They will know we are Christians by…

When Peter Schools wrote the song, “They will know we are Christians by our love” based on John 13:35, I don’t think he meant our love of rude behavior. But y’all see it everywhere…right? Why just driving home from work two minivans cut me off with no turn signal. I was tailgated by an untold number of Christians. I know ‘cause they all had some sorta Jesus bumper stickers, or fish symbols on their vehicles. Yep, bump draftin’ for Jesus! I stopped at the grocery store to pick up a few items for Sweet Pea and a couple of them Christians nearly run me over in the parking lot ‘cause I guess driving Christians have the right-a-way of walking Christians. No, in Bubbie’s view I think were are supposed to be loving each other not just ourselves.

Bail Out

Miss Dixie, the Duke’s faithful bride, called Bubbie with an urgent message. It seems that the Duke’s fishing boat that he keeps moored at the river had sunk. She asked Bubbie if he could take a look at it and figure out what to do. Bubbie reckoned he could deal with it and he’d head there after work. Miss Dixie’s voice seemed strained over the phone and Bubbie asked her if she was alright. She said she was, but she didn’t want to mention anything about it to the Duke ‘cause he was having a bad day and she didn’t want to make it worse. She explained how the Duke started the day by slipping on some ice in the yard and hitting his head on the birdbath on his way to landing in a rose bush—thorns and all! The image of his caught Bubbie as comical, but thought better of it.
“I hope he’s alright.” Bubbie asked.
“Yessir, he’s fine.” she said, “But with all the other things he has going on right now, this doesn’t help.”
Bubbie assured her that he’d deal with it and not to worry. Word travels fast across flat pastures, though Miss Dixie's best intentions were to protect her man, his buddies were all to happy to needle him and within minutes the Duke called Bubbie and recited the same story Miss Dixie had told him about his boat being undered. Bubbie smiled to himself and assured the Duke that he would take care of it. Hanging up he chuckled to himself that it was funny that the Duke left out the part about slipping on the ice and whacking his melon the birdbath; but a man has to have his dignity.

Later that day Bubbie was on his way to bail out the Duke’s boat and he ran into Sweet Pea as she arrived home from work.
“What in the world are you doing out here in your bathing suit?” she asked laughingly, “its December!”
“The Duke called,” he laughed, “and his little fishing boat is under water. Come on, I’ll tell ya about it on the way…”

Bubbie spied the boat and sure enough, it was sitting on the bottom of the drink. About an inch of the black 25 horse Mercury was sticking out of the water. It looked as though it got hung up as the tide went out and tumped over. As the tide rose again, the little boat was catawampus just enough to let the water slip over the top rail at the stern. Neary a minute passed and Bubbie slipped his body over the seawall and slid into the cool river water. Sweet Pea laughed at his trembling as he hooted and his eyes were big as saucers. He released the motor from the transom and lifted it from the stern of the boat. He balanced it against the seawall and then managed to get he little boat propped up with a plank like a floating bathtub. After an uncounted number of scoopfuls of water with a 5 gallon bucket, the little boat was bailed out and floating freely. With Sweet Peas help, they roped the motor and pulled it up and onto the seawall as the sunset.

Sweet Pea wrapped Bubbie in a big beach towel and they laughed all the way home. Friends take care of friends. Bubbie has bailed the Duke out more than a few times and vice versa, but this was the first time it was literal. Let’s hope it’s the last; but if not, let’s hope it’s in the warmth of summer.

The Ghost of Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving was truly a day of thanks this year. Surrounded by family, knowing that our relationships are bound with love, and realizing how fragile relationships can be and for that matter, life. As fate would have it, Bubbie and Sweet Pea ran into their sister-in-law just days before the holiday. Her husband, Sweet Pea’s brother, is away so they invited her and their children to Thanksgiving dinner. It had been years since they had seen each other and throughout the day, triggered by reminiscence, Bubbie was flooded with memories and emotions, neither of which he had dealt with in as many years.

