Take Up Your Cross

Uncle Bubba was driving on the busy interstate when he came up on an old camper trailer in the slow lane. He slowed and looked for the traffic to do the same behind him, all the while surmising that the white vintage canned ham was rattling along as fast as the owners dare tow it. As he closed in on it he noticed a hand painted sign affixed to it's rear bumper.

Uncle Bubba followed it for a short while before waiting for a safe opening in the traffic to pull around and pass. He pulled along side the pickup truck that was towing the camper and he glanced over at the driver. She was a white haired woman. It was cropped short and there was a senior gentleman sitting in the passenger's seat wearing a cowboy hat. They looked to be the type of people that you'd like to spend an hour or two with, just to hear their stories.

But it was the sign that struck Bubbie. "For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?" While he had been traveling along with his trusted friend and beloved dog Frankie by his side, he had been mulling over some old relationships and lamenting the twists and turns of worldly ways. How sad that so many choose to seek after themselves and live to their own justification, ignoring the urging of their soul. As Bubbie glanced in his rearview mirror and watched the little caravan get smaller as he pulled away he was thankful that he chose to stick with his soul and thankful for the folks that cared enough to attach the sign to their camper. He reached over and patted Frankie on the head. In Bubbie's view we can justify all of our behavior but our ideas are just that... ours; all the more reason to base our behavior on God's word and save our souls.

Death Of Shame

"Personal integrity!" Uncle Bubba yelled in his enthusiasm of his story telling. "Remember when your mama would say, 'You should be ashamed of yourself'? Probably not because that's a danged lost expression."

I told Bubbie that I couldn't recall the last time that I've heard that expression used but I'd like to think that it's because I've lived a life of personal integrity and behaved in such a way as to not warrant such a reprimand.

"Yea, that's the way y'all outta be," said Bubbie, "but the way things are today, people publish their trash online for the whole world to see. What they should be ashamed of they twist into a humble brag."

Uncle Bubba was upset because he had been doing business with someone and he thought that they had more or less a gentleman's agreement on the terms of that business. Uncle Bubba had known this person for years and they had spent many hours discussing honor and truth, and commiserating over the fact that things aren't what they used to be; like when a person's word was their bond. Yet now the deal that they shook hands on had broken down and Uncle Bubba was left holding the bag. It's a common story really. If the person comes out on the winning end they say, "It's just business." but if they come out on the losing end then it's a travesty of justice. Too often the "It's just business" person is used to robotically repeating that well rehearsed line, they're used to taking what gains they might accrue and moving on. But this time it was a little more personal than that to Bubbie; the money wasn't much but this was a broken trust.

"I know that," Bubbie barked, "I know about business but the man should have been ashamed."

When Uncle Bubba was a youngster, he had a good friend named Johnny. Johnny was a year younger than Bubbie and a grade behind in school. This meant that Bubbie attended high school one year prior to Johnny showing up and that meant that he had older friends, school friends, the friends from classes and sports, kids he'd hang out with in the halls between classes and go to lunch with. The following year when his good friend Johnny arrived at the high school, things didn't go so well. For whatever reason Bubbie's school friends didn't like Johnny. They teased him and ignored him, which left Bubbie in a precarious predicament; should he be a good friend to Johnny or go along with his school peers?

"I ain't proud of it." Bubbie declared. "I tried to burn the candle at both ends. I hung around with Johnnie outside of school because we were really close friends but then I kinda ignored him in school to hang out with my other friends. It was a hard lesson."

Johnny was crestfallen by the betrayal of his best friend. He stopped trying to hang out with Bubbie and ignored him back. He went so far as to avoid him at every turn. Bubbie felt lower than a tick on a snakes belly. He eventually gave into his conscience and asked Johnny for his forgiveness and chose his friendship above the peer pressure of his schoolmates.

"I was ashamed to death." said Bubbie. "I know that that's an expression ya never hear either but that lesson changed my life. I learned about having integrity and doing right even when it might have been the hardest thing to do."

In mid-life Johnny passed away and went to be with the Lord far too early. But Uncle Bubba never had to live with the regret of having abandoned his friend. They had many great times together; times they never would have had if Bubbie had only thought of himself. In Bubbie's view, it's the death of shame that's eroded our moral fabric like moths in a linen closet. We should be giving, thoughtful people and if we slip and fall into the snares of the devil then keep our integrity, get up, shut up, and turn things around before it's too late.

The Problem Of Politics

OK y’all, put on your thinking caps ‘cause Bubbie’s gonna take y’all into the deep end. Remember when your teacher would tell you to put on your thinking caps when she wanted us to really pay attention? She was forewarning us that she was about to lay something on us that we’d have to think on for ourselves, lest we sit there with blank stares, some a sponge and some a brick wall. When little Bubbie heard his teacher say that, he’d get lost in his imagination thinking about his thinking cap, what it looks like, what he looks like wearing it, and miss the dang lesson! But that’s a story for another day...

OK, one more aside before we dive in; one reason I love hanging out with Uncle Bubba is because he’s so easy going. He’s kind and thoughtfully quiet. When he has something to say he can be quick with a quip yet one gets the impression that he chooses his words carefully. Hanging out with Uncle Bubba is easy. He’s fun, he’s interesting, and seemingly simple. Yet if you want to talk about meaningful things you’ll find no more willing participant. The following is one such encounter:

The problem of politics is that it’s a hypocritical process of duality. To explain the basis of this postulation, let’s build a computer. The computer, arguably the most powerful and world transforming technology operates on a binary number system that dates back to the I Ching from the 9th century BC in China. It is based on Taoist duality of yin and yang and represents numeric values using two different symbols: typically 0 and 1. So our computer looks at everything as a 0 or a 1, no matter what data we put into it, or that it spits back out to us it's innards are all zeros and ones. This basis of yin and yang, or to quote the philosopher Alan Watts, can be interpreted as “Is you is, or is you ain’t?” In other words, if something is a zero, then its not a one, and if something is a one then it’s not a zero. We can transpose that into all areas of life, for instance if you are alive then you are not dead, or if a statement is a truth then it is not a lie.

