollar store and stab into the grave-ground of your least favorite Aunt.  That way you won't have to visit her as often.  Plastic lasts a long time.

The flowers were picked up off the side of the road, brought back to the maintenance garage, then placed on the meeting room table at the Grinold Township Muncipal Building.  They were the nastiest, weather-beaten plastic flowers anyone had ever seen.  A few minutes after we arrived for work, Big Don walked in to the room. He picked the skanky flowers up and looked them over.

"These will be perfect for my wife's birthday."  Don said with a matter-of fact smile.   "I won't have to pay a cent for them, and now I can afford lunch and dinner with my sweetie at the County Fair. Larry, thank the kid for me when you see him. "

Larry shook his head. "Don, don't you think she will be offended?"  he asked.

"Why would she be offended? Big Don looked slightly puzzled.  "She loves sausage sandwiches!"

(You know that moment when you fully realize you won't win the debate?   Larry was already there.)

"I meant the flowers.  Don't you think she will be offended?"  Larry was becoming exasperated, the look of defeat creeping onto his face.

Big Don gave  one of his crafty old smiles.   "Larry,  it's our twentieth anniversary. What kind of husband would I be if I didn't bring flowers home?  There isn't a better dinner than sausage sandwiches at the County Fair and a paper plate dessert of  Funnel Cake. Of course, we'll have to clean these flowers up first."

Then he paused a moment, let out a dramatic sigh, shook is head and concluded,  "Frankly, I don't know how I do it all."   Then he grinned huge and we burst out laughing.

The very next day, Big Don walked in carrying three long stemmed yellow roses.  They were beautiful.  They were perfect.  They were plastic.   Larry, the kid, Father Figure, Horst and I were sitting around the meeting room table, drinking our morning coffee (courtesy of Horst M. Slavic Plumbing and Heating) and reading local obituaries out loud.

Horst:  Oh my, did ya see that there Mrs. Baldinger died.  She was 86 years old.  Now look a her, she's dead.
Larry:  Yep, she's dead. dead and dead.
Father Figure:  Well, I seem to remember her husband got into a mess downtown once..the police caught him dressed like woman stealing bras from J.J. Newberry's.  She was never the same after that.
the kid:  Why, because she didn't have any bras to wear?
Larry:  Well, that had to be a helluva a long time ago. Newberry's closed down 20 years ago.
Father Figure: I ain't getting any younger.  I only got one thing that still works. (looks down at his crotch)
the kid:  Yeah, that's how YOU remember it.

At this point Big Don jumped into the conversation.  "Etta Baldinger was a good friend of my mothers. She used to come over to visit.  I don't know how mom could stand her.  The woman never bathed a day in her life. Mom would clean for two hours after Etta went home." Then with hardly a pause, "Ricky, does your sweetie have a special day soon?"

I looked up from the Sports page of Diffle County Reporter that I was barely reading. "Her birthday is next week."

"Good, give her these flowers and when she is done with them, bring them back and one of us can use them for our wives.  She's from Texas.  Give your yellow rose a yellow rose."

The men chuckled and then Larry asked, "Don, what happened to the other flowers?

Big Don shook his head.  "That didn't go over as well as I expected.  They are back on the side of the road again. They flew right out the window. But I have higher hopes with the yellow roses."

  

  

Diffle County Report: Murder and Deer Sausage - 2nd in a Series

Part 1:  http://themutantmousechronicles.blogspot.com/2011/07/diffle-county-report-body-found-in.html

In Pennsylvania We Eat Our State Animal

Written By Rick Fisher

Aunt Carol was stirring the crockpot when Big Don arrived home.  "Honey, the phone has been ringing off the hook for the past hour."  The phone rang as she spoke.

Big Don picked up the receiver and barked "Hello!"  After 10 minutes of answering “Yes”, “No”, and “No, thank you”, Big Don hung up the phone.  "Well, that was a producer for The Nancy Grace Show on CNN. Nancy wants me to be on her show tomorrow night.  Told them,  Thanks but no thanks."   Don shook his head as he sat down for dinner. "I'm thinking we might have to barricade the highway by tomorrow morning."

"NANCY GRACE?!  YOU WERE ON THE TELEPHONE WITH NANCY GRACE?!?!?!  Aunt Carol dropped a spoon, then she dropped the bowl of Deer Sausage Soup. Then she ran out of the room. Don didn't have to worry about the phone ringing the rest of the night.  Aunt Carol took care of that. By midnight, every living person ( and a few near-dead ones) in Diffle County knew about Linda Malone being found dead in Fletcher's Pond.

After cleaning up Aunt Carol’s mess, Big Don helped himself to three bowlfuls of her world famous Deer Sausage Soup (which is a variation on a Dutch recipe created by the Women's Auxiliary of the Friendship Hook and Ladder Company of East Greenville). The meat was perfectly smoked and the soup tasted delicious- “Never better!”, Big Don said out loud, a happy old grin on his face.

“Hey Auntie, is this Father Figure’s sausage?” Big Don hollered to the living room, then murmured to himself “I doubt it is, this is much sweeter and juicier.” Aunt Carol hollered back from the living room.  “Squirrel brought it over. Such a sweet, yet odd little man!’  Don was too busy chomping down soup to offer his affirmative reply.

