Tuesday, July 05, 2005
ER hometown news IV
From the Sequoyah County Times:
"Booster Club Rib Sale Continues."
Please, would you people buy some ribs?!?
"Outlaw Motor Speedway Gears Up For July 4 Weekend."
Old news. But you got to love a track actually called that. It's in Muskogee, which is one county over.
"Highway 59 Dragway Set To Host Saturday Event."
Lots of racin' in Redneck Oklahoma. Lots of it honestly does stem from ridge-runnin' days. There is a Moonshine Road that runs west of State Highway 82 north of Vian that turns south down to State Highway 64 east of Gore. And it ain't called that 'cause it's quaint.
"Vian Woman's Death Is Still Under Investigation: Report Reveals Methamphetamine."
That's the saddest part of the moonshine legacy of my old stompin' grounds. People still think that meth is modern 'shine. Far from it. A sheriff's deputy told me once when we were talkin' about it:
"Grandpa made moonshine, and there was honor in the system. Junior grew marijuana, and there was honor in the system - there was still a code of the outlaw. There is no honor in the outlaw anymore. There is no code. Meth is total destruction to everything it touches.
"Used to, when Grandpa did his time, his friends would feed his cows and fix his fence or whatever -- because of the outlaw code. Now they go and steal everything you have -- and your children are not exempt. You had people who made moonshine and grew marijuana that had jobs and families. The code does not fit with meth. With meth, people use people and there is no way out.
"There is no Robin Hood mentality to the manufacture of methamphetamine. They don't take and give. It's easy to romanticize the outlaws when you have a take-and-give policy. With meth, it's 100-percent take, with no good. It's not helping anyone. It's destructive, to them, the community, the property -- everything's totally destroyed."
xxxxxxxxxx
The fireworks poppin' at Mama ER's went off without a hitch and only 1 1/2 dang-near maimings. Brother ER hurt hisself more grillin' some monster burgers -- just got a good scald on his right arm, is all -- than we did poppin' the $96 worth of fireworks I bought in a weak moment on the Second of July.
One incident was when a 500-count pack of standard firecrackers took off a split-second after "light fuse" and a full second before "get away." Just spooked me and got my adrenaline going, is all.
The other one involved an old friend -- let's call him Redd McNeck -- who I swear I had not seen in at least 15 years, who saw a strange truck in Mama ER's yard and thought it might be me and it was, so he stopped by and hung out with us as I did the fireworks and we all drank coldbeer.
(Redd, however, was drinkin' some kind of energy drink and eschewed the coldbeer, which is worthy of note in the county paper. But then I haden't seen him in 15 years, so I don't know what all was behind that.)
Redd dang near caught a flying piece of fiery fireworks shrapnel in the left pit when one of them 25-shot "cake" things malfunctioned and went haywire and started sending stuff over toward us instead of up in to the sky.
Well, if ol' Redd hadda been a half-click slower about jumpin' or standin' about a half-foot to the right, he'da bought it right in the chest. Which woulda been just a little bitty bit funnier than the way it did transpire.
Hey, if there ain't at least a couple of close calls or at least one minor-to-moderate injury, there hadn't really been a backyard fireworks show, now has there?
And Mama ER herself, 83, shuffled on out to the back yard to enjoy the goings-on. I was so seriously pleased and proud, I coulda just spit. But I quite dippin' Cope two years ago tomorrow, so I had nothin' to spit, so I just tossed back a cold Coors Light. In front of Mama ER. Which I will never get used to. But I can pull it off in a pinch.
Mama and beer and old friends and the country and all reminds me of this: My oldest, bestest friend in the world -- let's call him K.L. "Ed" Neck -- introduced me to a band I'd never hyeard of but was destined to know of: Drive-by Truckers.
Dude. Here are the lyrics to the tune of theirs, called "Outfit," from the album called "Decoration Day," that I've been playin' over and over in the truck. It is an anthem. Read about Drive-by Truckers.
