Attendance Blamed. Responsibility Deferred.

By Tom Seest

At Sequatchie Crossing, we tell the stories of Sequatchie Crossing.

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🎤 Audio Overview

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Act I – The Empty Room

Town Hall on Tuesday evening looked much like it always did – plain, slightly drafty, with a faint scent of cleaning powder and nervous civic duty. Fluorescent lights flickered in the way they always threatened to, never quite bright enough for comfort but harsh enough to discourage loitering.

Twenty-four beige folding chairs, each with the patina of small-town history: scratches, initials, and a suspicious patch of duct tape on one. The floor beneath them echoed footsteps, the sound bouncing off cinderblock walls, making even the softest voices sound like they were trying out for a larger town.

The Town Clerk, Ms. Delilah Masters, took her usual spot at the long battered table up front, aligning her pen with military precision. She checked the clock – 6:58 p.m. – and surveyed the chairs, her expression composed but quietly resigned.

Sheriff Peeler, his hat in his lap and badge gleaming like the only new thing in the room, slouched into the second row. His radio chirped with static once, then went quiet, as if embarrassed by the silence.

Mabel Dean Ashcroft entered with her trademark plate covered in foil. She greeted Ms. Masters with a gentle “Evenin’,” then picked a seat three rows back, her purse and lemon bars claiming the adjacent chair.

The reporter slipped in, notebook ready, eyes scanning the arrangement of people and empty space. Three present, twenty-one chairs waiting in hopeful futility.

Ms. Masters cleared her throat with authority that belied the small audience. “I’d like to call this meeting to order.”

Her words hung in the air, amplified by their own loneliness. The silence that followed was so absolute that the sound of Mabel Dean adjusting the foil on her lemon bars might have been mistaken for an agenda item.

Sheriff Peeler offered a tight, sympathetic grin to the reporter, who responded in kind.

“You always early, or just for this?” Peeler said, his drawl filling the void.

“Early,” the reporter said, smiling back. “Force of habit.”

Mabel Dean, still fussing with her plate, smiled at both.

Ms. Masters glanced at the door, then the clock, then the door again.

“Not expectin’ anyone else?” Sheriff Peeler asked.

She shook her head. “Not tonight.”

The reporter noted: Attendance – three. Empty chairs, expectant but unfulfilled.

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Act II – The Explanation Begins

By 7:05, it was clear that reinforcements would not be arriving. Ms. Masters, never one to let a lack of audience dull her sense of procedure, pressed forward.

“We’ll begin with reading the minutes from last month.”

She flipped through her folder and began reciting, her voice echoing as if addressing a much larger crowd:

“‘Meeting of January 14th, called to order at 7:01 p.m. Attendees: Sheriff Peeler, Mabel Dean Ashcroft, Delilah Masters…’”

She paused, glanced up, then continued, “Agenda items: pothole repair request on Miller Street, review of the annual Christmas parade budget, update on park bench replacements…”

She ticked off each item with methodical care, pausing after each one for comments.

“Any corrections?” Ms. Masters asked, eyes darting from Mabel Dean to Sheriff Peeler.

Mabel Dean considered, then shook her head. “Sounded right to me, Miss Delilah.”

Sheriff Peeler shrugged. “I’m not about to contradict the record.”

“Any objections to approval?”

Both shook their heads, and Ms. Masters scribbled in her ledger.

“Minutes approved by unanimous consent,” she intoned, with the solemnity of a judge.

Mabel Dean’s hand fluttered up. “If anyone gets peckish, I brought lemon bars.”

Ms. Masters smiled – her first of the evening. “Thank you, Mabel. Much appreciated.”

Peeler leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “Suppose lemon bars count as new business.”

Ms. Masters replied, deadpan, “If only more would turn up for the lemon bars.”

The reporter scribbled, underlining:
Lemon bars: present. Audience: absent.

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Act III – Naming the Absent

After the formality of minutes, the small group fell into a silence too deep for a town meeting, even in Sequatchie Crossing. Ms. Masters shifted in her chair, a hint of impatience visible in the firm set of her jaw.

“Before we get to tonight’s agenda, I suppose we ought to address the… well, the lack of turnout.”

Sheriff Peeler grunted in agreement. “Used to be you couldn’t get a seat at these.”

Mabel Dean, her voice soft, said, “It’s been dwindlin’ for years now. Folks say they’ve got their reasons.”

The reporter set his pen to the page. “What reasons?”

Mabel Dean looked down, adjusting her purse, then met the reporter’s gaze with a gentle seriousness.

“Well, to be honest, a lot of folks feel the meetings are… well, not for them anymore. They say it’s all outsiders now.”

Ms. Masters nodded, a slight frown creasing her brow. “That’s what I’ve heard too.”

Sheriff Peeler shifted. “I’ll say this, I’ve never seen an outsider show up. Not once. Not even the snowbirds.”

Mabel Dean sighed. “Sometimes I think people just want a reason not to come, and that’s the best one they’ve got.”