Aunt Carol kept the phone lines humming half the night. Some folks swear they saw phone lines smoking on the telephone poles.  Big Don finished dinner and then headed upstairs for an early bedtime.  Tomorrow was going to be a long day.  “I don’t know how I do it!” Don chuckled to himself a short while later, just before falling asleep.

The next morning, Big Don had to drive across Bernie Sharp’s sheep farm to get to Maruice Candelharp’s driveway. From there he crossed Beaver Dam Rd. to enter Creek Lane, which is really nothing more than a dirt trail. He then drove his truck through a thicket of blackberry bushes that had overgrown the trail’s end, his truck climbing up the shoulder and onto the pavement of N Fletcher Road which led directly to the rear of the Grinold Township Municipal building.

The State Police had closed the main highway one mile North of Creek Lane, and one mile South of the Township building after 75+ news vans, satellite trucks, and thousands of rubbernecked lookie-loos in cars and trucks of all sizes descended on the pond. Big Don pulled into the township building, having avoided all the congestion.

When he got out of his truck, he was immediately surrounded by reporters.  “Are you in charge here?  Do you have any comment on the Malone murder?  Are you going to provide us with regular updates?  Is it possible to get an interview with you live on our news program? 

Big Don kept walking, a blank look on his face.  “Sorry folks, I’m just here to pick up a permit.”   The reporters melted away, realizing they had the wrong man.  Big Don walked inside and greeted the makeshift police department assembled in the meeting room, then walked out back to the township garage.  The big trucks were lined up, snow plows firmly attached, ready for the coming winter.

At the back of the garage, four worn-out lazy-boy chairs were waiting, though three were already occupied.  Larry, Squirrel, and The Kid were lounging and talking about Linda Malone, each one arguing the merits of the case.

“Thanks for the deer sausage, Squirrel. Aunt Carol made her world class sausage soup. I’m still feeling it.”  Big Don burped.  

Squirrel smiled.  “No problem, Big Don. I had plenty extra.  Tell her to save me a bowl of that soup.  Never had it before.” 

State Police Captain Jonathan Jenkins walked back into the garage. He had been up all night managing the media circus while searching for evidence.  His usually crisp uniform was wrinkled and his tie was stained with tomato sauce, his salt and pepper hair disheveled from a 3 A.M. attempt to nap in one of the lazy boys.

Big Don leaned against a work counter and greeted Captain Jenkins, "Hi John. You look a little tired. Are you close to catching the killer?  I will want my township building back eventually.”

Captain John managed a grin.  “We have some evidence, found some ATV tracks on the lake path. The path leads back to State Game Lands and the parking lot on Carter Hill Road.  We found more evidence in the parking lot. We made a cast of the ire tracks and I have men walking every square inch of the woods in between. We have no idea why someone would have chosen this location to dump her body.  It’s a missing piece in the puzzle, the mot-.”

Captain John paused, realizing he didn’t know everyone in the room. He turned to Squirrel and, without smiling said, “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Captain Jonathan Jenkins, Barracks Commander of the Pennsylvania State Police.”  

“Nice to um..meet you, Captain.” Squirrel managed to say.  They did not shake hands.

Captain John looked at Squirrel and frowned. “Everything I just said is confidential, understood?  My words never leave this room.  I’ve known these boys a long time.  It only takes one screw-up to get yourself kicked off the need-to-know list.”  Captain John turned to Big Don.  “Don, we are holding a press conference in about 30 minutes.

"Need to Know List," Larry repeated, like a parrot.

"Don, we’d like a local official to answer a few general questions about Grinold Township,”  said Captain John.

"Local Official", Larry repeated.

Big Don smiled and nodded.  “I think we can find someone for that.”   Captain John thanked him gave a general wave, and a longer than normal stare at Squirrel before walking back to the office area.   

Big Don sat down, yawned and stretched. “Well kid, we can do it with you or without you. Squirrel, looks like you made a lifelong friend at the State Police barracks. Better not drink and drive.”   Squirrel shrugged, his gray-blue eyes slightly larger than normal.

"Do it with or without you", repeated Larry

The Kid shook his head repeatedly. “I’m not going up there, Don. No way.  I’m just a Township employee.”  The kid squirmed in his chair, adjusting the John Deere cap on his head.


“I will tell you what to say.  Remember that time you needed a gift for your girlfriend and we helped you pick it out?  Don was smiling so hard, his face was about to crack.

“HELP ME OUT?  You told me to buy new equipment for bow hunting.  That she would appreciate the fresh meat.  She was furious!”   The Kid kicked at some dirt on the floor.

"Help you out.," said Larry, as he read the Diffle County Daily Reporter.

“We didn’t think you’d actually go through with it.”  Big Don laughed out loud.  “OK, here is what you’ll say.  Grinold Township has been around longer than most can remember.  We have clean water, beautiful lakes and streams, plenty of hunting and fishing.  Now, if you need more information than that, Diffle County has elected officials who need votes. Go talk to them.”

