The bench in front of the Feed Store was about 15 feet long and covered with galvanized tin. That galvanized tin on the bench had turned shiny jet black from the years of use. The tin did more than protect the wooden bench from whittlers, but also announced with its well-worn patina, “Here to serve man.” When the weather was good enough the men liked to sit outside on the bench and carve. The owner, Carr Benton remembers when he was a boy and his dad owned the store there were always old men sitting out front on the bench carving. They would take one-inch square pieces of wood that were four feet long and carve chains with their pocket knives. They would even carve little cages that had wooden balls in them. Some men would bring big blocks of wood and carve birds and animals. All of these things going on would mesmerize a little boy. When his father passed and he inherited the store he would often take the time to sit on the bench to talk to the old men who knew him as a boy. That made him feel close to his dad again.
The interior of the store was old school feed store. This was the place to buy animal feeds, tack, and medicines, and they could even arrange the delivery of chicks. Hardware, paint, tools, and everything they thought a farmer might need to do his job. If they didn’t have it, they would order it. There was a large round table with a flat-screen TV on the wall next to it. A smaller table had a coffee maker and assorted creamers and sweeteners. Freddie the Sheriff’s Deputy would normally bring day-old donuts. There were newspapers and agricultural magazines on the table for everyone to read. Carr made sure his employees knew to make sure everything was current and threw away the old papers and magazines. “I’m not running a doctor’s office.”
In the center of the store was a large sand-filled brick circle that had a pot-bellied wood stove in the center with chairs all around. The store had central heat and air but during the winter the heat was turned down and the stove was used for some heating. The walls were covered with antique feed store signs and advertisements. All of this and the smell of a wood-burning stove made this a place that entered into conversation with anyone who came in. They also sold baseball caps that said, “Lone Star Feed and Fertilizer”. Carr always said, “There’s some art in those hats.”
Vic Caster is one of the denizens of the whittling bench. Not a carver, but a retired helicopter pilot with nothing to do during the day. He could be one of those old men you avoid talking to at the store. The kind of guy that is hard to disengage from if you get trapped in a conversation with him. Vic isn’t like that, he has the feed store to go to. That is how he gets his minimum daily human contact requirements met. He has COPD and uses an oxygen regenerator. “A lifetime of a pot of coffee and a pack of cigarettes for breakfast,” is how he explains it. He is a very skinny old man who wears an Omega Speedmaster Professional chronograph on his wrist. The watch looks huge on him and he spends a lot of time winding it in the mornings. When they ask him, “why he still wears it”? He says, “This watch has been with me everywhere. I wore it when I was a young man. Back in the day when you could’ve roller skated on my pecker. Besides, a self-winding watch or one that uses batteries is soulless. Even though I can’t do shit, it’s part of the preparation for the day. It reminds me of better days.
Glenn Spencer is an ex-Green Beret. He served in Vietnam and is now an old man who has cancer. The doctors have been able to slow the spread to a near stop. He feels the loss of strength but has been told he has a lot of years left in him. In the jungle, he depended on the helo pilots and now he likes talking to one every day. He and Vic feel a kinship. They remind each other of better days.
Harold Sims is a retired history teacher. For forty years he taught American history in high school. Now all three men have been put out to pasture. Harold misses human contact. Truth be known, Harold likes to hold forth. What good is knowledge if you can’t tell anyone about it? All three men have one thing in common, their wives enjoy having them out of the house for a few hours a day.
These three men formed the morning triumvirate at the feed store. If anybody didn’t show up in the morning, phone calls were made to check up on them. The store manager would complain to Carr that he was trying to run an agricultural supply store, not a destination. “This is how I want it to be.” Was all Carr would ever say about the subject. He didn’t realize the old men on this bench were a bridge to Carr’s childhood. The farmers and ranchers normally showed up in the early morning to get whatever they needed for that day’s work. The morning rush was normally over by 8 a.m. That was the time Freddy and Russell would show up.
Freddy and Russell were Sheriff’s Deputies who were best friends. They drove separate patrol cars and the feed store is where they would meet every morning. Being in law enforcement and Rednecks, they must have felt an obligation to make every bad misconception of southern law enforcement true. When referring to women, the condition of their tits or ass was always included. When dealing with domestic abuse complaints, “What did you do to piss him off?”, was always asked. They were comfortable in their skin and could best be described as willfully ignorant. The classiest thing about them was the word that could be used to describe them: misogynists.
Freddy was the only one of them who was married. His wife LouAnn was a good hard working woman. She found a used donut fryer on Craigslist and started making and selling donuts. There was a need and business was as good as can be expected in a rural area. She ended up getting a small Amish shed, adding a drive-through window, and buying a bigger fryer. Harold said, “The outside observer might be led to believe that even a dumbass can get it right from time to time” when referring to Freddy and his wife. Freddy would always bring day-old donuts or fresh donuts for the coffee table. That made his presence palatable.
Russell was cut from the same bolt of cloth but was a bachelor. Harold said, “That makes him a dumbass with no wiggle room.” Russell was a gun nut and liked being around the two Vietnam veterans. They had seen guns used for what they were designed for. They were in the gun-carrying fraternity. He loved hearing the war stories. Vic commented, “I hope he realizes these tales of derring-do grow over time.”
“Nah” replied Glenn.
He’s a friend of “Deputy Donut” so they humored him.
The Denizens of the whittlin’ bench arrived one morning to find a large sign over their bench. Carr Benton was standing back admiring his work when the first loiterers arrived for the days’ conversations.
“What the Hell is this all about?” Each new arrival asked.
“Well.” Said Carr “I discovered the word ‘sitooterie’ last week and decided it was the perfect choice for a sign over our bench. It is a word that was first coined in Scotland. It started out as a place to sit outside, but the Scots pronounce out as oot. Then they added a French suffix for class. That’s how it became sitooterie. So in honor of our daily visitors, I added a prefix. That is how I came up with the name “La Bullsitooterie”. Who says English isn’t a living language?”
“Besides” added Carl. “Bullsitoot is kinda onomatopoeic for what goes on here. The ‘la’ and ‘erie’ are little spritzes of French perfume to hide the aroma.” This remark was met with a blank stare from the gathering crowd. The general consensus became, “Carl you need to get laid more.”
The fame of the bench grew with the years. The guys were asked about it by people from as far away as twenty miles. Wives would tell their husbands, “Why don’t you go spend some time at the Bullsitooterie? Don’t come home till you get it out of your system.”
La Bullsitooterie is also the home of the world-famous farting dog. Thomas Spencer always had his dog with him when he went to the feed store. From time to time someone would say, “God! What is that smell?” While looking at Tom. He would immediately point at the dog and say, “He did that.” It was agreed by all that this dog had issues. So much so, that one Christmas they took up a collection and bought Vic a new dog. It didn’t take long to come to the conclusion that it wasn’t the old dogs’ fault. Tom was willing to throw his dog under the bus.
Glenn said. “What happened to the old dog? I hope you didn’t have him put down.”
“God no!” was Vic’s reply. He is happy at home with my wife. I have two dogs to blame it on now.”
“Trust me, Tom. She knows.” Added Glenn.