Uncle Bubba was a sensitive kid that grew up in a rough part of town. He had to learn the hard way how to fight, and that meant fight to win, and to carry himself with bravado so people wouldn’t screw with him. It was counter to his natural kind and caring nature and fun loving spirit. This obviously created an internal conflict in Bubbie that he has struggled with his entire life. After many years of trying to fit into that environment, it became apparent that it was a self-fulfilling prophecy of doom. To make a long story short, by the grace of God and Sweet Pea he moved physically and mentally away from that environment. He worked hard both on himself and at getting ahead at work and has become a successfully happy man. But here he was on this day thinking about the past. He knew in his heart that his old peers would think he’d gone soft, sold out, and given in. He could almost here them, 1200 miles away, talking about how cushy his life was and how he wasn’t one of them in his nice, comfortable house full of luxuries. The gloomy ghost of his past was rising inside him. As much as he knew that their opinions weren’t true, he could feel that it had to be dealt with hastily before it grabbed a hold of his heart.

Here is the thing; more often than not you don’t have control of who you have for your peers, but you do have control over how much you interact with them. It took the toughness that Bubbie learned in his childhood to get to where he is now. It is his bulldogged tenacity to fight to win that keeps him moving ahead in life. Those old peers cannot appreciate the strength and resilience that Bubbie has had to lean on over and over to live life on his terms because they haven’t walked in his shoes. While they were out cheating on their wives, Bubbie was home romancing Sweet Pea. While they were getting divorced, he was working on forgiveness. While they were huntin’ and fishin’ he was at his kids’ ball games. While they were hanging out in the beer garden, he was home working on improving his property; being the best husband and father that her knew how to be. While they were driving home to saw some “Zs” he was driving to night school to earn straight “As” in getting a college degree. In Bubbie’s view, those old peers are old peers because he left them in the past; the future is bright, life is good and he has so many things for which to be thankful.

Stupid Begets Stupid

Bubbie bellers, “What in the world is going on?!” as he throws the newspaper down on the kitchen table. “They’ve arrested a dang thirteen-year-old boy for farting!” It’s true; in Stuart, FL. Can anybody tell me what law was broken? Was there a debate on the floor of the Florida Legislature with an outcry for justice? In Bubbie’s view, this is just another example of the dumbing down of America. Idiots and morons are running the country and ruining our lives and it crosses all party lines.

Bubbie walks out to his garden in silence and begins working; his mannerisms and energy still speak volumes. He could’ve ranted and raved about the stupidity of it all. He could have cried out for common sense. He could have expounded on the implications of these actions on the future of that boy’s life. He could have questioned how the “adults” involved can sleep well at night. But you might as well talk to a wall. What and despicable and crazy world it is.

Sunflower L' Biscotti

Uncle Bubba and Sweet Pea sit quietly sipping their aromatic morning cup of Joe. Bubbie lazily reaches over and takes a biscotti from a tin on the table. He can smell the anise and he raises it to his lips to partake in bite of the hard biscuit. The almond flavor tangles with the brewed coffee beans among Bubbie’s taste buds like a summer breeze and pollen in a patch of wildflowers. Life is good. His mind drifts to thoughts of his sister, Sunflower.

Sunflower lives 1155 miles away but two siblings could never be closer. They talk to one another for hours on the phone, usually late in the evening after many a long and stressful day. Sunflower loves to bake, especially those I-talyan treats, and quite often sends Bubbie a care package of some delicacy she has created. He snaps off a second bite he thinks, “she loves me.” My Lord, what a thought! Is there any better thought; to know someone somewhere loves you? You may not be able to see them because of the long distances between, but to hold a tangible object that was created just for you... you know you are loved. Bubbie will undoubtedly call her to thank her--again; but to pay it forward he knows that the best thing to do is to look for someone today to help or at the very least know they are appreciated. It’s gonna be a good day.