What is truth? For starters, the correspondence theory of truth is often traced back to Aristotle’s well-known definition of truth (Metaphysics 1011b25): “To say of what is that it is not, or of what is not that it is, is false, while to say of what is that it is, and of what is not that it is not, is true”—but virtually identical formulations can be found in Plato (Cratylus 385b2, Sophist 263b). Confusing, huh? Bubbie prefers the summary of the correspondence theory of truth provided by English philosopher and physician, John Locke: the truth is that which corresponds to reality. Now obviously reality is subjective because two people can share the same experience and perceive separate realities. This verifies the existence of God due to the fact that we've needed His higher truth to survive. His truth is the Word while man-made reality is fickle and ever-changing but God's reality has been consistent since the dawn of time. Older, smarter folks than us hillbillies knew this and that's why our country was founded on Godly principles: In God We Trust. (Literally stated in binary code: 010010010110111000100000011001110110111101100100001000000111011101100101001000000111010001110010011101010111001101110100)

This is also why politics is a dirty business, because it is always trying to be a zero and a one at the same time and it is a man-made religion. And We The People cry out for a good person to run for office when by the very nature of the office is to conduct hypocrisy. The forefathers knew it. That's why they designed the system with three branches of government, a construct of checks and balances. They tried but perhaps trusting our corrupt human soul is just too much for the system to bear, after all look at the centuries of human struggle and corruption in the Bible; and yet what lesson is ever learned? Each party speaks the truth as they believe it and because of the duality of politics it is often the same truth spoken from opposing sides. But we realize that conformity to a party is a compromise of one's own personal truth and that cannot be avoided in a society. So we muddle on, sitting on our butt and complaining about how someone should really do something.

In Bubbie's view, what can y'all do to remedy the problem of politics but take care of your piece? Do your part by first carrying personal integrity in your heart. Look after your own place and see how the yin and yang is operating in your own life. Don't worry about the truths of others but only your truth first. As Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “Speak what you think today in hard words and tomorrow speak what tomorrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing you said today.” The objective is to improve your life and the lives of others through association. Bubbie rocked back in his chair and sipped from his glass with a wry look and we laughed as he sang his final comment on the topic... Soldier on lest we befall the fate warned by Michael Jackson's mother who always told him, "And be careful of what you do 'cause the lie becomes the truth."(Billy Jean)

Redneck Boating

Uncle Bubba and Sweet Pea decided to do a little redneck boating for some weekend relaxation. It was a typical hot and sunny Saturday in the south and everyone with a boat and some free time was at the river. The coolers were full and the radios speakers crackled to the edge of distorting. At once anyone can hear old country, new country, classic rock, and some kinda hippity-hop music. And as the morning beers lead to afternoon cold ones the volume know gets twisted up on the radio and so does the gossip and hollering. Men stand waste deep in the water with their great beer bellies glowing white like grotesque, untimely full moons and fluffy ladies in bikinis float on rafts in small flotillas, gossiping about things that should never even be whispered in private. Uncle Bubba and Sweet Pea were in the thick of it, staying cool in the water and appreciating the clean air when it came as the ether is often thick with acrid boat engine exhaust; that oily smoke lingers in blue clouds atop the green waters. Boats pass by and the captains casually juggle the wheel and their beer bottle as they navigate between the legions of little kids swimming like a truckload of fishing bobbers that had been thrown out into the water. Boat props and mindless little kids is a dangerous ballet that somehow pans out.

As Uncle Bubba floated in the water, his mind nearly turned off save one woman that could be heard talking over all the commotion. Her speaking voice was so loud that when he looked over in her direction he noticed that she wasn’t even facing him and he could still hear every word. Try as he might to not listen, he still overheard her. She sat on a raft with a beer in her hand and talked to anyone in her party that would listen. There was a senior, senior, cotton-topped couple on the boat and little kids jumping in and out of the water off of the back of the boat. She regaled the wide-eyed seniors with story after story of their boating adventures. It amazed him and stunned him in that she was probably around 50 years old and yet she used the F-bomb like a southern baptist preacher uses Amen. As Bubbie heard her speak explicitly of bodily functions, the female anatomy and various other unmentionable things, he tried to image hearing these now common things back when he was a kid. Did people always talk like this and he was innocuous? Perhaps, but it doesn’t seem like it. He recalls the adults of his youth being more refined and concerned about courtesy, especially in public. He recalls people reprimanding others who might be “out of line” in their language that, “Hey, there’s women and children around.” He asked Sweet Pea if she recalled things the same way and she said that she pretty much did. Then Bubbie mentioned more evidence to his theory of a more orthodox era in that the songs that he and Sweet Pea used to listen to when they were young were apt to hint of sexual innuendo but blatant referral just wasn’t allowed, not by the F.C.C. or by society. But now, song lyrics can be descriptively pornographic and you deny a persons civil rights to ask them to turn it down, let alone off.

Sweet Pea and Uncle Bubba know that it’s just the way that it is when you’re redneck boating. Folks will be loud, buzzed, and letting it all hang out. Many of these folks are also hardworking slaves of the general workforce that make up a community; heck, Bubbie’s one of them. They work hard and play hard. They’re victims of pride and social standings, yet in Bubbie’s view a little more class and a little less crass would make things more enjoyable for everyone.

Trial By Bomb

Uncle Bubba has unwittingly created a self-imposed exile from current affairs due to his interest in things that don’t connect to, well, social media and the use of devices that are used to media socialize. Sure, he has an iPhone, a computer, and a TV, but the way in which he interacts with them determines his social fate. As I happened to discover in speaking to him recently, the way that he has chosen to use, and not use the devices has also determined the quality of life that I think I envy. He’s quite unaffected by current events and he’s also, maybe unremarkably, happy. However, let me backtrack to bring you up to speed.

Dallas police deliberately used a bomb to kill a man! Deliberately! A bomb! They thought it through and decided to blow the dude up. Uncle Bubba was made aware of this while passing by a TV in a restaurant and he stood in shock, not even fighting to hide his mind being blown with his mouth open wide and staring blankly around the room. He searched for other faces of kindred shock but found none. It had been a least a week since the event had happened, an eternity in today’s span of attention but this was the first that Bubbie had heard of it. He struggled to gather his thoughts and wondered if there was any outrage to this unthinkable tactic? There had to be... right? But the fact that he couldn’t see anyone as upset as he was gave him the answer. Perhaps it’s the irony of it all: the Dallas Police Department that is lauded for their community policing, the bombing murder of a black man by the police, after his murdering 5 white officers at a Black Lives Matter demonstration. Then an African American author interviewed by a reporter came on the TV to talk about how police have been killing black people for years while white Americans have just sat back and didn’t care... his ironic hate speech was lost in the din in Bubbie’s head. He was still trying to get his head around the fact that the police blew up a suspect, albeit a murder suspect. They made themselves judge, jury, and executioner via a bomb, circumventing the law and the Constitution of the United States of America. A citizen's right to a trial by a jury of one's peers in a criminal prosecution is guaranteed by the sixth amendment of the U.S. Constitution. The right is extended to the states by the fourteenth amendment of the Constitution of the United States of America. In Bubbie’s view, the world’s view has become so twisted and distorted with ironic hypocrisy that outrage and shame are truly lost. Spending too much time with too much media has made the world comfortable with chaos. He’ll happily stay away from it. Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things only.

