00:00:05 Speaker 1: Welcome to This Country Life. I'm your host, Brent Reeves from coon hunting to trot lining and just general country living. I want you to stay a while as I share my experiences in life lessons. This Country Life is presented by Case Knives on Meat Eaters Podcast Network, bringing you the best outdoor podcast the airwaves have to offer. All right, friends, grab a chair or drop that tailgate. I've got some stories to share. Did it really happen that way? It's human nature to sometimes make events better or worse than they really were. We fit the narrative of what we're telling them to benefit the desired outcome of what we're trying to say. Revision is history, misremembering, or just flat out line. I don't know. You'll just have to judge for yourself, but I'm taking my own memory to task today. The first I'm going to tell you a story. This story comes from This Country Life listener Jerry Barker. Jerry resides in Nancy, Kentucky, about five miles from where this story took place seventy years ago, an earlier time when the art of swapping was more than a pastime in rural America and borderline on community entertainment. So, in Jerry's words, in my voice, here we go. When I was a child, the old men in our community would gather and swap not only stories, but various other items such as pocket knives and livestock and pretty much anything. I remember stories of pride and victory from some who gained the advantage of no more than a dollar by out doing their opponent on a pocket knife trade. The object of swapping was always to get the better end of the deal, to outswap the other guy. Story I'm sharing took place in the late forties and was told to me by one of the principal swapper's relatives, and his name was Charlie. I never had the opportunity to meet Charlie, but from the stories I heard about him, I know that he and I would have been buddies. Charlie's community was at Faubush, Kentucky, a spot in rural America that had a country store. Charlie was a successful dairy farmer, and after milking chores, he'd often venture to the store to swap. There was also a locally infamous horse named Bob. Bob was a beautiful, strong, well built horse that anyone would have been proud to own just from the looks alone. But Bob had an issue, a bad habit of swords. Most all horses of this time were expected to work in a harness, requiring the horse to pull in some kind of capacity. Now Bob was no different. It would do okay most of the time, but in a difficult pull when the struggle was real and a task. When Bob was needed most he'd walk, or he'd just hesitate. He'd stop and refused to move any further. No matter what persuasion was used, Bob held his ground and there was nothing that could be done. He'd gone as far as he was willing to go. Most of the farmers and swappers had had their turn at Bob. Bob was a popular swapping item. Charlie had heard about Bob and was ready to accept the challenge. One day at the store, Charlie told the crowd that they just didn't know how to handle a horse. He could do it properly, and he could break Bob from this bad habit. It wouldn't be a problem for someone that knew how to handle a Bob's current owner quickly gave Charlie his turn, and after the swap was made, Bob found himself on Charlie's farm. Bob settled in and Charlie put him to work. The first few days passed without any trouble. Bob and Charlie worked well together. Then this happened. The day was hot, it was very human, and Charlie and Bob were gathering hate. This was before mechanical hay balers, and Charlie would stack the loose hay on the wagon and all Bob was supposed to do was to pull it to the barn where it'd be unloaded and stored for the winter feed for the livestock. The hayfield was under a pretty steep long hill. With the wagon loaded, Bob started up the hill and about halfway up, decided to introduce Charlie to his bad habit, and he stopped dead still, and he stood in his tracks. Charlie tried to persuade to move on, but Bob wasn't going anywhere. Then Charlie had an idea, and he went to the wagon and he gathered an arm load of hay. He placed that hay under Bob's back legs and Bob didn't move. Charlie had given Bob every opportunity to do his part in this new partnership. Bob refused, and Charlie set the hay on fire. Bob decided that maybe pulling that wagon wasn't such a bad idea after all, and he quickly moved forward and then he stopped, placing the wagon load of hay directly above the flames. The hay ignited like a fuse and burst into flames. Charlie had to hustle to get the fire put out and almost lost the whole load and the wagon along with it. No idea if Charlie was still proud of his trade for Bob, and I don't know how their relationship went after that incident hardly won the war. Who knows well, Bob, he definitely won that back. And according to Jerry Barker of Nazy, Kentucky, that's just how that happened. Well, Jerry, I appreciate you sending that in to share it with the rest of us. I'll always try to pick out the obvious lessons that come from these stories y'all send in, And I guess this one is Sometimes the best trades are the ones that are never made. Thanks thanks a lot, lightning bugs were for the taking. Their soft yellow glow floated and pulsated on and off like a million little neon lights with loose connections. A