Of Goats and Fedoras

"Are you guys in the play?"
Hm? What?
We (My sister and I) were standing in the corner gas station/Subway shop in downtown Middleburgh, waiting on our sandwich order, when one of the guys in the store approaches me.
"The play, are you guys in it?" he persists. My initial confusion wearing off, I chuckle to myself as I realize why he asked. See, the local-yokel playhouse was putting on a production of Chicago this week, which is a big deal in our little village. So, when you see someone in the street wearing a black and gray striped shirt and a black corduroy fedora, they must be in the play.
"No," I told him, laughingly, "This is just me."

Our town is not exactly urbanized, but that's one reason I like it. You can walk down Mainstreet under the shade of the sycamore trees...ask how so-and-so's Grandma is fairing...enjoy the smell of petunias in over flowing baskets hanging from all the telephone poles...stop in at the old hardware store and buy just one screw if you want, and some mighty fine coffee, too...
Oh, and get serenaded by a goat in a pickup truck, too.
We were leaving the Subway, subs in hand and getting ready to cross the street, when we heard a short bleat.
"MAA!"
Looking up, we espied a pickup truck with a bale of hay and two goats on the back.
For those of you who don't know, goats are hilarious both to watch and to listen to. Their cry sounds something in my mind like an young adolescent boy riding a roller-coaster for the first time.
"MAAOUGH!" he voiced, startling the lady jogging on the sidewalk out of her iTunes induced apathy. She continues on, a bemused smile on her face and as she draws abreast of us remarks:
"That's a goat in a pickup truck!"

Yes ma'am, yes it was.