The reporter, ever literal, clarified: “So, locals don’t attend because they believe outsiders run things?”

“Exactly,” said Mabel Dean. “Even though I’ve never actually seen any outsiders at these meetings.”

Sheriff Peeler snorted. “They’re powerful like that. Invisible.”

Ms. Masters, lips pursed, muttered, “Hard to keep a quorum if no one shows.”

The reporter summarized, “Locals blame non-attendance on outsiders, who are never present, and outsiders…?”

Mabel Dean shrugged, a lemon bar in hand. “Guess they’re busy runnin’ things from afar.”

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Act IV – The Locals Who Don’t Attend

Seeking clarity, the reporter set off down Main Street after adjournment, lanterns glowing against the dusk, toward the porch of Eugene “Boot” Barnes.

Boot, legendary for his porch time and orneriness, was there, feet up, whittling a stick to no clear purpose.

“Evenin’,” Boot said, nodding at the reporter. “You look like you’ve seen ghosts.”

“Just came from the town meeting,” the reporter said. “You ever go?”

Boot snorted, not pausing his whittling. “Not in years. Waste of time.”

“Why’s that?”

He leaned in conspiratorially. “Outsiders run everything now.”

“Which outsiders?” the reporter pressed.

Boot’s gaze swept the horizon as if searching for specters. “Them what moved in after the last big flood. Or maybe before. Hard to say.”

The reporter pressed, “But you don’t actually see them at the meetings?”

Boot barked a laugh. “That’s how you know they’re in charge. Don’t gotta show up – just have to exist. Besides, if I showed up, they’d just railroad whatever they want anyway.”

“So, you don’t attend as a form of protest?”

Boot gave the stick a thoughtful glance. “More like self-preservation. I got better things to do, like watch the creek rise and keep this porch from floating away.”

“You know what decisions are made?”

Boot nodded. “Always the same – deciding things no one asked for and approving things nobody wanted.”

“You ever think about going back?”

Boot shook his head. “I ain’t gonna argue with somebody who ain’t even there.”

As the sky darkened, Boot resumed his whittling, and the reporter added another page of notes to the growing collection of contradictions.

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Act V – Clovis Explains the Pattern

At the edge of town, where blackberry bushes marked territory more effectively than any fence, lived Clovis Strickland. He was known for his theories, his collection of local maps, and his determination to discover patterns where others saw only happenstance.

The reporter found Clovis in the kitchen, surrounded by spiral notebooks and index cards, each marked in cramped handwriting.

“You keeping busy, Clovis?” the reporter asked.

Clovis gestured to the array. “Just cataloging. Got to keep track.”

“Of what, exactly?”

Clovis held up a sheet labeled ‘Expected Attendees – Town Meetings, Year to Date.’ The list included most of the adult population, a handful of names crossed out, a few marked with question marks.

“I keep track of who ain’t there,” he said.

The reporter scanned the list. “That’s… nearly everyone.”

Clovis nodded. “Exactly. That’s the problem.”

“Outsiders?”

Clovis’s eyes narrowed. “It’s organized. You don’t get this kind of turnout by accident.”

“So, you believe the outsiders are working together?”

He tapped a notebook labeled ‘Absence Patterns – Outsiders.’ “Power operates in the shadows. People show up, you know where they stand. Don’t show up, and you can do anything.”

“Have you ever attended yourself?” the reporter asked.

Clovis bristled. “I ain’t walking into a setup. I’m not naive.”

“How do you know it’s a setup?”

Clovis pointed to the empty notebook. “It’s empty, isn’t it? That’s evidence.”

“Evidence of what?”

He shrugged. “That we’re outmaneuvered.”

The reporter wrote: In absence, Clovis finds patterns. In patterns, he finds proof. The proof is always someone else’s fault.

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Act VI – The Outsiders Speak

At the Sequatchie Perk, a coffee shop decorated in vintage signs and mismatched mugs, the reporter found three residents labeled by others as “outsiders” – Sara Kimble (moved from Nashville), Jerry Foster (retired from Atlanta), and Trish Delgado (works remote from Chattanooga, rents part-time).

The reporter introduced himself and posed the question: “Do you attend the town meetings?”

Sara Kimble blinked. “I thought those were invite-only. My neighbor said locals don’t want us meddling.”

Jerry Foster sipped his coffee. “I never heard about a meeting. I’d be happy to show up, but honestly, didn’t want to crowd folks.”

Trish Delgado laughed. “I figured everything was already decided before we got here. I barely know anyone yet.”

The reporter pushed. “Did you know you’re rumored to be running everything?”

All three burst out laughing.

“First I’ve heard of it,” Sara said. “Do I get a parking spot?”

Jerry shook his head. “If I’m in charge, someone owes me a new pothole in front of my house.”

Trish grinned. “Maybe we should hold a meeting for the people not invited to the meetings.”

Sara, more seriously, added, “Honestly, I’d love to be more involved. It just never felt like an open door.”

