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Philosophers and Produce

Only because I was starved to death did I happen upon the all-important information contained in this story. Your undivided attention will pay dividends here, for this one might easily touch the lives of every man, woman and child residing east of the mighty Mississippi. Uh wait…make that east of the Rockies. Aw, what the heck? Include the whole North American continent. That way no one feels slighted, thus can’t have me hauled off to court as a defendant facing trumped-up charges in a frivolous multi-million dollar lawsuit.

Pangs of hunger were causing my innards to growl somethin’ fierce that recent sweltering day. Health nuts and an assortment of other wackos keep tellin’us: “no heavy foods in hot weather.” However, I’m not fully convinced of the soundness of such advice.

I’ve always consumed beans and taters during the summertime at a ratio equal to my intake of those foodstuffs during the months of December and January. It might be added that my seasonal preference and choice of diet have caused no apparent ill-effects. I mean, I jist don’t git the connection between what the weather is like outside…and eatin.’

All that notwithstanding an ever-lurking thought has always been present: “What if them idiot dieticians are right?” One shouldn’t press his luck in such matters, and so with the thermometer reading 95 degrees I decided to forego those starchy spuds and pinto beans.

Besides, for several days I’d been wanting to do some “serious canteloupe eatin.” As a first step toward alleviating that intense craving I stopped in at a local market which prides itself with the slogan “our trucks are arriving daily from the south with fresh produce.” Maybe not the exact wording, but close enough.

From a mountain of melons I selected two yellow beauties and walked inside to seal the transaction with cold hard cash. All things made by the Divine Creator are great. Ranking at, or very near the top, are canteloupes and sugar corn just pulled from the patch. Each time I sit down with salt-shaker and 6 “rowsun ears” (corn on the cob ) my thoughts go like this: “If the Good Lord made anything better He kept it up there with Him.”

I was about to depart the premises when a clamor back among the greenbean hampers caught my attention. Extremely loud noise was originating from that locale. About 8 senior citizens I call the “early morning philosophers” had gathered there, as had been their custom for many long years.

For about 2 hours each morning this group of elder statesmen congregate in that market to discuss current world trends and problems, and what might be done to solve ‘em. Permit me to list a few examples…the chain reaction of a 100 megaton thermonuclear explosion; an approaching world economic crisis that will reduce us all to sellin’ apples on street-corners; the highly unusual coloration of wooly worms this fall season, and how those strange tints will directly affect us during the winter that’s nearly upon us, the strikingly fashionable wife of Mr. Gorbachev, the odd behavior of Australian marsupials, crooks in government are discussed (and cussed) more than any other subject. AIDS and a drug epidemic will finish us off as a civilization, according to these elders who reign supreme among the produce baskets.

Just stop by this market any A.M. if these scintillating subjects hold an interest for you. Here your puzzlement can end…here be answers.

But a forewarning. Their topic that morning was a new and frightening one ( unusual too. Incredibly the gentlemen were in complete agreement on this new topic. That’s never happened before. ).

If it has basis for truth then I greatly fear civilization as we know it could be plunging rapidly toward oblivion…

All that morning I’d had a hunch something very unusual might happen before the day had ended. Many people refer to these “gut feelings” as intuition, precognition, clairvoyance, and a host of other fancy names. Striving always to make these paragraphs understandable for second-graders, I’ll stick with hunch.

Pretending to be shopping for yet more succulent fruit and vegetables, I slowly worked my way back to where these “early morning philosophers” had congregated. Ya’ gotta’ understand…one can’t get pushy and go bustin’ in on these fellas.’ Theirs is a closely-knit group, not seeking additional membership and thus closed to outsiders. They’re exactly like the Druids, Freemasons, Tibetan Lamas, Rosicrucians, Sufis, and Chinese Tongs…a closed society.

And yet I’ve managed to sneak into that small circle on hundreds of occasions ( guess they just didn’t see me ). In a few rare instances I’ve even been able to “git in a handful of words edgewise.” Doesn’t happen often though; input by interlopers is greeted with scowls and great disdain. Mostly ya’ just listen.

These gents don’t have a designated corner of the store for their meetings; just any ole space will do. I was elated they’d chosen the greenbean hampers for that particular morning’s conference. These talks are also held midst bins of cucumbers, among watermelons piled high, bushels of red and yellow apples, turnips tied in bunches, and crates of oranges ( all groups should hold their meetings in close proximity to crated oranges when the snow is flying. There among the citrusfruit one can almost imagine himself on the sunny beaches of faraway Florida. Just gives ya’ a good warm feeling, contented and at peace with the world ). Please take note gentlemen. Come November let’s move over amid those grapefruit and lemons, and stay there till plowing time.

