Friday, August 22, 2008
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!
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
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.
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!”
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!”
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