The Good Ole' Boys

[BamBams]

This is a true story I wrote about living in Louisiana…………

“The Good Ole Boys”

    I was eager to settle in and create new friendships, but  I was also seriously out of my element living in Louisiana’s wooded “Bayou Country” and being literally surrounded by what the locals termed “good ole boys.”  I never would have dreamed of becoming offensive by attempting to impose my so called “yankee” lifestyle upon them; therefore, I resolved to conform to their culture as gracefully and quietly as possible.  The main problem was that no one could eliminate my apprehensions by letting me know whether or not the “good ole boys” possessed unique abilities to live on the edge of disaster or if they were all simply insane, beer drinking ruffians.  I quickly realized that intense field research would be necessary in order to answer this looming question.  In other words, I would simply have to find out for myself.

   The first “good ole boy” I had the pleasure of meeting was Carl Hopkins, my neighbor.  To my relief, Carl made the first move toward friendship by smoothing my washed out, dirt driveway with his farm tractor.  Upon coming home to find the work done, I assumed it was Carl who had done it so nicely, so I took a stroll over to his place to thank him for his kindness.  Several paces were remaining to his weathered door step when the tall figure of a rough looking man was already greeting and gesturing his invitation for me to come into his trailer house and “Hey!  Have a cole one neighba.”  Looking around the place, it was obvious to me that Carl was living somewhere under the demographic poverty level, yet his home was very organized and neatly kept up by an apparently devoted wife who was not present at the time.  Proudly displayed on his paneled living room wall were two bronze and one silver star which Carl said he received “ frum Ko-reah.”  Despite his rough appearance and intimidating demeanor, Carl was warmly offering me his whole-hearted welcome to Louisiana.   Two “cole ones” later, our first meeting had ended with Carl’s invitation to “…help me out on Sataday for a few houas.”

   At 6:45 early Saturday morning, I was awaked from my deep, comfortable sleep by the blast of a trumpeting horn in front of my house.  Looking out the bedroom window through half opened eyes, I observed that Carl was impatiently waiting for me in his pick up truck.  I hastily donned some blue jeans and shoes; then I quickly ran out the front door.  While trying to assimilate some comments about how late I sleep, the next thing I knew we were on our way rambling down the dusty, dirt back roads of central Louisiana.  Throughout that sunny Saturday with Carl, we had dropped in on at least five neighbors and repaired everything from an electric oven for a widow to an eighteen wheeler.  I discovered that Carl was a type of good Samaritan, and these had been typical of his usual Saturday rounds.  When dusk had finally arrived, Carl proclaimed an end to the day’s work, and I was completely exhausted.  Just as I was attempting to exit Carl’s pick up truck, he invited me to “…go froggin’ with da boys tomorrah mornin’ uhly IF you can get up?”  Now, THIS sounded really interesting to me because I had never “gone froggin’” before and what a great opportunity this would be to closely observe the “good ole boys” trying to put some meat on the table.

   All night long, I tossed and turned on my bed while pondering how the “good ole boys” caught those slimy frogs in the swamp at night.  At 2:45 a.m., in pitch black dark, I was being handed some hip waders, a flashlight, and “gig,” which is a long pole equipped with sharp prongs on the end.  At 3:00 .a.m. I was wading through waist high swamp water and noticing hundreds of reflections from all the eyes that were upon me.  Spider eyes that were green, snake eyes that were red, alligator eyes that were orange, and “good ole boy” eyes that were wondering who this clumsy “yankee” was that Carl had brought along.  Interestingly, leeches do not appear to have eyes that will reflect a flashlight beam.  Alas, I saw the coveted, large yellow eyes of a bull frog.  Holding my “gig” tightly, I took a precise and mighty jab a the frog.  It was a huge bullfrog, so in the onion sack it went.   Sweaty and tired from wading over hundreds of huge floating logs, I began my long trudge toward some higher and drier ground.  After wading a short distance, I suddenly sank to my forehead in underwater quicksand.  I was not aware that such a thing existed.  Realizing that any help was still many yards behind me, I began to panic as there was no way to get my head above the water for air.  The more I tried to wrestle myself free, the deeper I sank.  The underwater mud held my legs as if Satan himself were pulling me to hell.  Energized by a sudden surge of adrenalin, I somehow managed to ram my long “gig” into the quicksand beneath me and climb out on top of it.  Having freed myself from this death trap, I rushed through the murky waters until I reached dry ground.  I then sat, breathless, on the tailgate of Carl’s truck hoping that the others would soon return.  While resting there alone, I concluded that the swamp was indeed an awesome place; however, it would not be wise for me to accept another invitation to go “froggin” with the “good ole boys.”  Meanwhile, I vowed that I would try to forget, yet really knowing I would always remember anyway, this near death experience.

