Rev. Erudite Redneck, B.S., B.S., M.A., M.Div.

By The Erudite Redneck

Consider the stump burnt. Not that the task is complete. Takes more than one burnin’ to properly burn a stump.

But the burnin’ was a success, in that -- well, some of the stump got burned, and we managed to burn the stump without setting the milk barn on fire.

Which became a real concern when what I guess was a gust front tied to the leadin’ edge of storms from Tropical Storm Matthew hit about 9:30 or so, after scootin' from the Gulf, up across Mississippi, Louisiana and Arkansas The site of the stump burnin’ is in extreme eastern Oklahoma, which got plumb drenched in places Saturday.

The stump in question is the remains of a tree that popped up in a crack in the concrete just outside the milking room. It is causing the concrete to crack further, which is why the stump deserved the burnin.’

The milk barn, also known as the milk house, has not been in use for milking since I have been alive on this planet. It stands as an artifact of history, from when my dad and mama ran a dairy.

Valves and pipes still hang from the ceiling. In the attic are a milk bucket and parts from a milking machine – also older than I am.

Which reminds me: Brudder and I got to wanderin’ around the milk house this mornin’ rememberin’ and flirting with melancholy, wondering what we were thinkin’ to have hauled off so much daddy-farmy stuff years ago that we would love to have now – and in the distraction, I forgot to bring back an old milk can that he had chromed for me.

Ah, well. It will go with the décor of the ER-Dr. ER household, once it gets rememembered and brought up.

The stump burnin’ itself went off without a hitch – once the one of us who actually knows how to properly build a fire showed up and undid what Brudder and I had done with the burnin’ materials, restacked it all so-so, and got the fire going.

Compared to stump burnin’s of old, this’n was a low-key, sparsely attended affair. Just four of us – countin’ one that pooped out after about an hour. Which left three of us to consume 12 Arkansas beers and a couple of bottles of cheap wine – and one of the three is dang near a teetotaler.

Well, it was a dirty job, and somebody had to do it. We rose to the occasion with aplomb, if I say so myself.

Miller Lite or Coors – both of which were represented – should’ve been taping it. They could have the footage it on hand if they ever decide to try to reclaim their redneck white guy market share, which they’ve been neglectin’ lately.

We are getting’ old, however. Nobody jumped in a truck and ran off to get more beer. The fact is, even after the 12 beers had been consumed from the tailgate of my truck – strategically backed close enough to the fire that we could listen to the only form of music left that is, always has been, and forevermore will be solely intended for redneck ears – BLUGRASS – I actually FORGOT that there was one more six pack in the house, in the icebox.

I forgot. About beer. Bought. Cold. Not 200 feet away. Somebody shoot me if I get any worse.

And we barely consumed one of four bags of pork rinds procured just for the occasion – partly because while pork rinds are an ideal complement for coldbeer, they sort of clash with wine, cheap or otherwise.

I did, however, remember that there were seven pieces left of a $5.99 eight-piece chicken special I’d picked up at an IGA just for the post-stump burnin’ feed around Mama’s kitchen table, which, as best as I can recollect, transpired around 11 or 11:30 p.m., another indication that the heartbreak of psoriasis can’t be too far in the future for the redneck remnant of what used to be a whole dang covey of folks who would drop about anything to stand around a burnin’ stump and drink beer.

We consumed the chicken, with white bread and white milk, with relish, so to speak. Two of we three then hightailed it, one to his house in “town,” the other’n to his place up on the mountain – and I retired back to my room, where there is a 1986 MAD magazine on the dresser, a six-pack of “Cowboy Cola” with the 1984 Oklahoma State football schedule on the side of each can, a 1988 calendar on one wall, an oversized version of my 1982 high school senior picture on the other, and – well, you get the picture.

And an erudite redneck’s soul awoke this mornin’ somewhat refreshed. Good beer, good friends, good family, good chicken, good music, good place – that’s livin’.

END