I Am THAT Country
American citizens who by the grace of God were born and live in the Southern states of this great nation, have a pride that runs deep in their soul. Unfortunately, there are a few, found below the Mason Dixon line that don’t qualify. Namely, those in Austin, Texas, Buckhead and most places below Orlando.
Question: can you be from down Here without being country?
Yes, I have some dear friends who have migrated to God’s country from “up there” that have adopted our way of life. We will overwhelm you by blessing your hearts, casseroles and adding you to prayer lists if you miss church with a sore throat.
There are different degrees of Country. Like many of you, I qualify on all counts and proudly wear the Country badge as an honor. For the yankees that think being called country is a putdown, you need to read about Brer Rabbit. Briefly: Throw me in the country patch. Please.
How country am I? Let me count the ways:
I have used a hay string to tie up my britches. Not pants, but britches. I have packed lunch for construction work which included a fried pork chop, pinto beans, fried green tomatoes, sliced onions and a hunk of cornbread, big enough to choke a mule. I forgave my coworkers for breaking the 10th commandment about coveting they neighbor’s cornbread while they had to eat their dry ham and cheese sandwich on rye. Bless their hearts.
I have proclaimed empty butter tubs, Cool Whip tubs, Popeye’s chicken bowls and empty gumbo containers as “Tupperware.” That’s country. When we cleaned out my Mother’s deep freezer, we found each of these filled with one hushpuppy, a scoop of mashed potatoes, three frozen half-eaten onion rings and some government cheese that was left over from a Big Jim Folsum political rally.
As an usher, I helped a man make change from the collection plate. That’s country. I have been broke enough to pour Chek cola in an empty Coke 2-liter bottle when no one was looking. Like Barbara Mandrell sang: I put (and still do) peanuts in my Coke. Don’t knock it til you’ve tried it. That’s country. I drank a “Town Creek” milkshake for dessert: cornbread, crumbled up in a glass of sweet milk with some chipped-up onions and some hot sauce. I have also chased it with a glass of warm water and baking soda that will cause a belch that registers on the Richter scale.
When it comes to hunting, I have done it all. Deer, hawg, squirrel, rabbit, dove, quail, turkey, coon, possum, and even snipe. I never learned how to call the snipes into my pillowcase while standing at the end of a cotton field.
I am country enough to eat just about any meat. The worst? A tie between coon and chitlins. The coon was so greasy, I thought it was gonna slide off the plate. The sweet potatoes soaked up some of the grease. The stump-slung boiled chitlins had the texture of a hosepipe covered with enough hot sauce to cause your eyes to water for a week. The smell of chitlins cooking was a combination of opening a septic tank lid, sulfur, rotten eggs and the throne in a Fraternity house on bean and taco night. That’s the reason they must be cooked outside.
I am also country enough to eat every part of the pig but the squeal with a couple of exceptions. Yes, to pig feet, souse meat, hog jowl, fatback, and streak of lean. My dad was country enough to eat pork brains with scrambled eggs. I didn’t think I would ever stoop this low but would just as soon eat tofu and chase it with a kale shake. I am country but you can keep your pig snoots and lips also.
Do these jobs fall under the “country” category? I’ve done them all. Hauled hay, castrated pigs, cut firewood, sold watermelons, sold chicken stew from the trunk of a 1959 Edsel, drove a dump truck, pulled a sheep’s foot roller with a John Deere, painted water meters, hung steel, and shelled purple hull peas. As the country phrase goes: whatever it took to help make ends meet.
I have jug fished for catfish by taking a Clorox jug, tying a line, weight and hook baited with any kind of stink bait and tossing it in the water. Relax and wait for the jug to take off, meaning Mr. Whiskers was on the line. I have friends who have “phoned” for fish by putting a positive wire and negative wire in the water and creating an electrical current to shock the fish to the surface. Yes, it’s against the law but a few country boys did it when they knew the game warden wasn’t nearby.
Country folks, like my dad, caught thousands of catfish on a trotline. (Not a trout line.) He had 200 hooks, hanging from a line stretched across the slough at a depth of 50+ feet. He baited it with cheese, dog food, chicken gizzards and shad guts. That’s what he was doing when he died on March 23,1988 on Lime Kiln Hollow.
I have hitch hiked from Leighton to Tuscaloosa and Birmingham to Auburn. This will sound like a lie but in 1962, me, my brother and Ray Fitzgerald hitchhiked from the redlight in Leighton to New Sockwell Lane to play baseball in the pasture across from the John Deere place. Our ages? 10, 8 and 14, respectively. A trucker picked us up. Today, kids that age can’t get out of the sight of their helicopter mom while playing in their fenced in yard.
Hank Jr. snag about “A Country Boy Will Survive.” That’s me.
Country born, country bred.
When I die, I’ll be Country dead.
Pass the peanuts and open the Coke.