Sarah Palin, Snake Oil Saleswoman: Part Three of a Joe Six Pack Saturday in the Changing South.

Note: In Part One I took you to Collinsville, a sleepy little town in Alabama that is now about half Hispanic in population. In Part Two we met some of the Pit Bull Voters that are going to help decide the future of America. Now... in Part Three... we will get to the moral of the story.

People are starting to leave the flea market now. It's starting to thin out, wind down. One woman has spread a blanket over the hood of her car and is laying on it, too tired to go any farther. 

I'm not giving up yet. I haven't heard what I am supposed to hear yet. Something that will give my trip up here value, something to make this Saturday morning in my Southern Life... worthwhile.

I can hear the dogs barking some 50 to 75 yards away, as I walk toward the animal section of the flea market.  Sounds like a lot of dogs... but when I get there it's only just a few in one pen making all that racket.

I see an interracial couple, each walking their own pit bull... then a seperate person walking his own.  It definitely is the dog of choice for these people to walk with. It sends out the message: Don't F*** with me or my dog will eat you alive.

Earlier, I had asked a young Hispanic man if  I could take a picture of his Pit Bull and he was so proud.  Maybe that picture will come out.

To my right I see an old man, and he's got rabbit's and kittens in cages to sell. I say, "How's the rabbit business today?"

He says, "What?"

I say, "The rabbit business? How did it go today?"

He says, "Oh! The rabbit business."  I realize he is hard of hearing and this could be a long, long conversation.  He says, "Ain't got but three left."

"How many did you start out with?" I asked him, and he says, "Fifteen." Then he looks at my camera, and I still have my pen and folded notepaper in my hand, and he says, "Boy, what you doing?"

After being completely taken aback by being called a boy - I am 59 years old - I realized I may be a boy to him, as he may be pushing eighty.

I tell him, "I like to write. And take pictures. And I believe everybody has a story to tell."

Just at that moment a little girl comes up and asks the man if she can see "that" kitty."

"What?" he says, and here we go again.  She makes him to understand, and he says, "OK, and picks her out one. But she's an independent young woman and knows exactly what she wants, and she says, "No, I wanted the runt."

She is probably ten, and wearing a huge pink straw hat, not on her head, but hanging behind her neck, having it at the ready I guess, if the sun becomes to bright.

He digs it out and says, "Don't you let it loose now," and I can immediately visualize me and an old man and a little girl in a pink hat chasing a cat all over the flea market when she lets it loose.  But she doesn't.

Then the little girl's mother came up to see what she was up to. She was thin, in her forties, with a cowboy hat, and with a tooth missing near the front. She had had a hard life somewhere. But she was friendly. Smiling at me and the old man and trying to make the best of what ever she had been through. I'm pretty sure she was "clean" - meaning no crystal meth problem. Her tooth loss was just poverty, not drugs. You can tell when a person is caught up in meth by the way it rots out their teeth.

The little girl says, "What is it, a boy or a girl?"

The old man says, "What do you want it to be?"  I love this old man. He's a card.

They go back and forth with the kitten awhile, and then the little girl leaves with her mom and with her dad, who apparently was waiting in the wings. Watching.

The old man hasn't forgotten me.  He says, "Gonna write a story, huh? Well, write a good'un."

I ask him, "What's the most interesting thing that has ever happened to you in your life?"

I think he is going to tell me something like he met Teddy Roosevelt once, or swam the Mississippi River during the great flood of 1927.

Instead he says, "Trading Rabbits."

I don't know if he is pulling my leg or not, but I smile and tell him thanks for talking with me.

He says, "Where's your story going to be?" and I say, "On the internet."

He says, "How will I know?"  and I say, "Well, I guess you'll have to have a computer."

I got a feeling that is out of the question for him. But I realize, even 85 year old people want to see their name in print. They want to see their story told even if their story is that they are happy in life trading rabbits.

Several more chickens in bags pass me as I walk uphill. Up to the right I see something that makes me say to myself "Holy S***!"  It's a small white tiger in a cage. I knew that there was a town in Ohio I believe it is, where exotic animals could be purchased at a flea market. But they are being sold down here as well?

I go directly toward it, and see that it is a stuffed plush animal in a cage. The guy sitting near it is smiling. He has fooled another city boy. I admit it. "That sure fooled me," I said. He said, "It fools a lot of people."

I ask him, "Have you had any offers on it?" and he says, "Not enough."  He is wanting forty dollars, a sign says.

(I once bought a huge plush lion - near life size - for a hundred dollars. But that is an entirely 'nother story... and x rated.)   

I leave tiger man and keep walking. On my left is a Hindu man or Hindi, I'm not sure which is correct, but he is preaching away in an Indian accent, and several people are listening. All I can make out through the accent is "Mother Mary" said several times, and "Jesus" and the word "Nobody."  I'm sorry but the rest sounds like jibberish to me so I keep on going. I'm not sure if he was for or against Mary and Jesus.

