I’ve been impressed into telling this sad, old, tired story, partially because it pertains to my late father.

People down here seem to believe that any story consisting of COLD BEER, old trucks, and any act that one or both of anybody’s parents done and got away with, is worth telling at least twice. Here it is for the third time.

Well, I shouldn’t have to explain the first factor involved in a late June hay field story, but I guess that here is where I need to point out that my old daddy was not by nature, no inclination a “drinkin’ man.” Of course he was not.

As he later stated himself, there was way too much d…ed hay in that field anyhow, righteously speaking. About here is where I ought to mention my sainted Mother, and her traditional Baptist-Southern-and Motherly attitudes about cold beer. (June hay field standards not withstanding).

Ya’ see, Daddy, that summer had bought a new Ford truck. Plain Jane, short wheel base, stepside, utilitarian, sturdy, unpretentious, and cheap, and cheap. Ford cheap. It was a marvel.

As it happened, one of our neighbors bought a truck that was identical to ours. Right down to the black-wall tires, rubber floor mats, and a blank spot on the dashboard where a radio wanted to be. A neighbor who had neither a wife nor any attendant inhibitions about drinking cold beer anywhere or anytime, hay field or not. He was a good neighbor.

Now, Mama, on that sultry June hay field afternoon, while in route to (or possibly from) Miss Sally’s Beauty Depot and Hair Saloon, in Crenshaw happened to spy a familiar green truck similar to those previously described at Rensey Jenkins beer salon and cooling parlor. Now Mother would not have considered stopping to personally investigate anything concerning beer joint parking lot stuff, and probably would not even have noticed the truck.

But her shotgun rider that day, who was a notorious rumor monger with bad hair, inconveniently pointed it out. Our unlucky neighbor (who caught more than his fair share of brimstone for no other reason than that of having picked out a truck of unfortunate color and model) was heard to state that she was a meddling old biddy and a manure agitator to start with.

Anyhow, the damage was done and Mama seen it and Daddy got jacked up on account of it. He came through it unscathed in a quick burst of self-preserving insight worthy of a Tallahatchie County lawyer. He pointed out the fact that Raymond Hales had an identical vehicle to ours, except that Raymond always kept a short-handled shovel sticking up out of the standard slot behind the cab of the truck.

Sure enough it was true. A simple thing like Mr. Hales’ propensities for not only cold beer but also short handled shovels prevented a massacre.

Daddy was absolved. Free and clear, and he meant to keep it that way too. Because as soon as the verdict was in and Mama adjourned court, he sent me out to break the handles out of two perfectly good shovels. One to present to Mr. Hales for display purposes on his truck and the other to go behind the seat of our truck, just in case we might need to stop and get a post-hay-field beer sometime in the future.

Yours in Duplicity,

Ricky Harpole