Ep. 131: THIS COUNTRY LIFE - Minding Your Manners, Part 1

but it's going to be a little different. This is going to be my first two part episode. Next week, in part two, we're going to dig into the specifics about manners. But today I'm going to unravel a tale from my childhood that took forty six years to complete. But before I do, I want to tell you a story. A while back, I got an email from a young man who was in college in Arkansas. He was interested

in coon hunting. He was from another state, had never been coon hunting in his life, but he'd listened to clayon Nuklem and I talking about it on one of Clay's Bear Grease episodes. He reached out, and his email was so kind and respectful and well thought out. So I invited them to come and go with me. And after a few days we met up and we went hunting. He pulled up to my house in a truck that looked like he'd built it himself for the parts that

no one else wanted. He jumped out, smiling, shook my hand firmly, and told me how much he appreciated me taking him hunting. He didn't know his behind from fifteen cents when it came to anything about hounds or chasing combs with him, and that was all right. It was fun for me to teach him, at least what I knew about it. And anytime I get to hunt with someone that's interested in it and wanting to be there, they'll get just as excited as I do. And I

really enjoy sharing it with him. It makes it that much more fun for me. And I've always said that sharing a burden with someone will lighten your load, and sharing a joy will multiply it. And I can't think of anything better to share than the love of a dog and witnessing what that's dog purpose in life is. Because I promise you, neither one of us was having any more fun than old Whalen was. Now, like most folks putting themselves through college, he didn't have a lot

of extra money, especially to spend on hunting equipment. On his first night out, we drove to our hunting spot and he pulled out a homemade light that attached to his head by a strap and pired by wires connected to a six volt battery that he toted it around in his hand like a rock. The wires weren't long enough for him to put the battery in his breeches pocket, and that would have drove me crazy, but he'd never said a word about it. His hunting boots were a

pair of Chuck Taylor converses. He never complained about the wires coming loose causing his light to go out, never commented that he wished he had a better one, or a reference to anything about how dim it was. Never said anything about wading through water in his shoes that I know in my heart was the same pair that he was wearing in school that day. I didn't say nothing about him either, that would have been rude. He was happy to be there, and I was enjoying his company,

and we had a great time. He asked a million questions, and Whaling did his job by treating a few coons. I invited him to come back again, and in a few days when his schedule allowed it, I had a light waiting for him when he got there. It was an older coon hunting light that was more or less an emergency sparis since I didn't use it, but I'd held on to it, and while it wasn't new, it was several steps above a headband and tote a battery.

I'd invited my good friend Rex white and to go with us, and he brought him an old pair of hip boots that he had to say, my little buddy was overjoyed as quite an understatement. If you're unfamiliar with hip boots, they're just a rubber boot that have material swn to the top of the boot called chaps, and a strap and a buckle attached to the top that

you lose around your belt. The chaps are a waterproof layer for your breeches legs, and as long as you don't wade in water that's higher than they go up your legs, you're gonna stay dry. Now, my new hunting buddy had never owned a pair of these boots in his life, and when he put them on and pulled the leggings up, he was looking at the straps and the buckles the way a caf looks at a new gate.

all three took off toward where he was. We were walking through the knee deep water, and with every step I just knew my young friend was enjoying those boots. What I didn't understan was why he kept falling further and further behind. He was almost three times as young as Rex and I and was skinning his old job's turkey. He should have been out running everyone out there except Whaling. We got to the tree and we waited for him to get there. We let him find the coon, and

we cut Whaling loose again. We just stood there talking in the dark, waiting for Whaling the tree again, which in he did in pretty short order. We cut her lights back on and we three took off again, and again he fell behind. When he made it to the tree, Rex and I had already found the coon and we showed it to him. We cut Whaling loose again and once again cut her lights out, and found ourselves standing there talking in the dark. That boy never said a

word about his boots. Not one complaint. My coon hunting protege turned his light back on and walked back over to have another look at the coon that was still in that tree wreck saw something that I hadn't paid any attention to. He said, well, now I know why college boy can't keep up with us. He's hobbled himself. I said, do what Rick said. Yeah, instead of attaching his bootstraps to his belt, looks like he's tied them together and told him in his hand like a set

of reins to keep from falling down. No wonder he can't keep up.

His face turned beat red, and I could tell that he had just figured it out, and he snapped the other and I never said anything, and he never said anything, and Old Rex, he never said anything. At least we didn't say anything in front of him. It was funny and we still laugh about. But what seems second nature to some may be a mystery to others. And it thanks sure ain't a sign of someone's intelligence for not

knowing that boy's smart as a whip. My friend hasn't hunted with us in a while since the school load got so heavy, And the guy that didn't have a grasp on how a bootstrap worked will finish up his master's degree in business next fall, and that'll go nicely with the law degree he finished last spring. I tell you this out of the three of us that was on that hunt that night, for if you count old Whalen, he'd be my pick to keep me out of the electric chair. Who knows, I may need that one day.

