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.
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.
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
These things happen. The models predict light shear, favorable conditions, and a major hurricane in the making. Then the Sea answers back, the Wind and the Sky answer back, and a cutting gale blows against the storm, decimating its core, stealing its energy. The analysts avert their eyes from the Atlantic, look towards the Gulf and run the models again. There will be something new, something powerful and dangerous that will make landfall. The continuous waves of reporting will ratchet up the warning flags for the next storm to come.
But among themselves they talk of a new Katia, rising stronger than before, bringing a new fear into the hearts of all who live within distance of her powerful lungs, her sheets of endless water, and her surging ocean waves. Probably happen within a few days, folks.
"THE OFFICIAL FORECAST HAS BEEN LOWERED SLIGHTLY
DUE TO THE MARGINAL ENVIRONMENTAL CONDITIONS IN THE SHORT
TERM...HOWEVER IT STILL BRINGS KATIA TO A MAJOR HURRICANE IN A FEW DAYS." - NWS National Hurricane Center, Advisory No. 15 9/1/11 5:00 p.m.
Today, we crossed 30,000 page views. Thank you for reading this blog. I am deeply grateful that you take time out of your busy day to read the writings here. We will continue to push to make this a premier story blog that will be read around the world. Again, thank you!
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
Please enjoy a beautiful song for your Sunday morning from the extremely talented duo, The Civil Wars. This is the first installment in our new series, Sunday Morning Video
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.
Ed. Note: Jim Lackey, former Lincoln Township Supervisor, has requested space on this blog to respond to our article of July 9, 2011 concerning his Election loss and arrest for driving under the influence (DUI)
Dear Mr. Fishfire,
I am writing this letter to clear up a number of misconceptions, untruths, vulgarities, and downright lies that you propagated in your column of yesterday.
Son, you are not from around here. Although your Grandpappy on your Momma's side was a Diffle County native, and a well-respected East Greenville Councilman to boot, your daddy was not born in these parts. After your Grandpappy insisted (by shotgun) on a proper wedding between his 16 year old daughter and your cradle-robbing father, your parents were obliged to move away. After reading your article, I suspect you take after your father.
Out of respect for your Grandpappy, most of us in Diffle County have accepted you as an almost-local. But lately, some of us are questioning whether you have enough experience and common knowledge to write about our community in the manner you have chosen. You need to ask more questions, offer fewer opinions, and get your stories straight. If you don't- you could end up looking down the barrel of a Diffle County shotgun, just like your daddy did.
I intend to clear the record. I do admit that I was driving under the influence that night and I did not protest nor appeal my arrest. Did you know who I was having dinner with at the Smithville Inn, the Friday before the election? No, I don't suppose you do because you didn't bother to check. His name is Captain Johnathan Jenkins and he is Commanding Officer of the Greenville State Police Barracks.
John is an old friend of our family. In fact, had you checked the County birth records, you would have discovered that the Jenkins and Lackey families are related. Captain John's Uncle (James Weatherhill) was married to my Aunt Sarah Johnston.
On the Friday evening of my DUI, I was enjoying anniversary beers with Captain John and Terry Reeder, Lincoln Township Road Foreman. Terry was a damn good roadmaster, worked hard for the past 18 years, knew every ditch and driveway in Lincoln Township. For your information, Terry Reeder was the first person Chuck Tomato fired after the election.
How did you like the roads in Lincoln Township this past winter, Mr. Fishfire? Most folks will tell you they can now tell when they are entering Lincoln Township. Our roads are the only ones still covered in ice and snow ten days after a storm. Maybe you should be writing about that instead of dredging up this old story.
Anyway, at one point in the evening Captain John leaned over the table and suggested I take a different route home. A sobriety checkpoint was being set up on Smith Road. For the past 6 months, young folks have been drag-racing on Smith Road every Friday night. They sit and drink six-packs in the Inn's parking lot, and then cut over to Smith Road for some friendly racing.
A few months before the election, one of the racing cars lost control and hit a tree. Two local kids were badly hurt. Afterwards, I called Captain John and asked if there was something the State Police could do about the racing before someone gets killed. Captain John suggested a sobriety checkpoint, which I thought was a helluva good idea.
After Captain John told me about the checkpoint, I switched to Coca-Colas and hung around for a couple more hours. I even enjoyed one of Katie Smith's delicious Chicken Pot-pies. Have you ever tried one? She bakes the finest Chicken Pot-pies in Diffle County.
