With the spotlight trained on him for "Please Buy My Violets," Uncle Joe Carson cements his status as the lazy schemer. Convinced of his business acumen, Kate Bradley's uncle, and grand-uncle to her three daughters, just needs the right break to make his fortune, but given his aversion to, you know, actually working to create that break, he opts for get-rich-quick solutions while siphoning off the capital needed to fund them from others--and, boy, does that cause a big stink.
It's the hottest Indian summer the Hooterville Valley has seen in fifty years, and the mosquitoes seem to be as big as hummingbirds, which irritates the two current guests at Kate's Shady Rest Hotel, salesmen Blake (George Cisar) and Gordon (Phil Gordon), who are on the verge of checking out. Kate and the girls urge them to hold on as the window screens Kate ordered should be arriving any time; however, when the Cannonball pulls up to the hotel, it didn't transport the screens, but it did bring two gross of cologne, one each of "Lord Violet" and "Lady Violet," instead. Guess who spent the $70 Kate allocated for the screens--money that was for Billie Jo's college fund--on the 288 spray cans filled with odorous perfume?
Yes, Uncle Joe is now saddled with cases of foul-smelling fragrance that even pig farmer Fred Ziffel (Hank Patterson) won't touch as Richard Baer's first script for "Petticoat Junction" keeps up the running joke that the "Lord Violet" brand has been a get-rich-quick scam for so long that even veteran salesmen such as Blake and the coffee salesman (Olan Soule) working his angle on general store owner Sam Drucker remember it from their younger days--and not with any fondness.
Baer, an industry veteran himself (and the nephew of RCA head David Sarnoff), quietly works in a couple of weighty themes under the noxious comedic cloud generated by Uncle Joe's gullibility. One is Kate's precarious financial situation: Operating a hotel literally in the middle of nowhere, she is crucially dependent upon every paying guest, and choosing to spend Billie Jo's college fund (which would be worth about $650 in 2022) on screens to keep the guests in their rooms (leaving aside why she didn't have screens already) illustrates the hard economic decisions she has to make, particularly as a widow raising three children on her own.
By the 1960s, rural poverty was becoming a national issue, with Appalachia (which included parts of states such as Kentucky, Tennessee, and West Virginia) being a prime focus. "Petticoat Junction" played coy with its actual location, although the safest assumption was somewhere in Missouri, but its geographical anonymity enabled it to stand in for rural America anywhere it existed. As a 1960s sitcom, social issues were rarely, if ever, highlighted directly--even Kate's single motherhood, regardless of how that came to be, was treated obliquely--but nevertheless they were woven into the comedic fabric. And savvy viewers could put two and two together.
The second theme entails the communal support that alleviated some of the burden. Even after Sam learns how repellent Uncle Joe's cologne is, he still offers to take the inventory off Kate's hands. That gesture, modest, unassuming, and warm-hearted, exemplifies why "Petticoat Junction" is still remembered fondly today.
It's the hottest Indian summer the Hooterville Valley has seen in fifty years, and the mosquitoes seem to be as big as hummingbirds, which irritates the two current guests at Kate's Shady Rest Hotel, salesmen Blake (George Cisar) and Gordon (Phil Gordon), who are on the verge of checking out. Kate and the girls urge them to hold on as the window screens Kate ordered should be arriving any time; however, when the Cannonball pulls up to the hotel, it didn't transport the screens, but it did bring two gross of cologne, one each of "Lord Violet" and "Lady Violet," instead. Guess who spent the $70 Kate allocated for the screens--money that was for Billie Jo's college fund--on the 288 spray cans filled with odorous perfume?
Yes, Uncle Joe is now saddled with cases of foul-smelling fragrance that even pig farmer Fred Ziffel (Hank Patterson) won't touch as Richard Baer's first script for "Petticoat Junction" keeps up the running joke that the "Lord Violet" brand has been a get-rich-quick scam for so long that even veteran salesmen such as Blake and the coffee salesman (Olan Soule) working his angle on general store owner Sam Drucker remember it from their younger days--and not with any fondness.
Baer, an industry veteran himself (and the nephew of RCA head David Sarnoff), quietly works in a couple of weighty themes under the noxious comedic cloud generated by Uncle Joe's gullibility. One is Kate's precarious financial situation: Operating a hotel literally in the middle of nowhere, she is crucially dependent upon every paying guest, and choosing to spend Billie Jo's college fund (which would be worth about $650 in 2022) on screens to keep the guests in their rooms (leaving aside why she didn't have screens already) illustrates the hard economic decisions she has to make, particularly as a widow raising three children on her own.
By the 1960s, rural poverty was becoming a national issue, with Appalachia (which included parts of states such as Kentucky, Tennessee, and West Virginia) being a prime focus. "Petticoat Junction" played coy with its actual location, although the safest assumption was somewhere in Missouri, but its geographical anonymity enabled it to stand in for rural America anywhere it existed. As a 1960s sitcom, social issues were rarely, if ever, highlighted directly--even Kate's single motherhood, regardless of how that came to be, was treated obliquely--but nevertheless they were woven into the comedic fabric. And savvy viewers could put two and two together.
The second theme entails the communal support that alleviated some of the burden. Even after Sam learns how repellent Uncle Joe's cologne is, he still offers to take the inventory off Kate's hands. That gesture, modest, unassuming, and warm-hearted, exemplifies why "Petticoat Junction" is still remembered fondly today.
