George is in jail

That bit of the small town saga is brought to you by some new-fangled technology they call facecrook.
Now, up in the hill country, they know a feriner when they see one. Ain't that far yonder, yet they knowed we weren't from those parts. No sir, we're from down in the valley.
And that's how we met, George and me. In the que at the register after a little date. No, not him and me, the little old lady and me. He was payin' his own bill. He wanted to know what I do and it turns out he does the same thing. Counts beans, among other things, and I took an interest in that because we're fixin' to be countin' beans too, come next spring. Countin'em and hoping they multiply for a good harvest.
Anyhow, we sparred a few pleasantries and parted company.
Next morning, I mentioned the encounter to Mike (one of our bean counters- and potatoes, sugarbeets, grain...). Sure enough, prime the small town pump, kick back, and let the stories roll.
Year before last, we were trying to work up a little proposition with the folks up in the hill country so's we could grow some tater seed on their ground. Couldn't quite never get things in writing though so it never happened. Apparently there was a bit of a discrepancy in regards to rightful ownership. It goes somewhat like this:
Our new acquaintance up in the hill country managed to run amok and was headed for broke. So, in order to hedge his bets, he gave the land to his daughters. All legal like. Now, son-in-law (who just happens to be neighborly to Mike) decides all of a sudden that he's just about had his fill of this family and wants to get unhitched. It's a real convenient time to be doing that sort of thing seeing's how there's some newly acquired assets to be split up. And they're still working on splitting them up- or not. Depends on what side of the coin you fancy. Seemed like a good time for us to keep our fingers out of their pie, and our spuds out of their ground.
So, the next week, I bumps into our hill country friend at the local hardware store. He'd come down with a daughter (not sure if its' the unhitchin' one or t'other) lookin' for a heat lamp. Had quite a few people in the store interested in his interest in a heat lamp. We squared off with a few more pleasantries and I hollered at 'em to get me a heat lamp too. Do me good for those nights in the dog house. But that's not why he was getting one. Nope, they found a baby elk abandoned in a snow bank and they're nursing it along all right but it'll be much better with a little extra heat on it.
We paid our respects and went our separate ways again.
The other night we were trading stories around the boss's campfire and, by and by, I threw in that we'd met George. His eyes lit up and he tells us what he'd learned on facecrook that morning. Yep, our friend found himself on the wrong side of some bars.
What's the feller in jail for you ask?
Poachin'.
Come on out. We'll show you a good time.
Just keep your nose clean. You get to go home, while we'll be headlines for a month.

I'm pretty sure this is totally unrelated to the rest of this post. Scout used to fit in the bottom of this bag and go everywhere with momma. In fact, you could have fit two or three Scouts inside it. She can still get her head in to retrieve every last crumb of the treats that were in there.