YOU CAN'T GO THAR

   Once, up in Bashful Beaver, Tn., I received a call from dispatch asking my 10-20 (location). “Slippery Hollow.” I replied. 

There was silence for a moment, then the Shift Sergeant interrupted, “Booger Holler?” 

“10-4.” 

Next, urgently, “Get outta there and 56 (meet) me at the Church of the Bountiful Backslider Bashers.” 

I did. The Sergeant was agitated. “Didn’t anyone tell you about Slippery Holler?” he said. 

“Nope,” I answered. 

“We don’t go down there. Can’t go down there.” 

“Can’t go down there? Why the hell not? We’re cops, we can go anywhere in our jurisdiction.” 

“Normally, yeah. But not Slippery Holler.” 

“What’s so special ‘bout Slippery Holler?” 

“You see that house on the hill at the mouth of the holler?” 

“Yep.” 

“Well, the ol’ man that lives in there will shoot down on ya with his long rifle.” 

“You mean Mr. Walker?” I asked. 

“Yeah. . .you know Mr. Walker?” 

“Know the whole family,” I said. “Coached three of their boys in Pop Warner football.” 

“That explains it,” Sarge said. “They recognized you. Otherwise you’d a been dodgin’ bullets.” 

I was stunned. “I don’t understand. These are good people. Why would they shoot at folks.” 

“It’s just the old man. And nobody that ever got close enough to ask, survived,” he said. 

While my head was still spinning, he went on. “’Nother thing, “there’s one other holler we don’t go down. On the east end of the county, near the line. Called “Booger Holler.” 

“Who’s shootin’ at us up there?” 

“Don’t know, never caught anyone. But every time a cop car starts down it, some one does. Have a still up there, most likely.” 

I never did get used to the way law enforcement worked in East Tennessee. Things they did and accepted as normal I could never accommodate. I returned to Florida in six-months.