I take a right to get on another flea market "street" and there is a Hispanic man in his forties, sitting in a folding chair, selling chickens. I ask him in Spanish, "Do you mind if I ask you a question?" and he answers in English that's it's ok. I ask him which way the Hispanic population is leaning in the election.... as I never hear of anyone asking them.

He was very noncommittal. He said some are for McCain, and some are for Obama. They would just have to see. It's only my opinion, but I believe his answer showed a general feeling of powerlessness - much like a lot of us feel - to influence the outcome.

As I was speaking a guy came up and interrupted, telling the Hispanic, "I got this one rooster left, I'll take five dollars for it."

The Hispanic points to the empty folding chair beside him and says, "My wife will be back in a minute. I'll ask her."

The guy looks disappointed and returns back to his own table, with the one lone remaining rooster.

I follow him. At his table I say, "How's it been today?"  He has a very nice looking blonde wife, and a little boy. The wife is standing, the boy is sitting.

She does the talking. She says, "We sold forty-two today, one left."  And then she adds, "And he still won't buy me a pig."

I wondered where that came from. She went on, and he is right there listening, quiet as a strong mouse. "I've been wanting a  pig for eight years and he still hasn't bought me one."

I get the distinct feeling he does not want this being discussed with a stranger. But she says, "Oh, he bought me one of those little ceramic pigs as a joke," - she hold her finger and thumb together - "It was this small. But I want one of those potbellied ones."

You mean a Vietnamese Pot Bellied Pig?" I said, and she said, "Yeah, that kind." 

I start walking away, wondering why the man would not buy a good looking wife a pig... if that was all it would take to make her happy.

I tell her, "I predict there is a pig in your future," and go on.

A woman is selling doves. Two are in a cage together and one is in a cage alone. "I ask her, "how much are doves now?"

She tells me, "I'm asking twenty-five dollars for the set."  They are so beautiful, but what could I do with them... except set them free.

I tell her, "I haven't seen one in forever..." then I go on.

I see a man sitting by a truck, and on it is loaded bags of fertilizer. The man is pretty much motionless. I ask him, "How you doing today?"

He says, "OK, I guess. I have to take a lot of medicine. Some of it for my spleen."

I ask him, "What's wrong?" and he says, "I fell sixty feet out of a tree."

I said something dumb like, "Wow!"

"I was in the tree business," he said.

I said, "Do your remember - you know what you were thinking?"

He said, "I thought I was going to die. I asked the Lord to save me and he did. Yes he did."

I tell him that I like to write and is there anything he wants to tell me about what happened to him. He nods and says, "Put all the confidence in the Lord. He's the main boss."

I ask him if he wants to say anything else... and he says, "No, sir. That's about the most important thing ever happened to me."

I asked him his name, and he said, "Kenneth Pilot."

He was a man of few words... and I liked that a lot better than the Mother Mary  jibberish I heard earlier. A very simple life philosophy and low on the theology: Just Trust in God.

A good writer would have quit here... with those simple words from a guy who had fallen sixty feet and lived to witness about it. But not being a good writer, I kept going.  

I heard a man playing a guitar, and he stopped, and I heard him ask a passer by if he would drive a nail into the roof over him. He said, "I can't hold it up and nail at the same time."

Everybody sooner or later needs help.

A woman told other two, "There's a bathroom over there..." pointing to it.

And I heard again the most common thing I had heard all day... "How much are your...(fill in the blank)?"

The flea market was definitely winding down... but I was still missing something I thought I was supposed to hear.  I did not feel "complete" yet. 

That's when I saw another Indian guy, sitting there, not preaching, just looking. It was like a guru on the mountaintop I had accidently wandered into.

I got right to the point. I like to write. What do you have to tell me?

He thought about it for a moment. He was in no hurry. Then he said this:

"What can you do?"

I looked at him blankly. I knew it was a wise thing to say. He was saying accept the situation and do what you can. But being a Joe Six Pack from the South... I needed more.  

He saw that and said, "You have to do something with your life."

And he is right. And I am doing something with it. And maybe I am not wasting it after all, though as I look around my life I sure feel like it is being wasted.

I left him. He didn't want his name in the paper or his picture on the internet. He didn't seem to want anything. He seemed content just to be.

Even if where he was being... was a redneck flea market.

Again... a good writer would end his story here.

But I do not. Although I felt this was the end. There could be no greater wisdom than from this last man.

That's when I met George.

I absolutely could not believe it. Up ahead and to the left was a huge banner in front of a table saying, "GEORGE'S OIL."