But one thing's for sure. Our meeting and becoming friends was a direct result of a well written, respectful email. Manners can be a key that unlocks adventure and knowledge. I like to think we taught him a few things, and if he didn't teach me anything, he definitely reinforced some stuff. Being happy with what you have, living within your means, prioritizing your budget, and working hard toward a

better life is the best way to succeed. He may not have been able to afford a new truck, a new light, or even a new pair of hunting boots at that time, but he will, and those good manners they didn't cost him a nickel, but it paid his way into a lifetime of a standing invitation.

value them as a neighbor. And they may not be my next door neighbor, but in the scope of humanity, we're all neighbors to some degree. And I'm not sure when or why the decline in teaching children manner started, but it's not hard to see that it has. And to me, manners are a direct result of the amount

of respect you have for others and yourself. Now, I've had grown folks around my children when they're talking to them, and one of my kids would say yes, ma'am and the adult would say, oh, you don't have to say yes ma'am to me, and that's when I would say, oh, yes, they do. It's not a statement about your age. It's a sign of respect for you as an adult. I was taught that just like every generation in my family before.

I asked my oldest daughter about what her memory of manners training was in our family, and she gave me the example that I just quoted you. She gave me another one that when I or any other adult asked her a question and she said yes or no, that I'd always say, I'm sorry what you say, and she'd correct it by using the appropriate term of respect by adding sir or ma'am while I tried to set her

on fire with my eyeballs. She still has good manners, and I still get compliments from folks about how kind and.

I'm reminded of was in the sixth grade. I don't remember if it was before or after the time I hopped a train with an accomplice, leaving school and the rest of those suckers for a day of freedom and cigarettes. But on this day, because of a minor classroom coup i'd orchestrated, I and another friend who would remain a friend of mine for the rest of his life, found

ourselves in the principal's office. Our teacher, Miss mary Anne Mobley, had left the room and put our classmate Amy Ashcraft in charge of setting on her stool and taking names and writing them on the chalkboard of those of us she caught talking. Now, Miss Mobley hadn't been gone long enough for a cat toilick it's behind when my old

pal Donald started talking to me. The sound of chalk hitting the chalkboard made me look up and seeing Amy writing Brent and Donald real pretty like girls writing on the chalkboard.

I looked at Donald, and, being a highly decorated veteran of getting my hand smoked at the office, I said, Buddy, I ain't taking no whooping this time. I ain't done nothing wrong much. I had been to the office on multiple occasions for very deserving reasons, but this time I was mostly innocent and I was taking a stand. Donald said, well, I ain't taking one neither, and that's just how easy our sixth grade non violid insurrection was planned miss Mobley,

God bless her. It was her first year to teach, and she got.

jokes on you, pal. She fished to wipe that smile off your face and clean your plow when she gets here, for you and everybody here have wronged her.

She kept staring at me, and the truth came out, Yes, ma'am, but I was just whispering. The principal gave me three licks with that paddle, and then my mama gave me three more. Donald received the same fate. Now, I've told that story a million times, but what always stuck out of my mind in that situation and the countless others that lay ahead of me along the story journey of my education, that my mama always wanted to know first how I'd acted toward my teachers or administrators before being

told what I had supposedly done. Now I forgave Amy Ashcraft for writing my name down after a few days. She was just doing what she was told to do, and I knew better. Later that same year, I read Where the Red Fern Grows, and I brought a jar from home and I set it up on my desk and I taped a piece of paper to it that I'd written by Brenda Kundog Fund. Amy's was the only contribution.

She dropped a quarter in there, and as she walked away, I told her that if I ever had a daughter, I would name her Amy, and she.

she let me know that she cared about me. I acted like a clown in her first year teaching and she didn't deserve that, and I never forgot it, and to this day I still feel guilty about it. Last year, my oldest daughter, whose name is y'all say it with me, Amy, had just started fixing hair in my hometown and called me and said, Dad, you'll never guess who's hairy.

a satelene torch. I went to the open end, and with that unlit torch, I released an unknown amount of a satelene gas into my homemade cannon. I don't remember where my watermelon stealing buddy was, but I'm sure it was his idea to do it. Probably anyway, when I sparked that flint striker and lit the gas, it shot that water wet paper towels across that shop like a shooting star. It was also so loud that the principal heard the explosion from his office on the other end

of the school. My agri teacher, who should have been given a medal for working in a combat zone every day with a class full of hooligans, stepped out of his office and said, I don't know who did it, but somebody's in trouble.

not a one. We all went to the office and I fessed up. But I'm pretty sure that they all got a few leaks as well. I know, Johnny did. They dispatched justice back in those days with a shotgun method. If you shoot into the covey enough, you're bound to hit the right bird. And the ones that had no hand in it, well, they probably got away with something

that sometimes, so it pretty well evens out. They called my mama and she came up there again, and there we all sat, looking like we were all waiting for our turn in the electric chair. She said, come on, and we walked into the principal's office and sat down. He told her that I more or less had built a bomb and set it off in shop class, and I swear to my soul. The first question she asked wasn't did I kill anybody or did anybody get hurt?

It was you guessed it was he disrespectful. I believe in my heart the only reason she let me live from the sixth grade until I graduated school was because of my manners. It pays to be polite and respectful. I thank you all for list and those have left reviews and shared our podcast with others. Man, we're hearing from folks from all over the world England, Germany, Australia, Scotland, Finland, Norway, Africa, Japan, even outer space places like California. Catch part two next

week and be good to one another. It really don't get more country than that. Think a teacher and teachers, y'all be thankful you weren't teaching in the Warren School District from nineteen seventy eight to nineteen eighty four.