Dalton Roberts’s podcast about why he wrote an album of songs about Chattanooga

I meet with a group of gentlemen called the Golden Gourd, and when I told them some of my funny political stories, they suggested I do a column of them.

Anyone in politics who can't laugh at himself or herself will die wishing they had chosen another line of work.

One of the best stories came from Judge Raulston Schoolfield. He was representing a woman accused of running a bawdyhouse. He lost his case at the local level and appealed it to a three-judge appeals court. Her husband was also arrested, but another lawyer represented him.

Raulston based his case on old Anglo-Saxon law declaring the man to be the head of the house. Therefore, the woman could not be at fault for any bawdyness in their house.

One of the judges replied, "But isn't it true, Counselor Schoolfield, that these kinds of, uh, places are run by women?" Raulston answered, "Your honor, I have no personal firsthand knowledge of that but if Your Honor does, I bow to the superior wisdom of the court." Another judge got so tickled he ran from the bench giggling. Needless to say, Schoolfield lost the case.

One of my favorite local political characters was City Judge Bennie Harris. I have never talked with a funnier, more interesting man. A lawyer told me he was representing a man accused of taking a TV from an apartment building. Only one tenant said she saw it, and Bennie cross-examined her this way:

"Mrs. Jones did you see my client on the parking lot?"

"The Lord knows I did."

"And was he toting a TV?

"The Lord knows he was."

"Well, Mrs. Jones, since you don't know but the Lord does, why don't you step down and let the Lord testify."

Sheriff Frank Newell's son, William "Meathead" Newell was one of my buddies. He wanted to succeed Frank as sheriff, but Frank never bubbled over with enthusiasm for the idea. Meathead was a ton of fun, but Frank was all business.

Meathead asked me to write him a campaign song, and Frank finally said, "He will never run but, just to pacify him, go ahead and write him a jingle." So I wrote, "You'll be way ahead when you vote for Meathead, way ahead when you vote for Meathead, one good Newell deserves another" and as the song was fading three female voices sweetly intoned, "We want Meathead, we want Meathead."

I regret to report that my jingle never graced the airways in Chattanooga and we missed a chance to elect a fine, fun sheriff.

E-mail Dalton Roberts a DownhomeP@aol.com