Words of Wisdom

Saturday evening we had a couple over for dinner as we often like to do and I think we hit it off pretty well. They are about the same age as us (he’s a little older, she’s a little younger) and share many of our interests and ideals in life, so the four of us ate and visited until 11:30 or so that night. At one point, the conversation turned to the places in which we grew up, what life was like for us in those respective locations, and how we had changed over the years. So, when it was my turn, I spoke of growing up down a gravel road, in the country outside a small town in rural Arkansas.

Things began to get a little more interesting when I started talking about the group of friends with whom I spent much of my time from high school until after college, a gang of sorts that we named the Turkey Mountain Posse (TMP for short). I guess you could say that most of the guys I with whom I associated fit the dictionary definition of redneck (4X4 pickup driving, rebel flag flying, etc.), but most of my descriptions of my old friends came in generalities. It was not until later that I remembered the story from years ago in another life that may go down in history as the most incredibly redneck one ever, so I thought I would share it with you. The name of the main protagonist has been changed, but, seriously, many of you in my old hometown will know exactly who I’m talking about.

My old friend Bill is like a relic from another time, someone for whom the fast-paced world of today holds little interest. A former star football player, he is tall and muscular, with skin bronzed from hours of hard labor in the hot Arkansas sun, sort of an Adonis in camouflage. Bill could regularly be seen driving a large 4X4 Ford pickup truck with a toolbox in the back and a gun rack behind the seats and a cassette player always blaring Hank Williams Jr.’s Greatest Hits. He likes Budweiser, red meat, guns and is distrustful of city people, minorities, and those with worldviews that conflict with his. That being said, he’s a nice guy and a loyal friend, but not someone you want to tangle with.

One night, probably in the late-90’s to early 00’s, a group of us were sitting around a campfire as were often prone to do, listening to Hank sing about his family tradition and embellishing stories of past exploits, when the decision was made to drive back roads. There were not a lot of activities to engage in as a youth in the town where I grew up, so fishing, sitting around a campfire, and driving back roads pretty much summed up our entertainment options. Soon we were crammed into a couple of trucks with car stereos at an ear-splitting volume, rumbling down the dark gravel roads with no destination in mind, just a bunch of country boys socializing on a weekend night.

Bill was riding shotgun in the truck, while I sat with another friend behind him and the driver in the crew cab. As usual, he had at least half a can of Copenhagen in his mouth, causing his bottom lip to protrude far beyond normal and giving him the appearance of Carl from the movie Sling Blade. Our headlights sliced through the thick summer night like a sharp blade through a cloth, illuminating our path beneath the overhanging trees. The sounds of the night could still be heard despite the loudly crunching gravel beneath the oversized mud tires, but all was calm.

Suddenly and without warning there was a flash of white from one side and the truck jolted to a stop in the middle of the deserted path. Bill’s eyes lit up with an animal intensity and before we were even at a complete stop he had leapt from the cab and barreled headlong into the lightless woods with no word to explain his sudden action. I looked at my fellow backseat passenger with bewilderment as to what had just transpired when the driver turned to us, a knowing grin on his face, and spoke one word, “deer.”

Not wanting to miss out on the action, we piled out of the truck along with those following us in the other vehicle and began our trek into the darkened woods carrying a bright spotlight, moving a bit more carefully and with less urgency than our friend.

“Bill!, Bill!” we called out, “Where are you?”

There was no answer, so we moved along, deeper into the inky blackness, tripping over unseen tree roots and keeping our eyes wide open for barbed wire. Finally, after several minutes, a loud grunt (Bill’s main form of communication) greeted our cries. We quickly changed directions and after a few more call-and-responses, we came upon our friend.

The spotlight shined upon a clearing in the trees and there stood our friend, biceps bulging with tension as he held a full grown deer in a headlock. With eyes wide and mouths agape, we stood in frozen shock at the sight before our eyes. Bill, sensing our presence, looked up, grinned and spoke three words, “I got him.”

With a sudden heave, Bill wrenched his arms around and slammed the animal to the ground. His knees in the animal’s side and one hand on its head, he reached into a pocket and produced a knife, its blade gleaming in the spotlight. Then, with no warning whatsoever, the knife sliced an arc through the night air and into the animal’s throat. Its blood poured onto the ground beneath as Bill held down its death throes, until the animal was finally still.

Then, with that same goofy grin coming from a mouth still full of Copenhagen, his clothes and arms stained black with blood, Bill looked up, “Any a’ ya’ll want some deer meat?”

And, yes, this story is true. The image is etched in my mind forever.

I don’t have much contact with Bill or my old friends and longer and it is probably just as well. I don’t think they would take too kindly to a liberal, anti-gun, non-hunter like me anyway.

Oh, and I think our dinner guests would have been pretty amazed at this story, too.