A Fragrant Night in Calhoun, Georgia

Calhoun, Georgia. An autumn evening. I was supposed to be putting on a show with my band The Grand Ole Optimists. But that wasn’t happening. I was unable to perform because of a serious gas problem.

“A gas problem?” said ticket holders who were being denied entrance into the Gem Theater. “What on earth did Sean eat?”

The cops and firemen explained.

“Sean doesn’t have gas, ma’am. There is a natural gas leak beneath the ground. This is an explosion zone, folks. Step back, please.”

Calhoun was in full disaster preparation mode. There were cop cars everywhere. Pumper trucks blocked the streets. Emergency vehicles sounded sirens. The atmosphere was filled with red and blue lights. Midtown was shut down.

Various audience members, lingering on sidewalks, kept eyeing me closely, watching for signs of gastrointestinal distress.

This is probably because the theater marquee was equipped with a message that read, in bold letters: “SEAN OF THE SOUTH SHOW CANCELED DUE TO GAS.”

“You can look at it this way,” said one of my band members, gazing at the marquee in much the same way you’d stare at a loved one, or the face of a newborn. “This has the potential to become the greatest flatulent joke of all time.”

About an hour went by. Everybody kept waiting for an update on the gaseous situation. Everyone kept hoping the firemen would tell them whether they were in danger of explosion, air toxicity, or worse, they would all be required to attend my show.

But no news.

So, everyone was sitting on curbs, waiting around, looking at their watches. Firemen were striding by in full turnout gear. Cops were flagging traffic. And it was growing evident with each moment: This gas simply would not pass.

But the night was not over. And this is why you have to love small towns. Because a Coulhoun-Gordon County library manager happened to be attending the show that night, waiting on the sidewalk.

“Let’s all go hang out at the library!” she suggested. “And maybe we can all forget about our gas problems!”

“Yeah!” said another city employee. “It’ll be a BLAST!”

“Let’s let’er rip!” said another guy.

And so it was, at nine o’clock on an average Thursday night, nearly the entire theater audience moved through Calhoun’s sidestreets, en masse, like participants in a March of Dimes fundraiser. They paraded down Harlan Street to North Park Avenue.

They entered the library. And soon, the Calhoun library was the happiest room on planet earth. People were laughing with one another, drinking coffee, making friends.

And I was lucky enough to shake everyone’s hand, and hug each neck in attendance. Not just some of the theater goers. Each one.

The little girl in the cowboy hat, who embraced me tightly and got her picture made. The young woman with breast cancer, who traveled 13 hours to be there. The elderly man who had just gotten out of surgery after donating a kidney to his grandson. The young man whose father just died in the same manner my father died.

And then there was the sweet older woman with tears in her eyes, who when she hugged me, said, “Look around at all these smiling people, sweetie. Whenever God closes a door, he opens a window.”

Whereupon she smiled, plugged her nose and fanned the air. “And someone REALLY needs to open a window if you catch my drift.”

A good time was had by all.

What a gas.