Boss Hog's Gate

A bunch of us went to the The Strawberry Festival recently. I've written about it before. The Strawberry Festival is an annual event in Florida that everyone should see at least once. It's like the State Fair, but the entire theme is strawberries.

You can strawberry crepes, strawberry waffles, strawberry kabob (dipped in chocolate), strawberry lemonade, strawberry icecream... well, you get the picture.

One of my friends has Multiple Sclerosis. MS is a weird disease, which (over the many years she's struggled with it) has caused Linda to alternately go blind for a year, live in a wheelchair for a number of years (now she walks again), have weak spells, etc.

Linda is currently relatively healthy, but she still has her spells and she knows her limits. She enjoys life and is always trying to drag me off to different places, but she also knows when she needs her rest. Linda's primary difficulty is the fact that she might experience some sort of attack while she is out and about. She doesn't worry about it, however. "The Lord's got this one," she always says.

But Linda loves getting out and about. Despite her MS, she is one of the most adventurous of all my friends, so she was an obvious choice to invite to the festival and she actually drove the five of us there.

While we were at the Strawberry Festival, Linda separated from the rest of the group. We wanted to do see Robinson's Racing Pigs. (If you would like to see them, click on the video below).



Linda wanted to go to some awful yodelling gospel music concert, and we told her we'd join her after the races. So, after the races, we headed for the stadium.

Guessing that Linda would prefer the handicapped section to the bleachers, we headed for the gate which led to the handicapped section. My son and I walked past a policeman at the gate and were suddenly stopped by a loud shout.

"HEY!" the fat policeman hollered. "What are ya doin?"

I looked, and realized that the area was both for the handicapped and special seating (to get closer to the awful, yodelling gospel group).

"We're looking for a friend," I answered Boss Hog.

"Wahl, then, ya kin look fer her outsahd the gate," announced Boss Hog.

"Not really," I said, "She's handicapped, it's a big stadium, and there's no way I can see who's sitting there if I'm a hundred yards behind them, looking at their backs."

Boss Hog was angry. "Wahl now," he stated impressively, "I don' know who yer think ya are, but this is mah gate. And ah don' like no one gettin' one over on me."

"Gee," I said hotly, "I didn't realize this was your gate. I didn't see your name on it anywhere. I'm just trying to find my friend!"

Now Boss Hog grew red and agitated. "FINE!" he snapped. "But jest you. T' others kin stay outsahd the gate."

"Whatever," I said, and motioned for the others to wait. My son and I turned and went to look for her but Linda was no where to be found.

I came back to the gate and joined the others. We decided to walk over to the bleachers section to look for Linda. Happily, that was open to the general public, and we found her there.

We joined Linda to listen to country music that was only slightly more melodic than a cat scratching a blackboard while having its tail pulled. While we sat there, wincing, we watched Boss Hog stride impressively about below, mingling with other deputies who also apparently took great pride in guarding the ramps and gates from onslaughts by commoners.

God help the poor souls who might try to get past the fine deputies of the Hillsborough County Sheriff's Department. And God help anyone who wants to go through Boss Hog's Gate.