"Outfit"
You want to grow up to paint houses like me,
a trailer in my yard till you're 23
You want to be old after 42 years,
keep dropping the hammer and grinding the gears
Well, I used to go out in a Mustang,
a 302 Mach One in green.
Me and your Mama made you in the back
and I sold it to buy her a ring.
And I learned not to say much of nothing
and I figured you already know
but in case you don’t or maybe forgot,
I’ll lay it out real nice and slow
Don’t call what your wearing an outfit.
Don’t ever say your car is broke.
Don’t worry about losing your accent,
a Southern Man tells better jokes.
Have fun but stay clear of the needle.
Call home on your sister’s birthday.
Don’t tell them you’re bigger than Jesus,
don’t give it away.
Six months in a St. Florian foundry,
they call it Industrial Park.
Then hospital maintenance and Tech School
just to memorize Frigidaire parts.
But I got to missing your Mama
and I got to missing you too.
So I went back to painting for my old man
and I guess that’s what I’ll always do
So don’t try to change who you are boy,
and don’t try to be who you ain’t.
And don’t let me catch you in Kendale
with a bucket of wealthy-man’s paint.
Don’t call what your wearing an outfit.
Don’t ever say your car is broke.
Don’t sing with a fake British accent.
Don’t act like your family’s a joke.
Have fun, but stay clear of the needle,
call home on your sister’s birthday.
Don’t tell them you’re bigger than Jesus,
Don’t give it away.
Don’t give it away.
Tune makes my eyes well up, and makes my neck redder, and makes me proud and thankful and a whole bunch of other stuff. Great Song. I will glad to translate any of the verses for any transient Yankees that need it.
Mr. Dickel requires me attention now.
Oh, one more thing:
If you've ever had to spend two frantic hours cleanin' the house to get ready for a plumber to come fix two backed-up bathrooms, then you might be a redneck -- and you might be so damn close to white trash livin' it's scary.
Not that our bathrooms backed up. Again. Not that I spent two frantic hours cleanin' house just now. Not at all. Damn it to hell.
--ER
"Booster Club Rib Sale Continues."
Please, would you people buy some ribs?!?
"Outlaw Motor Speedway Gears Up For July 4 Weekend."
Old news. But you got to love a track actually called that. It's in Muskogee, which is one county over.
"Highway 59 Dragway Set To Host Saturday Event."
Lots of racin' in Redneck Oklahoma. Lots of it honestly does stem from ridge-runnin' days. There is a Moonshine Road that runs west of State Highway 82 north of Vian that turns south down to State Highway 64 east of Gore. And it ain't called that 'cause it's quaint.
"Vian Woman's Death Is Still Under Investigation: Report Reveals Methamphetamine."
That's the saddest part of the moonshine legacy of my old stompin' grounds. People still think that meth is modern 'shine. Far from it. A sheriff's deputy told me once when we were talkin' about it:
"Grandpa made moonshine, and there was honor in the system. Junior grew marijuana, and there was honor in the system - there was still a code of the outlaw. There is no honor in the outlaw anymore. There is no code. Meth is total destruction to everything it touches.
"Used to, when Grandpa did his time, his friends would feed his cows and fix his fence or whatever -- because of the outlaw code. Now they go and steal everything you have -- and your children are not exempt. You had people who made moonshine and grew marijuana that had jobs and families. The code does not fit with meth. With meth, people use people and there is no way out.
"There is no Robin Hood mentality to the manufacture of methamphetamine. They don't take and give. It's easy to romanticize the outlaws when you have a take-and-give policy. With meth, it's 100-percent take, with no good. It's not helping anyone. It's destructive, to them, the community, the property -- everything's totally destroyed."
xxxxxxxxxx
The fireworks poppin' at Mama ER's went off without a hitch and only 1 1/2 dang-near maimings. Brother ER hurt hisself more grillin' some monster burgers -- just got a good scald on his right arm, is all -- than we did poppin' the $96 worth of fireworks I bought in a weak moment on the Second of July.