Here, in the year 2008 was a man selling the equivelant of what used to be called "Snake Oil".  Here was the descendant of a long string of snake oil salesmen stretching back to Wild Bill Cody in the Old West. 

And people were interested and buying!

I walked right up to the guy. I said, "Are you George?" and he said, "No, I'm his associate, but he's around here somewhere."

So now even snake oil salesmen have associates... and this one went to work on an elderly couple. Before them were spread out pretty glass bottles containing George's Oil. "Now I don't claim it will cure nothing," the associate said, "but this one woman, her husband died in April and she had a headache ever since and she sprayed some of this on her forehead and it left instantly and never came back."

I couldn't believe this was actualy happening and I jockeyed for a position to get a good photo. The old couple wouldn't get out of the way of the sign though.

I finally just said, "Would you two mind if got a picture of you with the sign?" and they didn't mind, and just as they spread away, the associate says, "Here comes George."

I looked around and a weight challenged man in a motorized wheelchair pulls up and goes behind the table.

I said, "Hey, George, I like to write and I'd like to get a picture of you and your sign."

He said, "You're not somebody from the revenue department are you?"

I said, "No, I'm noboday."

And the associate said, "No, you're somebody. Everybody's somebody."

I told him, "No, not me, I'm nobody."

Then I got a couple of pictures and I said, "George, KFC (Kentucky Fried Chicken) has their secret recipe well guarded. I guess you do too, don't you?"

He had dealt with smart asses before, and he went into a long spiel about how he had gotten the formula from a millionaire who had never been married and how it would "help" - he did not use the word heal - even stuff like numbness in your legs and maybe from a yellow jacket bite.

The key to being a snake oil salesman seems to be just to keep talking even if it doesn't make any sense - and to have your associate throw in some positive mantras sometimes, like "No, you ARE somebody, not nobody."

And I am laughing now because this is EXACTLY what the Republicans are doing to us now, only Sarah Palin is the snake oil salesman and John McCain has been reduced to the associate... and both are saying abso -f***-ing -lutely nothing.

And Joe Six Packs are buying it by the millions here and all over this land.

I tune George back in one more time before I leave and he is saying that this stuff has been used in Australia for a hundred years.

Yes, such has been used for years everywhere - it's called BTWBS - Baffle them with Bull S***.

And it still works.

Just spread some Sarah Palin oil on the economy. My doesn't it come in a very pretty bottle.

And the cost is only 700 Billion dollars.

I'm heading for the exit now. There is the sound of a train running in the background.  And up ahead is a little boy throwing the little firecrackers that explode when they hit the ground.

I haven't found any cd's for my ipod. I think the "revenoo-ers" have shut down all the once prolific bootleg cd tables. They sure do have George scared... Just like Obama has McCain on the run.

I pass on my way out the home made ice cream stand and a guy selling golf clubs and golf balls who looks even more out of place than me.

I hear four guys talking politics and I slow down, but don't stop. I've finally seen and heard enough. But I do hear one of them say, "What is socialism? Why it's a damned old communist."

I move on. I might get strung up if I venture my opinion there.

I am walking past a man and he is telling his friend that the huge chicken business in Texas that bought out the local chicken business... is going bankrupt.  I talk to him as we walk about it, and he says it's going to mean a lot of lost jobs.

I think no problem, jobless people can just go back and get some of Sarah Palin's snake oil and spray it on their forehead. It will work instantly.

I see one last guy selling Bear Bryant stuff and I ask him, "How was it today?"

He said, "Aww.. decent I guess."

I said, "Did you play for Bear Bryant too?"

He said, "Naw, I just got stuck with this stuff."

Almost to my truck, I see an old Model T Ford parked next to it. In better condition than my own.

There is a guy standing next to it and I say, "that's worth taking a picture of."

He says, "It's a 1929 I think," and then goes on and on about the different early models.  He knows his trucks. I don't.

I get in my old one (1996) and look out the windshield. Sitting there like a Mercedez Benz hood ornament, is a well fed three inch long grasshopper.

(As I type this my dog just threw up in the floor. Life is wonderful.)

As I drive off, the grasshopper sways with each turn... leaning into the wind.

Then he is swept off.

Leaving the "City" I see a four wheeler kicking up a trail cloud of dust...

and in the country I see a young girl on a riding lawn mower. She is cutting what must easily be 100 acres in front of a very well to do near mansion. And there is an loyal old dog trying to keep up with her, following closely behind.

And almost home, I meet another long train running, heading North.

"My Girl" is playing on the radio. "Nothing you can do can make me untrue to my girl. She may not be a movie star but when it comes to being happy, we are by far."

I think of my daughter.

And how I need to work harder for Obama and against the snake oil saleswoman.

It's our last chance to leave the past behind.

We've got to win. We've got to.

Will Bevis.