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You'll need to heavily scrutinize a map of Alabama to find Chatom down in the left corner near Jackson, up from Mobile, and tucked into its own little space. Its proximity to the root of all Mardi Gras surely prompted 26 women to start Chatom's own celebration this year, replete with parade and everything. Who's to blame them? Why go down the road for what you can have right in your own backyard. And these ladies did it up right.
At first Bob and I were gonna meet down at Richard's house at 3:30 and ride with him in the rental van through Faunsdale to pick up Ken, then down Hwy 43 toward Chatom. But Bob, with his clockwork method of making time work for him, called me at 1:00 to tell me that he was talking to his ex-wife's current husband, who was from down around there, and he said to go Highway 5, that going to Tuscaloosa would be an hour longer. "We should meet them in Thomasville," he said.
That was fine with me. I had become aware of a creeping kidney stone the night before, and was in no mood to drive, much less go an hour out of the way. "Call Rico and tell him all that," I said. "It sounds great to me."
He got it all straightened out, picking me up at 3:00. I was originally gonna drive, but asked if he would mind doing it, being as the gol-durned stone kept lurching through my duct like a hedgehog through a condom. It was fine with him. We hopped into his little burgundy GM truck which he practically stole from some guy, like he does in any deal. "Shrewd" is a euphemism for Bob. The truck was great, with velour seats and plenty of room in the little back to put his keyboards and all our other stuff.
The ride down 5 was great, but Bob kept thinking we were gonna hit Thomasville any minute. I looked at the map and told him it just wasn't so. "Oh crap, maybe it's Centerville I was thinking of," he said. "I used to come down here all the time for some case I was on, and it didn't take any time. It must have been Centreville."
After realizing that we weren't close to Thomasville, and that we hadn't seen any gas stations on 5 before this, Bob began to stress about running out of gas. He had ignored the warning light for miles, passing the few available places, thinking something would come up in his imagined Thomasville.
And then suddenly there it was! An all-purpose fuel oasis replete with repugnant unisex bathroom around the back that featured pink and blue stick figures on the door. I can tell you right now, there's not a woman in the world that would have used THAT bathroom. The toilet paper was lying on the WET floor for starters. I couldn't even force myself to flush the toilet with my foot.
I rejoined Bob at the truck and finished filling it up while he went to see this shrine to good hygiene. When he came out of the door, he immediately fled toward me. "That place was disgusting!" he said.
"I'll bet their fried chicken is good," I said.
"We're just lucky we didn't run out of gas out here in the middle of nowhere." He said this loud enough for a young guy with a John Deere hat and camo overalls to hear him and give him a look. He was oblivious as we hopped in and sped off down the road. Before long, this cool structure appeared on the left and Bob kindly stopped to let me take a few pictures.
When we reached Thomasville, we immediately saw the Wal Mart with the Chevron across the street, just as Ken had told us. He and Rico weren't at the Chevron, so we went over to the Wal Mart to try and call them (unsuccessful) and maybe go in and do a little shopping (aborted). We just sat there a few minutes, marveling at all the customers going in, then wheeled back over to the Chevron, achieved phone contact with them, and discovered that they were five minutes away.The first thing Richard did was lambaste us for hurting his feelings. "Didn't want to ride with me, eh?" he pouted. "Not good enough? Well it was just me and HIM," he spat, pointing at Ken, who gave him a blank look, then followed it with "Who me?"
"Well we're here now," I said. "So get thee to Chatom! And don't kill us with your crazy driving."
"I brought a cooler, Rico," Bob offered, rattlling the ice. We all laughed.
Murray told us exactly how to get there, what highway numbers to look for, and then reminded us that we had played there before. "It was that weekend when I had slammed my index finger in the car door and cut the tip off. I had to play with a pick and the other three fingers."
I remembered that, and got a stone-crawling chill in empathy.
When we pulled up to the Community Center, I remembered it instantly, and conjured up the image of Ken with a big white pointy finger sticking out.
Johnny and Will already had the stuff in place on the stage when we got in. The members were all starting to arrive, and we got to engage in pre-gig hijinx behind the stage in the little storage/dressing room.
The first thing we discovered were two boxes of these cool lighted party glasses The Maids had bought for the occasion of their first ball. We spent time playing with them and taking pictures in there. Here's clever Will, who discovered this use for the light section that comes right off.
Bob, Rico and Ken had discovered that Chatom was in a dry county, so immediately set to work trying to wangle some whiskey and beer from some of the ladies in charge. The were successful within minutes--the hospitality committee was on their pretty little toes. Ken found a guy with all the Crown he wanted, and Bob came in toting a big blue cooler. When the boys opened it, they were surprised to see the huge variety of beers, from nice lusty darks to Mich Ultra to their most-hated Heffeweisen (a wheat beer that Bob and Rico are particularly scornful of). Notice their smug expressions as Bob holds it up like it's a turd or something. It must be noted that all the Heffeweisen got drunk that night.
Afterwards, I rotated through the room taking pictures of the guests. The men were in tails and the women in formals, and looking very nice.
The plan was to have the Maids do their walkout, then we would start right after that. No emcee, no poetry, no choreography, nothing but a short, sweet parade through the room then down to business.
After the head lady in charge gave a brief hello to everybody, the Maids of Merriment made their inaugural parade through the room to applause and hoots. We started uncharacteristically on cue, and they rushed the floor, partying right out of the chute, and staying that way the whole night. 
During the break I wandered out to talk to Roger and Maudie Bedford, grand marshalls of the parade that day and guests of honor at the event.
"How'd you come by this gig?" I asked him.
"I met the mayor in Argentina, and promised him there that I'd do it," he said. "He's a great guy." Serendipitously, he and his wife walked up right at that moment and he introduced me. They were cool and relaxed, the way a real Alabamian should be.
Here's a picture of Mr. and Mrs. Mayor chatting with Mr. & Mrs. Bedford that I took before the party started.
Tim did his song during the second set to rabid response. We decided he would join us again in the third set. It was mega fun. Here's Tim.
And a final shot of some dancers.
When we finished, Tim kept music playing while people wound down. We were out of there in under an hour, with Bob and me ultimately making it back to Birmingham at 4:30. The night of wiggling around seemed to have forced my kidney stone down the duct, because by Monday it was no longer. I didn't look for it.
