Hillbilly Heritage

By: Angela Gillaspie Copyright © September 1998, 2000

The other night, my husband and I were watching Cops on the television where the police were called to a domestic disturbance. A toothless and drunk old man and his gray and sullen wife met the police at the door. I told my husband, "You know -- if they were in Georgia or Tennessee, they just might be some of my relatives." He laughed at me and returned his concentration to the unfolding drama on the television. I told him, "I'm serious." "Uh hum," he answered. When the commercial came on, I asked him if he had any relatives like that, and he laughed at me as if I was crazy. It then dawned on me that not everyone has the proud hillbilly heritage that I do.

There is a difference between a country and a hillbilly type of Southerner. Country folk are sweet, poor, give-you-the-shirt-off-their-back, and God-fearin' Southerners, and hillbillies are ornery, drinkin', poor, and God-fearin' Southerners. There are both country folk and hillbillies on my mom's and dad's side of the family (although, no one will admit it), so I come by my sweet and ornery way honestly.

My parents both had tough childhoods, and they like to share stories of their hard luck. My daddy was raised on a farm and had nine sisters and two brothers, so he obviously knows how to bush-hog and the great value of the Sears and Roebuck catalog. A single mother raised Momma and they lived in the city where there are actual paved roads and indoor plumbing.

Daddy takes great pride in telling the story of how he had to walk to school (uphill in the snow both ways) and was so poor he had to take a sweet potato in his lunch.

"One day," he reminisces, "I done gone and forgot all about that sweet potater in my desk." He then takes a deep breath and says, "I can still smell that rotten tater."

My mom's favorite story to tell was when she was a schoolgirl; she could only afford one pair of socks. "I had to wash those socks out every night," she painfully remembers. Those were some hard times for my parents. I cannot imagine walking to school, much less washing my socks out every day - I would only do it twice a week (if that much). Momma and Daddy had very humble beginnings and worked hard to make sure my two sisters and I were loved, had full bellies, and a good education. I am very proud to be their daughter.

Every family has their crazy uncles and sweet old aunts, but some of my blood-relatives and non-blood-relatives go beyond description. When I tell my dear husband of my relatives, he thinks I am making it all up. For example, I have an Uncle Booger (a.k.a. "Baby" Junior--that's another story) who loved his Pabst Blue Ribbon col' beer more than anything (even more than his blushing bride, Aunt Pet-Pet).

One time Pet-Pet purchased Booger a new pair of blue suede shoes (Elvis was--is big, remember) and put them next to their bed so that Booger would see them when he arrived home. Booger came home drunk (again) and when he saw the blue shoes, he thought that Pet-Pet had her a man hiding there in the house. He took those shoes outside, grabbed his rabbit gun and shot those blue suckers.

In his alcohol-hazed mind, those shoes took on a life of their own and came after him. So he quickly reloaded his buckshot and fired again. Pet-Pet was pissed. She ran outside and started hollering at Booger about how much those shoes cost down at the mercantile. He looked her square in the eye, wiped the sweat from his brow, and somberly said, "Don' matter now woman, they is dead; I done kilt em'."

I do not think it would be right to mention Uncle Booger's real name, but I can tell you that his last name ends in Junior. We also call him Uncle Junior, and sometimes "Baby" Junior as I mentioned above. In the small town we lived in, there was a bridge over a creek (or 'crick' as we called it). Every time the town would fix the bridge, Uncle Booger would run into it with his pickup truck because he was so drunk; we called the bridge "Booger's Bridge."

Uncle Booger was in and out of the Georgia Big House several times for stealing, plus he wound up in jail after he got mad at another one of our relatives and shot her in the leg. I do not remember why he shot her, but it probably had to do with those darned blue shoes. Anyway, one of the times he was in prison (I forget which time), he had a toothache. Apparently, brushing his teeth never occurred to him. It was hurting him so badly he went to the infirmary and told the doctor, "I wantcha to pull ever durned tooth in my hayyud; thar ain't no sense in keepin' teeth that hurt so dadgum much." The doctor complied, and henceforth Uncle Booger was called "Baby" Junior because he had no teeth.

Sometime I am going to take my city-boy husband down those dirt roads where some of my kinfolk live to prove to him that I am telling the truth. Some of my relatives would just as soon spit at us as look at us because they are meaner than a barrel full of striped snakes, but the majority of my relatives would welcome us with open arms; they would ask us to come in and 'sit a spell' while we watch Hee-Haw reruns on the tube. We would sip on a 'cold drank' and talk about how well Norma Sue's beauty parlor is doing. I would caution my husband beforehand not to bring up the subjects of politics, prison, or blue shoes. If he did, we just might be the next domestic disturbance featured on Cops.

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