The Walk for Water

Fatman's Fried Dill Pickles

One of the little oddities of my region is the neighboring town's former claim to fame: "The Dill Pickle Capitol of the World."

The loss of the Atkins Pickle Plant, victim to merges and a failing economy, hasn't dampened the correlating claim as being the home of Fatman's Original Fried Dill Pickles.

He’s mentioned in The Encyclopedia of Arkansas, and his creation, Fatman’s Original Fried Dill Pickles, is to Atkins’ natives what nectar is to bees. In fact, for the lines of folks who flock to the booth during the annual PickleFest the event just wouldn’t be the same without the unique breaded tartness of Fatman’s pickles.


Born Bernell Austin in 1921, but known throughout his entire life as “Fatman,” he cooked in the Navy and ended up leaving a culinary legacy to his hometown community when he passed in 1999, son David Austin said.

Under a constant threat of severe thunderstorms which were in effect on Friday, the Austin family labored under a canopy at the same corner in downtown that they’ve occupied since 1992 when the first PickleFest convened.

“Last year, the water was so high we were backed up all the way to the sidewalk,” Austin said, and gestured to the much higher ground off the street level. “That didn’t slow down the customers, though.”

And so dozens of fans, half of them peering from under brightly colored umbrellas, patiently waited in line for their yearly fix.

“It all began when my dad ran a drive-in restaurant called the Duchess right across the street from the Atkins Pickle Plant,” Austin continued. “He was always trying new things to attract customers, and one day in the summer of ’63, when business was slow, he decided he needed to capitalize on the whole pickle theme.”

Oh, the fried pickle concept wasn’t new, he admitted, “but my dad thought he could do it better.”

Fatman first toyed with jarred pickle slices, ala hamburger-style. “He was a typical Southerner,” Austin said. “Deep frying was the only way he even considered cooking them.”

He sold them, 25 for 15 cents.

“From day one, they were a complete hit, but dad wasn’t completely thrilled with them and was always devising new recipes for the batter,” Austin added. “One thing he thought was that the jarred pickles were too salty, so he moved on to fresh pickles and started slicing them long-ways and came up with a batter that worked.”

They were so popular Morton Frozen Foods (now ConAgra) approached him and expressed interest in buying the recipe, Austin said.

“He wouldn’t sell it for anything, and when the company told him they could take a sample to their lab and figure out what ingredients were used in the batter, my dad told them it wasn’t the ingredients alone that was important but how you added them that made the difference,” he said. “It is tricky to make a batter that sticks to the pickle.”

Fatman opened a restaurant called the Loner in 1968, to take advantage of the traffic resulting from the newly built Interstate 40. He took the Original Fried Dill Pickle with him and for 10 years the local diners were joined by traveling Arkansas Razorback fans who routinely stopped for the iconic pickles.

After closing the restaurant, Fatman and his family joined the PickleFest festivites never dreaming their business under two white tents would perpetuate their pickles for 20 more years, Austin said. “And the support is as strong as ever.”

The secret is safe within the family ranks. “We’re the only ones who have the recipe, and that’s the only way it’s ever been,” Austin said.

“I grew up with a sister and a brother, and we all worked after school and during the summers at the restaurant,” he continued. “Some of us started out standing on coke crates washing dishes.”

David and Karen, ConAgra employees, take a week of vacation to make preparations and run the pickle venue. They are joined by David’s sister Sharon, their mother Sue and four members of the up and coming generation.

“Mom and dad worked side by side. They met as teenagers when they both worked at Sadie and Jack’s (Atkins restaurant from way back). She took care of him until the day we lost him,” Austin said. “PickleFest keeps her active, and she sees so many friends that e only sees that one time a year. She loves hearing the memories. You couldn’t get her to stay home during the festival.”

We serve ketchup and ranch dressing, but every one of us generally likes them plain,” he said.

“People would always asked my dad what they tasted like,” Austin began, “and one day he said, ‘Stupid, what do you think they taste like? Pickles!’ Finally, one day a woman asked, and my father told her they tasted like ice cream. That’s become a family joke.”

Now that the Atkins pickles are no more, the Austins use Vlasic dills purchased in 5 gallon tubs.

“It takes a good, hard month of preparation to put this pickle frying marathon on every year,” Austin said. “And then theres’ the standing all day and leaning over the deep fryer. If it wasn’t for the guys at the Masonic lodge helping we just couldn’t do it all. We typically fry 10,000 pickle slices for PickleFest.”

