Spring21Issue - Flipbook - Page 9
Blantons, Bookers, and that irascible Jim Beam. Pappy would
chuckle at them in condescension and call them the Killer
B's. But Pappy is no longer with us and -- guess what? -- the
Killer B's still are.
By Larger Cross Road I hear a large crazy white dog barking at Flipside Farm. I know that this could only be Basil
Hayden. And what kind of name is Flipside Farm anyway?
But I know something about large crazy barking white dogs
so I move along. These big white dogs were born barking.
Through more woods and hay fields, now blue-green timothy, we come to yet another water course along McCann
Mill Road. I see a charming and beautiful woman here
walking her two parlor dogs, Ivy and Charlie, and for some
reason she radiates joy and, oddly, editorial discernment.
But, really, how could anyone exude this latter quality?
Into Cedar Lane Farm we go, the big tom constantly in
and out of view but I always know where he is. I suddenly
notice large scat, appearing like a Buffalo Trace, only to be
met with gun fire. A zinging Bulleit flew past my balding
head and I immediately checked all my body parts. There
really must be some kind of crazies up here!
Then, in a clear-cut area of stumps, I discover the cause of
the gun fire. The two handsome young managers of the
shooting club here, Evan Williams and Elijah Craig, are
driving off a trespasser, the notorious Jack Daniels. His people -- Volunteers all -- are from the other side of the ridge
line, deep in a murky hollow. He clearly does not belong
here and it would be disastrous to allow him in. He would
corrupt and corrode the natural order of things --- standards
carefully cultivated over centuries.
I heard them first, making a racket at the big tom's intrusion into their pasture, and soon there appeared a large
herd of delightful little Jersey cows mixed in with the much
larger Holstein's. My sight and view of the tom became
obscured by the commotion and the bovine cacophony
seemed deafening, almost overwhelming. Gone! Gone forever? I'm not sure.
I sat on a dead fallen ash tree, an Eastern white ash, and
quietly suffered my exhausting loss. Was my tiring slog
through the muck and mud from Bernardsville to Oldwick
all for nought? Really? No! Because now I'm beginning to
hear Jazz, Bourbon Street Jazz, from a brick house, a brick
house which curiously hosted the Commodores in the
1970s.The music is upbeat, sultry and intoxicating. I now
very clearly see what led me on this single-man march: A
song! A song of joy? A song of myself? A song of innocence?
I doubt it. But I really can't tell you and I really don't
know myself because I think I might be dreaming.
But, then again, I might not be.
The BRJ Spring 2021