The Big Chicken

I was in Marietta yesterday for a local writer’s expo. There ain’t much more disturbing a thing than to be cooped up in a room with 24 other writers. You will hear more stories than you can rightfully digest in such a time. The invitation did not state that a shovel was a necessary piece of equipment, but I should have figured. At times, it got so deep, I was might near swimmin'.

There were old writers, young writers and others who were doing a fair impression of being dead writers. Well, until someone spoke to them, and then they would pipe up and sing their own praises until folks moved on or they ran out of steam and passed out again. There were big writers, little writers, writers of children’s books and writers of conspiracy. There were mystery writers, history writers and folks just sellin' things, dressed as writers.

Then there was me. On some days, I’m called a writer, most days I’m called things I can’t say. I’m pretty sure if you know my ex-wife, she might give you a few names that’ll make your face red and your ears burn. Mary Carmen might give you a few you can’t understand. Others might give a few unsuitable for new brides, children and grandmothers to hear. I had fun and met some cool people.

So afterward we were to meet my publisher at the Marietta Diner. Did I mention for a free dinner? If someone says free food, my ears are coming off and going with them, with or without me. They are probably taking my mouth, too. Seeing as a writer can’t exist without a mouth, the rest of my body might as well go along. Come to think of it, if my ears had went off and left me yesterday, I’d have been better off.

I learned how to sell books, listen to books on Cd’s, cover books and, Lord, I learned how to talk about books. It seems I learned everything about books except how to write 'em and sell' em. Maybe I should have dropped my ears and eyes at Kennesaw State. They have more girls than the Florida Gators have players on their football team. Maybe I should have dropped my brain at brain daycare; I didn’t need it where I was.

Anyway, I remember going to Marietta when I was younger. At that time when you asked for directions, they would give them to you based on the most prominent focal point in the small city at the time. That was Elmo Tolson’s farm, which was the exact location of his moonshine still. So the directions might go like this.

“Well, if you go as far as you can see down that away, you’ll see some new fangled cows in a field to your right. Turn left thereabouts, then look for Rutherford Cuth’s old dog, it’s been dead for three days. Don’t mistake the brown one you’ll come across first, it ain’t from around here, shot it myself yesterday. Any how, after you pass Rutherfords dog, you’ll come to Elmo Tolson’s place, turn right and Johnny Mae Wilkinson’s place is the third on the right. Look for all the big ol' tractor tires painted white and full of flowers, you can't miss it.”

Ah, the good old days. Any way ,when I asked about the diner, I got the following directions.

 “Just go to the big chicken and turn right.”

 “Do what?”

 “Lord, son, ain’t you ever heard of the big chicken? It’s a Georgia icon, people come from all over the world to see it, it’s right near where Elmo Tolson’s farm used to be. You ain’t from around here, are you boy?”

I ain’t, but I hit myself in the head with a hammer, twice, to appear like I was. Sure enough, after a mile or so, there was this gigantic chicken, just sittin' there, pretty as you please. I got to tell you, eatin' anything beside an egg that comes from the southern end of a chicken is a little disturbing. What do I know? I tried, hard, to keep going, but had to stop and take a few pictures. Maybe I am from around there after all. Paris has the Eiffel Tower, Pisa has the leaning tower, Rome has the Sistine Chapel and Marietta has the big chicken.

I had a fabulous time and met some outstanding folks. And that free meal, the Marietta Diner has some of the best food in the South.

Thanks to the Cobb County Library.