One incident was when a 500-count pack of standard firecrackers took off a split-second after "light fuse" and a full second before "get away." Just spooked me and got my adrenaline going, is all.
The other one involved an old friend -- let's call him Redd McNeck -- who I swear I had not seen in at least 15 years, who saw a strange truck in Mama ER's yard and thought it might be me and it was, so he stopped by and hung out with us as I did the fireworks and we all drank coldbeer.
(Redd, however, was drinkin' some kind of energy drink and eschewed the coldbeer, which is worthy of note in the county paper. But then I haden't seen him in 15 years, so I don't know what all was behind that.)
Redd dang near caught a flying piece of fiery fireworks shrapnel in the left pit when one of them 25-shot "cake" things malfunctioned and went haywire and started sending stuff over toward us instead of up in to the sky.
Well, if ol' Redd hadda been a half-click slower about jumpin' or standin' about a half-foot to the right, he'da bought it right in the chest. Which woulda been just a little bitty bit funnier than the way it did transpire.
Hey, if there ain't at least a couple of close calls or at least one minor-to-moderate injury, there hadn't really been a backyard fireworks show, now has there?
And Mama ER herself, 83, shuffled on out to the back yard to enjoy the goings-on. I was so seriously pleased and proud, I coulda just spit. But I quite dippin' Cope two years ago tomorrow, so I had nothin' to spit, so I just tossed back a cold Coors Light. In front of Mama ER. Which I will never get used to. But I can pull it off in a pinch.
Mama and beer and old friends and the country and all reminds me of this: My oldest, bestest friend in the world -- let's call him K.L. "Ed" Neck -- introduced me to a band I'd never hyeard of but was destined to know of: Drive-by Truckers.
Dude. Here are the lyrics to the tune of theirs, called "Outfit," from the album called "Decoration Day," that I've been playin' over and over in the truck. It is an anthem. Read about Drive-by Truckers.
"Outfit"
You want to grow up to paint houses like me,
a trailer in my yard till you're 23
You want to be old after 42 years,
keep dropping the hammer and grinding the gears
Well, I used to go out in a Mustang,
a 302 Mach One in green.
Me and your Mama made you in the back
and I sold it to buy her a ring.
And I learned not to say much of nothing
and I figured you already know
but in case you don’t or maybe forgot,
I’ll lay it out real nice and slow
Don’t call what your wearing an outfit.
Don’t ever say your car is broke.
Don’t worry about losing your accent,
a Southern Man tells better jokes.
Have fun but stay clear of the needle.
Call home on your sister’s birthday.
Don’t tell them you’re bigger than Jesus,
don’t give it away.
Six months in a St. Florian foundry,
they call it Industrial Park.
Then hospital maintenance and Tech School
just to memorize Frigidaire parts.
But I got to missing your Mama
and I got to missing you too.
So I went back to painting for my old man
and I guess that’s what I’ll always do
So don’t try to change who you are boy,
and don’t try to be who you ain’t.
And don’t let me catch you in Kendale
with a bucket of wealthy-man’s paint.
Don’t call what your wearing an outfit.
Don’t ever say your car is broke.
Don’t sing with a fake British accent.
Don’t act like your family’s a joke.
Have fun, but stay clear of the needle,
call home on your sister’s birthday.
Don’t tell them you’re bigger than Jesus,
Don’t give it away.
Don’t give it away.
Tune makes my eyes well up, and makes my neck redder, and makes me proud and thankful and a whole bunch of other stuff. Great Song. I will glad to translate any of the verses for any transient Yankees that need it.
Mr. Dickel requires me attention now.
Oh, one more thing:
If you've ever had to spend two frantic hours cleanin' the house to get ready for a plumber to come fix two backed-up bathrooms, then you might be a redneck -- and you might be so damn close to white trash livin' it's scary.
Not that our bathrooms backed up. Again. Not that I spent two frantic hours cleanin' house just now. Not at all. Damn it to hell.