The Following Tail

Well, as promised, Uncle Bubba is back with a follow-up to the previous ending to the Tail Of 2 Dogs. Under the shadow of an old oak tree behind his garage, Uncle Bubba told me that we can learn a lot from a dog and I’m hear to tell ya that that’s true, so let me relate Bubbie’s view of it. In the last tale we heard of 2 dogs, and to quote C.S. Lewis, "The dog barks at strangers who have never done it any harm and wags its tail for old acquaintances even if they never did it a good turn (The Four Loves).” Remember King, the working dog that fiercely protected his master’s property? And then there was Willie, who chose to spend his days hanging around the house of a man that claimed to not even like him. That’s because dogs are pretty simple minded creatures, they have no conditions for what they do. So as not to insult dogs, nothing could be farther from Uncle Bubba’s truth, listen to him describe his dog that currently lives with him.

Francis David, Frankie, is a bulldog. As breeds go, Uncle Bubba and Sweet Pea would have no other. Frankie only has one concern each day: “Where do I fit in my pack?” Other things that he should be concerned with are taken care of by his master: Will I eat today? Where will I find my food? Will I play and get some exercise? Will I have time to rest? All of these things he receives without concern because of the affection and care of his “owners”.

Uncle Bubba said that he likes to sit on the couch in the evening and pet Frankie who is usually laying across his lap. He can feel the relaxed spirit of the dog. In moments like this, to paraphrase Lewis, we take them (the mutual affection and spirit of goodwill) for granted which is proper up to a point; it fits the comfortable, quiet nature of the feeling. Uncle Bubba reflects this quiet energy and knows that his dog is a warm, furry lump of pure love. Frankie only wants to be with Bubbie because it’s his place as a member of the pack, the family. Frankie never gets mad at Uncle Bubba if he does something stupid. Sometimes Uncle Bubba or Sweet Pea have to do things that Francis does care for, like a righteous yet ruckus of a toenail clipping, and the torturous tubby, yet they are for his own good. As much as Frankie doesn't like the treatment at the time, it is forgotten the moment that it’s over. He doesn’t hold a grudge, he’s just always happy to see his friend and is content just to spend time with him. Nothing more is required. One day Frankie got tangled up under Bubbie’s feet and Bubbie lost his balance and fell hard to the floor. He tried to save himself and attempted in one swift, graceless move to not fall on Frankie at the same time. With a clunk he hit the floor and Frankie let out a yelp as he scrambled away from the pile of Bubbie. Uncle Bubba lay there for a moment, he had no idea if he or Frankie was hurt. Then Frankie came over and excitedly licked his face and the two play wrestled on the floor as Bubbie laughed heartily. He wasn’t mad at Frankie and Frankie can not be upset with Uncle Bubba, he has instant forgiveness.

A dog does not care about what people think of him. A dog does not concern himself with the neighbors' business. If it doesn’t move, make a noise, or smell a dog isn’t interested in it. And what a dog perceives with it’s physical senses is only taken superficially; is it something to eat, something to chase? No, a dog is just a dog. Frankie is content to be with his family, to be petted, to be played with, and as a bulldog he lives to eat. Who of us wouldn’t benefit from this absence of ego? When Uncle Bubba sees his dog, or any dog, but especially Frankie he is inspired to live in the moment and act in love. Yessir, I can learn a lot from my dog.

Couch Surfin’: A Big Bulldog YAWN!

A Tail Of 2 Dogs

I stopped by Uncle Bubba’s and found him under some trees out behind his garage sitting in the shade talking with his cousin Earl. Earl drove a dark green 1985 Monte Carlo that he fancied as a hotrod but it was far from the era of cool muscle cars and few of Earl's acquaintances seemed to carry his same enthusiasm. The afternoon sun was so hot that a half eaten bag of pork rinds on Earl’s dashboard combusted like a flash of sparklers on the Fourth of July. We watched in stunned amazement until Earl made a run for the car and thrashed at the smoking mess with an old t-shirt. Earl’s dog Max was laying under his car at the time and was unfazed by the fireworks display but panicked and scrambled out from under the car as his master excitedly attacked the car. Bubbie and I tried not to laugh but seriously, it was hilarious. Uncle Bubba watched the dogs reaction to Earl and it brought to mind a dog that he once had.

Willie was a good dog. He was a happy dog; he wore it, it showed. He trotted when he walked with his eyes lit up and his tail wagging. Uncle Bubba liked Willie but the doggone dog would run off all the time and he always ran to the same place, a farm that neighbored the backside of Uncle Bubba’s place. He told me about how cranky and cantankerous the farmer was that lived there. Whenever Uncle Bubba went there to retrieve Willie, he’d have to suffer a reprimand about Willie being a nuisance and a lecture about something, anything that the farmer could complain about. Willie didn’t just run off once in a while, but Bubbie would often comment emphatically that Willie was more the farmer’s dog than his own. He felt exacerbated that he fed and watered Willie and paid his vet bills only to have him happily disappear to live with someone else. He tried every nice thing he could think of to get his dog to like him and stick around yet Willie couldn’t be less interested. Where was the dad-gum loyalty of man’s best friend?

Well the truth of it was that the farmer had a dog too, and Willie and he were friends, buds, companions. They’d run together through the pastures and along trails through the woods. They’d cavort with the clueless cows and on occasion they’d scare the hens and chickens, never slowing down to do damage because there was some scent that they would have to chase after and investigate, and plenty of squirrels to chase up a tree. They would show up at Uncle Bubba’s from time to time for a rest, a drink, or a snack, or just to visit before darting off again. He never bothered mentioning this to the farmer because he knew it would fall on deaf ears. The fact was that the boys ran on the farm because there was more land and more to smell, chase and explore. Uncle Bubba would have liked to have Willie around more so he could just pet him once in a while and spend some time mulling over the issues of the day, but it wasn’t in Willie’s nature. In Bubbie’s view, he had to admit that though it was an empty relationship that he had with Willie, it made him smile when he thought about how happily Willie lived his life.

Now, another neighbor of Uncle Bubba, who happened to be a farmer, had a dog named King. King was a Belgium Shepard and a big one at that. He was black with a tan swatch on his barrel chest. He was appropriately named and a great protector of the farmer and all of the farmers possessions. If some poor, unsuspecting stranger happened to visit the farm without advanced notice, King was always near by to make sure to let the stranger know who was in charge and who was not welcome. He was also inclined to express this point with his teeth. This was true be it friend or foe. Uncle Bubba recalled on more than one occasion, where he swore that he’d seen King up on top of a yonder hill as he pulled into the drive. That dog would be no more than a black speck on the far end of the hay field and as Uncle Bubba opened his door to get out of the truck that dog would sink it’s teeth into his ankle. It was supernatural! Uncle Bubba would have to shuck him off of his boot and wait in the truck until the farmer appeared to call off the dog. All it took was a grunt from the old man’s tobacco stained mouth and the dog would back up and stand guard. The farmer would reach into his pocket and pull out a plug of tobacco and a pocket knife. He’d cut himself off a slice, one for his dog, and then offer one to Bubbie. Some days they’d walk to the artesian well for a drink. The farmer would grab an old tin ladle that hung on a post and dip it into the well and take a big ol’ sip, then he’d hold it down for King to get a drink, then pass it to Uncle Bubba. Out of respect he’d grin and bare the backwash of the tobacco chewing dog and have himself a sip. The farmer would grin with tobacco juice running down his chin and say, “Ain’t that the best tasting water you ever had?” Bubbie was never sure if that grin was because the farmer was truly proud of his well water or because Bubbie drank dog water.

