A GOOD TIME

Awoke far before dawn and drove, coffee-fueled and anxious, towards North Carolina’s state line to fish its Nantahala river, where I met a young man named Otho.

Otho stood outside dilapidated bait shop and greeted me as I walked from car to shop door. He looked towards me but down and I saw his eyes were dulled milky white from blindness. In his stubby hands he tied rooster tails. Large marabou feathers, black and red and green.

Went into the shop, bought a cup of coffee and asked man behind the counter how the river was fishing. He asked me if Otho was botherin’ me. I told him he wasn’t and he said river ain't fishing too well last few weeks, but I’d do well to take some hand-made rooster tails off Otho.

The two were in the bed of a dubious business deal. I figured it couldn’t hurt, though.

Otho’s hand-made lures were $2 a piece or four for $5. I bought four. He asked me where I was from. I asked him how he knew I wasn’t local.

You come in ‘n’ ask pop how to fish the Nant, he said. Locals know how to fish her. You ain’t local.

No I ain’t, I said. I drove here from Atlanta to fish the river. I know a good time when I see one.

Otho asked me what “’lanta” was like. I told him it was big and spread out and seemed to change quite a bit. He didn’t like my answer. He asked me what I saw, what I heard, what I smelled.

I’ve been thinking about Otho lately. Been thinking about his idea of what made a place. And I’ve been thinking about what makes this county.

Seen wide, green fields and hay rolled into coarse, brown wheels. I’ve seen jakes and hens strut across East Ball and Jackson Lake Inn roads. Seen jon boats broken and abandoned in the dirt and gravel of Watkins Park & Pool. Seen black snakes hanging from High Falls trees, and armadillos broken as melons on highways 16, 42, 36.

Seen Red Devils celebrating region championships. Seen Lady Devils play soccer on a mud-slickened Hill in freezing temperatures. Seen a little girl named Peaches do big things on a basketball court.

Seen sunsets that hurt as much as my first heartbreak, and I’ve seen sunrises strangely serene after a pre-dawn hunt full of gunfire and roaring in the blood. Seen hawks hold watch upon telephone pole tops, and I’ve seen turkey vultures covering up a dead spike buck in a blanket of ink black feathers.

Seen wisteria turn trees pink and purple, and I’ve seen the Indian Spring Hotel’s trees burned yellows and reds by autumn’s fire.

Heard sirens and screeching wheels, church bells and chorus wailing and fervent: O’ victory in Jesus / My Savior, forever. I’ve heard suits and ties telling locals about great things they’re going to do for the county, and I’ve heard locals telling commissions they don’t want great things; they just want Wal-Mart, or Waffle House (I’ll take the latter, please).

Heard owls whoin’, bucks gruntin’, ducks quackin’, and bass splashin’. I’ve heard turkey’s gobblin’, crows crowin’, cows lowin’, and coyotes howlin’. (I’ve yet to hear the so-called “Stark panther,” though.) I’ve heard rounds chambered, and shots fired, and unprintable cussin’ after missin’.

Heard hundreds of people ask the paper to print the salaries of all county employees, all city employees, all teachers, and bus drivers, and custodians, doctors, lawyers, Indian chiefs.

Heard hundreds of people talk about what Butts is, where it should go, where it is now, and what it once was way back when. I’ve heard the past resembles the present. I’ve heard the future will resemble the past. And I’ve heard growth is comin’, growth won’t ever come, and growth is here.

I’ve smelled Thanksgiving and Christmas hams smoking, and I’ve smelled steaks grilling from one end of the square to the other. I’ve smelled catfish and onions and potatoes and wings and livers frying. I’ve smelled tea and coffee brewing and Coca-Cola spilled sticky on the sidewalk in the humid midst of ten-hells-hot Jackson July.

I’ve smelled wild onions sprouting and grass growing. I’ve smelled nose-singing sulfur in Paul Maddox marshes, and the earthiness of wet pine woods around Easter. I’ve smelled deer rutting and cattle in rigor. And I’ve smelled every scat imaginable, chicken, fox, ‘coon, boar, deer, coyote.

I’ve smelled funnel cakes frying, and hamburgers and hotdogs grilling. I’ve smelled Cook’s Lunchroom from deep within the throes of an agonizing deadline day hunger. And I’ve smelled pork chops, red hots and sausage, bacon and streak-o-lean frying at Hunter’s Family Restaurant before most people even roll over in the morning.

That’s what Butts is like. At least for me. No, I ain’t local. But I know a good time when I see one.