All the proceeds from the pickle sales, $3300.00 from this year’s sales, are directed to and dispersed by Atkins Masonic Lodge 172 to support the charities close to the heart of Fatman and his family.

The family enterprise has entered into the modern age, somewhat, with the opening of a Facebook fan page. “We recently celebrated our 1,000th member,” Austin said. “People have shared such wonderful memories about my dad on that page.”

The pickle is still king in Atkins, and the local economy continues to profit from PickleFest where a preponderance of pickle-related endeavors such as the pickle eating and pickle juice drinking contests draw the natives home and the curious from far and wide.

Sucking up the delicacy, Jagger Hendrix and Molly Gibson, members of the Atkins Red Devil softball team, are on a rush to leave town for a game.

“But we couldn’t leave without eating our pickles,” Gibson said. “We’ve been eating them since we were, like, babies.”

She adds, “There’s other people who make these, but they don’t compare.”

Her companion agreed, “There’s absolutely no caparison,” Hendrix said.

"It's what our family is known for,” Austin said.

Fatman’s Original Fried Dill Pickles will be selling at the 64 Galore Yard Sale slated for August 12-14 at Mrs. Fatman’s home 3 miles east of Atkins. “We’ll have our banner up, so you can find us,” Austin said. “Even if you don’t want pickles, stop by and visit if you get the chance. We’re always glad to see everyone.”

Recipe for Ice Box Pickles
Submitted by Sue Austin (Fatman's wife)

Ingredients:
Approximately 4 cups cucumbers, sliced into chips
1 green bell pepper, chopped
1 1/2 cups sliced onions
1 tablespoon celery seed
2 cups white sugar
White vinegar, quantity needed to fill jars

Directions:
Fill canning jars with cucumbers, peppers, onions, celery seed and sugar, cover with vinegar, seal and place in refrigerator for 2 days. Remove from refrigerator and eat. Refrigerate uneaten portion. Makes 1/2 gallon.

She Sells Seashells from the Mountains

All roads in the little Arkansas town nestled in the Ozarks Mountain seemed to lead me to Miss Billie.

At the bed and breakfast I stayed in I saw evidence of her handiwork and the proprietess directed me to Miss Billie. At the local pizza joint I recognized her handiwork, and the owner directed me to Miss Billie, and, finally, at the farmers market I discovered yet another of her marvels sitting on the counter of the polk sallet farmer, and, before he could direct me I knew I'd be paying a visit to Miss Billie.

Leading a quiet and significant life in the community as a volunteer at the food pantry and active church member, the 84 year old retiree is living out her dream of spreading God's love.

"The Lord granted me the privilege of serving as a nurse in Haiti for a two year assignent when I was younger," she said. "It was the highlight of my nursing career."

The woman, who lost her mother at the tender age of 5, was raised by relatives and wished simply to serve and live a life of purpose. Her heart was touched by the mission opportunities abroad, but she chose nursing as a practical measure and quietly lived her life.

Upon retiring her healing hands, however, Miss Billie felt compelled to spread the gospel through other means.

It all started, she said, with seashells gifted to her by a friend.

"I just thought the shells would make a perfect canvas for little prayers and verses," she said, "and so I inscribed the shells using the smallest marker I could possibly find."

Miss Billie stuffed a few shells in her pockets every time she left home and began gifting them to others as the Lord led her, she said.
She never attempted to match the verse to the recipient but left that in God's hands.

"I just put my hand in my pocket, and whatever shell I touched I gave away," she added. She wasn't expecting what happened next.

"Why, people would cry when they read the scripture, and I was worried I'd done something wrong," she said.

There was no need to worry. The shells had simply unleashed deep held emotions.

"One man told me he'd received the Lord early in his life but because of a lot of misfortunes, including the recent death of his wife, he had begun questioning his early teachings. The shell I gave him told him how much God loved him," Miss Billie said, in an astonished tone.

That reaction replayed over and over these past few years.

One of God’s provisions is the shells. “People just leave bags of shells on my front porch all the time,” she said. “A friend of mine went to Scotland and brought me shells, and I’ve been given shells from Spain, Ireland, the Caribbean islands and even Iran. A sweet couple who visits every year even sent me a box of shells from New Zealand. They were the most beautiful shells I ever saw. I forgot how much she had to pay to send me that box all the way from New Zealand. She even cleaned and wrapped each one in tissue,” she marveled.