Earl had cleaned up the dashboard of his car and Max had settled back down as he sat in the grass and watched his master with curiosity. Earl would cuss and mutter something as he thrashed around inside his car and Max would cock his head from one side to the other. Uncle Bubba and I watched with amusement as he continued on with his story of King. He told me how King only had three paws because he lost one in an accident with a piece of farm machinery. The old farmer ruefully told him of how when the accident happened, he jumped down from his tractor and grabbed King’s leg and used some rags to try and stop the bleeding. King tore into the farmer’s arm and bit him again and again, but the farmer didn’t blame him; he said that if it had been him he’d have done the same thing. Uncle Bubba took a drink from the cold can that was wearing in his hand. He paused and looked down and kicked at the dusty ground. He seemed to be contemplating if he would have done the same thing as the farmer said. Earl pulled up a seat in the shade and popped the top on a cold beer and told us that he thought that there was no real damage to the interior; he managed to mention that it certainly didn’t slow it down any. I spent a couple hours there as we swapped stories and shared opinions and laughs. As I drove away to finish some errands that I had set out to do I thought about Bubbie’s view, that we could all learn a lot from dogs; but that’s a tail for another day.

Is There Anything Better?

Is there anything better than pulling a cold slice of watermelon out of the fridge and sinking into a deep bite after working for several hours in the heat of a summer’s day?
Is there anything better than the abiding loyalty and unending affection from your dog?
Is there anything better than doing the things you like to do with a friend that likes to do them too?
Is there anything better than laying your head on your soft pillow at night with a clear conscience?
Is there anything better than God’s grace and understanding the act of forgiveness?
Is there anything better than holding a baby?
Is there anything better than a walk in the woods?
Is there anything better than waking to the sound of birds song?
Is there anything better than standing near the shore, feeling a breeze on your face and smelling the water? Is there anything better than singing along with a good song?
Is there anything better than picking ripe fruit from a tree or bush and popping into your mouth?
Is there anything better than gut laughter of a child, or witnessing the tears of joy from an old-timer?
Is there anything better than the scent of fresh cut grass; especially when someone else has mowed it?
Is there anything better than watching a honey bee dance from clover to clover?
Is there anything better than blowing a dandelion wish?
Is there anything better than a spectacular sunrise, sunbeams shining through the clouds, red skies at night, or a vivid rainbow?
Is there anything better than a long back rub?
Is there anything better than devouring a great book?
Is there anything better than a kiss?
In Bubbie’s view, there ain’t nothing better than all of this and more, and a life full of God, love, and family.

Low Hanging Fruit

In Bubbie’s view, if we only pick the low hanging fruit we get something that is easy, and maybe for a short time sweet. But it’s assured ripeness will too soon begin to rot and make us sick. It’s tangy, sour aroma will fill our nostrils and steal our breath and our bellies will boil with acid. Have no doubt that when the serpent tempted Eve she reached for the lowest hanging fruit on the tree. But if she had climbed the tree to the top, scaling it’s rough bark and squirming through it’s twisted branches in a quest to find the reddest apple on the tree, it would have taken time and effort and she would have weighed the value of that expense against the worthiness of her goal. It would have afforded her the time to think things through. She would have come to realize that the entire endeavor was not worth it. In coming to her senses, she would have felt the call of love in her spirit for Adam and remembered that he deserved her respect. It would have all made perfect sense and she would have climbed back down and rightfully turned down the serpents suggestion.

Don’t grab for the low hanging fruit just because you can. The consequences will not only make you ill but it will poison all those associated with you; they don’t deserve that. Instead, make the extra effort and act out of love and respect.

What Is Friendship?

One of Uncle Bubba’s best friends, one that he’s known from when they was just pups, recently asked Bubbie what he thought it meant to be a friend. Doesn’t it seem that when we gain more and more life experiences, the simplest things can get complicated in our thinking? When this happens, Uncle Bubba told me, he usually thinks about what he learned in kindergarten. It’s become a cliche that everything we need to know about life we learned in kindergarten, but there are reasons things are cliche.

Bubbie’s reply to his friend was this: “You can like someone and be friendly to them and even enjoy their company, yet that doesn’t mean that you are friends. Friends do several things constantly: they are compatible, act amiably, loyally, and reciprocate. Most friendships take time to develop and the more history 2 people create and as trust evolves, the friendship grows (or doesn’t if the before mentioned don’t come into play).”

If we take a moment to look at his assessment, let’s think about compatibility. Initially we gravitate to people because we feel or find things that we have in common. We bring different perspectives to commonalities, but we have more than passing interests in the things we have a passion for or enjoy doing. When we meet others with common interests we feel a compatibility with them. We existing together in harmony.

Compatibility can be a double edged sword because of another cliche: misery loves company. How often do we hang out with people that love to commiserate about our self-imposed problems? But does that make a true friendship? In Bubbie’s view, amiability is necessary for a long and lasting friendship. Commiserating is fine as a means of short term therapy, but being amiable, being friendly and pleasant is an act of giving one’s best. When we care for someone, don’t we want them to feel our friendship as pleasant? Uncle Bubba does.

So we have common interests, likes and dislikes. We have pleasant interactions and feelings; and in Bubbie’s view, we need actions because a friendship is an activity. Friends share experiences and build history and in doing so they reciprocate, they give and take mutually. They are both amiable, and true friends also take an interest in things of which they aren’t compatible. Friends gladly share, they gladly give.

Uncle Bubba said that he knows that friendship has many more facets, but he wanted to pare it down to simple kindergarten-like terms. How long a friendship lasts depends upon the length of time compatibility, amiability, and reciprocation exists. We choose how long we want to remain loyal to the friendship. Amiability is fickle because of emotions; we all have good days and bad. Compatibility can fade as we develop as people, and without compatibility a friendship will be snuffed out as a candle. But be not discouraged because we can choose to find new compatible things in old friends. True friends look for opportunities to renew their friendship.

In Bubbie’s final view, so many folks are in our lives for a reason and a season. Perhaps we need something from them, maybe they need something from us. Some friendships last a lifetime and others fade away, so choose your friends wisely.

What’s Wrong With This Photo?

