Chapter 1

                                  FISHIN' AT MILLER'S POND

It's summertime, and the livin' is easy. This was especially true for the farmers of Hokum whose wives always did most of the work. July was Farmer Tice's favorite month of the entire year, and for a very good reason—it was too soon to harvest and too late to plant, but just the right time to sleep and go fishing. The only problem Farmer Tice had, aside from his wife, was coming up with enough capital to pay for his summertime dreams.

That's why he headed on down to Miller's Pond. Ben Miller never seemed to mind him fishing there, because he rarely caught any fish. Ben was good-natured and easygoin’ at heart and would allow a select few of his friends to fish there so long as they limited themselves to one fish per visit and cleaned up after themselves before they left. Farmer Tice never caught any fish and napping never caused a mess, so he was no problem at all.

For several months, Ben hadn't seen what was going on down at his lake because he'd been spending all his time down at Swine Hall shooting pool with his lodge brothers—all of which, just like him, chose pool and other games, such as checkers and Go Fish, over chores. Besides, with all the NO FISHING and NO TRESPASSING signs he had his wife make with old wood and paint, there was no reason to think he'd ever have to deal with a slew of vagrants.

Old man Bunch had to close down the game room in the back of the lodge hall for a couple of days because the wives wanted to use it for their annual summer sow party. This was the time when all of the lodge wives got together to complain about their ‘lazy, good-fer-nuttin’ husbands—and no self-respecting Hokum man wanted to be there for that. Even Farmer Tice, who had no self-respect whatsoever, always stayed clear of that event. And so, Ben, with nothing else better to do, grabbed his tackle box and hightailed it out of there to go fishing. Last fall, Ben had that lake stocked with catfish and bass and figured by this time of year, the fish ought to be jumping out of the lake. So, he jumped into General Beauregard—his pet name for his jeep—and took off.

What he saw when he got to the top of the ridge overlooking his small lake was absolutely shocking—dirty young men with scruffy beards, and trash everywhere! Cans, bottles, shoes, garbage, shopping carts, and lots and lots of old mattresses. Why, the place looked only slightly better than Hokum’s best hotel.
Ben reached around the back of his jeep and grabbed a long, Iver Johnson, 12-gauge, single-barrel shotgun that he always kept in the backseat. Then, he stood up and aimed it at the chief vagrant below laying amid all that filth and garbage, sound asleep beneath a willow tree with his head on a big, brown jug and a cane pole between his knees.
Ben, not knowing who it was, yelled at the top of his lungs, “Hey, you down there! Yo! What ya doin' on my land? Can't ya read them signs?” When he got no answer, he fired a shot in the air to get the vagrant’s undivided attention. BOOM!!!

Farmer Tice, well knowing that it wasn't duck season, sprung to his feet like a rocket. He wanted no part of that buckshot. Seeing that it was only Ben Miller brought about a heap of relief, but Farmer Tice was still a bit sore for being woken up. Still, he appreciated the fact that his long-time lodge brother and friend had only fired a warning shot. He wasn't sure his wife would ever give him such a break.

“Ben! Ben Miller!! Jus' what in tarnation are ya tryin' to do? Kill me?” By this time, all the “urban entrepreneurs” had vanished like mice after the cat showed up.