Nov. 9, 2009
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After years of near misses, I am finally a redneck
The Family Guy At first, I feared the moment had been overlooked by the tribunal that passes judgment over such matters. I was afraid that our gesture was not grand enough and thus deemed unworthy as admittance into this exclusive club to which I had long sought membership. And then "Big Foot" (the monster truck, not the hairy beast from ancient myth and episodes of "The X-Files") roared down the street and rolled right over our foreign compact car. Out hopped Mel Tillis, who handed me a mounted 12-point buck, a six-pack of PBR and a pair of tickets to the Mud Wrestlin' Rodeo down and the VFW. OK, so I made up the last part. I couldn't help but play out a few redneck clichés, but I was born in Georgia, so it's a pardonable sin. I did meet Mel Tillis one time at a TG&Y in my hometown of Albany. The only gesture of our acceptance into this secret society was a nod from our across-the-street neighbors, a precious old couple who spends the better part of their evenings doing precisely what we were doing. With a 2-year-old fighting for independence and wanting to walk outside, My Lovely Wife and I hauled out a pair of lawn chairs, dropped 'em in the driveway, sat back, and relaxed. Oh, and we drank beer, too – though mine was an import (don't tell Mel.) Seeing as I'm too bald to grow a mullet and always lacked the coordination necessary for dippin' and spittin', soaking in the afterglow of a long day sippin' on beer while my baby played in dirt and ate rocks seemed like the next-best redneck thing to do. To be honest, I never felt so relaxed. There was a cool breeze blowing across the lawn (calf-high thanks to a busted lawnmower) and the concrete was hot enough to burn my bare feet. Long minutes ticked by in silence, save for the occasional squeal from Jellybean, who seems to have a remarkable talent for sniffing out fire ant beds. Fortunately, we keep plenty of salve on hand for just such an emergency – assuming we can keep her from eating that too. Really, pain is the only way to teach kids, especially the kind they inflict on themselves. Stick a quarter in a light socket or lick the business end of jumper cables and they'll not only talk with a lisp for the rest of their lives, but will have also learned a valuable lesson. Fortunately, Jellybean's got a really short attention span. And since the doctors say she's too young for Ritalin, and Robitussin's too expensive, we just have to work extra hard at keeping her entertained. As we sat in the driveway, that challenge led to a rousing game of Milk Crate Basketball. Guess the name gives the object away, but its fun nonetheless. But to up the stakes a bit – not to mention keeping mommy and daddy from having to chase a ball halfway down the block – we opted for a flat volleyball. Nerf works just as well, but we aren't made out of money. As darkness descended, My Lovely Wife and I chased after Jellybean, playing hide-and-seek in the grass for a few more minutes until our neighbors gave us the sign that it was time to go inside – it's a single-finger gesture that in Redneck World is sign language for a job well done. That or we'd gotten too loud. I'm not fluent in Redneck yet, but at least I've taken the first course. Brett Buckner is an award-winning former columnist for the Anniston Star. He lives in Columbus, Ga. with his wife, daughter and stepdaughter. His humor column appears regularly in The Post. Contract Brett at brett.buckner@yahoo.com. |