The reporter wrote: The outsiders: uninformed, uninvited, and bemused by the accusation of invisible power.

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Act VII – The Committee That Didn’t Form

Back at Town Hall the following week, a new item appeared on the agenda, handwritten by Ms. Masters:

Formation of the Committee on Meeting Attendance and External Influence

Sheriff Peeler, reading from the agenda, announced, “Anyone interested in volunteering for the new committee?”

A brief silence, interrupted only by the ticking wall clock.

Mabel Dean cleared her throat. “I might be able to help – if I can work it around choir practice.”

Ms. Masters smiled. “That’s a start.”

Sheriff Peeler looked at his notepad. “We’ll need at least three, or it’s not official.”

He looked at the reporter, who shook his head with a smile.

Ms. Masters looked to the empty seats. “Anyone else?”

No answer.

Peeler sighed. “We can revisit it next month. Maybe more’ll show.”

Mabel Dean passed around the last of the lemon bars to those present. “Maybe if we offered coffee and cookies, we’d get the outsiders in here.”

Ms. Masters, droll, replied, “Maybe if we offered to let them run the meeting, they’d finally show up.”

Everyone chuckled, including the reporter, who scribbled: Committee deferred – no quorum, no interest, no opposition. Unanimously unresolved.

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Act VIII – The Official Record

As tradition demanded, the Town Clerk read aloud the formal minutes of the meeting, her voice echoing off the unyielding walls.

“Meeting called to order at 7:01 p.m. Attendance: three. Committee proposed, deferred. Lemon bars consumed. No new business. Meeting adjourned.”

Sheriff Peeler reached for his hat, rose, and turned to Mabel Dean.

“I appreciate the lemon bars, Mabel. They sweeten the sting of civic indifference.”

Mabel Dean smiled. “I’ll keep bringing ’em. Maybe one day the crowd will return.”

Ms. Masters gathered her papers, packed her bag, and took a last look at the rows of empty chairs. “We’re still on the record. Even if no one else is listening.”

The reporter closed his notebook. “That counts for something.”

On the way out, Sheriff Peeler lingered by the doorway, scanning the empty parking lot. “Guess I don’t need to worry about crowd control again tonight.”

The Town Clerk locked up, and the building returned to silence – chairs aligned, walls unsympathetic, lemon bars the only evidence of hospitality offered and largely declined.

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Act IX – The Logic Holds

A week later, the reporter stopped Sheriff Peeler on his morning patrol, idling near the corner of Main and Sycamore.

“You think attendance’ll improve next time?” the reporter asked.

Peeler grinned wryly. “If the outsiders decide to loosen their grip, maybe.”

“And if locals show up?”

“Probably means the outsiders got to ’em. Or maybe the weather turned nice.”

“Anyone ever just… come to participate?”

Peeler thought about it. “Not since Old Man Farley tried to raise the property tax on goats. Folks ain’t over that yet.”

The reporter jotted a note.

Peeler leaned closer, as if sharing a great secret. “Truth is, if you show up, people wonder what you want. If you stay away, you’re safer.”

The reporter asked, “So, nobody attends to protest outsiders, and outsiders stay away because they’re not welcome?”

Peeler nodded. “Makes perfect sense if you don’t think too hard about it.”

He tipped his hat, rolled away in his cruiser, and left the logic of Sequatchie Crossing undisturbed.

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Epilogue – Next Month

Town Hall, another Tuesday.

The same twenty-four chairs, faintly rearranged.

The door creaks open: Ms. Masters, Sheriff Peeler, and Mabel Dean enter in near-silence.

No outsiders.
No crowd.

Mabel Dean brings brownies this time, sets them on the center table, and waits – just in case.

A minute or two before seven, the reporter walks in, pen poised, smile ready.

Ms. Masters straightens her papers, looks around the room, and gives a slight nod.

“Meeting called to order,” she says.

Attendance: three.
Blame: distributed.
Logic: undefeated.

And somewhere in the distance, someone surely complains that outsiders run everything, despite never once seeing them try.

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Key Takeaways

• Sequatchie Crossing’s Town Hall is empty not because outsiders control it, but because everyone blames someone else for not showing up.

• Outsiders are bemused and slightly hopeful, but never present.

• The locals’ logic is circular and self-fulfilling, preserving a comforting myth.

• The cycle repeats, undisturbed by fact, evidence, or the gentle offerings of lemon bars and brownies.

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Disclaimer

This story is a work of fiction, inspired by the personalities, routines, and folklore of small towns everywhere – but especially in Sequatchie Crossing, where the laws of attendance, logic, and cause-and-effect are more aspirational than enforced. All characters, events, and civic excuses depicted herein are entirely fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living, deceased, or habitually absent, is purely coincidental.

The portrayal of “outsiders,” “insiders,” committees, and lemon bars is intended solely for humor and gentle reflection. No actual town meetings were harmed in the making of this satire – though several were reportedly unattended.

Please consume with a sense of humor and a serving of whatever baked goods Mabel Dean brought this month.

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