The Hillbilly Pt. 06

The Hillbilly, Pt. 06

I guess I set myself up for this when I ended the last story with hints of a relationship that needed to be resolved. I knew once I started thinking about this story that I wanted two ingredients and I got them, but it was the middle or the early middle of the story that eluded me. I finally hit on it one day while food shopping and then the rest of the story wrote itself.

I hope you like this. I never intended for The Hillbilly to be more than one story, but I've come to like the character and the people he knows, so I revisit them from time to time to see what they are getting up to.

You may want to read the previous story to better understand the characters and a few remarks, but this is essentially a stand-alone story that picks up where the last left off.

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Husbands and wives don't just notice different things and think about them differently; we live in different universes. We walk through life side-by-side, holding hands and sharing our lives, and all the time our perception of the world around us could not be more different. That's why I have my man cave out in the barn behind the house. I can relax there with my equally unaware friends, drink a little home brew, and discuss the more obvious comings and goings of the lives around us. Subtlety just gets in the way.

That's why I was surprised when after returning from an after-Christmas gathering of our friends my wife, Barbara, casually said, "It's good to see Beatrice and Lonnie enjoying each other."

What? Did I hear that right? "I'm sorry, what do you mean?"

"Beatrice and Lonnie." She looked at me like I'm supposed to know how to decode that statement.

"Beatrice and Lonnie what?"

With a roll of her eyes and a shake of her head, she proceeds to explain to me that Beatrice and Lonnie have been arriving and leaving together at every party for the past month and didn't I notice?

I hadn't. "Are you sure?" I was losing ground with every statement.

"Yes, dear, I'm sure. Beatrice told me he's spending most nights at the farm now."

It took me a moment to wrap my head around that. "Are you sure? I spent the evening with Lonnie, and he never said anything."

I hate that look she gives me. She's been giving me that look since we were still in school. Honestly, I'm not as slow as she seems to think; I just don't notice things like that. I mean, if he'd said something I would have been happy for him, but a guy needs to be told, and guys need to tell other guys this sort of thing to save them from looking stupid in front of their wife. I suppose he didn't tell me because he didn't want to embarrass Beatrice. At least, that's what I told myself.

I decided I needed to get behind this before it ran me over. "Good. That's good. I'm happy for them."

I wish she wouldn't shake her head like that or at least not roll her eyes when she does it.

I suppose some introduction and explanation is in order. My name is Jebediah B. Greene and I've been Jeb to friends and family since I was a kid. It was a gunnery sergeant in basic training who hung the name Hillbilly on me. It seems all those years of shooting squirrels made me a pretty good shot, and I respond to the name with more than a little pride. Don't mistake me for some ignorant, inbred fool; I just don't care for the city life very much and other than church on Sunday I haven't worn a tie since my wedding. I have a job that keeps me moving between the office and remote sites which is just about perfect for a man like me.

Lonnie's been my friend since we were kids and he's not much different from me except that he avoided the military and somehow adapted to a full-time desk job. He's a bit smaller than me and I've somehow come to view him as my little brother, although the truth is he's about two months older than me, not that it's ever mattered to us. Lonnie caught his wife in an affair with one of the local well-to-do about seven months ago and it was a rough time for him, but we helped him through it, and he somehow came out stronger for it. That's what I knew, but it seems that more was going on than I'd been told.

As for Beatrice, where do I begin? She, too, has been my friend since we were kids. We played together, ran the woods together, and when we were old enough, we hunted together. Bebes inherited her family farm when her parents passed unexpectedly, and she does a great job of it. She'll never get rich, and I suspect she'd make a bundle if she sold the land to some developer, but that's not Bebes. She raises corn and vegetables and collects honey for her farm stand, keeps chickens and a few pigs, cuts hay for the animals, has some horses she rents out to city folks who want to ride, and has a few cows. She uses the milk to make yogurt that she sells at her stand or in town. She works hard, but that's her nature.

Bebes is not what you might call a centerfold woman farmer. You know what I mean? I'd never say this to her face, but where some advertisers might put a skinny model in a pair of overalls and stage a photograph on a farm, Bebes is not centerfold material. She's a solid, hard-working farming woman and she's built like it. What's more, I couldn't love her any more if she were my own sister and in many ways she is.

So you understand that when I learned my friend who is like a brother to me is romantically involved with my other friend who is like a sister to me, and nobody had told me, I was more than a little confused.

It was maybe ten days later on a Saturday afternoon. Danny, Boyd, and JP were with me, and we were all in my barn sitting in my man cave gathered around the wood stove. I have no idea what they were discussing.

JP broke my train of thought. "Jeb, you okay?"

"What? Sure. I'm fine."

"You seem like your someplace else."

I sat there for a time just staring at my friend. He grew up in the city but moved here after we served. He was a country boy by choice rather than birth, but he was a country boy all the same. "Did you know that Lonnie's been living at Beatrice's farm?"