The kid shook his head.  “I ain’t goin’ up in front of those cameras, Big Don.”

Thirty minutes later, The Kid, also known as Timothy Westin, Grinold Township Public Relations Director, talked for 30 minutes about hunting and fishing in Grinold Township.  Most of the reporters had already left by the time The Kid was finished with his speech.

Afterwards, Captain and Big Don had a private talk in Don’s office.  The only unusual thing in the woods that the police observed was a deer had been killed and gutted not far off the ATV Trail. Hunting season was at least two months away. Big Don didn’t think much of that until he burped.

Smoking Deer Sausage

All characters are fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental, incidental, and not meant to hurt, harm, nor offend your tender sensibilities.  

Diffle County Update: Aunt Carol's Deer Sausage Soup Recipe

This writer has had a busy week after our perfect vacation. Because of that, my characters in Diffle County have been less than cooperative.  While I almost have the entire murder story figured out, I still have to talk to the Reilly clan and maybe Big Don one more time to make certain I have all the facts straight. In the meantime, why not take a look at Aunt Carol's recipe for Deer Sausage Soup!  

And remember, if Deer sausage is out of season (not likely in Diffle County), you can use regular, boring smoked sausage.  If you do, try to use one of the local butchers like John Hemstattler & Sons, over in East Greenville, just past the traffic light on the left.  Look for the cow in the window.

Aunt Carol's Deer Sausage Soup

4 lg. potatoes, peeled and diced (like for potato salad)
1 lg. onion, diced
1 lg. green pepper, diced
1 lb. smoked deer sausage, cut into small pieces
Cover with water, add salt and pepper to taste, cook until potatoes are
done, then add: 1 can red kidney beans (don't drain)
2-3 Tablespoons of sugar
Heat to boiling point and thicken with flour water (just thicken slightly)
**sausage can be browned before cooking, if desired)

Diffle County is a work of fiction, however the recipe is true.  All characters reside in the mind of the author. Any resemblance to persons now living or already gone to meet their maker is purely coincidental, incidental, and not worthy of your frivolous lawsuit.  Spend your money on something worthwhile like a vacation. Go somewhere nice, like Washington State, or perhaps, Diffle County, where you thought you were in the first place.

It's About Time...

...for another Diffle County story!  Coming Soon.."Murder and Deer Sausage"  the surprisingly conclusion to our murder mystery.

Diffle County Report: Aliens Spotted on Spoot Mountain

Story by Rick Fisher Copyright 2011 All Rights Reserved. All Characters are fictional. Any resemblance to folks living or dead is purely coincidental and not intended to reflect poorly upon the good non-fictional people we know.

A bad storm came through Diffle County last week.  I always know when a summer storm is a bad one by my telephone.  Since I live in Nother County, the boys don't call me in to help out unless they are desperate.  I can accept that.  Big Don likes to say, "Ricky, we can do it with you or without you."  Mostly they do it without me.

But eventually, being the back-up to the alternate to the part-timer to the full-timer gets you called on the phone after a nasty storm.

Big Don on the phone:
"Ricky, what are you doing today?  A bad storm came through.  Ol' John is down with a bad knee,  Arthur is in Florida, and Father Figure, well..he's on a mission...you aren't on the need to know list so we will leave it at that."

"What about Larry Lohman?  Isn't he available?"  I was trying to think of an excuse.  It was 5 a.m.

"Larry has a lawn maintenance seminar to attend . Ricky, we know you aren't busy at five in the morning.  You might as well come in."  Big Don believes that sleeping doesn't count as doing something.

There were a good number of trees down over roads, and large branches too. As soon as I got into the office, Big Don and I grabbed chainsaws and hopped in the Township truck.  He drove and I rode.  He knew where he was going. Here is how the system works: All night long, trees fall down. All night long folks who should stay home in a bad storm but don't dial up 911.  All night long the State Police call Big Don.

"Is Walt (our esteemed zoning officer originally from Long Island) out helping too?  I asked, as we bumped along on the back roads.

"Ricky, how many New Yorkers do you know who can handle a chainsaw?"  Big Don replied with feigned irritation.  After that we kept our conversations to the business of cutting limbs and clearing roads.

We were cutting a large Oak limb on Weldon Drive when Big Don's cell phone started playing "Made in America" by Toby Keith.  "Ah, it's Melissa."  (All women are named Melissa to Big Don. It's kind of catchy,  you should try it at home.)  He spoke with a couple of "uhuhs" and "okays" and a "whew" and then a "thank you Melissa" before hanging up the phone.  We finished carving up the branch and tossing it into the woods at the road's edge.

"Ricky, Melissa says we'll have to go rescue Marcus Spoot."

Marcus Spoot is a  true mountain man. He owns seventy-six acres of woods on a small rise surrounded by gentle valleys.  This is the same seventy-six acres that his daddy owned, his Pappy owned, and his great Granddaddy owned.  Before that, there is a missing deed (Chief Running Bear's deed, according to Native Americans and their casino backers), then a John Becker, and back even further, and not surprisingly, the property (along with half of Pennsylvania) was owned by the Honorable William Penn.

