Ol’ Bill put his fiddle down and lit his pipe. Everybody else did more or less the same.

It was too hot to do anything else and the show wouldn’t start for another hour. We were reasonably sober and mostly in tune. It was another outdoor shindig that wouldn’t start until sundown, but getting things organized take a little more time and organization than the show itself.

Also, little things (unexpected) tend to get in the way. For instance the roadies who handle sensitive but heavy equipment, the sound stage manager who has to make sure the music always turns out the same way, a defective connector cord here, a hungover guitar player: there’s always a consideration.

It was an unusual  production. All the roadies were competent, there were no equipment malfunctions, the designated drivers where on hand. The musicians were sober. The stage security was in fine fettle the crowd was friendly. The refreshments were cold and the barbecue was hot. Now I ask you what could go wrong with a set up like that?

Well, there’s a ton of manure in every silver cloud. Our part of the show went off without a hitch. Since we had opened that gave us the rest of the night to socialize and make up for the refreshments we’d denied ourselves until our part was done.

Just about the time we were getting comfortably libated, the local constablatory showed up with four or five arrest warrants ranging in severity from unpaid traffic tickets to a fugitive arrest warrant for a paying guest as well as a member of the band for unpaid child support.

The show went from heaven to hell-in-a-handbasket.  Since we had designated drivers, we proceeded to pack our gear and depart with our loot — lawfully, legally and without further incident.

Our significant others made more noise than a pig under a gate because we came swarming in about two hours early instead of two hours late as usual. They didn’t believe it was us. They uttered words unmentionable, chambered shotguns, turned dogs loose and woke up babies.

That last part took the rest of the night to cool down and the ladies spent most of the next day verifying and confirming our stories.

As I am a well-known manipulator and published liar, the initial blame naturally fell on me. But as some old antique raconteur once said, “The truth will out.” (I think his name was Billy Shakestick or something like that.)

The dogs quit barking, the women readjusted the house guns, the babies quit squallin,’ the old ladies calmed down and peace reigned once again at Moccasin Bend.

If there’s lesson or moral to be found here I’ll be d_____ed if I’ve figured it out, but if anybody out there does, call BR-549-3.

Pickin’ and Duckin’
Ricky Harpole

(Contact Harpole at www.facebook.com/harpolive or www.colespointrecords.com)