There is one exception, one instance when I absolutely refuse to join those talk sessions. Count me out if they’re held near to where okra is on display. I detest the durn stuff. It’s unpalatable, and any merchant offering okra for sale oughta’ be declared a felon criminal.

I sorta’ sneaked in among the group of elders that recent morn, for the most part my presence went completely un-noticed (or, as is more likely, totally ignored ). In mere seconds the drift of their conversation became crystal clear…goose-pimples came!

Folks, a lotta’ bad things are comin’ down on our world today. This is contrary to what hi-tech advocates are tellin’ us. These “illuminated ones” keep saying: “The world is extremely lucky we beautiful people came along to give it a utopian standard.” Listen here pilgrim, we’re being fleeced, and anyone who believes these blind dudes is a prime candidate for becoming the next owner of that bridge in Brooklyn!

If our homegrown sages in Narrows are right, then what is now beginning to happen will overshadow all our other problems and make ‘em seem minor irritations. Difficult and trying times are just around the corner.

It seems a terrible and sinister mutation has begun in a certain species of our Wild Kingdom…

A very important bit of business always tops the agenda as our distinguished Narrowsonians congregate in that store each morning. In any meeting with more than two people in attendance some semblance of order must be maintained, otherwise everybody commences “ratchet jawin” at the same time. You know what happens then…chaos and confusion reign supreme. In order to avoid that paralyzing situation these gents have resorted to a simple and very reasonable solution. Each morning they appoint a “spokesman for the day.”

There are really no qualifications for being assigned this important duty…he just acts as an official spokesman for a couple of hours. That’s all, no big deal, anyone could do it. Chief among his duties is playing the role of liason-man between his colleagues, and non-members of their closed society.

The mouthpiece in this instance was a silver-haired chap I’ve known for 45 years (each and every time we’ve met since May, 1942 his opening line has been: “I always thought you wuz crazy, now I know it.”). A repetitious statement of that nature can, at intervals, cause one to pause and wonder.

His lips were flappin’ a mile per minute, and what he was proclaiming brought looks of great concern to the faces of his pals…hit me like a ton of bricks too. Deep furrows of worry were evident on weather-beaten brows as his friends listened…every head nodded in total agreement. I’m tellin’ ya’ people, if this man knows of what he speaks then mark my word…there’s rough sleddin’ ahead.

“There’s no doubt about it,” he said. “ Blacksnakes are crossbreedin with copperheads and rattlesnakes!” Great Scots above!

My frame was wracked with uncontrollable shivers as the impact of that statement sank in. Strange, I oughta’ be cushioned by now, because this has been a persistent rumor for at least 10 years.

Ladies and gentlemen, I keep abreast of what’s happenin’ in the reptilian world. For instance, I’ve been indoctrinated to believe blacksnakes are the sworn enemy of their poisonous cousins. A writhing struggle to the death ensues when the two meet, the blacksnake always emerging victorious. He wraps his lethal adversary in powerful constricting coils and squeezes the daylight outta’ that dangerous foe…squeezes the life outta’him too!

A message is contained in that paragraph. If’n a blacksnake has taken up residence around your home, leave him be…don’t run lookin’ fer hoe or axe to bruise his head. He’s your protector and benefactor. He keeps bad snakes at a distance…Blackie can help you survive yet another summer.

A glaring contradiction here. After being brainwashed with the above information for decades, now I’m being told blacksnakes and copperheads are makin’ love. What the hell is comin’ off anyhow?

Could it be true? Or just another batch of disinformation being fed to a public that’s not nearly so gullible as so-called leaders think ( the foremost qualification for gaining government employment is to be an outright liar. Your chances for steady work in one of those agencies are greatly enhanced if you can tell some really big whoppers ).

Knowing better than to butt in on the old-timers, I did so anyhow: “Are y’all absolutely sure about them there snakes?”

The silver-haired one looked in my direction as I steeled myself for the blast that was certain to come: “I always thought you wuz crazy as a bat, now I know it”…

For at least 10 years a whole raft of people in these parts have been making a startling claim. These pundits are saying a peculiar thing is happening in the world of snakes…completely different species are interbreeding, resulting in a reptilian monstrosity which poses mankind with the greatest crisis he’s faced since that plague of locusts descended on Egypt way back during Biblical times.

This nagging rumor just won’t go away. I’ve listened in on 2,943 conversations concerning this imminent danger . Hearing it rehashed in that market was only the latest.

Let’s get in for a closer look at this developing situation and it’s awful ramifications. These alleged love trysts…blacksnakes pairing off with rattlers and copperheads?! According to our local experts these “stolen moments of amour” are resulting in hybrid young ‘uns which resemble neither Mom nor Dad. The youngsters ain’t even the same color, body markings bear no family traits whatsoever.