Marcus  Spoot had a driveway made of legend. Only 4-wheel drive vehicles could easily ascend to the top. Once the mountain snow and ice arrived, the Spoot homestead was only accessible by snowmobile and ATV's.  In the winter, Marcus Spoot parked  his old Dodge truck next to the mailbox down by the main road.

If he needed to go somewhere, Spoot ditched the snowmobile in Clawney's old barn, across the highway, hopped in his truck and drove. During the warmer seasons, the Dodge carried junk, tons of junk, picked up every trash night throughout the county, then carted up the mountain and tossed on the ground- new treasures every week.

Spoot's daddy was a junk collector.  Spoot's grand-pappy was a junk collector.  Spoot's Great grandfather collected metal and wood. The first pile is still there, rusting an decaying.  On top of Spoot mountain, there are over 5 acres of  Spoot-declared treasure- from half a piper cub to a 39 foot sailboat jacked up on cinder blocks with paint peeling faster than a drunken pee. Four generations of junk sure can add up.

Over the years, Spoot Mountain has also accumulated 55-gallon plastic barrels and Marcus has put them to good use fermenting peaches, sugar pears, apples, grapes, and more. It is the most unsanitary winery known to man. Fly strips full of winged insects hang from the ceiling of his makeshift garage, and a thousand more circle the barrels.  If you saw it, you wouldn't want to drink it.

Yet the wine is 150 proof and an absolute delight as long as you only sip half a glass or pour down more than two glasses. You don't want to drink enough to remember your reaction, friend. Or you want to drink enough to forget your reaction, babydoll.

Spoot had fancy names for his wine.  "Applenesia"  "Sugarpear Snare", "Grape Sinner" and "Peach Plowed" are some of the names Spoot has used in the past.  "Hey Marcus, what kind of wine is this?", I asked one day when he dropped off a couple of jars for the boys.  "That red one is "Strawberry Snatch".  They be snatching your children away from you after you drink some of that.   The yellow one is Daffodil Dyke.  Drink a few glassfuls and you be hitting on all the wrong girls in the bar. A few more glasses, and you be dancin' in the wrong bar, and a few more, you be shaving your head and marching in the parade."

He once invited the State Auditor, a lovely, professional accountant, over to his "winery" for a tasting.  A connoisseur of fine wines, she naturally agreed.  They found her 2 days later in Stopton, 40 miles away, wandering down the middle of Main Street in search of her car.  Spoot says he warned her.  "I told her, this one is Elderberry Eraser- erase your mind as fast as you drink it down.

It was hard for us to believe that Spoot needed our help. But when we arrived we saw there were dozens of trees down over his driveway, which was mostly washed out.  And Spoot was feeling poorly, fightin off some serious chest pains. An ambulance and crew waited at the driveway entrance to take him in, while we went to work at clearing those trees.

Dave got on cellular and called George Watkins, who lived nearby. "George, we need the big machine. Over at Spoots. Yep. Okay. Send the bill to the Township. Yep. Melissa says Howdy. Bye now."  We stood around chatting with the ambulance crew for a few minutes when the sound of thunder started rolling our way.



Within minutes, the thunder became a clanking roar of yellow iron and rust- George Watkins had arrived on top of his 1957 D8 and, without so much as a wave, attacked the trees on Spoot's driveway- breaking trees and pushing them aside like little twigs, then scraping the dirt and pushing it forward, filling the ruts in nice and tight.

We followed with our chainsaws, cutting back a limb here, tossing minor branches aside there- while Watkins and his mighty D8 carved a new driveway to Spoot's front door.  Within an hour we reached the old man, and there he was sitting on a half-finished deck, feet hanging over the edge, naked down to his tighty-whiteys, a half-empty jar of Mighty Melon Masher in one hand.

"Howdy boys! Took ya long enough!  I thought I was gonna die and so I thought I'd better get to drinkin' and not remember my ending...then the aliens came and they took me up in their spaceship and poked at me with funny white sticks.  I shared a jar of my Masher with them..whooee, they was happy after that..knocked down all them trees in the driveway trying to get back to the sky...then a cat and an otter showed up looking for some armor.   I found them a couple of nice oven doors from a couple of stoves my pappy picked up on the Johnston farm a few years back..."

Marcus Spoots vitals were checked out by the EMT and he politely refused a ride to the hospital, "..and don't even think about charging me for a house call!"   George turned his dozer around and  gave a sweep back down the mountain for a final grade, and Big Don and I declined a glass of Melon Mash, but Big Don did remind Spoot that we fixed his driveway and to stop by for hot dogs next Tuesday, oh and don't forget to get those aliens registered to vote, election's coming up and Big Don sure could use a few extra votes.

The next morning, the Diffle County Reporter ran the front page headline:

"Wobbling U.F.O. Spotted Hovering Over Spoot Mountain"
State Police Confirm Sighting of Leaf-Covered Disc in Sky

Diffle County Report: The Jimmy Deagan Story

Diffle County Report: The Jimmy Deagan Story

A story by Rick Fisher 


Jimmy Deagan was an angry kid. His father was a drunk.  It was a family
 tradition. He had his father's eyes too. Tall, dark, and dangerously
handsome, Jimmy could have passed for a All-America High School
quarterback, except for those eyes.  Deep-set under dark eyebrows with
long, black lashes; they were piercingly beautiful. They were painful and angry.
They were unpredictable and deadly. They invited girls to ruin.