Uncle Bubba saw this story on the news this morning of Police Officer Jesse Hartnett being released from Penn Presbyterian Medical Center, 15 days after he was seriously injured when he was ambushed and shot in West Philadelphia by a man claiming allegiance to the Islamic State. Instantly something struck Bubbie when he saw this photo:



It’s the rod sticking out of his arm holding his arm together... he’s not healed! This is the state of our healthcare system where hospitals are all about turnover and clearing a bed to rush the next patient through, and not about healing and wellness. Its a factory approach to generate revenue, not a means of caring for the patience. So this seriously injured man will have to convalesce at home where he does not have professional care, and the burden of his recovery is rests on his wife and family. Obviously this is the way that our supposed best healthcare in the world has evolved to keep thriving under new, the Affordable Care Act. In Bubbie’s view, we should be demanding better treatment for that amount of money that we are required by law to invest.

It’s All Over Now

Uncle Bubba and I were chatting after dinner one evening when he casually asked, “Have you noticed that everything has changed since they took down the rebel flag from public places?”
I shook my head “No” before realizing that he was being facetiously sarcastic when as he continued.
“Yessir, racism is over.”

Did you know that the flag that everyone has equated to hate is not the confederate flag? Of course not, not if you only listened to “the news”. Hold onto your hat but all of the flap over the rebel flag was wildly inaccurate. The rebel flag here:

is actually a version of the Virginia battle flag. It was used by Robert E. Lee when he realized that the first version of the Confederate flag

was too similar to the American flag and too difficult to discern in the chaos of battle. So he used a square battle flag while fighting the North on the battle fields. A square flag: symbolically, shape is a critical component. What else is there for a flag as a symbol but shape and color?

This is why the rectangular rebel flag is not the Virginia battle flag, though many people equate the rebel flag as representative of the south. At the same time that the battle flag was being utilized, a second Confederate flag was designed.

However this design had a major flaw. When it was hanging limp it often looked like a white flag of surrender. So a vertical red stripe was added to the end of the flag.

But now that the Confederate flag was established, it was futile because the war was coming to an end and as we all know, the Confederacy was defeated by the Union. To the victors go the spoils and the Union’s next actions fated America’s divisiveness. Isn’t that odd being that they were calling themselves the Union? In short, they divided the confiscated properties of the South and in time, fashioned history to reflect greatly on the North.

As Uncle Bubba points out, more rebel flags have been seen since this controversy began, and probably more sold. They are flying on poles in the back of pickup trucks, and hanging off of house and in the front yards of Americans, once free to express whatever they want. In Bubbie’s view, ignorance has been to often confused with racism.

Hill or E-mail

There are approximately 2 million federal employees. Two million people that know that using federal email for personal correspondence is not allowed as well as using personal email accounts for federal operations. Each employee is also notified in writing that any official email written from a personal account that is the property of the federal government and they are not allowed to delete without permission. They also received an official email reminder of email communication policies shortly after the story broke about Hillary Clinton using her personal email for official communications.

It’s been well documented that Hillary Clinton has not complied with the Federal Records Act (not to mention the Standards of Ethical Conduct for Employees of the Executive Branch and Homeland Security’s laws on cyber security), however, little has been mentioned that she could not break the rules without others being complicit in it. Have any other these people been penalized or disciplined? Being that they are public servants we have the right to know. The only defense for Hillary Clinton and the people around her that enabled her to break the rules is that they are stupid, too ignorant to know the rules, or liars.

As Mrs. Clinton aims to climb to the top of the Hill and buy a presidential election, she is obviously a person whose actions indicate that she believes that there are those to whom the rules don’t apply and she is one of those special people. That makes her dangerous because a president should be self assured, forceful, but respectful. What government do we have when the highest office doesn’t respect the the rules, the Constitution?

This also doesn’t say much for Mrs. Clinton’s democratic opponent Bernie Sanders. In his debate comment about moving past Clinton’s email issue to talk about the important things shows his ignorance of the importance of staying within the rules and his lack of respect for Constitutional authority.

In Bubbie’s view, Hillary Clinton knowingly broke the rules by using her personal email for official use and in doing so, broke the law. Any of the 2 million federal employees could be fired, fined, and sent to jail for doing as much.

An Act Of War

I was sitting with Uncle Bubba at the coffee shop this afternoon when the press conference regarding the attack on the Chattanooga recruitment center came on the TV in the corner. The chairman from the Homeland Security Committee was offering observations and fielding questions from McDill AFB in Tampa. However the observations and questions avoided or evaded what Bubbie thought were the most plain observations and the simplest solutions. There was talk of the possibility of terrorist connections and the difficulty of filtering, tracking, and heading off the communications of ISIS to the terrorists in hiding here in the United States. But as Uncle Bubba pointed out, there was no mention of how and why we have allowed these terrorists to exist and thrive in our country.
“We would not have to labor against the untenable task of stopping communications if there were no one here to communicate with!” exclaimed Bubbie. “We have mixed up the ideals of tolerance in the wake of gay marriage and the argument over who is, or who may not be a racist with the rightful, honorable defense of this country. We need to be able to take a stand in our defense of our homeland and identify the enemies without worrying about offending the progressive fringes of our society. My God, we are giving an award of courage to transgender, self-centered, greedy fool while our soldiers and our sons and daughters are giving their lives for the freedom to do so. We are fighting over the display of the confederate flag when in this country one has the right of free speech and the right to express it, no matter how offensive. And if others don’t like it, too bad because that’s freedom. If I’m offensive then I have to suffer the consequences but do not censor me! And how can we all be walking around with guns in our pockets and our service personnel are allowed to be carrying? Does that make any sense to you?”

I nodded knowingly as Bubbie fought to restrain his voice. I could see in his eyes that the pained passion of his heart was bubbling over and he couldn’t contain himself. Shortly there after there was another press conference in Chattanooga given buy the police and the FBI. They stated that they were investigating the killing of 4 Marines on US soil as possibly being an act of terror.
“Really?” asked Bubbie facetiously. “Did they really say that this may be an act of terror and are trying to determine that? That’s the problem with this entire situation, no one has enough balls to tell the truth. This is an act of war! Our military personnel were killed on our own soil. But they can’t say that because then they would have to back it up. They would have to act and act fast and they aren’t prepared; its obvious.” Bubbie slid down in his chair a bit and his voice quieted. He looked into the black surface of his coffee cup. “No sir, it’s better to avoid that. They’ll never get reelected if they take a hard stand on anything.” The sarcasm dripped from his lips, “Heaven forbid they offend someone.” In Bubbie’s view,  if we don’t stand up for our country then our government won’t stand up for us. We should let our outrage be heard in mass because the only way to make change happen is through a long and sustained noise.

Your Mother’s a Horse

The Duke stopped by Uncle Bubba’s and invited him to ride with him to the ranch in the morning. He was in possession of a mare that was ready to be bred and was going to take her to the stud ranch. It’s been a long time since the two had spent some time together so Bubbie gladly accepted the invite. The next morning he beat the cock to the crow and downed a couple cups of hot coffee before filling a travel mug and heading out the door. He was standing roadside when The Duke pulled up and Bubbie piled into the cab. It was still dark as they rode the hour trip up to the ranch and along the way we passed an old white car that had a decal on the back window. As they got close and made out the writing it hilariously said, “White Cracker”.