Diversity of a Perception

Uncle Bubba overheard one of them diner conversations where the public at large is a pseudo expert on any issue. This one happened to be on recognizing diversity within our American culture. The alpha demagogue of this discourse was a confident man of African ethnicity and among the several participants was a slender, middle aged, Caucasian man. The primary alpha orator shared his experiences in the service and how often he felt like he didn’t fit in because of the stereotypes associated with his ethnicity and skin color. He shared his opinions on the experiences of different races. He was obviously bothered by a lifetime of feeling like he never quite fit in. He expounded about America being a melting pot and how we should celebrate our human diversity. Someone brought up Dr. Martin Luther King Day and Black history month; they discussed how often non-black people complained about such things. Alpha man shared how he struggled with this all his life, finally settling in his mind that everyday is the White Man's celebration day. That’s when his Caucasian counterpart piped up and apologetically stated that there were no white men worth celebrating. OK, this is the comment that got Uncle Bubba’s goat.
“Like it our not,” he thought, “you white apologist; this country was founded and built by many great ethnically diverse white men with the help of many ethnically diverse, multicultural Americans.”
You see, in Bubbie’s view, this is the problem with forced celebrating of diversity in a society; it is distorted by one’s perception. Uncle Bubba can sympathize with the alpha man of African ethnicity in his lifelong confliction of racially motivated repression, but he can’t experience it. The same holds true for the alpha man; he cannot know what it is like to be a Caucasian man in America. All have trials, all have troubles; we have more in common than differences. So celebrating diversity in America must include everyone, even the Whites. Uncle Bubba finished his black coffee and swung his leg off of the stool to head for his truck. As he passed the group he smiled and asked,
“Which do y’all want most, recognition of diversity or equality; cause y’all can’t have both.”
The men looked blankly at him as he paused, tipped his cap and walked out to his old pickup.

Say No To Jack

Bubbie rolled his iron horse up to the intersection and stopped as the signal was red. He noticed a small sports car passing by. As it got closer he recognized it to be a little MG, which is a British sports car. Then he noticed the license plate displayed a union jack; the British flag! Not only that, but the driver had the convertible top down and a union jack flag strung as the car’s bikini top, just sailing in the wind! A disgusted Bubbie looked around at the drivers of the other vehicles around him. Where was their disgust; where was the outrage? This flag is a symbol of our oppression! It represents the primary determinant of democratic, American traits and capacities and denote an inherent superiority of an imperialistic regime! We were once servants to this kingdom to which many of our forefathers gave their lives to free us! And now this “chap” can just ride around in his car and display that offensive symbol with no recourse? Where is the justice?! We should be able to enjoy the freedom of our democratic society and celebrate the honor and courage of our oppressed ancestors without having to look at this offensive symbol.

The Last Hero

The sun was going down but that last bright light of the early evening shown bright on Bubbie’s face. It showed a weariness. The lines were less lines and more crevasses and the skin on his face seemed to hang just a little looser like its musculature had given up its support. He was talking about some issues at work that were unseemly and his lament in having to go along with it to, “be a good employee.” But the sadness in his eyes told the story of a man caught in a day and age of which the ethics that he was raised are as burry as the early Technicolor films of his childhood. There was an era when the heros of the big screen were rough and tough, but stood strong on principle and always chose dignity over dishonor. There was John Wayne in so many roles, Clint Eastwood, even Burt Reynolds in “The Man Who Loved Cat Dancing.” Even if they were on the wrong side of the law their principles were noble and their resolve strong. These stories were born of the American spirit, the stories of which had been past down for nearly 200 years. Principles mattered, courage mattered; ethics mattered. The noble manner of their onscreen heroics translated into many a young man’s internal daily dialogue. I could virtually see that dialogue playing in the back of Bubbie’s mind; the movie flicker in the back of his eyes.

I suppose that this is the invisible line we all trip over at some point in our lives; that tipping point when our experiences and ideals don’t match with the world we live in. And I bet that if you asked Bubbie, he’d wonder about the ethical or positive influence of role models that kids have today; rappers, video game characters, or Harry Potter. Are these the heros that will influence, and program the leaders of tomorrow?

I hope for Bubbie’s sake he doesn’t let his guard down. I hope he sticks to his ethics and lives his life on the terms that have seen him through his wonderful life. I pray that he finds the strength to do the right thing as he knows it, and I know if he does...when he does, he has the resolve to see it through. He is the last hero.

