During my days as a plumber I rode the many highways and byways all across the entire US nation, frequently moving from town to town. The places I always loved most of all were the small developed areas and timeless story book villages. These somewhat antiquated Southern towns always held a special unique appeal to me. Here to me, it always felt like romanticism lived on. I could sense it in the surrounding architecture, the motion found inside the unspoiled nature of the landscape, even in the ways and mannerisms of people themselves. A spiritual element in this environment felt to thrive all around me, standing slightly beneath the surface, if not on the cusp of one's ability to merely reach out and grasp hold of its cloth edge, so to speak.
Don't get me wrong here now. I've noticed this same quality throughout the Midwest, parts of the west, and even inside more northern areas such as Vermont and Adirondack New York state; but something about Southern areas always held a certain unique appeal to my soul all of its own. Maybe in the end I'm a bit prejudiced in regard to the conviction, since I hail from the South East. More than often my travels carried me along these unique, off the beaten path, narrow winding roads, especially in somewhat hilly areas, not to mention areas that were outright mountainous.
Well, this type of travel has been my experience for several days now, with me and my working partner pausing here and there doing small jobs at service stations, really small hotels such as one known as The Pink Belle, and old time general stores with attention grabbing names such as Ruffians Dry Goods. I found myself silently yearning to enter some of these places as we pulled up into those driveways, especially at Ruffian's Dry Goods store. As we both stepped out the door of our work truck, my partner would always gaze around, sighing deeply and saying the same thing regardless of what driveway we paused in.
" You know, I don't see how these types of places stay in business personally."
"Well, they always have their door open, I suppose," I would smile and reply in slight sarcasm.
"But I seldom see people here every time we drop by. It's been awhile, I'll add here, but where are the people?" he would spread both opened upturned palms out and say.
"Maybe we haven't investigated the full panorama of this place," I would say to him.
"What in Peat's name do you mean?" he would chuckle and ask.
"All we see is our work area. We never walk into the rear room areas of these places, like where the wood stove sits and inside the billiard room in the back," I politely reminded him.
"Yeah, come to think of it, we are always in the bathrooms, if not even underneath the place," he laughed, as we neared the spring loaded wooden screen door.
I paused with him in front of the door at Ruffian's Dry Goods before we pushed our way inside.
"I tell ya what, Mikie, why don't we both look around this place a bit before we go to work. We need a break anyway after all of this riding around like we've been doing so early in the morning today. I think they serve a fine homemade version of a short stop special here, and some of the strongest, blackest coffee this side of the French Broad. What a ya say?" I ask him.
"Sounds cool by me. I remember this place," he says to me as we push the screen door open, stepping across the threshold.
A small bell rings from the upper left hand corner of the door as it opens, and the spring pulls this door back closed again when we pass on through. I glanced over toward the counter, and I swear with everything inside me, the same big bosom-ed lady with a very low cut cleavage named Dora was sitting across the counter where the cash register is, as always. It seems like every time we've made this stop she was wearing a white blouse with flowery lace sleeves at the wrists, a collar of the same and an ankle length thick-cloth black skirt. I pull the work order, opening it up as I pause at the counter. She glances up, smiling broadly as we both approach her.
"It's so nice to see both of ya 'round here again. Yes, it's good ole Dora here on another day, right now-a, down on the floor-a, a-doin' more-a." she paused, nearly laughing, smiling ever-so-slyly. " What could fine folks like us ever do for the both of you?"
"Well, our order here mentions something about a strange noise in the bathroom pipes," I say to her.
"Yeah, there is this eerie moan the commode makes every time we flush it in the back there. But this moan seems to roll into all the pipes throughout this entire establishment," she glances up from an open log book and smiles as she informs me.
"That's interesting," I replied to her. "Are we the first to examine this phenomenon?"
"Not hardly, Miss Sally says she's had seven other people to look at this matter and none of 'em can repair this thing," she informs me.
"Oh really? How many were plumbing professionals?" I ask her.
"Four of these people were lifetime plumbing men, three of 'em were local handymen who have a reputation 'round here for fixin' anything. None of these people could do it. One, John Barringtom, walked off in the middle of his work and didn't even bother finishing it. Can you believe it? I was kind of shocked at that, personally," she tells me.
"That wasn't nice of him," I say to her. "I feel honored that you bothered calling us."
"Well Miss Sally don't lie now, I can say that much for her. I can't say a lot more, but at least I can say that much on her behalf.
"Well who is this Sally chick, Miss Dora?" I ask her.
Dora gasps, "You mean you don't know Sally Boner? I thought everybody knew her."
"We never heard of her. Tell me a bit, Miss Dora, " I say with a cheer filled smile.
"She's from over in Jonesborough just ahead there, over on the other side," Miss Dora informs me. "She owns this place. What she says goes around here. I mean now, she really owns this place, this whole area, ya know?"
