Hillbilly Wannabe, or Redneck in Training

I miss Charlie.
Charlie was the 80-something neighbor whom we met when we were looking at the house with our realtor.
He was the 80-something neighbor whom we talked about before we moved, as in “… we’ll need in a gate on that side so he can come over without having to walk around.”
Charlie was the 80-something neighbor who talked nonstop about us to the previous homeowner. He was full of excitement that a Young Family was moving into the neighborhood.
(He called us "Young"! I miss Charlie.)

Charlie (the aforementioned 80-something neighbor) loved us. He loved our kids. Our back yards were adjacent so there was never a time when the girls were outside playing without Charlie’s watchful eyes.

Charlie loved us right away, and that’s like Christ’s love; easily reciprocated.
Man, I miss Charlie.

Charlie became part of our family by his own rights, but when mom died and my fam (of origin) turned to sh*t, Charlie was a comfortable fit in the gap.


Flash forward, two [WAY too] short years later; I sat at his bedside. He was dying of cancer.

Mr was with Darling Son-in-Law, at what was to become the "Annual Father/Son Cards Game."
Darling SIL was Darling Boyfriend then, and asking that very night if he could propose to our Girl.
Charlie knew of the plan. He spoke in a quiet voice, “Looks like I’m not gonna be around for a wedding.”

He paid for her dress.

Charlie provided important information to us when we were the NK on TB. He gave us names and contact info for plumbers, heating/cooling guys, and the house-washer-man.

He told us where to get a good fried bologna sandwich. And where never to buy produce.

He bought us our first (second, third and fourth) Boston Butt roasts (which may or may not be real Boston Terrier [but who cares? Only Bingo.]) sold at the Lion's Club.

In 2005 Charlie stopped the Mayor(!) in the drugstore. He helped the Mayor(!) recall the "Hollowell Place" and the Young Northerners that had arrived from up somewhere pert'near Canada (or Northern Wisconsin.)

He explained to the Mayor(!) that rain on the unpaved alley meant mud on the Young Northerners New Vinyl Fence. He further pointed out that the alley needed to be paved in a gesture of Southern Hospitality.
He got 'er done.

Charlie’s wisdom was invaluable to us culture-shocked Yanks.

He talked me down off the ledge when I saw my first Cave Cricket. (It’s 80 yards from our basement to Charlie’s house. I ran it in three high-legged steps. Shrieking.)

It’s not a wonder that the Mayor(!) knew about the Young Northeners.

Charlie taught me that it’s nothing out of the ordinary to have a gun near the door. He preferred the Daisy. Mine’s an Airstrike. Stray cats tremble.

Charlie lived his whole life in Southern Illinois. He drove a delivery truck in the days when delivery trucks had no heaters, and evidently no passenger seat, cuz the story of courtin’ his wife included her riding shotgun in the cold, on a crate.
Charlie served in the Army. He took soldiers' bodies off the train downtown at the depot that still stands. He worked in the coal mines. He managed a country club.
He had stories.

Some of the most enjoyable stuff was about the simple neighborhood. I marvelled at neighbors gathering of an evenin' eating potluck-style and staying out ‘til houses cooled. (No air conditioning in Southern Ill? Unimaginable, my friend.)

Charlie was hillbilly. Not black-toothed, car-on-blocks-in-the-yard, more-work-pursuing-workman’s-comp-than-actually-WORKING hillbilly. Charlie was Southern Gentleman Hillbilly and I got more of the local flavor from him than I’ve gotten in the years since he passed.

I loved Charlie.

I love Genuine Southern, and I want more.
I want OBX which now I know has nothing to do with Extreme Bike Anything.
I want sea grass blowing in the breeze and I thank God for half-a-dozen Federal Prisons in Low Country.

I want to consume vast amounts of Sweet Tea without hearing voices.

I want to say things like “ya’ll”, “cipher”, and “fellers” without sounding like it’s contrived. (Well, maybe not “fellers”.)

I already call people Hon, Honey and Darlin’ but it’s more of bad-memory, I-can’t-see-your-nametag kind of thing than it is Southern Sweetness.
I pulled off “of an evenin’” didn’t I?

I want a pickup truck. It doesn’t have to be a gas-guzzling second mortgage on our house. It doesn’t have to be rip-roaring redneck LOUD, and no Confederate flag ever, but a truck to haul crap, and with a bench seat, so I can scooch close to Mr (and he can say, “What in the world are you doing? We look retarded. Move over. What're you? Fifteen????.”)

I want to wear jeans with high heels, and maybe sometimes just a little bit I sorta want to be b*tchy and think of myself better’n you. Er, other people in my town; not YOU.

I want to be hillbilly. Say the word and I’ll stop flossing.