(to be continued………..)

[BamBams]

During the week that followed, I managed to put my recent “froggin” adventure pretty far behind me while I focused on my work as a quality assurance inspector.  While making my rounds at work one day, I was surprised to see a fellow with two black eyes and plenty of bruises revealing that he had been on the losing end of a pretty nasty fight.  Somewhat curious, I approached the fellow to learn more about what had happened to him.  He explained through swollen lips how he had been “…minding his own business…” at some local bar the other night when he was suddenly attacked by a “….jealous ‘good ole boy.’”  I was inclined to believe he had run into some pretty tough characters, but they obviously had little in common with the “good ole boys” I had recently come to know.

   As the weekend drew nearer, I was looking forward to some needed relaxation when one of Carl’s friends, “Turner Yancey,” invited me to go “crawfishin” on Saturday morning “….wit da boys….”  Perceiving my apprehension, Turner was quick to assure me that this would be a SAFE and recreational outing with minimal risk to life or limb.  He recommended that I carry my gun, however, “…just in case you might see a snake.”  We were to meet at Carl’s trailer by 8:00 a.m. Saturday morning.  Since it appeared that a reasonable and apparently safe opportunity had arisen to further observe the “good ole boys” in their native habitat, I accepted his invitation.  With everyone piled into several pick up trucks, we were quickly on our way to some remote crawfish pond.  As we were bumping down the road, Carl turned toward me with a serious look in his steely, youthful eyes, and asked, “Emmett, do you know some guy who works with you and calls himself Rambo?”  Thinking about this for a moment, I responded with a simple and honest “No.”  Carl then went on to recount how “…some fool from where you work grabbed my wife’s @#@ at the bar the other night.”  He continued, “…I taught him a good lesson too!”  I was happy to see we had just pulled up to the pond.

   I received very simple instructions:  Lift each trap from the water, shake out the crawfish into the floating tub, and add new bait (catfish heads) to each trap where it’s needed.  Off I went, wading in the warm water, enjoying the sunshine, and confidently checking trap after trap.  Our combined efforts were amassing a large quantity of good sized crawfish, and I was eagerly anticipating an upcoming feast when things suddenly became very interesting.  I lifted one of the traps from the water and was holding it directly in front of my chest when it occurred to me that I was now close enough to kiss perhaps the largest Water Moccasin snake that has ever slithered upon the planet!  My trembling hand, responding to yet another massive surge of adrenalin, drew out the pistol with phenomenal speed.  Just as I was beginning to squeeze the trigger, I heard a multitude of laughter behind me and people hollering, “Emmett!  Don’t shoot!  It’s already dead!”  Examining the snake more closely, I realized that it was, in fact, “…already dead!”  I was then informed by some of the “good ole boys” that they had found the snake the previous day and had simply left it in the trap as crawfish bait.  I also learned, via Carl, that they had made certain it would be ME  who checked that particular trap on this day.  It was at this point when I concluded that crawfish tasted very good indeed; however, it would not be wise for me to continue participating in this sport with these “good ole boys.”

