Deb had today off, owing to a federal holiday. Few people ’round here even know about it. No one observes it.
Banks were closed. Ditto post offices. (I have it on good authority that some defiantly treated it like a Saturday and opened for a couple of hours in the morning. No mail delivery, though.)
UPS and FedEx were running.
When folks are told why their mailbox is empty or why that check takes an extra day to clear, reactions range from eye rolls to anger. Most of them were raised in an America that celebrated one “independence day” and sang only one national anthem.
Today marks only the fourth such official observance. Traditional Americans can be forgiven, I think, for still being rankled.
It’s no different than telling them that June is now an entire month of “pride” in something that’s anathema to their culture and their values.
It doesn’t sit well, and it never will. It’s all imposed on them without their consent. That they chafe is understandable.
I live back in the woods, you see
Hank Williams Jr.
My woman and the kids and the dogs and me
I got a shotgun, a rifle and a four-wheel drive
And a country boy can survive
Country folks can survive
Whether you’re Country or you’re not, think about what might be in a Country Boy’s personal inventory. Bocephus gives us a good start — “a shotgun, a rifle and a four-wheel drive.” AFL suggests “a big orange tractor and a diesel truck” and declares, “You’ll never catch me out the house without my nine or forty-five.”
What else? American flag? Grandpa’s pocketknife? Grandma’s skillet? Chain saw? Bow? Rod and reel? Tobacco? Jack? ATV? It’d be a short list of pretty obvious stuff. It wouldn’t be hard at all to fill out.
This morning, I made short work of a couple weeks’ combustibles, using another Country Boy essential — our burn barrel. By 9am, Deb and I were in the truck and headed south toward Marshall, where we planned to pick up an item that lots of Ozarkansan Country folk find indispensable.
The trip down Arkansas 14, farther than we’d ever followed it, and then Arkansas 27, was a genuine thrill ride. It’s in the running for my all-time favorite road — endless curves and thrilling whoops, absolutely perfect pavement.
We took time to drop by Gray Spring and fill a jug with The Best Water Ever. Crossing over the Buffalo River, we noticed that it’s way down, which was disappointing but not surprising this time of year.
Eventually we turned off Route 27, just shy of Marshall, onto a dirt road. The narrow track dead-ended at an appealingly untidy homestead. An older gentleman, warm and humble as his home, came out to greet us and directed us to what we’d come for.
Amid tall grass and tangle were dozens upon dozens of barrels, drums and totes. We were there to buy a 275-gallon IBC tote for hauling and storing a larger reserve of fresh water on The Mountain. After some Country shoppin’, we chose a good one — food-grade, previously used to transport cooking oil — plus a couple of 16-gallon drums with banded lids.
Why did we buy used? Well, a new 275-gallon IBC tote costs between $350 and $600. Reconditioned units can be had for $200 to $300. This one, which will require thorough power-washing (inside and out) and sanitizing, was advertised on Facebook Marketplace for $95.
For the same reason that we originally acquired two blue 55-gallon barrels — one for transporting fresh water and another in which to store it — we plan to add a second IBC tote. When the time comes, we’ll be back at that homestead in Marshall.
Before leaving the area, we grabbed burgers and fries at Daisy Queen. Rather than retracing our route back to Yellville, we returned via US 65 north and US 62 east.
That trip was notable for a couple of, shall we say, incidents.
Somewhere north of St. Joe we passed a southbound semi pulling a livestock trailer. He was rounding a right-hand curve, which was a left-hander in our northbound direction. Centrifugal force acting on his trailer slung a metric ton of shit through the open slats and into our lane, splattering all over the Silverado’s windshield.
I found that totally hilarious only because I didn’t have my window rolled down at the time. I don’t know if it was chicken shit, turkey shit, cow shit or hog shit, but there was shit in every left-hand bend for the next ten miles.
Then, almost home, I casually rolled through a stop sign in Yellville. I didn’t see the Arkansas state trooper sitting across the road, but he damned sure saw me, and soon I was the subject of a traffic stop. He walked up to Deb’s side of the truck.
“Hey, how y’all doin’? I’m Trooper So-and-So with the Arkansas State Police,” he said as if we were old friends. “First, I just want to let y’all know that I love that symbol on your hitch cover!”
You read that right — before getting down to business, this state trooper complimented us for displaying a Gadsden Flag.
License, registration, proof of insurance. Written warning.
After he returned my papers to me, we talked awhile by the roadside. He was born and raised here, became a state cop, then moved to Montana to be a state trooper there. Following an extended stint in Big Sky Country, he came back home. We asked him why.
“I came back because there are….” He paused for a moment. “There are certain freedoms here.”
He paused again, then smiled and added, “And the people.”
We wished each other well. We went our way and he went his.
And that was our Country Wednesday. We love it here.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable
#LetsGoBrandon #FJB