mason jar with holes poked in the lid from an ice pick would be where the ones I would catch would spend some time as I ran around in the manicured Saint Augustine grass that fell cool on my bare feet while the thick, humid Arkansas evening hung like moss in the air. My grandparents sat on the back patio of their home in lawn chairs, each with a hand fan, pushing the muggy evening around them, while I made laps in the yard, running back and forth to where they sat watching me. After I added more lightning bugs to the jar so we could count them and watch the magic glow. I could still see the reflection of lighting their glasses as they smiled and marveled at what I thought was the amazing job I'd done and catching all those bugs. I know now they were smiling because they loved me, and I'm not sure why, in summertime more than any other, and maybe it's not. Maybe, As I sit here reminiscing about a gentle memory of a summer evening, that my grandparents from long ago. It just felt that way, remembering a simpler time, at a slower pace, and a time that I thought would last forever. There's no doubt in my mind that I do that all the time, not just now but now. This time of year, anyway, is when I would spend a lot of my time at my maternal grandparents' house, Finess and Beaulish Sly. They lived in town, and my grandmother, Mama's sly ran the day to day operations at the front of the store at the egg prossing plant we owned in Warren, and I could go with her to the store, or she'd dropped me off at the YMCA for me to go swimming with my friends that lived in town. Or or I'd get up at the crack of dawn and ride to the farm with Papaw, the farm where I lived, a trip that might have us first going by Johnson's Hardware or the Farmer's co Oper or Southern Lumber Company. There were always projects and repairs to be made at the farming at the eggplant, that's what we called that facility. And no Grandpa I know of liked having a grandkid running around him. Always in the way anymore than mine did. I didn't have to mess with school in the summer, and at the age of seven to ten, my farm chore workload wasn't near as crucial as both of my older brothers were. I was the baby, and I did what I wanted and just about whatever I could get away with. Staying at Mama's lying Papaw's house removes me from the dooty roster, and I was glad to be there. I was thinking about those times early this morning at the dog pin as I freshened up the water in Jesse's bucket. It wasn't yet seven o'clock in the water in the hose was already hot and took a minute to cool off as I stood there, spreading the dirt around the pen to knock down some of the dust, and just thinking. I sept with my Papaw as he watch the evening news and weather, and then we'd have supper. Afterwards, we'd help Mama sly clean the kitchen and watch a little TV. My grandpa read every night western novels and national geographic magazines. He liked history and learning about things in places he'd never seen or been, and would never go. Mom sly would have my bed fixed next to theirs, and when bedtime came, I'd lay on top of the cotton sheets. Both windows raised and the metal window screens the only things separating us from the outside. There was no central air and the only window unit air conditioners went the other end of the house. But regardless of the time or the steamy temperatures, you'd be scratching for the covers before you got to sleep good. They had an attic fan in the hallway ceiling that was so strong it would pull the coke money out of your pocket if you walked under it. When it was running. It didn't take very long to cool you off. It ain't on top of the covers, especially if you were still damp from taking your night in the bath. The fan drawn air across you at a volume unmatched by anything outside of a tornado. It was loud, but the steady drone was white noised. That would have me in a coma by the time one of them would be getting me up the next morning. Breakfast came early, and if I was going to the farm with Papa, it came real early. The sound of meat frying in a cast iron skillet and the kitchen radio tuned the KrF, the local radio station, and warn would greet me. As I turned the corner from the living room into the kitchen, the aroma of coffee and bacon hung in the air, and to this day, more times than not, when I smell either, I can see my Mama Slice standing at the stove in her in the dress that she'd be wearing to the store that day, her hair fixed, earrings, pearl necklace, kitchen apron, and house shoes. She'd say good morning, lazy bones, hug me and asked me how I wanted my eggs cook? Fried was always my response, and she'd dropped two in the hot grease. She just took the bacon out of I prefer my eggs over easy, but my Mama Slide had two versions of eggs, fried or scramble. There was no other choice, and her fried eggs would be heat treated until the very edges formed a brittle lace that would break when I smashed them with my fork. If ham was the meat of the morning, you could count on red eyed gravy as being on the menu as well. If you've never had it, you should try it. She'd fry the skillet full of salt cured ham, remove the meat and leave all the rendered fat, and then she'd pour black coffee in the skillet and let it simmer, rendering that concoction into a gravy worthy