When Jimmy was twelve years old, he stole magazines from the local 
drug store. He didn't get caught.  Then he invited Robert (Bobby) Jenkins
 to steal magazines and laughed and ran away, while Bobby sat handcuffed
to a chair, waiting for his parents to take him home.  Jimmy showed that
stupid kid how to steal the wrong way, just for kicks. read more here ...
http://difflecounty.blogspot.com/2011/08/diffle-county-report-jimmy-deagan-story.html

Diffle County Report: Moving to Our Own Blog

Diffle County Reports is moving to it's own blog.  In order to allow Diffle County residents and loyal followers to to find their favorite Diffle County stories, we have moved Diffle County  to a new blog site:

GREETINGS FROM DIFFLE COUNTY 

In the next few weeks we will be moving our Diffle County stories to the new site.  Then we will begin adding more stories, including the climatic ending to the current murder mystery.  This is the first in a number of positive changes planned for TMMC over the next year. Our goal is to provide the best fiction/non-fiction story blog for your personal enjoyment.

See you in Diffle County! 

Diffle County: Overheard at the Department of Transportation

Overheard at the Diffle County Transportation Office (DCDOT)
Present: Jim Sokel, Traffic Engineer;  Barry Kline, Permit Officer; Randy Cleveland, Road Foreman

Sokel:  I'm calling in to Demi's for lunch. What do you want?
Kline:   I want lunch
Randy: (looks up) Where are we going for lunch?
Kline:   We aren't going anywhere for lunch
Randy: Well, I'm hungry.
Sokel:  We're ordering in for lunch.
Randy:  Where are we ordering from?
Kline:   From the shoe store.
Randy:  I heard their filet de sole is a little tough
Sokel:  From the dentist
Randy: Extracting food from the dentist.  yummy.
(phone rings)
Kline:  From the Chiropractor
Randy:  Must be serving duck, quack quack
Sokel/Kline:  DEMIS!
Kline:  We're getting lunch from Demi's!  Are you ordering or not?
Randy: (after a brief pause) No, thank you.
Kline:   I thought you said you were hungry.
Randy:  I was.  But not for Demi's.
Kline: What's wrong with Demi's?
Randy: Nothing.  Just don't care for their food.
(phone rings)
Sokel:  Kline, how about if I buy and you fly?
Kline:   Sounds like a plan.
Randy: I'll have a tuna salad sandwich, ripple chips, and a Mountain Dew
Kline:   I thought you said you didn't care for Demi's food
Randy:  You didn't say it was free food.  I love free food from Demi's.
Sokel:   I just want to smack you.
Randy:    If they don't have ripple chips, get me barbecue chips.
(phone rings)
Kline: Randy, answer the phone. That's the third time it's rang and it's your turn.
Randy: Hello, County Transportation....yes?....a tree down on the Kidder road?..
            I'm sorry, everyone is out to lunch.

All characters in Diffle County are fictional. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, especially dead people because they get the most offended, is purely coincidental, or a mistake of mythic proportions for which we are deeply sorry. Written by Rick Fisher Copyright 2011, All rights are reserved under the creative commons license.  My lawyer told me to write this.
                            

Diffle County Report: Body Found in Fletcher's Pond

"Everybody gets dead, it was his turn." -John Wayne, as Hondo

There is a great spine that runs, like the back of a dinosaur, from Georgia to Maine. Across it's most inaccessible pinnacles, winds a small walking trail, officially known as "The Appalachian Trail". Plummeting down it's ravines and swales, around, over and across several mountain tops are thousands of small, rural communities -  This is Appalachian country.    

Folks who live near the trail rarely walk upon it. We have enough big rocks to climb over in our own backyard.  We sure as hell don't need a trail to remind us of where we live. Besides, Appalachian folk prefer trails that cater to ATVs and snowmobiles.  We don't want to hear a coyote howl unless we are chasing it down.

From stick-built cabins deep in woods to the brick-fronted buildings on Main Street, Appalachia is more than a place. The mountains and rural hills along the Eastern mountain spine are the epicenter of family, history, folklore, and friendship. We celebrate our lives with food, music, art, snowmobiles, atv's, guns, and blue dog politics.  Diffle County sits comfortably in the upper Eastern spine of the Pennsylvania Appalachian mountains.

In the heart of Diffle County, nearly cut in two by the Appalachian Trail, sits The Old Grin, i.e. Grinold Township.  The Townfship of Old Grinolde was founded in 1783 by  Walter and Louis Grinolde, two wealthy brothers from Philadelphia in search of adventure. Soon after arriving, Louis was killed in an Indian attack (this fact is disputed by some in the Grinolde family).

