It’s been nearly 17 years since my family arrived here, in Atlanta, on the midnight train to Georgia. My husband, Doc, the Romanian *Bredneck surgeon, was definitely a Confederate soldier in another life: He and his best buddy, Cabin Glen, who are really like blood brothers, can pop a wild hog blindfolded, although sometimes Doc let’s the hog take it’s blindfold off. They also whack turkeys when it’s the bird’s season to kick the bucket. Doc tells me that no one is a better “wild turkey caller” than Glen. Before moving to the South, I had no idea that getting the Thanksgiving bird caught, cooked and plopped onto a platter, was any more complicated than my mother’s singular calling repertoire: “Dinner’s ready! Hurry up or it will get cold.” Never in a million years did I dream that I would see a dearly departed wild turkey hanging upside down at Cabin Glen’s “You Popped it, You Clean it” Station at his farm. Those feathered, free rangers, trying to avoid becoming smoke house roasters, can run faster than Olympic trackstars on steroids. Expertise in turkey calling is more than a unique skill; it’s an art form in language mimicry, and when a master, like Cabin Glen, sets out to catch one of those speedy Gonzales’, it’s a very carefully orchestrated, romantic, mating dance. Doc tried bird calling once, but I suppose his Romanian accent confused the wild Gonzales turkeys. They ran away fast enough to make it to the Mexican border, so poor Doc was left without a date for the prom. “Aw…don’t feel bad, honey,’ I said, ‘I’m sure a lot of love struck turkeys are weeping into their corn feeders in Transylvania.”

But, redemption, an unbiased saint of a noun, does not favor one Redneck over one Bredneck: In Doc’s life, here on Earth, he is a liver specialist. In his real life, as his brother, Glen’s, Confederate Soldier and Southern Sharp-shooter, Doc unparalled expertise is in Raccoons, and their demise, thereof. Wild Turkeys may stand in line to dance – and unwittingly get whacked by “Caller Glen” – but the uninvited family of raccoons that were entering our suburban home through the cat door and enjoying a nocturnal “all you can eat buffet,” paid a hefty check from Doc that had been endorsed by Tony Soprano.

I’ll tell you how Doc took care of the critter buffet line, Mafia style, but first I must pay homage to my beloved Southern sisters: I never would have made it through the “Rocky Raccoon Era” had it not have been for them; the most magnificent group of “Steel Magnolias” any Yankee woman could have been blessed to have beenadopted by…and blow off steam with…and be forgiven for all the swear words I use to punctuate sentences (a bad habit I picked up working in the cafeteria at New York University.) They listened to “The Raccoon Story” over and over again, howling with laughter, and pleading for an encore whenever a new client came to Rita’s. Like the film version of Steel Magnolias, a beauty salon, in our instance Rita’s manicure and pedicure station, is the gathering place. It is our Camaraderie University of Higher Learning and Advanced Studies in Justified Retaliation. Doc…Doc…Doc…what’s a group of Steel Magnolias to do with a Raccoon whacking escapade like yours? Turn it into a legend for our grandchildren and great grandchildren, of course! And, an opportunity for me, Romanian Rocky’s Bredneck wife, to practice stand-up comedy at Rita’s on every manicure Thursday – my regular appointment with her for the past 17 years.

Now, the Raccoon Legend: My first warning that Doc had fallen into the portal of Tony Soprano’s brain, was when he asked, “Sweetness, did you know that raccoons sound like low humming motorcycles?” My response was to, yet again, speed dial the realtor who sent me to Hell in suburbia. “Theme song time again,’ I told the realtor. ‘from the TV show Green Acres, “Darlin’ I love you but give me Park Avenue!” She laughed and said, “Atlanta has a critter or two. The recipes for cookin’ ‘em are at The Zoo.” Hm…I don’t recall “sautéed animals with rabies” being featured on The Food Network. I must have missed that episode.

Continuing the Legend…Doc went on to say that he noticed the cat’s food supply was dwindling at an abnormal speed, but the cats were developing kitty anorexia. I still didn’t get it. I had the nerve to be grateful it wasn’t bulimia. Barf has to be cleaned up. Certainly, not by a Steel Magnolia sister such as myself. Anyway, I went to sleep that night. Our daughter, Alexandra, was visiting from Medill College. All was peaceful until what sounded like an Arctic blast! Alexandra ran into my room. We huddled together and then we tiptoed on the staircase landing and peered over the banister. A second Arctic blast sent us running back into my room. A third one had us huddling beneath the quilt! Then we heard the deck door opening and closing. Was that a hose? Why was Doc watering the potted geraniums at 3:00 in the morning? Could it possibly be so that I wouldn’t find a trace of what used to be the raccoon buffet line? He whacked them alright, but when he told the story to a very large gathering of our very proper Southern friends later that weekend, I did not have the chance to explain to Romanian Doc that it is not nice to use the “C” word. In fact, he did not know what the “C” word meant, so he used it with full gusto, telling his spell-bound audience, “Yup, I whacked dem three ‘Coons’ and tossed ‘em into Nancy Creek!’” The more I tried to get his attention, the louder the “C” word entered into his innocent yet mortifying vocabulary. “Won’t be seeing those Coons in this house anytime soon,” he bragged. I didn’t think we’d be seeing those friends in this house anytime soon either, but they knew Doc wasn’t deliberately flinging around the worst possible word I could think of in a town where every other street is named for Martin Luther King. It seems that our friends didn’t know there was more than one comedian living under our roof. I didn’t either.

Shalom ‘y’all!