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

Gettin' my redneck on -- in self defense. I've just let too much get to me too much lately, so I'm regroupin' a bit, circlin' my own wagon, sendin' out my own posse to rescue myself.

Somethin' like that. My bent bein' to look to the past, why, let's go!

"I'm a country plow boy, not an Urban Cowboy," Hank Williams Jr. sang in the song linked below, and it rang true for me.

'Cause it was a real farm I grew up on, 150 or so acres around the house, and another few hundred acres a few miles away in the Arkansas River bottoms.

It wadn't some "acreage" in an exurb.

Somebody around here called this place a "gated community" the other day. If there's a gate here, in my mind it's an aluminum cattle-pen gate hung between two corner posts latched with rusty balin' wire.

Now, I do live in a suburb, goin' on 10 years -- and we moved to it so Bird, my redheaded redneck stepgal, could continue her cello instruction.

If it'd been up to me, we'da landed where I might could have some livestock-type critters. But it didn't happen.

Kills me that I can't get my pickup into my back yard, 'cause there's no alley and not enough room between the dang houses to get back there from the front.

Then, later in life -- and back to the song -- to be specifical, my boot-scootin' dancehall days in Texas, this tune became an anthem. I did "love" me some Texas wimmin.

Then, I caught one fer good in Dr. ER. :-)

Not in a dancehall. On line, when she was finishin' up her pee aytch dee at Oklahoma State.

It all just beat all I'd ever thought up and it still does.

Here's ol Bocephus:



--ER