Louis did not live long enough to meet his sister-in-law Lois Fletcher.  Walter met Lois at a social in Easton and courted her for two years. They were married in Easton and honeymooned in a tent on the edge of a small lake in the Townfship of Grinolde. In honor of the love of his life, Walter Grinolde named the lake Fletcher's Pond.

Now there's a body floating in Fletcher's Pond and  The Old Grin is about to be fished out.

Captain Johnathan Jenkins of the PA State Police was standing in the doorway to his office at the East Greenville barracks when the 911 call came in.

"Diffle County Control Center, What is the nature of your emergency?"
"Jill, it's Uncle Larry.  Get the State Police on the horn,  get me Captain John right away." 
"Uncle Larry, I need to get the basic information first.  I can transfer you after that."
"Jill, there's a dead girl floating in Fletcher's pond.  I'm at the Grinold Township building, now patch me through to Captain John."
"Ok, transferring now. Say hi to Aunt Carol for me."


Within 40 minutes of receiving the phone call, Captain John Jenkins and  Homicide Detective Ralph Gower  were interviewing Bobby LaFleur about his discovery while two patrolmen carefully removed the girl's body from the lilly pads.  Diffle County Coroner  Jim Gehler stood at the water's edge, waiting to examine the body.  An ambulance stood at the ready.  The fire police were on the scene, directing traffic around the crime scene, which now occupied  the shoulder and South-bound lane of old Route 39.

This was bad, real bad.  The girl appeared to be in her twenties.  Her hands had been duct-taped behind her back and more tape was across her mouth. There were signs of strangulation on her neck. A few minutes after the coroner declared her dead, the State Police Regional CSI unit arrived to secure the site and gather evidence.  Captain John called in the Diffle County Search and Rescue to dive under in search for more evidence.  Coroner Jim Gehler thought the girl looked "awful familiar" but there was no identification on her body.

Meanwhile, the telephone wires were burning up, first in Grinold Township, then all across Diffle County. A reporter and a photographer from the Diffle County Reporter arrived, skirted past the police tape, and snapped a couple pictures before a patrolman ushered them across the street.  The crime scene was extended, closing Route 39.  A detour route onto 2nd street and through the Township parking lot was quickly arranged.

One of the CSI unit investigators, Sgt. Becci Nillson, recognized the victim, and quickly took Captain John by the arm, deliberately walking him away from the scene and out of earshot of everyone there.
"Becci, what have you got?"
"Captain, we will need back-up, all the support we can find, public relations, top investigators, the best in the State.  That girl is not just any girl, the girl is Linda Malone."
Captain John's mouth dropped wide open.
"The girl who killed her son then went on a 10-day cruise? The one who was found not guilty?  But she was from Georgia. Oh shit. This will be a circus before tomorrow morning. Thanks Becci"

Captain John  Jenkins called the entire team together.

"We have temporarily ID'ed the victim." announced Captain John Jenkins to the team  "From this point forward, I would advise you to keep your mouth shut and do your job. Do not discuss this with anyone. Do not make any comments to the press, unless you want to find yourself answering to the District Attorney."

Captain John looked over at the reporter and photographer standing just outside the yellow tape.

"Get that reporter at least a block away from here. Move the whole crime scene back. I'm calling in every off-duty patrolman to canvass this town and the lake.  Ladies and Gentlemen, If  Sgt. Nillson is correct, our victim is the infamous Linda Malone."

There was a moment of silence and then a collective gasp as the reality of the situation became clear. Six months ago, Linda Malone was acquitted of drowning her own 5-year old son in a case that captivated America. For months the media saturated the public with the story of a murderous drowning, a basement burial, and the 10-day Bahama cruise.  Convicted in the general public by a bloodthirsty media, she was found not guilty by a jury of her peers.

The defense successfully argued that the crime scene was tainted by sloppy evidence gathering and an expert pathologist stated that the evidence pointed to an accidental drowning. Her lawyers insinuated that her ex-husband might be the true killer, that she could not have dug a grave in such hard ground. Finally, they argued that there simply was no hard evidence to convict.

The jury agreed but America disagreed. Death threats were sent across social media platforms like spam. After the verdict and her release from custody, Linda Malone climbed into a private Lear jet and disappeared into the night sky.

Rumor had it that she was living in seclusion somewhere along the East Coast, writing her 10 million dollar memoir, and travelling into a major city once a month for plastic surgery.  In truth, the press and the general public hadn't seen her since she was released from prison.

Fletcher's Pond was the last place anyone expected to find her.  The Old Grin bore a wicked smile.

Tim Cardin, recently college graduate with a degree in Journalism and now a poorly paid reporter, shook his head. He watched the police gather together as the crime scene expanded like a balloon filling with air.
"Something's up, Kerry. This is weird. I don't think this is a drunken boater who fell overboard."

Kerry Nordstrom, local photographer and occasional stringer, nodded in agreement. She scrolled back to look at the two pictures she snapped before being moved out of the crime scene.  She whistled and then burst into a short laugh, beaming at Tim. "Are you ready for this?, her blue eyes were full of taunting mirth, "Better yet, do you think you can handle this? She readied her Cannon camera for HD video, checked her batteries, and started running back towards the crime scene.