After dinner, I felt sober enough to leave and wanted to get home before the Police fireworks began, so I put the new Ford in gear and headed for home. I drove out the back entrance onto Smith Road, generally out of habit more than anything else.
As I approached the checkpoint, I was directed to the opposite side of the road by one of the officers. I thought he intended for me to drive on through. I waved to Patrolman Richard Lackey, who I recognized and who just happens to be my nephew.
I guess I should have stopped, maybe even waited longer to leave the Smithville Inn. But I was not "tomatoad" in that photograph. I only failed the breathalyzer by .01 units. I was not even close to driving drunk. Had I waited at the Smithville Inn a half hour longer, I'd still be a Lincoln Township Supervisor.
Now let's get a few more things cleared up before I quit writing this letter. I have never, ever taken a bribe in public office. After twenty years in office, a politician gets to meet people from all over the State. I served as Diffle County Chair of the Democratic party for over ten years and attended at least three golf tournaments in support of Senator Ken Reynolds relection campaign. Senator Reynolds is Roland Reynold's brother and their daddy once lived down the road from my Aunt Hilda's farm.
It's time for a short history lesson. Our family settled in Diffle County in 1876, My Great Great Grandpappy served in the Pennsylvania regiment that fought at Gettysburg. After the war was finished, he bought 250 acres of prime farmland in the West end of Diffle County. That land was handed down through the family and ended up with my Aunt Hilda Johnston.
Next to my Aunt's farm was a wetland and beyond that a small tract for farming before it rose up too steep to be of any value. The Reynolds clan bought that tract of land and built a hunting cabin there. Lots of folks built hunting cabins back then. One day, my Aunt walked outside to hang up the laundry, and there in the middle of the backyard was a stake with an orange ribbon tied to it.
The Reynolds clan had hired a surveyor out of Harrisburg. His name was Robert L. Pickens, R.S. and he claimed that there was a hole in our deed and 50 acres of our land belonged to nobody at all. The Reynolds filed a Quiet Title action in Diffle County Court to take our land.
Aunt Hilda sold off 10 acres on the West side of the farm to raise money to pay the lawyers. She fought the Reynolds for 10 years in the courts. Each time she won a judgment, the Reynolds would appeal to a higher court.
Finally, they ran out of judges and the case was flushed down the toilet where it belonged. But the Reynolds clan couldn't leave it alone. Seems they made their fortune stealing people's land until they tangled with a woman made of iron and stone named Hilda Johnston. But their fortunes changed after that.
A few years later, some lawyer discovered that Mr. Pickens was more carpetbagger than land surveyor. His license was checked into and discovered to be a forgery- he was using his father's seal, Robert L. Pickens, Sr. Junior might have known how to triangulate, but it wasn't the kind you need to find a stone marker on a property corner.
A bunch of folks sued the Reynolds clan, and settlements were made. Aunt Hilda wanted nothing more to do "with them snakes and muskrats", and was content to have her whole farm back, less the ten acres she sold to James Weatherhill. It's a small town, Mr. Fishfire, just like High School, except we don't live out of our lockers anymore.
When Scott Reynolds showed up wanting to build a shopping center, I met with him privately and asked if he would be willing to donate money to the YMCA fund.
East Greenville is trying to raise funds for a County YMCA and nearly every businessman has offered to donate to the "smooth sailing" YMCA fund. However, Mr. Reynolds was offended and likened my request to a bribe, called it "extortion", and whispered those words into more than a few local ears.
As for the Reynolds Site Plan, it would be hard to trust a family that steals land and hires consultants who certify drawings with the survey seal of their dead daddy.
And finally, there is no truth to the rumor that I forced people to use local builders. What I did was mention to those folks wanting to build in Lincoln Township that our local builders offered a 10% discount for buildings constructed in their home Township. I always tried to support our local economy. If that is a bad idea, then our entire Country had better hoist a Communist flag and surrender now.
Thank you for allowing me the space to write this response. I hope in the future, you would do a little more research and a little less soapboxing.
Sincerely, Jim Lackey Former Lincoln Township Supervisor Diffle County is a fictional place. All characters are fictional. Any resemblance to non-fictional individuals, living or dead, is purely incidental and unintentional. The Author is a real person. His involvement in Diffle County affairs appears suspiciously fictional as well.