Home Again

Uncle Bubba had been away for several months working on a particularly complex project related to his job and had returned home last week. I gave him some time to enjoy his former home life with Sweet Pea and his familiar homestead before stopping by for a visit. We sat together on his porch and watching the sunlight dance on and off of the breezy green leaves the surround his home, Bubbie calmly reflected on the experiences he’s been through, always pointing out the highlights and putting the best spin on the events and people that have touched his life. I could tell that he was still a-ways off from feeling comfortable at home; he was obviously reconciling things that were and things that are. As we talked he shared with me how the past four months have changed him and yet he knows he’s not yet developed into the man he hopes to be. He was honest in accessing how life went on at “home” without him. His family still celebrated birthdays and holidays. They had get-togethers and cookouts. The place where he normally works didn’t shut down; it didn’t even, hardly skip a beat. His friends missed him but stayed busy with their own lives, “as it should be” he notes. But now he’s home again and true to Bubbie’s typical view, it’s a chance to start again and live life anew. He feels that this is an opportunity to get things right and live life on his own terms, which to him means living a life that is pleasing to God. He says that over the coming days and maybe weeks he is going to put a plan together to live a more balanced life and then put that plan into action. That’s one thing that attracts me to Uncle Bubba; in his view life is to be lived. He is as much the actor as he is the audience and always enjoys the play.

Hillbilly Yard Sale

Uncle Bubba was rollin' through the bluegrass hills and tobacco farms of north Kentucky, round about Owenton when he unwittingly attended at a hillbilly yard sale. He stopped at an infrequent stop sign and was parked next to a house fortified with a bank of belongings in the front yard. It seemed to be no more than 8 feet from the curb to the front porch and two fellers were sitting on it having a smoke. That's when Bubbie noticed that they were surrounded by numerous red gas cans and other petroleum based liquid containers obviously needed to service the many dilapidated lawnmowers and decrepit power tools that surrounded them. It became obvious that it wasn't a yard sale at all, just two fellers havin' a smoke and he'd better stop starin' and move on. Good times!

An Ol’ Dog Can

Can an old dog learn a new trick? You betcha. How does Uncle Bubba know this? Because he knows it’s a dog’s nature to live in the moment. A dog lives by its instinct and conditioning. That’s why Uncle Bubba admires his ol’ bulldog, Bubba. That’s right; Bubbie’s dog is named Bubba. Uncle Bubba figured that since a dog often resembles its owner he might as well have a like name too.

Bubbie woke up this morning and made a pot of coffee. He sat sipping a cup of the hot brew; black of course, looking out the window and the sun was shining down. The blue sky inspired him to saddle up his iron horse and go for a ride. He walked out to the garage and rolled out the shining beauty and fired up the rumbling beast. He rode out to the highway and looked north; the sky had an ominous dark hue of an impending storm. Bubbie wound the throttle back and headed south embarking on a beautiful ride out through the country. He rode out beyond the traffic on the rolling and twisting two-lane byways, among acres of pastures and stands of pine forests. He rode for a while. He rode through an area where it had been raining just moments before and the cool moisture spat at him from his tires and passing vehicles. Bubbie knew it might rain before he returned home and he didn’t care; it’s all part of the deal.

Too many times Bubbie has pulled up a barstool next to a black leather clad bro to have a cold beer and have had to listen to the bitching and moaning of pour riding conditions. He’s smart enough to know that if the ramblings weren’t anything more than mindless babble of a beer soaked brain, then the dude would have to apply considerable effort to think of something pleasant or meaningful to say. But the fact is we ride in the elements, so what. We ride to live in the moment, just like an ol’ dog. In Bubbie’s view we could learn a lesson across the board from that ol’ dog.

Firewood Chickens

Bubbie has returned home form a tour of obligation in Indianapolis; a very nice city as cities go. It is clean with pleasant architecture and the folks there are courteous and polite; a pleasant experience that one could get used to in a hurry. But back home is where the heart is and there are things there that a fella just can’t get in the city like a country road the winds through a tunnel of live oak trees, strong and majestic straining to hold up their green canopy draped in Spanish moss like military sentinels with swords crossed honoring passersby and occasional cracker houses. The other end of the tunnel breaking forth among vast green pastures waiting patiently to be nibbled down by unhurried horses and cows. No, in the city one doesn’t get the pungent scent of manure or the distant waft of a burning leaf pile. You won’t glance down a crossroad and see a nervous deer on the edge of a wood line looking back at you. You won’t see an oblivious Mr. & Mrs. Sandhill Crane silhouetted against a grassy mound posing as God’s own lawn ornaments. No, in Bubbie’s view one won’t see all these beautiful things or the unintentional folk art of the country businessman the likes of which might be trying to sell firewood chickens.