"What are you doing?  Wait a minute! You know who the victim is! Spill it, Nordstrom!" He followed behind her as she moved closer in preparation to film the body and crime scene.  "Who is it?  Tell me!"  Tim Cardin caught up and grabbed Kerry's shoulder, slowing her down. She turned to him, her face bursting with excitement.

"Linda Malone!  The dead girl is Linda Malone! Now come on.  This is the story of our life. Call your Editor. Call CNN. Get your recorder out. Tonight, we are the national spotlight. And inside my camera is a million dollar photograph!"   Kerry ran towards the yellow tape, camera in full record mode.  

Back at the Grinold Township building, Big Don was about to kill the lights and close up shop when Captain John walked in.  "Big Don, I'm going to need the Township building as a temporary base of operations. Mind if we commandeer the building""

Big don chuckled, "Sure can, Cap. There's a coffeemaker in my office and a fridge with sodas and a few heartier liquid refreshments. Help yourself. Just don't try to drive the trucks.  I don't think you have a CDL license and we wouldn't want you getting a ticket."

Captain John laughed. "I won't drive the trucks.  Listen Don, prepare yourself. The victim is famous or infamous, depending on who you talk to. This is going to be the biggest circus you've ever seen."

Big Don smiled at Captain John.  "Well, let the circus come.  No hotels within 25 miles, no cell phone reception, and only Fletcher's Pond Inn for food and drink. Folks travelling here aren't going to find it very comfortable. Now I gotta get going.  Emma's made deer sausage soup for dinner. I'll check in on you later. Should I bring back some soup and fresh bread for you?"

"Thanks but no thanks. I'll grab dinner at the Inn." replied Captain John.

"Your loss", said Big Don as he walked to the front door. The Township phone rang and Big Don stopped to answer it.  "Grinold Township. What? Who is this? ABC News? No, I don't know anything about that....yes, I've heard of her....( Big Don winked at Captain John).....no, sorry there isn't anyone here and I'm late for dinner...you too..Bye now."

Big Don hung up the phone and walked out, got into his Ford F-150 and drove home. Captain John checked his cell reception, then pulled a Township phone over to the meeting table. Before he could pick up the receiver to dial out the phone started ringing again.

This is a fictional story. All characters are fictional. Any resemblance to real-life folks is incidental, accidental, and completely unintentional. For directions to Diffle County, please use Google maps. Perhaps there is a street view of my house there.  Written by Rick Fisher. Copyright 2011, All Rights Reserved.

Diffle County Report: Another Day in Grinold Township

Joe Turner was hanging around the Grinold Township building the other day along with Supervisor Larry Lohman. Sitting around the office, waiting for something to happen has become a daily ritual for the old boys. Since the crash of '08, activity has slowed down to a baby's crawl  in Diffle County, especially in Grinold Township, known to locals as The Old Grin.

Flectcher's Pond

A quiet refuge of trout-laden streams, shimmering spring-fed lakes, dark, wet peat bogs, and old, empty hunting cabins, The Old Grin is located in the upper reaches of nowhere special, in the far Northeast corner of Diffle County. You have to take exit 389 off the Interstate, then drive twenty-five miles up a winding mountain road to reach the township border. The road is never in good shape; constantly washed over with rocks and dirt. A state road, it is commonly listed last on the schedule of needed improvements.  Grinold Township residents like it that way.  "You'll lose your behind on Route 39", The Old Grin boys like to say.

The largest town in The Old Grin is Fletcher's Pond, population 546. Not much larger than a village, it is perched on the edge of State Route 39;  houses on one side of the two-lane road and Fletcher's 30-acre pond on the other side.  A few side streets are hidden from view behind the very large, early 1900's houses that rest on the edge of the highway. Most of those homes were converted into apartments many years ago.

There are more dirt roads than paved roads in this wild and wooded land. The running joke is:  How do you fix a pothole in Grinold Township? Answer:  Add more stone.  City folks swear they can hear that song from Deliverance playing from every front porch. Yet the men are hard-working and honest, the wives are built from hardwood, and the families run back through time to the first settlers of Diffle County.  It is a bad place to get lost and a good place to get found.

Zoning Officer Walt Groner arrives at the township office around 9:30 a.m wearing black, as usual. Joe asks him if he has a full closet of the same outfit. Walt, without hesitation  tells Joe Turner to go "F" himself. Lohman laughs so hard he falls off his chair.  Another day has begun in The Old Grin.

Walt agrees to be 76 years old and admits he is computer illiterate ("give me a typewriter with round, black keys and I'll be fine"). Walt doesn't accept that he is OCD- in the old days  good people were neat and orderly- now it is a treatable illness.

Joe Turner tests Walt for OCD by kicking the leg of one of the folding chairs at the end of the row. They are all  lined up in neat rows for the next town meeting.  Walt stares at Joe from his desk in the corner of the room. The chair is no longer in line with the rest of the row.  Joe smiles sweetly at Walt,  who looks away,  grumbling to himself. A few seconds pass. Walt Groner stares at the awkward chair, then at Joe Turner.
"Joe"
"Yes, Walt?"
"Move the friggin' chair back."
"Why?"
"Because it is ASKEW!"
Joe rests his case.