“White Cracker! The Duke laughed.
“Is there any other kind?” laughed Bubbie.
They could see by his license plate that he was from Dixie County. They were both amazed that someone from there had strayed so far away.
“Dixie County, that explains a lot.” chided The Duke, “I guarantee that he only has one tooth in his head.”



On they rode to the ranch as the sky began to lighten as somewhere in the east beyond the endless thick stanchion of trees, the sun was considering to peer over the horizon. By the time they reached the gate at The Duke’s ranch it was light enough to see some hazy detail in the leafy trees through the mist upon the pasture. Through the truck window, Uncle Bubba watched a wild turkey strut and duck into the shadows of a hedge row, hoping to be unnoticed. They drove through the gate to the barn to hitch the livestock trailer to The Duke’s pickup truck. With a couple dull clanks of metal on metal it was quickly attached and they hopped back into the truck and drove up the lane to the pasture, stopping to load the mare into the livestock trailer. The Duke’s dogs ran from the porch of the ranch house to excitedly greet their master and his friend. They barked and jumped but the men acted as if they hardly noticed; The Duke was on a mission. He made a beeline for the pasture and walked the mare out while Uncle Bubba opened the trailer gate and she walked peacefully up into the trailer. The Duke wrapped her harness around a side rail for her safety. Now it was time to get her to the stud farm. The metal trailer clanged as they drove back out the dirt lane and the mare whinnied.

“She doesn’t sound happy back there.” Bubbie mentioned.
“She's in heat.” replied The Duke, “She’s crazy in the head."

They only had to ride for maybe 10 minutes before arriving at the stud ranch. The automated ranch gate was open as they arrived, they were expecting The Duke. They drove through the open gates flanked by white brick pillars as the gate closed behind them. The property is cross fenced, cordoned off into green corrals and pastures with majestic oak trees dotting the landscape. They passed a corral that restrained a little high strung stallion.

“That’s the teaser.” The Duke said, “You know he’s got to be one mean dude because he never gets any. His job is to tease the mares to get them ready for the real deal.”

The little stallion was trotting excitedly along the fence line as the trailer rattled past. He'd stop abruptly and he shook his mane before darting off on another lap around the corral. The Duke pulled up in front of the small, white painted cinder block breeding barn and they off loaded the chestnut colored mare. As the slight hispanic ranch-hand took the harness in hand, The Duke asked if she needed to be walked by the teaser to get her ready.

“No need for that, she’s ready.” the smiling ranch-hand quipped as the mare leaned forward to jettison a powerful stream of urine on the dew covered grass.

She was hotter than a firecracker and was also staring at the large black stallion standing majestically across the small barn, who was watching her intently.

They led her into the barn and stood her behind a short, dark green stanchion to prep her. They washed her and wrapped her tail as the stallion handler said, “The safest place to stand is behind this wall over here.” pointing to a similar stanchion on the opposite side of the barn. Uncle Bubba and The Duke walked behind the short wall as they led the mare out into the center of the barn. The stallion “checked” the mare from across the barn by lifting its nose into the air and curling his upper lip. He was becoming excitedly impatient. One ranch-hand placed a ring attached to a stick in the mare’s nose while another tied a rope around one of her front legs. The stallion handler allowed him to approached as they pulled her leg up to raise her hoof off of the soft barn floor. This prevented her from kicking him off as he mounted her, which they quickly dropped once he was astride her back. He bit her on the back of her neck as the business end prodded her.

Uncle Bubba laughed as he missed and the handler literally handled him, quickly grabbing his long black stallion-hood to point him in the right erection direction for mare injection. The two muscled animals awkwardly danced as the mare quickly tired of her predicament. They circled and approached the stanchion where Uncle Bubba and The Duke had taken cover. That short wall suddenly felt a little too short to Bubbie as the huge haunches of the black stallion backed up towards them.

The Duke bellowed, “That’s the same way I do it!”
The stallion handler shot back, “And you’re done just about as fast.”
Laughter broke the tension and just that quick the stallion dismounted.

Moments later ranch-hands had the mare’s tail unwrapped and she was walked back out of the barn and led back into the livestock trailer. The Duke followed the stallion handler out the back of the barn towards the corrals as they led the stallion back to his stable. Inside he was unharnessed and his black mane flew in the wind as he galloped with pride and victory around his corral. The Duke and the handler spoke of the odds of success and such. Then it was time to get the mare back to his ranch. The dogs barked excitedly and circled the truck as they pulled in. The mare was walked back to her corral and just like that it was all over; all but the waiting to see if the breeding was successful. She may be a mama soon.

In Bubbie’s view this horse racing business is risky. The handlers risk injury during the breeding. The owners risk money in attempting to breed a winner. The trainers and jockeys risk injury as well. And the gamblers risk losing greenback dollars. But the chance of winning is dang sure exciting!

Selma

Uncle Bubba told me his thoughts on race with the lingering aura of MLK Day and February being African American history month. He mentioned that he’d been to Selma, AL many years ago and found it to be the saddest town he may have ever seen, or maybe more accurately, felt. He remembered driving west across U.S. Route 80 from Montgomery. He pulled into a gas station on the righthand shoulder of the access road at the approach to the Edmund Pettus Bridge that traverses the Alabama River. It was just to rest and get his bearings. There were some old brick establishments and storefronts that lined both sides of the highway, most of them vacant, and some less than reputable looking folks hanging around the area. In taking in his assessment of his surroundings he was suddenly surprised to see three placard monuments almost hidden behind the listing brick pillars of a large “Welcome to Historic Selma” sign at the edge of the road. Their black and golden bronze busts staring lifelessly back at him appeared oddly out of place against the weedy sandlot where they stood.

He pondered walking over to them from where he had parked his car, but had second thoughts in separating himself so far from it, not knowing the area. So he drove the 150 feet over to the monuments and looked out at them through his window. They commemorate the leaders of the 1965 Selma-Montgomery march and recalls in particular the reference to Bloody Sunday. It struck him again how odd that these formal looking monuments were in such an inconspicuous and informal place. 


Uncle Bubba pulled back up onto U.S. Route 80 and drove over the bridge into downtown Selma. He drove slowly along the first 5 or 6 blocks of two and three story gothic brick buildings, it’s not unlike any other old Alabama town. Bubbie is accustomed to being in areas of the deep South where he is in the minority as a white man among African Americans, so his drive through the area didn’t phase him in that regard. But the condition of so many of the old brick buildings with modern facades were seeming to crumble under their own weight, the dried mortar pinched out and missing; he wondered what held the bricks in place. Years of patchwork and paint could not disguise its age. He reiterated that it had been many years ago since he had been there and things may be very different today; especially with the influx of interest due to the movie "Selma”. It is not without understanding that the 20,000 people that call Selma their home take pride in it as any community in America and do their best to take good care and make improvements.

