Epilogus (e-pi-lo’-gus): Providing an inference of what is likely to follow.
Sometimes I wish I was “way down upon the Swanee River,” then I don’t. It is Florida’s state song. It has been traditionally sung at the Governor’s inauguration ceremony. It is definitely a paen to the Old South. Who the hell wants to live in a “little hut among the bushes”? The lyrics of “Swanee River” long for it, as if a little hut among the bushes was Mar-A-Lago or some classy hotel in South Beach.
It was Sunday and I was sitting by my pool reading the paper. It was a nice day in West Palm Beach and Millie my maid had just brought me one of her super sugary mint juleps. I turned to the real estate section to see if my friend Mewbert’s beach-front mansion had sold yet. It was up for sale for $15,000,000 so I was sure it would make the news. Then, there it was: “Little hut for sale on bank of Swanee River. Has dock. Fixer-upper. Prone to flooding. For sale by owner. Call Steve Foster (252) 228-9922.” It was a North Carolina area code. Given the coincidental connection to my earlier musings, I had to call Steve.
He answered after two rings. I told him I was interested in the property in Florida and wanted to have a look at it. Also, I asked him to tell me the asking price. He said, “That depends. Are you for us or agin’ us?” Without thinking I answered “For ya!” trying mimic Steve’s accent. He told me the price was negotiable and emailed me directions to the hut on the Swanee River (aka Suwannee River). It was near a weigh station off Route 90. Zeb, my chauffeur, jumped behind the wheel of my Rolls and we sped off, north, starting out on Route 95.This was an adventure.
We arrived around 5:00 and we had hiked about mile when we arrived at the hut. There was plenty of light left. It was indeed a hut, with the river flowing slowly about ten feet behind it. It was surrounded by bushes. This was it! Part of the inspiration for “Swanee River.”
A shotgun barrel suddenly poked out one of the broken front windows. “What in the hell do y’all want?” asked a male voice in a menacing tone. I said, “We’re here to look at the property, and possibly buy it from Steve Foster.” He laughed, “Haw, haw! You gotta’ be kiddin’ we ain’t seen him since The Civil War. Now git! My trigger finger’s a startin’ to itch.” “Yes sir!” I said in the most obedient-sounding voice I could summon. Zeb and I ran for the Rolls as the mystery-man took a shot over our heads to speed us along.
We were silent during the ride back home. I tried to call Steve several times on my cellphone but there was no answer. I swore Zeb to secrecy and we never spoke about the incident, but I couldn’t get the damn song out of my head. Five years later, we went looking for the hut again. It was gone. Nothing remained but overgrown bushes. But I stepped on something that mad a crushing sound. I was the mains of a clay pipe that had “Foster” scratched on the stem.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. There is also a Kindle edition available for $5.99.
The Daily Trope 