But our real troubles come from the vicious nature of these malevolent mutants. Allegedly they’re even meaner than the terrible-tempered black mamba of Africa, and pack a venom that has more wallop than an Australian tigersnake ( which, if true, presents a peril we won’t be able to overcome. I’ve already been in contact with my attorney, advising him how I want my vast holdings distributed. Ninety-five percent is earmarked for a family of mongooses ).

Now please understand. All the foregoing are reports coming to my attention from various sources ( I’m often asked the question: “How do you come up with all that stuff?” Well sir, I come up with all this “stuff” by spending a considerable amount of time standing on street corners, and gather even more “stuff” by loafing in produce markets. Ya’ jist stand perfectly still, keep yer big mouth shut…and listen. ).

Once again I confronted the old fella’ to ask: “Where did you get your information about this sneaky sinewy snake sex-scandal?”

He looked in my direction and exploded like an erupting volcano: “You again!” A slight pause and then it came: “I always thought you wuz crazy as a bat, now I know it!”

“Merely asked a simple question,” I commented, backing off a few steps to get out of range should he decide to swing his cane.

“You idiot, it’s been proven in laboratories. Besides, I’ve seen them snakes with my own eyes, caught ‘em right in the act.” He made a forceful presentation and seemed fully convinced of his argument.

“What?!” Now it was my turn. “And to think you call me crazy.” I backed away three more paces while saying that. “Man, don’t you know the world’s weirdest wackos are found in laboratories?”

“Take them canteloupes, find a good shade tree, fill yer mouth with melon, and then go jump in the river!” The oldsterseemed abnormally jovial today.

Ladies and gentlemen, one little item has been overlooked by these people who claim blacksnakes are interbreeding with their venomous kindred. Not one among them has explained it to my satisfaction. I’d give the old-timer another chance to do so.

“Hey there old chap, if’n ya’ don’t mind, a question…

Believe me folks, long and arduous hours went into researching the facts of this story before even the first word was put on paper. I’ve relied heavily on Mr. Webster’s volume to ensure korrect spailing. Many sleep;ess nights were spent browsing thru encyclopedias, the “World Book of Facts,” endless copies of Readers Digest, Ripley’s “Believe it or Not,” old Tarzan comic books ( the jungle king’s name for snakes is Hisstah. Mostly the slimy creatures do his bidding, but every now and then a cantankerous reptile rebels. The apeman then unsheaths his trusty knife and neatly slices off the head of Hisstah ), and that outstanding tabloid of factual information, the National Enquirer.

This is in keeping with a long-standing policy, strictly adhered to, of dealing only in facts. I’ve never been comfortable with second and third-hand reports of idle gossip which have their roots in and spring forth from barbershops, beauty-parlors, cafes, Saturday morning golf-course sessions, or any other place where confusion reigns supreme.

But my relentless search for truth paid off handsomely and allows this saga to end on an upbeat note. Peoples of this area, place your trust in the final paragraphs of this work.

The old man was continuing his tirade about snakes of our immediate area, telling of their newly-found and strange sex preferences ( blacksnakes creepin’ around on the sly and cavorting with copperheads and rattlers. Bosh and hogwash!).

“Pardon the interruption,” I chimed in. “We have a puzzling situation here that needs explaining. Lets suppose a tomcat and White Leghorn hen decided to get together for a few moments of amour. Do you think such a mating might result in a new lifeform appearing on Earth!”

“You oughta’ been sent to Marion years ago,” the senior-citizen responded. His same opinion of me…just a slight alteration in wording.

Silence among the elders allowed me to continue. “The hen and cat is no more far-fetched than this snake tale you’re telling. Listen here pal, I’ve checked it out. Rattlers and copperheads bear live young into this world so the little monsters can bedevil mankind.”

The old fella’ was about to break in but wasn’t afforded an opportunity. His ravings had been a tirade, mine was a harangue: “On the other hand, blacksnakes are an egg-laying member of the reptile family. Friend, this tells me their internal reproductive apparatus is vastly different from their venomous cousins. Which means they ain’t compatible for propagation of a hybrid offspring. Such is not only absurd…it’s absolutely impossible.”

Four of those gents sided with my views, a like number disagreed vehemently.

Time to depart from this produce market. Folks would be gathering in other business establishments around town. They’d be holding interesting conversations, talking over important matters. Yeah man, time to git outta’ here.

Reaching the door, I turned for one final glance to the greenbean hampers. Four old-timers were squared off facing an opposing quartet. Appeared they were nearing fisticuffs…

The End

M. L. Wilkinson

August, 1987