Bubbie chuckled to himself when he saw the sign, “that would be a good name for a group of country pickers.” He could almost here Porter Wagner announce, “And now ladies and gentleman, WSM and the Grand Ole Opry welcome the Firewood Chickens to the stage, here to play some of y’all’s favorites! Take ‘er away boys!”

Stuck In The Middle With You

As you know Bubbie has been somewhat stuck in the Midwest, namely Indiana, for going on 3 ½ weeks. It’s the longest that he has been separated from Sweet Pea and his home. He told me that it has forever changed him, but for the better because it has aided in his realization of the priorities of, and in his life. At first one misses everyone and everything equally. It is grief. Then time begins to peel away the layers and the material belongings fall away; likewise with social and demographic scenery; the familiarity of culture, architecture, plants, driving familiar routes on familiar roads. One still misses them, just on a lesser level than one’s loved ones.

The longing for loved ones and friends, familiar faces and common conversations become more prominent. As much as one has studied faces; shared funny smiles, laughter and tears, time clouds those memories and the subtle nuances fade without strained focus. Thoughts of our people are pictures in our mind, missing the glossy sparkle in one’s eyes, the curl in their lips and the blushed glow in their emotive cheeks. How precious the smallest items that are so easily taken for granted.

Beyond the memories is missing a touch, a hug, holding one’s hand. How nice it would be to have a loved one walk up and put a hand on his shoulder and touch Bubbie’s arm while conversing on any menial topic; to sit side by side with arms lightly tangential.

Yes, being alone lends itself to living for one’s self. In an unfamiliar environment, knowing no one, it is more difficult to serve others. Tremendous value is gain from the smallest acts of kindness. What Bubbie have lost in physical affection has been lessened in severity by looking to serve others; since all are strangers one can offer little more than smiles and polite courtesy. But the smallest things can add up quickly and warm the heart. The good news, in Bubbie’s view, is one doesn’t have to leave all behind to reap the same benefits; forget the petty annoyances of the one’s you love—smile, touch, and serve.

Hot Wings

Bubbie had a craving for a treat today and thought he'd go have some hot wings. He went to Chilli's of all places cause he had them there before and they were good. Yep, they were good today too. As he bit into the crispy, tasty, deep fried morsels the peppery aroma and taste reminded him of a time some 25 years ago. He was a young man and worked as a tree climber. He had worked with a 4 to 6 man crew depending on who showed up for work that day (mostly due to hangover recovery) and they normally could do two jobs a day; climbing trees and sawing them down, loading the chunks on the trucks, chipping the brush, grinding the stumps, and raking up the area. In a part of town known as West Endicott was a bar called Stu's Place that they would often try to arrange to eat lunch at because of the hot wings. According to the big boss man, they had to be reasonably located in the area to justify taking the time to drive to that area of town. They could usually finagle a reason to drive through there around noon. Tears well in his eyes and he sniffs his nose a little from the pyretic heat of his hot wings as he reminisces smiling, he’d get a dozen for three bucks! Now you get half as many for twice as much.

Sharon, the woman that cooked them delicious hot chicken axillaries gave him the recipe which consisted of varying amounts of hot sauce, butter and ketchup, but Bubbie could never replicate Stu's flavor; probably because of the atmosphere, the barroom fryer oil, and the fact that they were ravished from working hard all morning. In Bubbie’s view, those Chilli's wings tasted that much better because of those great memories.

By the way, Stu was a bit of a goober; bald-headed and a little arrogant. The crew used to call him Mr. Pid as a joke (git it? Stu Pid) and that still makes Bubbie laugh. They'd never say it to his face cause he'd bar ‘em and they'd have to wait weeks before he'd let ‘em back in. Good times.

