A Live Report From The Nathan Bedford Forrest Memorial Mobile Home Park

By-
G.L. Reed

I live in Dixie Alley, that’s what part of Tennessee is being called now due to the disastrous tornadoes our state is experiencing. Folks who keep tabs say we have more fatalities per square mile due to tornadoes than Tornado Alley in the Mid-West. This is not a statistic we want to quote to potential citizens.
Trailer parks seem to receive the worst damage when twisters strike. Of course we’re not suppose to call trailers, trailers, anymore, they’re manufactured housing or mobile homes.
I’ve often wondered what directives a news reporter receives when covering these stories and interviewing survivors. Probably goes something like this, “Go out there and find the fattest woman you can, preferably with visible tattoos, wearing either a night gown, spandex or short shorts.” I know we’re suppose to say weight challenged instead of fat, old habits die hard, I guess, like fat women in trailer parks.
“But what if I can’t find such a woman?”
“Then find a skinny man with no front teeth, a scraggly beard, wearing a cap pulled down to his ears with a rebel flag on the front of it and sporting long greasy hair at least to his shoulders. And, oh yeah, make sure he’s wearing a muscle shirt.”
Now, if you’re not from around here, you may think this would be a tough assignment, but no, every time a tornado hits one of our manufactured housing neighborhoods, these same two people seem to survive and wind up on camera.
A typical interview proceeds something like this one the other day with a weight challenged lady wearing capacity challenged spandex pants.
“We’re reporting live from the Nathan Bedford Forrest Memorial Mobile Home Park, the scene of a horrific category four tornado’s destruction last night. I have standing with me, Dolly Jones, who experienced first hand the tornado and amazingly survived. Did you have any warning the tornado was about to strike?”
“No sar, I knowed the wind was a howlen, but didn’t thank it was that bad. I had Little Dolly hugged up tight right beside me on the couch…,” her voice cracks and she can’t speak for a moment. “She’s afeared of storms and I was just pet’ner and talken to ‘er so she wouldn’t be sceared.” She places both chubby hands over her face, weeping loudly.
“I‘m terribly sorry, who is Little Dolly, your daughter?” The reporter asks with concern.
Through mournful sobs, she answers, “Ma’goat.”
“I see, and then what happened?”
Becoming more animated, she continues, “The trailer just ripped apart worser than Aunt Gertie when she had eight pound triplets.”
This answer seems to confuse the reporter momentarily.
“Ah, yes, well, were you injured at all when your home was destroyed?”
“My belly got mashed on purdy bad, but, but…,” she again breaks down, both chins quivering. Regaining some composure, she says, “Little Dolly was tored from my arms and blowed away.”
“What happened to her?”
“Don’t know, my man, Big Head, went looken fer’er a little bit ago.”
“Was your hus…or, ere, Big Head home when the storm hit?”
“Yes sar, he was blowed into the sycamore tree yonder. Held on fer dear life, no doubt the Lard spared ‘im, me and Mama.”
“Your mama, where is she?”
“Over thare under the sycamore tree setten on the only thang she has left, ‘er power cheer.” The camera pans to the tree and locates a woman even larger than Dolly, whatever she’s perched on can’t be seen, there is just too much mama and night gown. The camera zooms in on mama’s arm and just as quickly cuts away after focusing on an obscene tattoo. “Mama was setten on ‘er cheer when the tornader hit and like I said, I was on the couch with Little Dolly. All that was left was Mama, ‘er cheer, me’na couch.”
“So you lost most of your possessions?”
“Pert nert,” Dolly says downcast.
“Dolly, it is my understanding that your family experienced another tragedy two years ago near here?”
Dolly’s eyes once again fills with tears. “My brother, Porter, and cousin, Jubal, was drowned in that big sprang flood.” She weeps unabashedly, her entire body shaking.
“And what were the circumstances surrounding the calamity?”
“What was whut?” She asks puzzled.
“I mean, what was the cause of their deaths?”
“The doc said their lungs was full of water. You can‘t breathe under water.”
“No, no, what were they doing just before they died?”
“Oh, they’s racen each other cross the river on Bill and Al.”
“Bill and Al?”
“Porter and Jubal’s mules, they was drowned too. It’s a shame we lost all four of ‘em.”
The reporter respectfully halts his questions about the accidental deaths.
Then, to Dolly’s enormous relief, Big Head comes into view carrying Little Dolly in his arms. Screaming for joy, Dolly attempts to jump up and down. Tears begin anew as Big Head draws nearer with his prize. “Mama, Mama, Big Head’s found Little Dolly! Praise the Lard!”
Big Head, displaying a huge cranium, a skeletal frame and a teeth challenged grin, stumbles to Dolly and the reporter. He wheezes as he takes some deep breaths and shifts Little Dolly in his arms. Big Head’s rebel cap is so tight it could be painted on; the prerequisite scraggly beard and greasy long hair down to his shoulders are also in place. The only lack of correctness in Big Head’s appearance, he’s wearing overalls without a shirt instead of a muscle shirt. Still, he makes a stunning impression.
“Could we get just a word from you, sir?”
“Shore.”
“I understand that you were blown out of your home and landed in that sycamore tree over there, is that correct?”
“Shore is, I was flapp’en in the breeze like a rag tied to a bulls’ as…ah, tail!”
“Dolly says you had little warning.”
“All I heared was a sound like a freight train comen. Soes I didn‘t think much of it.”
“Does a train track run near here?”
“Nope, shore don’t.” Turning to Dolly, his smile vanishing, Big Head warns, “I got some bad news fer ya darlen.”
“Bad news? What bad news?” Then Dolly falls silent, ceasing her vain attempts to jump.
“When I found Little Dolly, ‘er head was run plumb through a mailbox and both ‘er front lags is broke.”
“Oh Lard,” Dolly begins to wail all over again. “What ‘er we gonna do?”
“Well, I reckon since we don’t have much to eat now, we can have barbequed goat.”
Dolly’s eyes widen, her face exhibits rage as she snatches Little Dolly away from Big Head! “You low down wormy, freaking son-of-a-bum,” only this is not what she says, her actual profanity broadcasts live to all viewers.
Dolly continues to curse and swear at Big Head as the reporter hurriedly steps in front of the camera and says, “This has been a live report from the Nathan Bedford Forrest Memorial Mobile Home Park.”

Rating : 4.40, 10 votes. Reviews : 2 [add review]

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