A few minutes later, Walt files an appeal.  "OCD is a bunch of crap. don't believe in it." Joe walks over to the town meeting table.  It is a large, rectangular table, capable of seating 5 large men on one side.  There is a perfectly arranged stack of newspapers near table's corner, close to Walt's desk. Joe Turner smacks the pile, sending sections of newspaper haphazardly across the table. It is a bit of a mess.  Joe stands at the end of the table, his smile back on solid.

Walt tries to ignore the messy newspapers.  He pinches his nose, he rolls his eyes, he looks over at Lohman for moral support, then he looks down at his shoes.  Inside his head, Walt Groner is having a meltdown and Joe Turner knows it.

Suddenly, Walt jumps out of his chair, grabs the newspapers and repairs the tumbled stack, muttering something about jacks and asses. Then he speaks up. "Don't touch the friggin' newspapers. I have them properly organized."   Another short pause, then Joe displays his middle finger for Walt to see, and everyone in the room breaks down in helpless laughter- including Walt Groner.  

Frank Berger drops in with the mail.  A Korean and Vietnam war vet,  "Burger" drives his Chevy truck over to pick up the mail from the township post office box every day. After years of tagging along with Supervisor Lohman,the township fathers decided to give Frank his own key.   He is their personal mail carrier, a chronic complainer, his thousand facial wrinkles a testament to a long life of serving our country. He is fiercely loyal to his friends. He is equally loyal to their enemies.  This creates friction at times, but Frank Berger remains an  Old Grin Father Figure.

Burger once  thought a broken, ancient, cheaply made drum set had great value simply because it was old and sitting in his attic.  Lohman reminded Burger that age alone does not make something valuable. "Look at you, Father Figure.  You're old.  How valuable are you?" Burger replied with the usual Grinold deadpan, "Happy birthday Don", he chimed out. Everyone laughed.  Happy birthday is not a compliment within the boundaries of this community. Calling someone Don can be considered offensive as well, unless their name is Don, and even then it is only somewhat acceptable.

Besides, Father Figure is very valuable. Every three weeks, Burger drives that ugly brown truck to an unknown airfield, is given a briefcase that is handcuffed to his wrist, boards a military plane, and flies off to the Far East. He is usually home within a week.  He won't reveal anything more than that and everyone knows not to ask.  Burger still serves his country.  He has great value.

Jimmy "The Squirrel" Jackson pulls up in the parking lot.  Suerpvisor Lohman is through the back door and out into the main garage before The Squirrel can open his car door.  Everyone knows the drill.  Since Lohman is not in the room, he is technically not in the office.

Squirrel enters the office and is greeted by Walt and Joe."Hey Jim, Howdy, Jim". The Squirrel returns their greeting while looking around, "Is Lohman here? I have a question for him."   Sounds like a Squirrel complaint is on its way.  Burger answers, "I don't see him here." Turner responds with, "Don left a few minutes ago."

The Squirrel is the only person building a new house in The Old Grin this year.  Life has gotten harder, homes once full of children sit empty, their lawns filled with grass higher than a cow pasture.  Back in the Township office, there isn't much to do and the old boys poke fun at each other relentlessly.  Yet they all feel the undercurrent of despair.  Everyone in Diffle County knows someone who has lost their job, or their house, or their family, or all three. The boys of Old Grin believe it will probably get worse. They call themselves realists.

And so the vegetable gardens are bigger this year, the trips to East Greenville more infrequent.  The State has fenced  all the Game Lands into square mile blocks, numbered each one, and are selling hunting tickets for each block on the "grid". Joe Turner calls it hunting socialism.  Lohman claims that there are fewer deer outside the State fences and the Grinold boys are worried there won't be enough deer meat to go around this winter.

Joe Turner says goodbye, walks out into the parking lot and gets inside his honey-dipper truck. He has been pumping out septic tanks for over thirty years.  Every morning, Joe Turner will drop in during his rounds, drink the free coffee, read the free newspapers, have a couple of laughs, and then move on to the next hot spot.

Back in East Greenville, the Town Council is working on next year's budget. Tax revenues are down 15% while costs have increased 8%. Foreclosures are on the rise.  If the Borough wants to balance their budget, layoffs and tax increases will be necessary.  Mayor Cantonelli scratches his head. "Did you know that Grinold Township has not raised taxes in over thirty years?".  The other budget committee members shake their head in disbelief.. "They even  make their employees purchase their own pencils...and they have 2 million dollars in the bank!"   Quiet profanities are uttered.

Squirrel leaves The Old Grin township office. He turns onto the South side Route 39, waving to a boater out on Fletcher's pond.  Bobby LaFleur is fishing from his rowboat when he sees something big floating in the lily pads near the shore. He pokes the clothing-covered object with an oar and the object rolls over slightly, revealing the face of a very beautiful, very dead young woman.   Life in The Old Grin is about to get a little busier.


This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real folks, living or dead, is purely incidental, or perhaps accidental but certainly not intentional. Copyright 2011 by Rick Fisher Al Rights Reserved.