Country Folk Wave

Bubbie took a trip over the weekend through the southland. Sweet Pea went home to visit her mama and left Bubbie with a hole in his life. He figured he’d fired up the ol’ hog and rumble some thunder over some hills and down through some valleys; destination nowhere. He got on it and got outta Dodge. He was just about to really open ‘er up and let ‘er roll when, out of the corner of his eye he spied a fella standing on the side of the road. He was a thin man with black rimmed eye glasses and a gray mop of hair poking out from under an old floppy black cowboy hat. He wasn’t really on the “side” of the road, more like the far side of a grassy easement; just standing there smiling at him, giving Bubbie a wave as he went by. Bubbie kind of nodded as he whisked by still turning the throttle up. He was caught of guard by the fella and checked his mirror wondering if he’d cross the road, but he didn’t. He just stood there grinning at the next vehicle come far off.

Over several hundred miles ridden that weekend, more than a handful of folks waved to Bubbie as their paths crossed; some in pick-up trucks, some pumping gas, some old-timers just shading themselves out in the yard. You see, in the hectic pace of Bubbie’s busy life he forgot that country folk wave. They travel at a different speed taking time to notice those around and acknowledge there existence. Beyond that they care enough to give a smile with a genuine esteem to wish one well. That hole in Bubbie’s life began to get closed in on the bottom and started to fill up again.

There’s nothing to take the place of his Sweet Pea, but what the heck; absence makes the heart grow fonder and he found some other things in his life that he’d lost track of. All that from a smile and a wave from a stranger.

Kissin' Cousins

As we’ve recently seen, The Texas Supreme Court has decided that the Texas authorities had no right to remove dozens of children from their parents who are among the citizens of the polygamist Yearning for Zion Ranch. It seems that folks don’t approve of the lifestyle of them bland old, plain dress wearin’, long haired, no makeup wearin’ white polygamist ladies and their paunchy old baldheaded husbands. Among other concerns, the child protection agency was worried that some underage girls were compelled to marry older men in the sect.

Well y’all, the court system came to a reasonable conclusion with out a bunch of hubbub. In Bubbie’s view, this is they way our justice system is supposed to work. One branch of government acted errantly and another branch swung the balance back to center.

Bubbie says he finds it ironic that the authorities felt compelled to rush in there and remove the children, saving them from their “degenerate” parents while in other common American communities, it’s normal for folks to have multiple babies with multiple partners and it’s not uncommon for 13 and 14 year old girls to have babies and no one is rushing is there to save the day. Maybe because if they did there would be waves of flamboyant preachers and such screaming into TV cameras that these poor, underprivileged, sorry folks are being discriminated against. FOX News and CNN would have 24 hours of talking heads debating their brand of sound bite righteousness till we are all so sick of it we don’t care about common sense or the welfare of the children; and the government will be handin' out checks, food stamps, and a blocks of government cheese. Fortunately our forefathers set up a system that tries to keep things in balance.

On this Memorial Day, let’s remember that many a young life was given to keep our system moving forward, as flawed as it may be. People should be free to live the way they see fit, without harm to others, in a free society.

Aside Effect

Uncle Bubba had to get away; he just felt the urge to take a hike. He set out to ascend the wooded mountain behind his place. As he neared the crest he anticipated seeing a clearing that he knew lied ahead; perhaps he could catch a glimpse of some wildlife. He could see the sunlight showing through the thinning forest ahead. Stepping carefully through the wooded underbrush he was all too surprised to see an old dude and his old lady sitting side by side in old claw-foot bathtubs. Guarding his eyes from their wrinkled, naked carcasses he asked what on earth they might be doing there. Apparently they had come to see Alice…who ever she is.

Miss Edsel Corsair

The wind knows how I feel. The sun knows how I feel. The road knows how I feel. The grass knows how I feel. Sitting upright in the saddle the earth revolves beneath my wheels. The byway curves in a long lazy bend that turns for miles. Adrift in my thoughts a homestead comes into sight. There, under the shady arc of a live oak tree is a white and sea-foam green 1958 Edsel Corsair with a continental spare wheel pressed snuggly against the trunk. Her striking beauty is dwarfed by the green landscape yet bright enough to detract from the old white clapboard house tucked ever further beneath the gray Spanish moss curtain.

