Redneck Stories (Vol. I)

I'm titling this Volume I because while I have not yet written any more, I know there will be more. Many, many more.

The Time My Dad Didn’t Make a Plan

My father is an inveterate planner; he never does anything without mapping out every possible scenario first. I’m a more “shoot first, ask questions later” kind of a gal, so the constant waiting and planning and analyzing drives me insane. If I had a nickel for everytime in my life I’ve heard the phrase, “Now let’s just stop and think on this a minute,” I wouldn’t have to work for a living. 

One day, we were hosting my uncle and his lady-friend from Massachusetts and they wanted to do something “country.” We decided that we’d teach her how to shoot a pistol. My dad already had a shooting target he’d crafted (that’s the kind of thing we do on a regular basis) so he got it out of his shop and set it up. He leaned the enforced wooden target against the shed and explained to ol’ whatshername what to do. As luck would (or wouldn’t have it), she was a pretty good shot. After my uncle, my mom and I each took a turn shooting, my dad went up to look at the target and he blanched. The four of us had been effective enough with our weapons that we had completely shot through the target. And also through the shed. And also through the gas tank of our lawnmower. 

*****

The Time(s) My Mom Was a Badass Possum Fighter

In my early twenties, I was wildly underemployed and working for my next door neighbor at his insurance practice. One of my duties as his assistant was to go home at lunch and walk his “dog.”  I use quotation marks because this creature was a dog in the same sense that Spam is meat. My neighbor-boss, my parents and I all essentially shared a giant front yard, so on our “walks” I’d frequently stop and chat with my parents while this sad excuse for a dog struggled mightily to defecate.  

One day, I see my mom open up her garbage can, glance down inside and scream before slamming the lid. Naturally, I’m curious; my mom doesn’t scare easily. I’ve seen her calmly and casually beat a poisonous snake to death with a shovel. It’s pretty hard to beat anything to death with a shovel calmly. 

I then see my mom walk to her truck, calmly of course, and remove her pistol from under the seat.  She then fired two shots down into the trash can. 

“Mom, what’s in the trash can?” I ask. 

“Nothing to worry about,” she said.

“Mom, what’s in the trash can?” I inquire again.
“A possum.”

“Why was it in the trash can?”
“Because I thought it was dead.” 

Possums are infamous for “playing dead,” but I suspected there was more to the story. 

“And how did it get that way?” I asked. 

“I beat it to death.”
“With what?” 

“That terra cotta pot saucer.” 

“Umm…why?”

“It was handy.”
Yes, folks. My mom beat a possum unconscious with the first thing she saw on the porch and then casually just put it in the trash. Then she shot it. Also casually. 

Nobody puts Baby in a trashcan!

I just told her that I’m writing about some of her stories. 

Mom, “Are you going to share the story about how I beat the possum to death with the closet pole?”
Me, “It was a pot saucer if I recall.”

Mom, “Oh, that was a different time.”

*****

The ONLY Time My Dad Was Ever Rude to Company

My dad is a consummate southern gentleman. He believes that if you invite “company” over, you should always have more than enough food and drink to keep them full. He cooks for folks and always stocks their favorite beer, sodas or water in the fridge. He’s incredibly welcoming and kind and will bend over backwards for a person who is in his home. 

This is the story of the one and only time he’s ever yelled at “company.”

My parents were having their friends, John and Robin over for a visit. They were sitting around the kitchen table “shootin' the shit” as my dad calls it.  My parents don’t really drink beer, but since they knew John and Robin were coming over, my dad made sure to stock the garage fridge with their favorite kind. 

Now, I have only ever lived in Texas, but I gather that the “garage fridge” is kind of a southern thing. That’s where you keep the drinks-beer, sodas, bottled water and sometimes, when you run outta room inside, leftovers. I was a teenager at the time, so my sweet southern dad always kept the outside fridge stocked with every type of soda my friends and I could dream of.  

My parents and their “company” are sitting at the kitchen table just chatting when Robin gets up to go get a beer from the garage fridge. I’m in my bedroom, watching shitty MTV or whatever when I hear my dad absolutely scream.

“Why the hell would you come IN the house?!?!”

I emerge from my angsty teenager corner of the back of the house and I’m hit with the worst smell I have (still) ever smelled in my life.  

Robin was standing dumbfounded in our living room, her white sweatshirt sprayed with some kind of yellow liquid. Despite having never seen this before, I knew instinctively what had happened. 

Robin had been sprayed by a skunk-a direct hit at close range. 

Silent, but deadly

Skunks be skunkin’

“I didn’t know what to do!” She stammered.

“Well get the hell outta the house!” My dad shouted. 

Apparently, when Robin had gone to the garage, there was a skunk standing right in front of the garage fridge.  Surprised, they both panicked and Robin was on the receiving end of the skunk’s defense mechanisms.  There is nothing in the rulebook of life to prepare you for being sprayed directly in the chest by a terrified skunk. 

Robin and her husband did, in fact, "get the hell outta the house" immediately, but the damage had been done. No amount of Febreze Air Effects will get that kind of smell out. Only time will fade the stench of a direct hit like that.  I don’t remember exactly how long we lived with tha