Like any old community there are grand examples of the area’s affluence in architecture; grand victorian homes and manicured lawns. There are also rows of small, plain, brick apartments that are most likely for the poverty level residents. As he drove past ancient churches and homes the buildings grew more industrious and even more unkempt. 

In Bubbie’s view, so much of Selma’s color palette, the prominent red of dirt and brick against the green grass and trees mask the underlying tones of history. He expressed how he perceived that Southerns were violent in their zealous objections to their treatment after the Civil War. Their possessions were burned and destroyed, their land was divided up and given to others; 40 acres and a mule. They and generations after extracted the ugliness of their rage on Blacks and they have been vilified for it. Uncle Bubba spoke of, now in Ferguson, Missouri and elsewhere across the country, how, in his opinion, African Americans are behaving in much the same way. They react to their perceived injustice with violence; so much like the white man they so despise. 

Uncle Bubba sees differences in people. He honors other cultures in accepting their legitimacy to exist. Some he understands, some he doesn’t. Some he condones, some he doesn’t. He reckons that he’s pretty much like most people. In Bubbie’s view, the things that separate us, the cultural divides, the moral convictions, the expositions and actions are the things that prevent us from peaceful coexistence; everyone is right, or at least they think so. Pressure for peace is still pressure. It compresses energy that builds and builds until a volatile reaction happens. Peace only comes from release. Coexistence only comes from respectful acceptance from all parties. As I left Uncle Bubba told me that, in his opinion, no one truly wants equality because it’s human nature to compete, to strive for dominance; what people want is equal opportunity, and to be left alone.

Gas Station Guru

The Bull lumbered through Uncle Bubba’s door, his head low and his shoulders hunched over; he might not have been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders but he had some big chunks of Texas and Oklahoma precariously balanced up there. He lamented how somethings that he though might be a good experience had turned into a stressful deal, not overwhelmingly, but enough to bring him down. Uncle Bubba suggested that they fire up the Harleys and go for a ride. There’s nothing like getting a few miles under your seat to clear the mind. Minutes later they rumbled up the road and disappeared beyond the tree lined curves in the road. They rode out beyond the edge of town and glided along the rolling countryside. They eventually made a stop at a gas station located at a cross road between nothing and nowhere. There’s only a blinking light to slow traffic but only because the intersection is located on a slight rise that limits a driver’s view passing the little store front and gas pumps at 60 mph.

As the Bull and Bubbie entered the store they were routinely greeted by a balding man of east Asian or middle eastern decent. The Bull had stopped in there to specifically ask if he, or anyone else knew of property for sale in the area. At first the store owner was a little busy but the Bull is a very engaging and gregarious man, he waited for the store owner to finish his task before convivially addressing him, warming him up and leading him to his ultimate question. The store owner initially dismissed the Bull by pointing him to some real estate catalogs in a rack by the register. But he quickly redressed his response when he perceived the Bull’s ernest interest. He joked that his little business was located in “Downtown Redneck” and expounded on how redneck his neighbors are. “If you want to be around rednecks, this is the place to be.” Uncle Bubba looked at the Bull and thought it funny; should they be honored or insulted to not look like rednecks? After the pregnant pause the store owner regathered his thoughts and came forth with his projections of some major developments around the intersection that he predicted would start sooner than later. He offered advice to the Bull, to get on the bus early and stay on the bus for the entire trip: in other words, buy land now and wait for the property values to increase once the proposed developments takes place. The Bull thanked him for his advice and they turned to leave but the store owner felt compelled to add some words of wisdom before they departed. He said, “Whatever you do, do what you think you should and never listen to anyone else. I was a stockbroker in New York and I used to teach economics and I always told my customers and students this. God is with you so you’ll be OK.” The Bull and Uncle Bubba shook his hand and thanked him again for his time. They walked out to their bikes and stood there for a few reflective moments looking over the beautiful green and brown countryside residing peacefully under the blue winter sky. They fired up the hawgs and rolled out of the gas station, paused at the curb to check for oncoming traffic and then leaned the bikes to the west and opened up the throttle. They ran through the gears but the gas station guru’s words still rattled around in Uncle Bubba’s head. In Bubbie’s view, that ol’ boy’s wisdom may not have been original but it came from his heart.

The Longest Weekend

Here we all are coming out of the Forth of July weekend of America’s 237 year of independence; how does that not make y’all think of the current state of our freedom? Remember the Bill of Rights? They were awesome. Anyway, it’s been the longest dang weekend! Uncle Bubba’s weekend started the weekend before and rolled all week long. He and Sweet Pea had a stroke of good fortune befall them recently; their friend Bull purchased the house next door. Uncle Bubba and the Bull have been buddies now for some time, having been introduced through their other compadre the Duke. The Duke and Bull have been friends and business associates for years and have a long history of good times. So it’s a bonus for Uncle Bubba to have two good friends close by; well, on occasion. Bull is from Texas and still resides there as well. He bought the place next to Bubbie and Sweet Pea as a second “vacation” home. The plan for the past 2 weeks was for Bull to show up and they’d get busy making his new house into a Bull abode. They spoke of working some and playing some; this was actually an edict rung down from The Duke. Uncle Bubba took a little time to survey the house and property prior to Bull’s arrival and assessed that there was just too much work that needed to be accomplished before Bull started “moving in”. Bull agreed after his arrival and self perusal. Still, they rolled up their t-shirt sleeves and got busy tearing out the old, starting with the yard. The previous owners who had resided there some 46 years or more were old and hadn’t been able to keep up on the overgrowth of vegetation. The homegrown wrecking crew got busy and discarded three heaping 16 ft. trailer loads in the dump that resulted in Bull happily finding a much bigger yard than he had originally witnessed. It increased his view of the river by 10 fold. The sunny summer days were hot and humid reaching nearly 100 in the afternoons so the general rule, also directed by The Duke was to work hard for 30 minutes and then jump into the river to cool off, drink a cold beer, and then get back to work. Hey, it got done in a hurry so don’t knock it until ya try it.

Bull & The Duke

Mixed among the seemingly endless hours in the cool, clear river waters the “boys" spent a fair piece on their Harley’s taking short trips here and there and back again. One morning they dashed off to the Duke’s ranch to complete a couple chores before speeding back to town so the Uncle Bubba could make his dentist appointment. Oral hygiene is essential around these parts where they invented the toothbrush; that’s because most people round here only have one tooth. But not Bubbie; he has a fine set of choppers.