How can that scene, that slice of time, take one’s heart back to an era that predates one’s birth? A flash of a vision that ignites a longing for what was; a simpler time. Life was never less complicated, but it was less hurried. In an age before designer labels on t-shirts, accountability was faithfully focused on family and not mandated by government. A home was cherished and not flipped, and “made in America” gave each person in the chain of commerce a sense of pride.

As quickly as I had passed the idyllic scene the Edsel was long gone in my mirror much like it’s era in our history. The road has straightened under my wheels and I am looking ahead, eagerly looking for the next cool sight to appear on the horizon. The wind knows how I feel. The sun knows how I feel. The road knows how I feel. The grass knows how I feel. It's a new dawn. It's a new day. It's a new life for me, and I'm feeling good

Crying Foul

In the course of a busy life, it had been a while since I paid a visit to Uncle Bubba. He was in good spirits and told me of a recent anecdote regarding a foul cow. It was half past twilight when the phone rang. The Duke was on the other end citing that he had a cow down and asking Bubbie to go out with him to get her stood back up. He said she’d more than likely gone foul and needed help to get back to her feet. Of course Bubbie was all too eager to join his friend in another event. Hanging up the phone he slipped on his drawers, kissed Sweet Pea and walked out the door. The Duke pulled up in his GMC Sierra and Bubbie climbed up in. They had an hour ride to get out the Williams farm were the Duke leases some beautiful rolling green pastures.

The Williams farm is a long standing working farm that takes full advantage of the southern extended growing season; growing corn silage to mid summer and green beans in the same fields in late summer. The remainder of the season they alternate fields planting rye grass of which the Duke’s cattle graze and get fat. Cattle are moved from one large pasture to the next as they graze down (and fertilize) the landscape while the rye grows nearly knee high, green and strong in the adjacent dale.

Entering the property there are two very large silos that can normally be seen from a long way off, standing as enormous monuments to ancient farm gods. On this night however, these cylindrical towers had disappeared in the dark until the Dukes headlights momentarily glance off of them in the opaque distance. Driving out through resting, sleep flushed bovine, looking sleepily surprised at the whirring diesel weaving slowly past but too lazy to bother to stir, the cowboys rolled to the far side of the dark dale.

“She’s on the far side of the next pasture.” the Duke croaked. “There’s a hard road that runs along that edge of the property and some folks have moved out there over the years. They’ve moved there and then don’t like living by a farm so they call and bellyache over every little thing. It’s been some deal; we have to fight with animal rights people of all things.” The Duke says grumbling.

At the edge of the edge of the property, at the end of a narrow white beam of a spotlight they found her. She was under a stand of scrub oaks laid out prone on her side along side the barbed wire fence. As one may or may not know, cows nibble the branches off of trees at cow height which is about 5 feet high. This makes a grown man stoop to walk beneath the low limbs. The Duke and Bubbie crouched and stumbled through the dark shadows adjacent to the spotlight beam to the waiting cow. The Duke cautiously gave her the once over and looked puzzled as he checked her teeth and felt her legs. He couldn’t surmise any reason why she might be down, but she obviously couldn’t right herself. Bubbie watched the Duke perform his inspection waiting for instruction.

“If she gets up, make sure you have a clear path out of here and get out of the way cause she’ll slap run you over.”

Just then a car arrived over the rise on the hard road and turning its intrusive lights towards the pasture, ground to a halt at the fence line. An older, white-haired gentleman appeared from around the headlights in a white polo shirt and tweed shorts. Peering over the fence he was first to speak:

“Do you think you’ll get her up?”
“Don’t know yet. Who are you?” the Duke muttered.

“My name’s Buford, Buford Wilson. I’m the one that called about the cow. I live down the way, but my daughter lives right up the road here and she’s the one that saw her first and told me about it.”

“Uh-huh” he Duke grunted, still looking down at the foul cow. After a long pause the Duke slowly looked the old man up and down and then turned to face him.

“I appreciate the notification, but what I don’t appreciate is folks reporting us to the animal rights activists over every little thing!” his stern tone setting old Buford aback. “I treat these cattle better than my own kids, but sometimes the cattle biddness is a hard biddness. Sometimes a cow gets old and sick and dies; just like people.”

“Oh, I have no doubt…” Buford retorted in his most apologetic tone.