Part of the charm is the shells themselves, Miss Billie said, because they are beautiful, and no two are alike. And the broken shells are her favorite because that’s what God does. “He makes something beautiful out of our dirty old lives.”


When teacher friends spread the shells throughout New York, they were quick to point out, after the destruction of 9/11, that they had saturated the Twin Towers with the shells. “They asked me if I realized that my shells were with those poor souls in the tower,” she said. “That really touched me.”

Miss Billie has responded to many requests from admirers who ask for shells to take to other patients receiving chemo treatments, shells to take to prisoners, and shells to take to nursing home patients.

She denys no one.

Her hobby turned global overnight. “The first foreign Bible friends brought me from their travels was a Farsi Bible, so I began writing versus in that language. Before you know it, a mission group heading to Iran took those shells with them on their trip and scattered them everywhere. Then, things just snowballed, and I received Bibles in Spanish, Italian, German and even Swahili,” she said.

A youth group headed to Africa carried a suitcase full of the shells written in Swahili. "They were so excited," Miss Billie said. "There are a lot ofplaces that Bibles aren't welcome, but everyone accepts shells."

There is a rhythm to the shell preparation. “I always bleach and scrub the shells first,” she said, “and then they have to dry in order to hold the ink.”

Although the shells are plentiful, the ink is measured out, stroke by stroke. The Rapidograph pens with their tubular nibs are the markers of choice for Miss Billie, but at $35 apiece, they are pricey. Although she was known to have an exemplary hand as a child and practice the art of calligraphy, she tones down her script for the shells.

“It would miss the point if people couldn’t read the message,” she said, “if folks got carried away in my curly Qs, so I don’t use all my fancy strokes.”

What Biss Billie does use is her time and her talents to serve the Lord.

Nothing to do but work!

Meet my new friend "Miss Oleta." She's 81 years young and lives in the tiny community of Fifty-Six in the Ozark Mountains, a place with no senior activity center or much else for that matter.

After babysitting the local children in her home for years, she had to admit she wasn't as spry as she used to be and quit. But she wasn't ready to quit on life, and so she began to work three days a week at the local, and only, restaurant busing tables and washing dishes.

"My husband passed away a long time ago, and I'm all alone," she said. "I needed to get out."

Miss Oleta remembers a lot of the history surrounding her as she's never lived anywhere else. She remembers walking to school three miles each way, and she proudly announces that she, her husband and their son were all baptized in the waters of Roasting Ear Creek, “the coldest creek there is.”

She doesn’t cook much anymore, and much of the time she eats at the restaurant, known for catfish, steaks, shrimp, homemade rolls, pies and daily specials. “My favorite is the chicken strips,” she said, “and the pecan pie.”

“I have to say she’s the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met. She won’t let anyone cut her grass or cut her wood,” the restaurant owner said.

“But she does let us take her home,” a customer nearby added. “We don’t make her walk anymore.”

Fat Tony's

Okay, he's a little fluffy, but I wouldn't go so far as to say he's fat. The man from Russellville says he used to be a lot bigger. He IS 6 feet tall and weighs upward of 270 - he's just a big Arkansas boy in my book.

Tony is an awesome listener say his customers at Fat Tony's Barber Shop on Arkansas Avenue, also know as Highway 7, just down the road from Arkansas Tech University. Only 23 years old, he's been cutting hair for several years already.

Really interesting thing, on first glance, is the little graveyard of unmarked tombstones which sit outside his front door and underneath his barber pole and an American flag. This way, he says, he can advertise for both his businesses.

Fat Tony is an accomplished tombstone carver. He takes great care in his craft and I follow him to the local cemetery to see his handiwork for myself.

I look at the pads and thick fingers making up Fat Tony's hands and wonder how he can produce such fine writing and intricate designs.

It's just a gift, he says the way a country boy would hang his head and mutter, "Aw, shucks."

Art comes in all forms, and I suppose the hands of an artist who uses his creativity to cut and design hair wouldn't have all that much trouble holding a delicate tool and chiseling sentiments on marble.

It's a Wonderful Life

It's a Wonderful Life here in the River Valley and Ozark regions of Arkansas, and here are two locals to prove it.