At any rate, Bull was on a mission from day one to get a plate full of delicious grouper, which isn’t as easy as it once was in restaurants; the fishing limits have been restricted lately to give nature some relief and to replenish the population. But one fine day Bubbie and the Bull jumped on the bike’s and opened them up down the coast to a bar & grill where they were able to score some fried grouper. Bull was satisfied in that it was a good start and more would come. As they swung from their bar stools and walked out to their hawgs Bull paused and then said to Bubbie, “I can’t believe that this is going to be a part of my life!”
“What do ya mean gonna be? Bubbie asked, “You’re living it now.”
Bull smiled and said, “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Day after day they swam and rode. They ate some great meals and in the evenings they sat around and played cards, listened to music, and talked. Uncle Bubba’s friend Crash joined them and the two of them played guitars and sang some favorite songs; some they practiced and some they fielded as requests and amazingly managed to pluck out. The charcoal grills burned with smokey goodness wafting on the air. Friends drifted in and hung around; some even danced. Their children splashed in the water and were chased like greased pigs at the fair as the adults tried to get the objectionable, squirming tykes slathered in sunscreen. There was no bigger kid there than Bull. The previous owner left a water pump and several lengths of 1 1/2” hose behind that he had used to clean out the algae in the swimming hole. It works as an enormous, underwater pressure washer and Bull was on the dumb end of that thing incessantly. He even referred to it as addicting. It has so much power that if one lost their footing it could propel them effortlessly thru the water; even Bull who is a Texas sized man. But he enjoyed it and had the swimming hole sparkling clear in a few days time.

The Bull and the pump.

Yessir, it’s been the longest weekend; Sweet Pea called it "the boy’s week” but to hear Uncle Bubba describe it, they lost track of the days for all of the fun they were having. In Bubbie’s view, what’s one extended week of the men having fun when the rest of the year around here is equivalent to “Girl’s Night Out”.

Cumberland Island Or Bust

Uncle Bubba was sipping on a cup of hot coffee while watching a Sunday morning news story about Cumberland Island off the coast of Georgia. It was a soft piece told in a romantic and nostalgic tone of how the rich enjoyed it during the gilded age, from the 1880’s, blah, blah, blah. Long story short, the Carnegie’s bought most of the island and built mansions on it so they could vacation and party with their rich friends and family. OK, it was their right; Uncle Bubba likes to throw a good party as much as anyone. Eventually, as times changed and their fortunes declined the ancestors donated the property to the parks service. The hair on Bubbie’s neck stood up when the reporter, in an offended tone, asked the park ranger if they let the properties just disintegrate over time. The ranger respectfully replied that they use their funding to save what they can. In Bubbie’s view, if the doggone rich Carnegie's wanted to save their own mess they would; why are we paying for it? And why is letting the island return to nature bad; isn’t that the ultimate beauty?

The Watermelon Patch

The Duke called to ask if Uncle Bubba would go over to his river house and measure the bench seat in his outdoor shower. The wooden seat is rotting out and he wants to cut a new one. He has a thick piece of cypress in the barn but needs to know the measurements. It sounded as though the Duke was slightly out of breath, which is not so unusual, so Bubbie asked what he was doing. He excitedly told him that they were starting to pick watermelons today. It’s a new venture for the Duke and the first time as he planted quite a few acres. The Duke’s enthusiasm peaked Uncle Bubba’s interest so he rode up to Williston to check things out. It was so cool! Though Uncle Bubba had seen them do it many times from afar, he learned a lot and felt oddly privileged to get up close and personal.

He rolled up on the watermelon patch and there was heavy action. Parked pickup trucks lined the weedy roadside near the sandy road entrance to the field and just beyond the barbed wire fence were white beehive boxes stacked in the high grass. He could see the Duke’s pickup truck out near the middle of the field and he was standing next to it under his cowboy hat talking to the workers. The Duke saw Uncle Bubba pull up; he waved and hopped into his truck and headed towards the entrance. He pulled up aside Bubbie’s truck and rolled down his window to say that one of the work trucks just knocked over one of the bee boxes and the bees were swarming. He told Bubbie to hurriedly follow him thru the field to the back to get away from the bees. They pulled into the patch on the dirt road and Bubbie could easily see rows and rows of green melons crowning among the lush green plants, as well as three rows of black men cutting, picking and loading onto 2 old yeller school buses.

It’s not usual to see these watermelon buses on the roads this time of year; they chop the sides and tops out of them, remove all of the seats and throw carpet over the cut edges for padding and to protect them, and more importantly the fruit from getting cut. They walk in single file rows next to the bus and pick the melons fire brigade style. With the minimum melon weight of 17 lb., one can easily imagine how heavy they are to be bending over, picking up each melon and hand tossing it to the next man in line until they toss it to the men in the bus who stack them.

There is another crew of sweating, hunched over black men that walk ahead of the pickers and they cut the fruit from the vines. They look for the best melons and when found, a quick slice from their sharp 4 inch blade slips through the vine detaching the melon. They know how to select the correct melons based on size and “the break”. The break is when the rind separates into the green and white colored stripes. The whiter the stripes the more ripe the melon. When they cut a melon free, they flip it over so that the yellowish colored rind that was on the ground is sunny side up. Then the pickers know that it has been cut.

It’s hard work man, and no shade from the ol’ Florida sun. But nothing that this white man wouldn’t do if he was so inclined. One does what they have to do and are qualified to do to make a living. They’ll work this field for 3 1/2 weeks before it’s depleted. They’ll make pass after pass over those weeks to get the ripest fruit, leaving the rest to ripen for picking later. Uncle Bubba and the Duke talked about the things the Duke has learned since undertaking this venture. From clearing the field that he had been using as a pasture to the planting. It takes one seeded plant, the male plant to pollinate 4 seedless (female) plants. So the field is planted by hand placing one male plant between 3 or 4 female plants. The Duke took Uncle Bubba out to the wooded area beyond the field to show him the boulders and rock pile that they amassed in clearing the field. They stood in the cool shade for a while and discussed the politics that interfere with and inhibit the small farmers ability to make a decent living. While by the rock pile they kept a watchful eye and a harkened ear for rattlesnakes; they like the cracks and crevasses in between the rocks and rocks are pretty rare in Florida.

Uncle Bubba’s belly was talking to him as it was long past noon. He left the patch and drove over to Frog’s Barbecue for some jumbo pulled pork sammiches, freedom fries, and sweet iced tea. He got them to go and met the Duke over at the packing plant. They sat on a tailgate under a large hickory tree and gorged themselves on the spice barbecue under the watchful gaze of a polite but slobbering red bloodhound. The packing plant is where the rattletrap melon buses deliver the fresh picked melons to be boxed and shipped up the east coast. The buses are backed in the loading dock and the melons are hand placed on a conveyor. The workers separate the melons into the proper boxes based on them being seeded and seedless. As you may know, the more round seedless melons look distinctively different than the seeded that are longer. As the packers load the melons in the boxes, they slap a barcode stick on each one.

At 750 lbs per box, that’s a load! By the way, shortly after Uncle Bubba had arrived at the watermelon patch, the Duke proudly grabbed one from the field and handed it to Bubbie. Uncle Bubba was very thankful and honored to receive one of the inaugural melons. It don’t get no fresher than that! Good times!