After several exhaustive attempts at lifting and pushing the heavy cow to her feet, the Duke, breathing heavy with hands on his hips stared at Bubbie in contemplation.

“I don’t know as you’re going to get her up.” Buford lamented.

The Duke grunted in disgust. It was more aversion that old Buford was still watching over them in his tweed shorts than failing at righting the cow.

“Bub, get the rope out of the truck; we’re gonna have’ta drag ‘er out of these trees where we can get some leverage on her.” the Duke spoke, exasperated. It was growing apparent to the two of them that there was something perhaps more seriously wrong with the cow than just being foul. Due to the tight quarters and position of the animal, her head facing the truck, the Duke looped the rope around her neck and Bubbie ran the other end up and tied it to the trailer hitch.

“You’re going to drag her by her neck?” old Buford asked cautiously.

“What choice do we have?” the Duke barked. “You’d be surprised how strong that thick neck is and we only have 6 or 7 yards to pull her out of here. Bubbie, get in the truck and give it a slow steady pull and if we get ‘er going don’t stop.”

As Bubbie crouched and stumbled under the shadowy low tree limbs back to the truck, he considered the prospects of the next few minutes; he smiled to himself recalling the Duke’s statement to old Buford that he treats his cattle better than his own kids. He climbed up into the pickup and turned the diesel over. Pulling the shift lever into gear he eased his foot off of the brake and onto the accelerator pedal. The truck rolled slowly forward has Bubbie craned his neck to watch out of the back window. Looking down the spotlight beam he could see the taught rope disappear into the trees. He then saw the Duke appear from the shadows, stooped but motioning to keep pulling ahead and then he saw the cow pop out of the dark stand of scrub, skidding along the ground on her side. Once free from the brush she slid easily over the dewy green grass. On the Dukes command Bubbie stopped the truck and then backed up to take the tension off of the rope. The Duke slipped the noose from the big cow’s neck and the two cowboys tried in vain to stand the exhausted cow.

As they paused, Bubbie looked up into the vastness of the enormous night sky and took a deep breath; the stars numbering in the millions. Tilting his head further back he felt so small and insignificant there in the wide open pasture, swallowed by the negritude of the warm night. He heard the cow breathing heavily and the Dukes feet shuffle across the grass.

“We’ll have to leave her here and hope the coyotes don’t get her until I can get the vet back here to look at ‘er.” the Duke said, walking back to the pickup truck.

The agricultural business can be a rough and gritty business. In Bubbie’s view, most Americans don’t even consider what sacrifice it takes to grow, nurture, and harvest the food that we eat with so much enjoyment and gluttony. While we sit in the comfort of our homes watching TV, or with our friends in a barroom or coffee shop, the farmer and ranchers may very well be working, and doing some rather unpleasant things. They serve at the pleasure of Mother Nature, no matter how seemingly fickle or cruel and at the oversight of countless agencies—both governmental and private watchdogs. Thank God for the folks who have chosen the agricultural profession; their love of nature and independently determined spirit prevails when most of us would quit.

Rah! Rah!

Rah! Rah! Its bowl time again! The sudden death end of the college football season that will crown champions and break hearts. The prognosticators will analyze and expound on their predictions as fevered as the traders on the Wall St. Stock Exchange floor. Afterward they will wax nostalgic about the greatness that could have been, but more than likely wasn’t. As we know by now, Bubbie always has an opinion and college athletics generally stirs him up. Lately, he says, he has noticed that a lot of the “professional athlete” (he rolls his eyes using that term) punk-ness and showboating has crept into the college ranks. Maybe it always has, but it’s taking away from the purity of what college sports are supposed to be all about. Sure, let’s celebrate a score, a touchdown, a field goal. But let’s stop acting out on every tackle; let’s stop dramatically pleading with the Ref on EVERY play that there should have been a penalty. Here’s an idea, hustle to the huddle, play each down to the best of your ability, when the whistle blows to end the play, hustle back to the huddle and mentally prepare to play the next play to the best of your ability. Let your actions do the talking and stop all the trash talking and the gyrating. You look like a damn fool and a cry baby. Football players should be tough. Carry yourself with class and decorum, and lest we’ve forgotten, be a good sport.