"Yeah." He said it matter-of-fact like it was old news.

Turning toward the others, "Did you guys know?"

Boyd seemed unsurprised. "He's been out there for about two months or more."

Danny shirked. "Beth told me." Beth is his wife.

I guess it was only me. "Don't tell Barbara. If she asks, pretend you didn't know."

The grins and nods suggested they understood where I was coming from.

I got over myself and the next hour passed pleasantly until Lonnie wandered in to grab a beer and find a seat.

JP took a long, hard look at Lonnie. "We were just talking about you."

"Oh?"

I waved it off. "I just learned recently that you've been spending time out at Beatrice's farm. I guess it caught me by surprise, but I'm happy for you guys."

Lonnie looked a bit sheepish, but he was smiling. "Actually, I moved out of my apartment two weeks ago."

Well that called for another round of beers and congratulations from everyone there.

"So, Lonnie, how is life on Beatrice's farm? Anything exciting happen?" It was Boyd who asked the question, but it drew an appreciative snicker from us all. The question was probably rooted in sex, but there was more to it than that. Have you ever heard your friends laugh at you and know they supported you one-hundred percent? It was that kind of laugh because everyone knew that Lonnie was not a farmer, had never lived on a farm, and barely knew which end of the critter eats and which end of it poops.

"She got out of her pen again."

There was a moment of stone-cold silence followed by the roar of laughter. Some were choking on that mouthful of beer they tried to swallow while others spilled their beer on the floor or in their lap or wherever it landed.

"Very funny! I meant Bertie, the cow, and you know damn well that's what I meant."

Yeah, we all knew, but it didn't keep us from laughing. Rest assured Bebes was never going to hear this story. That would be a poor way to start a relationship and not a good thing for the rest of us, either. There was the sensibility of the other wives as well as the bride to consider. A husband learns these things the hard way and remembers them for the rest of his life.

Bertie is a notorious escape artist. She never runs too far and Bebes thought it was more often just a demonstration that she could do it rather than a desire to be free. Truth be told, she had it pretty good on the farm. She always got good grains and hay, her straw bedding was always fresh, and she was relieved of that burdensome milk every morning. Bertie liked her life, but she sometimes needed to assert her independence and go exploring. This time Beatrice found her about a quarter mile away standing by Jack Pension's fence having an engaging conversation with one of his cows. Only they knew what they were discussing, but when Bebes found her, she was more than ready to head home. Then just like a hundred times before, Beatrice put a rope around Bertie's neck and quietly led her home. Bertie never fought her, but if cows can laugh, we all believed that Bertie was laughing while they walked together toward her barn.

The next hour passed in much the same way with the five of us discussing the comings and goings in our town, planning a little ice fishing trip if the freezing weather held, and giving each other a hard time whenever we could. I brew my own beer, and we were going through the last of the beer supply quick enough for me to start making mental notes of what I should brew up next. That's when Lonnie decided he could not resist the urge any longer.

"So, Boyd, what are you driving these days?" That got everyone laughing for the umpteenth time.

While we laughed, Boyd glared at Lonnie. "You know that story gets a little old."

"Not for us!" Lonnie barely choked the words out. Seven months ago we caught Boyd driving his daughter's Barbie jeep and we still weren't letting him live it down. In our town, a proper country boy drives a pickup, and it isn't properly broken in until there is a multitude of paint colors covering the various repairs. We call it hillbilly camouflage, and a visitor to our town would be hard pressed to tell one truck from another if they walked down Main Street. My wife likes to call it stealthy. Barbara is a country girl, born and bred, and she says it with pride and maybe a little quiet amusement. Country girls know their husbands are still part country boys and part country men at heart.

"Jeb, isn't it about time you cook up some more biofuel?"

I looked at the drums behind me out of habit and didn't need to check them. With a deep breath I said, "Yeah. I guess I've been falling down on the job."

"Hell, man, it's barely into the new year. We just got through Thanksgiving and Christmas. You're entitled to take a breather."

I couldn't disagree. "Okay, I'll make some calls and see if any of the kitchens in town have frying oil that needs to be picked up." The local and not so local restaurants knew me. I pay them for their used oil, and it spares them the hassle of disposing of it. All told, cooking biofuel is good for everyone. I turn the used cooking oil into biofuel to run my truck and heat my home. We all burn wood in the stove as well, but the furnace gives us hot water and guarantees that it never gets too cold in the house. Most of us have wives and some of us have daughters living at home, so there is always that pressure for a stable temperature in the home.

I suppose with the decision to reach out to my usual cooking oil suppliers came the realization that the holidays were behind us, and we were now in full-on winter. Little did I know the surprises and discoveries this winter and spring would bring.