Mary and George Bailey (as in the characters in the popular and sentimental Christmas movie) have been married 75 years.

Both life-long educators, he being made principal of the school, they never tired of working side by side.

Mary is a hospice patient now. She doesn't remember things too well. She forgets words and when she works herself up into a lather he calms her down.

George can't see too well, but he proclaims she is the prettiest girl he ever did see. "And smart, too," he likes to add. Although she forgets how to dress at times, Mary looks out for George and moves furniture, so he can move about and reaches out her hand to steady him.

May this belated holiday story inspire you to love and to reach out to those who need you.

Blue Ribbon Babes

Blue Ribbon Babes

It's that time of year, when county and state fairs take advantage of the cooler weather to prop up some rides, roast some dogs, drizzle powdered sugar on funnel cakes and put out their finest.

Just had to share this photo of two girls in a neighboring county who won Best of Show in the junior baking competitions. Both learned from their mamas, of course, and both mamas also won ribbons in the adult (or Senior) category.

Christah, left, beat out her mother's cookies. They grew a bumper crop of pumpkins and made everything from pumpkinsauce (instead of applesauce) to cookies, cakes and muffins. They "put up a whole lot." I always liked the term "put up." Mama said the easiest way to store the pumpkin was simply to freeze the pumpkin meat in large baggies.

Rachel, right, chose to make her favorite recipe, an old favorite found in nearly every church cookbook, Million Dollar Fudge. She loves all things chocolate she said. Gee, a girl after my own heart.

Try the following recipes to put you in the proper fall state of mind:

Pumpkin Drop Cookies

by Christah

Ingredients:

2 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon cinnamon
¼ cup butter
½ teaspoon salt
1 egg
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup pumpkin
¾ cup Crisco
Directions:

Mix dry ingredients in one bowl. Cream butter and Crisco together once creamed and add pumpkin and egg. Slowly add dry ingredients to wet. Drop by spoonfuls onto greased and floured cookie sheets. Bake at 350 degrees for 12 minutes.


Mamie Eisenhower’s Million Dollar Fudge
submitted by Rachel
Ingredients:

4 ½ cups sugar
Pinch of salt
2 tablespoons butter
1 2/3 cups evaporated milk (1 tall cup)
12 ounces semisweet chocolate
12 ounces German’s sweet chocolate
1 pint (7 ounces jar) marshmallow crème
2 cups shopped nuts (optional)

Directions:

Combine sugar, salt, butter and milk in large heavy pan. Boil six minutes stirring occasionally. Pour boiling syrup over chocolate in a bowl. Beat until chocolate is melted. Stir in marshmallow crème and nuts. Pour into buttered 13x9x2-inch pan. Let cool several hours or until firm. Cut into squares and store in airtight container.

Art Church Rocks

There is an old church across the mountains In Hot Springs that has found a second life.

The church houses a wonderful family dedicated to keeping the integrity of the building and finding creative ways to fit into the ecclectic community.

As luck would have it, the two are artists. They, along with their teenage son, live in the main floor of the church, also know as the sanctuary where personal living space lies behind carved wooden doors. The pews have been pushed to the side, and the large main area is partly studio, partly gallery.

In the basement are the works of other artists, and the local sustainablity group uses the common area in the kitchen for the weekly pickup.

All that is exciting enough, but the Art Church opens its doors during the week for after-school programing and summer camps where kids get to do art! How cool is that! Especially when so many schools and communities have suffered cuts in funding.

We've known for a long time that our brains work better when we are engaged in creative outlets, and we all realize how important it is for children to have opportunites to shine. Kudos to the Art Church and all other endeavors working to promote a healthier - and more beautiful environment.

Father of the Year

Here you have my friend Harold who last year was voted the Father of the Year of Plainview, small town of 755 citizens, in Yell County. This is not a picture of all his children in the wagon. These kids represent a fraction of the youth he has mentored, sponsored and befriended in his tenure as the town's substitute dad. You see, Harold never had kids of his own. Nada. Never even been married. How's that for something to chew on?

Harold, who worked for years as a rodeo clown, is a cowboy and a retired lineman for the county. He dedicated his life to Christ some years ago and began his work with the wayward children of the small town nestled in the River Valley, hemmed in my Fourche Mountain and dwarfed by the shadow of Mt. Nebo.