   As the years rolled on, I would often pass Carl on the road whereupon we would exchange our friendly waves.  He’d still smooth my driveway after a rain, and I’d still take the time for some friendly chat, or a “cole one” with him.  It seemed that he and the rest of the “good ole boys” wondered why I kept to myself most of the time.  What they didn’t realize that was my analysis was now completed and my questions had been answered.  I certainly did my best to let everyone know that none of them had offended me in any way – which was true.  It was also true that I felt safer around home during my spare time, but nevertheless, I no longer needed to think long and hard to know for a certainty that the “good ole boys” are crazy, beer drinking ruffians who have unique abilities to live on the edge.  I was also privileged to discover that the “good ole boys” advocate a loyalty and friendship that endures until death, which seems to come rather quickly for some of them, so sitting here comfortably at my desk drinking a “cole one,” I now say, here’s to you Carl!

[Nightrain52]

Great story Bams. Good ole boys and country boys are very loyal to their friends.

[VTDW]

"Just a good ole boys, never meanin no harm"

Great insight Bams and a pretty darn good piece of writing too.  You are quite an observant man you are.

Please post again.

Dave :-)

[Jerry Lester]

Great story BamBams!

Now come on! You know you had to have done at least a few more things with those fellows. Give us some more accounts!

[ironglow]

BamBams;
  That was a great piece you wrote, I really enjoyed it.
     Bam made an important point, in that when you are out of your element, as in his case..a "Yankee" moving into a Louisiana neighborhood, remember please, that you are "the new kid on the block", so to speak. Don't expect your neighbors to conform to your ways...you are in their home area.
    Where I live in a very rural part of NY State, I have seen the rare case where a city born and bred person or group buy a few acres, put posted signs up every 10 feet or so and begin to try to change our "country ways".
   They may not like hunting, trapping or a myriad of other things that have been pursued around here for a couple of centuries....and they set out to change them. Sometimes by campaigning for "ordinances", or simply screaming and complaining about our age old outdoor habits.
   Generally, they eventually realize how futile their efforts are, or are "politely" taught the ethics of being a good neighbor. In any case, they usually don't last long.
   If they are wise neighbors, as BamBams was, they become an integral part of our community!

     I lived for a couple years in East Texas, hard on the La border...
I at least knew that it was my job to adapt to the local citizens customs; not the reverse..
   One of the first things I had to learn was to slow my speech by a few "miles per hour".
    Generally speaking, a person can usually get along well in a new neighbor hood if  he shows proper respect for local custom and mores..
   BamBams showed us a good example of that...

[Fla Brian]

Great story, BamBams! It really resonates with me, especially in the sense of the comments made by ironglow.

I well remember, as a city born and bred feller going fishing and hunting in a rural part of New York's Catskill Mountains, interacting with the local folks. Because they soon realized that i was there to participate in the kinds of activities that were part of their lives and was not there to look down on them or to introduce "city ways" to them, I became as accepted as any newcomer can expect to be accepted. I went to the various "socials" and other activities of the community, becoming a familiar face at the local events and pitching in to help with the work. I guess I knew I had been accepted into their society the way you did. It was when they started playing good-natured jokes on me - the same kind of stuff they did with each other.

I went up there so often for the same reason, I guess, that they loved where they lived. The last thing I would ever want would have been to change that country to be more city-like. And they knew it.

Now, I live in a rural community in NE Florida, and I brought that same attitude with me here. I love this area because it is in no way like the big city. And, I wouldn't dream of wanting to change it. The fact that I can step out of my door and plink into my bullet trap without anybody thinking anything of it is a little slice of heaven. The fact that I live close enough to hunting land to hear the gunshots is wonderful, symbolic of the kind of area in which I love to live. You can be sure that PETA will never be able to establish a foothold in this community. I love the way children are raised around here, on the whole polite and respectful.

Someone here once asked me where I was from originally. She said she detected a bit of an accent but couldn't place it. She was shocked to hear that I had come from NYC. She said she would have guessed at somewhere in the midwest. I told her that she had just given me one of the greatest compliments she could have rendered me. :grin:

[ironglow]

Amen! Brian...