The Fly-In That Never Took Off But Sure Circles the Runway

Sequatchie Crossing didn’t ask for wings, but apparently, someone ordered a runway.

It all started when RT Mullins, real estate’s answer to a caffeinated fox in a suit jacket, casually listed 62 acres of scrubby pastureland out near Possum Holler as a “Pre-Aeronautic Lifestyle Compound.” A week later, that same listing appeared in a glossy magazine called Hangar Homes & High Ceilings, complete with drone footage, eagle sound effects, and a tagline: Where the Sky is the Cul-de-Sac.

Within a month, Brett and Alyssa Crenshaw held a pop-up sunrise meditation at the future “runway threshold,” complete with drumming, herbal tinctures, and a surprise appearance by Shelley Fawn Wexler holding a goat named Terrance. Clovis Strickland showed up in camouflage and claimed Terrance was transmitting on AM frequency 1290, possibly coordinating airspace with squirrels.

The Town Meeting That Spiraled into the Jet Stream

The moment this rumor cleared the ridge, a town meeting was called.

Boot Barnes brought a folder of vintage flight logs from 1961 and declared them historically incompatible with modern jet fuel. He waved around a gas receipt from 1984 to prove it. Wade Langston unfurled a hand-drawn rendering of “FAA aesthetic violations,” citing improper grommet spacing on promotional banners and what he described as an “unauthorized serif wind sock.

Pastor Peeler prayed for the safety of future souls in propellers. Sister Lila Mae tried to anoint the blueprints with holy oil before slipping in it and declaring the entire project a test of Revelations. She then proclaimed the word “aviation” contained hidden demonic runes, mostly shaped like lowercase e’s.

Meanwhile, Coach Freddie stood up, blew his whistle, and shouted, “Sequatchie don’t need no air support! We win on the ground!”—prompting a confused ovation and one elderly veteran to salute a ceiling tile.

RT Mullins defended himself, Bluetooth blinking like a disco emergency, and insisted this would bring jobs, tourism, and maybe even a small café shaped like a hangar called “The Flap & Grits.” Brett Crenshaw nodded enthusiastically and mentioned something about “elevated frequency air traffic” and “manifesting upward community mobility.” No one knew what it meant, but it sounded like it might involve smoothies.

The Great Zoning Showdown and the Emotional Flyby

Lurleen Davenport distributed 42 laminated zoning maps marked with passive-aggressive Post-it notes like “THIS IS NOT A TAXIWAY, BOB.” Doughboy Teeter tried to demonstrate his new drone-based “digital air traffic control system” but it flew directly into the church bell and knocked out service for two denominations and a squirrel.

Meanwhile, Trixie Jo Bartlett announced she’d formed the “Junior Aviation Compliance Committee,” consisting of herself, a plush unicorn named Captain Wiggles, and her friend Madison who once built a paper plane that flew over the Piggly Wiggly.

Mabel Dean Ashcroft arrived late, locked eyes with the laminated renderings, and fainted in slow motion onto Wade Langston’s clipboard. Emergency casseroles were dispatched from Maggie Sue’s kitchen in what came to be known as Operation Scalloped Support.

Evelyn Grace Tipton rewrote the meeting minutes in rhyming verse and included a side commentary titled Elegy for Pasture. It later went viral on the town’s unofficial Facebook group, especially the stanza:

“Where wild grass waved and daisies slept, Now gentrified propellers crept.”

Shelley Wexler, sensing energetic dissonance, began waving a burning bundle of sage around the perimeter of the rec hall, accidentally setting off the smoke alarm and triggering a small evacuation.

Meanwhile, at the diner…

At Maggie Sue’s Diner, the true negotiations began—over biscuits.

“We want the money but not the flight path,” sighed one local, adding syrup with the concentration of a philosopher. Can’t they just land spiritually?” asked Alyssa Crenshaw, who’d brought hand-painted renderings of what she called “intentional float-in zones.”

Maggie Sue Dillard, armed with hushpuppies and judgment, delivered a town-wide verdict without uttering a word. Sonny Morales offered tacos shaped like tiny biplanes. Shelley drew a protective salt circle around the coffee pot and whispered to it. Kenny Joe Teeter, meanwhile, napped quietly by the pie carousel, occasionally mumbling FAA codes in his sleep.

