Politically Speaking
"Now you be careful!" Flora Jean yelled as Smedley walked out the door. "You know how you get carried away sometimes."
"Well, there's times when a feller ought'a get carried away." Smedley thought. He wanted to tell her in his most sincere tone, "There are times when it just won't do for a body--particularly a man in my position--to not get stirred up." If Smedley had learned anything in his years of marriage to Flora Jean, it was that she was most often right when she told him to be careful. It was a lesson for which he had paid dearly and wasn't about to forget, so he simply responded, "Don't worry."
But she did.
Hog Back Ridge was a place that politics pretty well left alone. Some of the old timers still swore that the survey that was finished fifty years ago was off by half a mile and so there wasn't even agreement among the locals as to which county they were really in. There were a few old codgers who said they "wadn' 'bout to pay no tax to no county they wadn' a part of, an' if'n the county they was a part of did'n think ‘nuff of 'em ta come over 'n claim 'em then, they did'n deserve no tax neither." So, they just didn't pay any. Apparently the revenue to be gained didn't justify the trouble it would take to collect it, and so except for sending some threatening letters, that the old timers couldn't read anyhow, nothing was ever done. To say that the people of Hog Back Ridge were not much into politics, was like saying that a skunk is not much into smelling good. Nobody could remember when the last time was that a candidate for anything--from either county, or anywhere else--had ever come up the winding road to the little settlement.
That is until just a few weeks ago.
Smedley had been reading up on the candidates for county commissioner--the county in which the survey said the Hog Back lie--when he saw a statement that caused him to jump out of his seat and holler, "Amen! Listen to this, Flora Jean," the parson had called. "Reuben C. Galepoke, candidate for Commissioner of Jefferson County, in response to questions, declared himself to be "unalterably opposed to the illegal manufacture of alcohol. The continuance of this unregistered, untaxed bootlegging is a blight on our fair valley." Smedley read from the Mt. Elmo Star. Now there's a feller I kin get behind."
"Don't you think you need to know a little more about this--Wha'd you say his name was?--before you can say that?" asked Flora Jean. "So many of these politicians are just full of wind." But in a county where the essentials for moonshining consisted of a still, a supply of corn and sugar, the whiskey making knowledge passed from father to son, and a politician on the payroll to keep the revenuers away, this was all Smedley needed to hear. "Galepoke, Reuben C. replied Smedley. "Any enemy of the moonshine trade is a friend of mine," thought Smedley, as he sat down at the kitchen table to compose a letter to the "Honorable Reuben C. Galepoke."
". . . and so I would be honored if you would come to our fair community to address our citizens. As pastor of our local assembly, I offer you the use our meeting house to address the people. As a citizen who shares your concern about the evils of moonshine, I promise my assistance in gathering a crowd to hear your views on the subject."
Smedley had tried out several salutations with which to close his letter. "Sincerely" was too common. "Righteously indignant" was a bit strong. Smedley thought "Yours for a better valley," said it well. He felt quite good about signing his name. He even used his official "Rev." something he almost never did. He hoped it would add a little clout.
A week later when Smedley arrived at the general store to pick up his mail the crowd of chewers, talkers and hangers-on seemed larger than normal. "Mighty IMMportant lookin' piece a mail here," said Clyde. "Envelope's got the man's name printed right on it, "n looky here the Reverend Smedley, Hog Back Ridge is type-writed no less." "There ain't a thing hand 'rit on the whole letter I'll bet," Hezekiah Jones said in genuine awe as Smedley, trying to conceal his own excitement, tore open the impressive envelope. After what all the on-lookers regarded as far too long a time, the parson announced, "Friday afternoon, 3:00 O'clock, Candidate for County Commissioner, Reuben C. Galepoke will be at the Meeting House on Hog Back Ridge to address the area citizens on matters of concern to us all."
As Smedley rode to the little white meeting house his wife's warning was soon crowded out of his mind by a whirlwind of thoughts. He wondered if anybody would be there from the papers. "They offen cover important events like this." Maybe the Star over in Mt. Elmo would send a reporter to cover this historic event. The thought reminded Smedley that he ought to do his very best to look dignified. So he adjusted his hat, smoothed his trousers, straightened his back, adopted his best parson's countenance and just for good measure started whistling "Amazing Grace." In short, he thought he looked about as dignified and proper as a man could.
As soon as Smedley rounded the curve and the road opened into the lovely clearing where the little white meeting house stood, he saw him. Reuben C. needed no introduction. He was standing next to his gleaming black buggy greeting the early arrivals with a bearing that befitted a man about to take hold of the reins of power. "You must be Reverend Smedley," he said as he approached with hand outstretched. "Come, come. My man here will care for your mule. I want you to meet someone." Stepping around the buggy, Smedley met a small stoop-shouldered man with a pencil behind his ear. "You'll want a picture for the Star to commemorate this occasion," said Reuben C. in a way that made Smedley feel quite important.
With an, "Of course, Mr. Galepoke." the fellow produced a camera from a satchel. Smedley was adjusting his tie when a disturbance at the edge of the gathering distracted him.
"Excuse me, Sir," Smedley said. I need to attend to something. I'll only be a minute."
"What is it, Hezekiah?" Smedley asked the usually quiet little man. "You been flappin' that piece a paper at me like a bed sheet in a wind storm." It took Hezekiah a while to say things. He lisped, and so he always tried to figure a way to eliminate as many s's from his speech as possible. While he was mentally composing an answer, Reuben C. strode over watch in hand.
"Times' a wastin', man," he bellowed. Stepping in front of the obviously distraught Hezekiah and throwing an arm around Smedley's shoulder, he looked the camera in the eye, the reporter called to Smedley, clicked the picture, and before the parson could collect his thoughts or Hezekiah could de-“S” his, Reuben C. Galepoke was saying something from his buggy seat about how he was behind schedule, "but sure did appreciate this show of support."
The buggy was rounding the curve and Reuben C. giving a last wave to the crowd, when Hezekiah once again got the parson's attention. "How much do you know about Reuben Galepoke?" he asked.
"I know he is opposed to the moonshine business and that's enough for me," Smedley said, concentrating his mounting irritation at his friend.
"Do you know why?" Hezekiah asked as he shoved the paper at Smedley.
It was a good thing that Sairee knew the way home, since Smedley was oblivious to the direction of the mule's movement. "Should I resign? I wonder if anyone'll ever listen to me again? How could I be so stupid? Why did'n' I listen to my wife? She could smell somthin' fishy? If I'd a only listened to my friend Hezekiah--should'a taken the time."
Smedley was aroused from his miserable musings by a suddenly rising wind. "Looks like its gonna blow up a gale, Sairee," he said to the beast who twitched her ears at the sound of her name. As he reached up to pull his hat on a little tighter, he remembered the handbill that he had disgustedly stuffed into the drawstring bag right after Hezekiah had given it to him. "Better check my poke." But it was too late. The breeze had already snatched it. "Soon everybody'll know anyhow."
Long after the rain and sun had bleached the print from that tattered page the words remained in bold print posted in the parson's mind.
REUBEN C. GALEPOKE
Wines, Beers, Cordials
Liquors--domestic and imported
Jefferson County's only legal
Distributor of alcoholic beverages
443 Main St.
(Author’s note: This piece was written back in an era in which it was common for leading clerics to take prominent positions on political candidates and issues. Like Smedley, some of them were badly burned, losing credibility in the process. Let the church be the church.)
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