of what was coming next. Biscuits. She could whip up a pan of biscuits before Quick could get ready. They were always the same, always good, and always on the breakfast table. They'd hit the table last, and when they did, it was time to prey and commence to eating. You know, a fella can conjure up quite an appetite just sleeping, because I would absolutely wreck my side of the table while Papa waited for me to finish polishing breakfast off with a big glass of sweet milk that was so cold it would hurt your teeth, and I'd find my shoes and we'd hit the door. Papaull told and two biscuits with ham wrapped in a waxed paper that Mama's slide fixed for us to take with us, one for each of us to have later that morning, and I'd have them both eating not long after we got where we were going. Regardless of where it was, sometimes we'd stop and visit with neighbors that were out in their yard or near the gravel road as we passed by their farms. Meeting someone on the one lane county road required you to slow down, and if it was someone that Papa wanted to visit with, he'd just stopped and we'd set talking from truck win a the truck win too much rain, not enough rain. They never seemed to be the required amount. Cattle prices, egg price is cutting, hay. There was always something to talk about, one thing for sure. If we didn't have time to stop and talk, the wave was automatic. Whether you knew the person or you were meeting on the road, you waved at him, and not like you were standing on the dock waving goodbye to the troops as they shift off the war. It was more of a courtesy how to do as we passed, usually with the hand that was on the steering wheel one or two fingers, and eye contact as you passed, always eye contact. I'm not sure when that tradition stopped where I lived, but it did, the world is a little a little worse off because of it. I never heard of road rage back then. And if you met someone you didn't like, you just didn't wave at him. You didn't try to run them off the road or challenge them to a wrestling mas you had an intersection. Ignoring their presence was the ultimate disrespect. Waving at an oncoming vehicle got to be a habit. Every car you met on the county road or the highway got a wave out of you, and they waved back. Sometimes even the guy you didn't like got awave because you weren't paying attention, or they were driving in a different car. When that happened, you got mad at yourself, not them. You got mad because you know they saw you do it, because of the eye contact thing. Dang, that was Dennis. I can't stand Dennis now. Dennis thinks I want to be friends. But inevitably Dennis would realize the mistake because the next time you met, he'd wave and you wouldn't. Not even the score got you, Dennis. But the dentists were few and far between. Our real community was small, and we operated in familiar circles of family and friends. Folks that sat behind us in church were the ones I saw when we walked into the store on Main Street. My Sunday school teacher delivered me as well as most of the kids in my class. It was an ideal childhood and raising. The way I remembered. How accurate my memory is is one thing I always called into question. Even though I know the events of what took place and what the eventual outcome of what came to be, I knew what that was, but the middle part. Was it as good or bad as I remember? Or am I subconsciously fudging my memory with emotion and nostalgia? Now that's a question I asked myself a lot as I way deeper into life. I see things differently now, or at least I try to, and it reminds me of how I must have saw things back then as a child, when the wonderment of a jar of lightning buds was enough to focus my attention and secure the feeling I got sitting at a table with folks two generations ahead of me and not wanting to be anywhere else. Right there a place and people I wish I could wake up and sit with in the morning. In my mind, I go back there, to that table, to that farm and with that community often, and it's a great place. But was it as great as I remember? I don't know for sure. Probably not. But there's a there's a quote from a movie, a movie that came out in two thousand and three called second Hand Lines. You've probably seen. It's a It's a great family movie with some good lessons. In my opinion. I don't have to tell you anything about it. You can look it up and decide for yourself if you want to want to watch it or share it with your kids. But in that movie, there's a line that has stuck with me for twenty two years, and it sums up my feelings on how well my memories are played out when I think about them and I share them with you. Here's the quote. Sometimes the things that may or may not be true are the things a man needs to believe in the most. These stories I tell help shape who I am. Helped me identify my values and strengthen my courage and resolve to live with a purpose, even when the world will try to harden my feelings against it. The world will try that and will succeed only if we let it. It's all up to us how we make today a good memory for tomorrow. Thank y'all so much for listening to all of us here on the Beggary's channel. If you meet someone on the highway and they wave at you wave back, it might be me until next week. This is Brent Reeves signing off. Y'all be careful.