The Turning Point: When Trixie Jo Took the Mic

The situation reached peak altitude when Trixie Jo Bartlett, youth mayor and glitter lobbyist, took the podium at the next council session wearing aviator goggles and a tiara.

“We, the children of Sequatchie,” she announced, “do not consent to runway-related bedtime disruptions. I hereby submit legislation titled The Peace & Quiet & Glitter Sovereignty Ordinance.”

She handed a glitter-laminated document to Boot Barnes who held it aloft like it was the Constitution. Evelyn Tipton nodded solemnly and whispered, “The youth has spoken.”

Boot declared, “This is a generational assault on porch sittin’.”

Coach Freddie attempted to form a resistance squad called “The Ground Force.” It consisted mostly of retired mail carriers, Clovis with a walkie-talkie taped to a rake, and a sixth grader named Kyle who brought snacks.

Clovis suggested building a decoy runway to throw off the developers, using lawn chairs and chalk outlines. RT Mullins accidentally livestreamed the idea, which drew 2,000 likes and one inquiry from a drone racing league in North Carolina.

The Collapse, the Compromise, the Confetti

In the final twist, the FAA declared the site “topographically unfit for sustained flight.” Turns out, RT’s topography consultant was a guy named Randy who runs the bumper cars at the county fair. He had used a bubble level and a gut feeling.

The deal fell apart faster than a dollar store kite in a thunderstorm. Brett and Alyssa repurposed the proposed hangar into a “Sound Bath Sanctuary and Kombucha Dome.” Clovis claims the kombucha is sentient and possibly influencing town elections.

RT pivoted to selling the land as a “rustic micro-glamping retreat with altitude potential.” Doughboy offered to build smart tents with solar fans and blockchain access, which Shelley said felt “out of alignment with the moss spirits.”

Boot laminated the FAA rejection and placed it in the town hall trophy case, next to a stuffed squirrel and the remains of the 1983 Bake Sale Uprising pamphlet.

Mabel Dean never spoke of it again, except in hushed tones involving the phrase “runway sin” and “the goat that wouldn’t blink.

Epilogue: Still Circling

Months later, nothing has landed, though Terrance the goat was spotted chewing on an old aviation schematic behind the juice trailer. Kenny Joe swears he saw a UFO, but he also says it could’ve been Shelley’s moon lamp. The town remains grounded, mostly, except for spirits and tempers.

Moral, If You Can Call It That: Sometimes dreams fly too close to the ground. And sometimes, the only thing airborne is the drama.

Disclaimer:  This story is a complete work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, goats, zoning boards, kombucha domes, or FAA rejections is purely coincidental—though we admit that if it feels familiar, that might say more about your town than ours. No drones were harmed during the writing of this dispatch, though one did briefly baptize a steeple. All glitter is biodegradable, and all casserole references have been approved by the Sequatchie Ladies Auxiliary Council. Do not attempt to laminate your own ordinances without adult supervision. The town of Sequatchie Crossing does not officially exist, but if it did, they’d probably deny this ever happened… while secretly laminating the minutes. Sequatchie Crossing exists only in the minds of those brave enough to imagine a town where zoning laws, casseroles, and conspiracy cassettes collide in glorious disarray.

Real Places Behind the Ruckus – From The Dunlap Directory

Real Places Behind the Ruckus – From The Dunlap Directory

Yes, this story was fictional; even the parts that weren’t true. These places? Absolutely real. Stop by, support local, and keep the Wi-Fi away from livestock:

• American Trust Cash Advance
• Omni Automation – Custom Business Solutions
• Sequatchie Valley Bouncers
• Cowboy Church in the Sequatchie Valley
• Dunlap Restaurant
• N-Stitches
• Morton Industries – Dunlap Plant
• Living Water Plumbing
• Skull Island Campground
• Metal Max Recycling
• Rocky Top Woodcraft
• Green Pond Baptist Church
• Campbell’s Tree Service
• Three Star Cinema
• Valhalla Acres Campground
• Dunlap Volunteer Fire Department
• ChattaBOOga Ghost Walk
• W N Lofty Grading & Paving Co
• Lookout Mountain Battlefield Visitor Center
• McDowell Concrete Finishing

Real Places Behind the Ruckus – From The Dunlap Directory

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

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