20 Miles From Jackson

The air was thick like molasses and only half as sweet. Sweat trickled down every brow in the near vicinity and all were lost in the limbo of dampness. Anticipation ran high. Some waited for days, others hours, some minutes, and there were even a handful who had just stumbled into the gathering and had deep affection for sweaty masses. To some it was the second best thing to yelling, anger, and torches and pitchforks. Often this type of commotion was frowned upon by the local authorities. Today might have been a repeat of the past but the mayor and the sheriff seemed to be the center pieces of the mob.
Many things had been said about the south. Far more have been said about the Deep South. Clichés came into one full blown reality in this little burg. Opossums littered the thoroughfares and silence could never be found under the dulcet tones of banjo music and chirping crickets. Everyone even had their “Sunday Best.” Pastels littered the town square as the light shades of color began to become darker and darker. By noon the entire town will have seemed to be wearing completely different outfits. It was hot. Mosquitoes were frisky. All that fueled the anxious mob were the glasses of sweet tea that had been made the night before.
Hotter than baby gator in a skillet it was and the sizzle of the sweat hitting the ground ran as a mere after thought. Santa came months ago and this event seemed to trump them all. Each person had cleaned up. Each person had all of their accounts in order. Criminals were pardoned. The church in the center of the town even got a new steeple. Quaint would have been an understatement for the hushed and awe inspiring festivities. This was Americana at its finest.
The mayor’s daughter kept the town entertained up near the front. Golden locks and a smile that could slay a wildebeest, she belted out tunes like “It’s a Grand Old Flag,” “The Star Spangled Banner,” “Amazing Grace,” and “Be Thou My Vision.” Some sang under their breath, others just quietly wept. Most of the men held their hats to their chest and stoically took back all they saw as they rested in their austere dignity. Hallmark could not even recreate the moment. After each song a round of applause rang through the air. She would smile and then sing another ditty, her name was Pollyanna.
Two week before the crops had been gathered. They had been stored and preserved. The work of every farmer’s hand had been proudly put on display as the town rejoiced in the accomplishment of their “golden boys.” School was long out and the children played and got into their usual mischief. Girls were teased, rocks were skipped, young lovers looked for hideaways, and countless mason jars were filled with flickering lightning bugs. Life was as it should be as every man, woman, and child greeted each other by name as they strolled down the street.
The time was drawing near. The center of the town bore every soul it laid claim to that day. A light breeze was the only comfort that was allotted to the fortitude of expectancy that dwindled beneath the clock tower. 2:59 PM was struck and all fell indubitably silent. Mother’s tightly grabbed their children. Men embraced their wives. The moment finally came with half of the crowd’s eyes closed shut. Bong! Bong! Bong! The bell shattered the silence with its loud announcement. Profanity and sighs of relief filled the air as the crowd began to disperse. As soon as it came was as soon as it ended. Each left for their own house to carry on with their own lives waiting at least one more year for the world to end.