Admirers of Harold, who nominated him for the award, brag on his agreeable nature. He's the babysitter when single moms are in a pinch.

We are lucky indeed to know folks with dedication like Harold. The youth are worth it.

Too Much Rain/ Too Much Dogs

The hometeam lost to the Georgia Bulldogs yesterday, 52-41, over there in Fayetteville. Bless thier big, meaty bones. More than 74,000 folks crowded the stands - the fifth largest attendance ever. Wasn't enough to get our boys a win though. Too bad, too. We've had a heck off a time getting into the groove in all ways down here.

Don't know how you are settin' where you are, but we are mostly drowning. We've had our share of rain plus some, and our agri-based state has felt at odds all summer and into the fall. This gentleman farmer can't get into the fields to cut the hay. Can't do nothin' he said. He went to the local cafe in Centerville, town of 400, for the biscuits and gravy breakfast and set out on the front porch greeting everyone as they came by, most in the same straits as him. Notice the spittoon for his Skoal?

Here' s hoping you find a comfortable place to perch when the waters get too high or the dogs bite too hard....

Master of the Grill at Oddly Named Festival

We love our meats grilled in the South, whether that be cow, rabbit, emu, deer, buffalo or chicken on the racks. Everything's just a whole lot better when it's been slow cooked over low burning coals. At least that's what Jesse Owens, extension agent, told me.

Jesse has been grilling for over 30 years at an annual festival in the southern part of the state to raise money for the local 4H clubs. The festival is called Malvern Brickfest.

Anyway, we who wouldn't know the first thing about starting a grill, are indebted to the dedication and sweat of our grillmasters. Burn, baby, burn!

God's Little Half Acre

Unlike Erskine Caldwell's, God's Little Acre, there's no hanky panky going on at God's Little Half Acre on Highway 7 in the Ozarks. After all, it is a final resting place with tombstones dating as far back as the mid 1800s.

After driving past this little fenced in plot of land for many years, I finally gave into curiosity and stopped. I'm glad I did. Cemeteries can shed some interesting light.

There were the usual infant markers for daughters and sons birthed and lost in the same year, several veterans and even a tombstone for James Freeman, C.O.D., who served in the 2nd Arkansas Calvary. The information is encircled in a type of marshall or sheriff badge. Now, what in the world does that mean?

Of utmost interest, however, is the tombstone which appears to have been scraped over with a knife, and the name Spciy Freeman was written on it with a stick. How very rudimentary and odd! Almost as if the death had been unexpected, and so a batch job was executed on an existing tombstone. The poor soul didn't even warrant a proper header. Wonder if he/she was a scoundrel? The family certainly didn't take pride in putting him to rest.

Also very peculiar in this little stretch of ground is the mound of rocks, some border plots like little rock fences, but there are no markers or tombstones.

Sad to see many of the markers are so old the writing has been worn away.

In rural spaces, as much of the Ozarks continues to be, regulation of such entities as cemeteries remains in the hands of local communities. This cemetery is so rural, even though it is on a well-traveled highway, that the closest house is at least 15 miles away.

I will keep y'all updated as I find out more info.

Cowgirls for Christ

Cowgirls for Christ is a local support group and ministry for girls who want to rodeo in a Christian environment. They travel to several local arenas on Sunday afternoons and host a casual worship service in the stands.

I'm glad we live in an area where adult mentors come together to nurture whole generations of young people in safe environments.

As my grandmother would say,"Thanks be to God."

Old South Still Kicking

In my town this Old South Restaurant, opened in 1947, is still serving up food, vintage American modular diner style, 24 hours a day, seven days a week. It is an icon and is listed on the historic register.

The proclamation reads: "The diner quickly became an oasis for hungry and wary travelers, providing food and a place to relax." This is still true.

In your part of the world, you might have all night restuarants. But here in the rural South, even situated on a major interstate, besides the gas station and the local Super Center, the Old South is a haven for folks wanting - and needing - nutritious food, a clean restroom and friendly conversation.

Recently, my family went for what the British call a Bean Feast. We ordered a slice of every pie they made, and we had a taste testing. That included pecan pie, apple crumb, lemon icebox, coconut cream, chocolate, possum and chocolate cream. Mmmm!!! I can taste it now.

They say their best selling pies are the possum and lemon, but you might just have to go down there and try it yourself.