--ER
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Whew! long post there, ER. I will make a comment on one minor part of it cause you reminded me of a fireworks close call I had a few years ago.
It was the 4th of July, and we were in the midst of a major summer squall. The kids and me were depressed cause we couldn't go outside and shoot off our fireworks in the rain. In anger, I braved the tempest, and stood just outside my garage door out of the brunt of the rain, for the express purpose of lighting a bottle rocket and aiming it into the teeth of the booming gale, which i proceeded to do. Then, I did a hilarious kind of step-and-fetch-it sort of dance as the wind blew the rocket right back at me, exploding against my thigh. It left a mark, but fortumately major permanent damage was averted.
It was the 4th of July, and we were in the midst of a major summer squall. The kids and me were depressed cause we couldn't go outside and shoot off our fireworks in the rain. In anger, I braved the tempest, and stood just outside my garage door out of the brunt of the rain, for the express purpose of lighting a bottle rocket and aiming it into the teeth of the booming gale, which i proceeded to do. Then, I did a hilarious kind of step-and-fetch-it sort of dance as the wind blew the rocket right back at me, exploding against my thigh. It left a mark, but fortumately major permanent damage was averted.
My worst Fourth of July injury came on the Fifth of July when I was a little ER. Big Brother ER was mowin' while I was playin' in another part of the yard and hit a sparkler wire, which went plumb through one of my legs, sendin' gushes of blood out of two holes and necessitatin' a trip to town to the hospital!
Then there was the time when just about every teenager in my hometown was involved in a fireworks fight and I got hit upside the head with a flamin' ball from a Roman candle. The feather in my hat went "poof"! All the rest of my clothes were rurnt, too. Bottle rocket and Roman candle fights ... whole packs of firecrackers tossed like grenades ... smoke bombs used to actually create cover. It was out of hand. But dude, the best time with fireworks I ever did have. Even with the burns, all merely minor-to-moderate, of course.
Then there was the time when just about every teenager in my hometown was involved in a fireworks fight and I got hit upside the head with a flamin' ball from a Roman candle. The feather in my hat went "poof"! All the rest of my clothes were rurnt, too. Bottle rocket and Roman candle fights ... whole packs of firecrackers tossed like grenades ... smoke bombs used to actually create cover. It was out of hand. But dude, the best time with fireworks I ever did have. Even with the burns, all merely minor-to-moderate, of course.
Sounds like I shoulda hauled in the truck with you to that shindig. I'd a bought a couple cases of Coors Light for the celebration.
I'd a also hid behind your truck when the fireworks was lit.
I'd a also hid behind your truck when the fireworks was lit.
I come from a lineage of bootleggers, so I well recognize that "honor among thieves" thing when it comes to the 'shine. (Not that I agree with it, just that I understand the thinking. I'm closer to a tea-totaller than a bootlegger myself.)
But too true, that meth is nothing but a taker, a killer, a force of the debil himself. All you have to do is look into the face of a meth user and see the destruction this garbage brings.
It's a shame it gets spread among the rest of a community, too -- thinking now of the killing of Highway Patrol Trooper Nikky Green the day after Christmas 2003, when he went to help an apparent stranded motorist. Turns out it was Ricky Ray Malone, operating a mobile meth lab out of his car, who shot Green to death while the trooper's wife and little girls waited for him to come back and play with their Christmas toys.
Meth sucks.
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But too true, that meth is nothing but a taker, a killer, a force of the debil himself. All you have to do is look into the face of a meth user and see the destruction this garbage brings.
It's a shame it gets spread among the rest of a community, too -- thinking now of the killing of Highway Patrol Trooper Nikky Green the day after Christmas 2003, when he went to help an apparent stranded motorist. Turns out it was Ricky Ray Malone, operating a mobile meth lab out of his car, who shot Green to death while the trooper's wife and little girls waited for him to come back and play with their Christmas toys.
Meth sucks.
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