Church Women Backbone of Churches

Doesn't it seem women are the backbone of the churches? I've always noticed that growing up in the South anyway. This is a member of the Presbyterian church from the neighboring small town who was manning the ticket table at the annual Bean Luncheon where she was taking advantage of the influx of guest to tout the women's new cookbook, River of Life.

The photo behind the woman is actually the cover of the book and shows the women of the church picking cotton at a member's farm in 1912 to raise money to rebuild their church which was "destroyed by the Federals during the War between the States."

A smaller church had been rebuilt in 1872, but the congregation had outgrown it, and the idea grew, fueled by several hundreds of dollars granted by the U.S. government as restitution for the original structure, of building a larger church home.

The First Presbyterian Church in Dardanelle was built in 1914 largely by the extraordinary measures taken by the women of the congregation who willed it into existence with bake sales and picking cotton for a prominent member. They devised a song they would sing during those hard times when they worked together out in the fields:

By sewing, milking or churning

We are making the money we are earning

But let us be thankful we are permitted to live

To make the money we are to give

Our duty we should not shirk for with this

Wea re to build a brand new church.

Hams Volunteer to Face Danger

These are the Radio Amateur Civil Emergency Service members in my little town. We have quite an active group. These are the folks who volunteer to maintain training throughout the year, so that when disaster strikes our community communication can still be maintained. Yep, these are the Ham operators - hams for short.

I recently had the pleasure of meeting with these guys, mostly retired engineers although one is retired from National Public Radio in New York City.

Listening to their schedule of field days and training sessions was a humbling experience for me. I live in an area which is known for its tornado activity, and it's reassuring to know these guys are in my back pocket looking out for the many pitfalls which might render an emergency a true disaster.

The group (Did I mention all are volunteers?) regularly trains with the local hospital and emergency personnel in disaster drills both on local and statewide levels. They keep their eyes on potential inconsistencies in the infrastructures supporting the communication framework.

With the fourth anniversary of 9-11 just around the corner, it's a good time to tip our hats to these brave and generous citizens who work to keep us safe.

Retired Pharmacist Turns to Farming

This is my good friend Charles Oates of Pottsville, Arkansas. He is retired from his post as small town pharmacist of more than fifty years and now enjoys firing up the tractor and bush-hogging and tending to his horses, cattle and chickens.


Charles has seen a lot of changes in the pharmaceutical profession and counts the computer as making the most significant impact. Charles specialized in compounding individual prescriptions for his customers and marvels at the world of information just a click away because of the computer.



His daughter recalled that the drugstore was never closed except to observe an hour for lunch on Thanksgiving Day and Christmas Day and half a day to honor his founding partner on the day of his funeral.



Charles has been married to the same girl during his whole career. Her name is Jean, and he still calls her "sweetheart."


Thanks goodness for the men and women, who because of hard work and pride, have added to our sense of community.

Coffe Pot's Always On

Have seen these guys for years in the morning hours at our Main St. Hardee's restaurant. There are roughly 30 that get together as they can, most of them meeting every morning just to chew the fat. Many of them have been coming for over 20 years.

Folks, that commitment.

They say they talk some politics, dish on women, and check on each other when they've gone missing.

They get a little rowdy says a 10 year old boy who accompanies his grandfather during the summer. Bet they do. One old timer told me that sometimes there's a Democrat and a Republican sitting at the same table - and they're brothers!

May all our days start by reconnecting with our brothers and sisters, so that when we've gone a'missing, someone will come looking for us.

Music Helps Beat the Summer Heat

I love the local flavor of living in Arkansas. Entertaining at the Rivermarket farmers market one early Saturday morning is a local banjo player, part of a bluegrass group http://www.poseyhill.com/ .

That's just about the happiest sound - the banjo - helps take the heat out of a sizzling summer day. Here's hoping you'll be near a cool fan, a melodious toe-tapping tune and a tall glass of sweet tea today.

For the Love of Music - and Life

These folks above make up what is called they Town & Country band. They play at our town's Sr. Activity Center every Friday. Patrons love to tap their toes to the old fashioned blues, hillbilly and gospel music and plenty of folks get up and dance. These musicians are all senior citizens themselves with the guy on the far left (fiddle) topping the charts at 94 and the guy with his leg stretched out is 86. Isn't it great?