The first surprise came about a month later when Beatrice and Lonnie announced that they were engaged. The announcement came over dinner when we were all out at our favorite barbeque place. There were maybe fourteen of us there spread across three tables and when everyone was deep into the ribs Beatrice slipped her ring on her finger and the two of them made the announcement. It's a small town and we knew just about everyone there, so the announcement was met with cheers and applause by everyone. The women all hugged Beatrice and started asking for the details while the men all congratulated Lonnie and raised a beer in celebration. It was a great night, and I thought that would be that. I couldn't have been more wrong.

My daddy always told me that "Life is a series of joyful experiences adrift in a sea of unending disappointment." I think my daddy was an undiagnosed depressive. Still, I remember those words and there is some truth to them.

My wife had sent me to the store for the week's groceries because she and Beatrice had some wedding plans to make. You'd think that planning our own wedding and helping our daughters with theirs would have soured her on such things, but Beatrice was an only child and with her parents having passed, I guess the wife of a childhood friend was about as close to a female relative she had or wanted to confide in. I had finished loading the week's groceries into my truck, returned the cart that for some reason insisted that all four wheels needed to wage war against each other as I tried to maneuver my way through the store, climbed behind the wheel, and was preparing to pull out when a fancy white SUV came up fast behind me and spun into the space to my right. My daddy also used to tell me that squirrel hunting did more to refine the reflexes than just about anything else, so I caught it in time and waited for the bounce that marked the stop of the SUV. Content that the coast was clear, I then slowly backed out straight and true because those spaces are tight and you can't start your turn until the front bumper of the truck clears the rear bumper of the car next to you. That's when I heard and felt the thud. It gets so things like this don't surprise me anymore. So I put the truck into park, turned off the engine, and exited the cab to survey the damage.

What should have been a simple matter of "Excuse me. I'm sorry" followed by "No harm done. It's not the first time" turned into a screaming banshee of a self-appointed, privileged harpy getting all up in my face as the young people like to say.

"What the hell do you think you're doing! Look at how you damaged the edge of my car door! You ignorant rednecks are all the same. You have no respect for other people's property!" and on and on. While she was screaming and attracting attention from the other shoppers, I quietly took my cell phone from my pocket and began to photograph the situation. I photographed the location of my truck, her SUV, and especially her door that was still in contact with my truck. Then as she continued to rant, I began to video her behavior. I guess she was too caught up in her own misfortune to notice.

I offered to call the police to mediate the disaster, but she yells out, "The hell you are! I'm calling the police myself!" and proceeded to do exactly that. Since I had nothing more to do but wait, I leaned against the back of my truck and smiled at the passing shoppers, most of whom I knew to one degree or another.

When the officer arrived, she went right over to him before he had time to get out of his patrol car. I guess he told her to back off, but I'm sure he did it nicely, and once he was out of his car, she resumed her tale of woe and destruction. As he listened and nodded, he looked over in my direction and I waved nonchalantly at Dave. Officer David Perkins and I went to school together, double dated when we were teenagers, and sometimes hunted together. Plus, he was a frequent visitor to my man cave. Let's just say we are acquainted, but he wasn't going to tell her, and I certainly wasn't.

In time she wore herself down and Dave came over to me. "Would you like to tell me what happened?" He was working hard to suppress a grin and being only partially successful.

"Well, it's not complicated. I loaded my groceries in the truck, she pulled in beside me, and once her car had stopped, I began to back out. That's when she swung her door open and hit my truck. You can still see the spot" and I pointed to a red patch of painted body putty where I'd recently repaired a rusted hole in the passenger door.

Dave took his time as if to give the door his fullest attention. "Well, I see the red patch between the green patch and the black patch, just behind that suspicious bit of original paint, but I can't see any white from the car door."

"Well, I'm sure if you examine the edge of her car door, you'll see a little red, or maybe green or black. I'm fairly sure she didn't hit me in the original paint." We were both trying to maintain a businesslike discussion and the whole scene wouldn't have been half as funny if the other driver wasn't blowing a gasket the entire time.

"Oh, yeah, I see it now." Dave was nodding, but in truth I couldn't see it. Then he turned to the woman who was a shade of red I didn't yet have on my truck and said, "Well, mam, what would you like me to do?"

"Do? I want to press charges. I want this ignorant redneck to pay for the damages!"

Then with complete sincerity, Dave looked at her and said, "Mam, I can write up a report and you can come down to the station to press charges, but there is something I feel I should tell you in the interest of accuracy. You see, I've lived in this town just about my whole life, and this fellow here is not a redneck; he's a hillbilly and there's a difference."

That was all I could take. I turned my back to them and once again walked toward the back of my truck because it was all I could do to keep from cracking up in front of them both. It would not have been good for Dave to be caught knowing me too well at that point.

The last thing I heard from her was, "I don't give a damn what he is, I want him to pay for the damage to my car!"

Dave took her statement, filled out the necessary forms, and then stood at the opposite end of my truck as we watched her pull out of her space, nearly hitting an oncoming car in the process, and drive away.

When she was gone, Dave returned to the back of my truck having lost all of the professional comportment he had worked so hard to maintain.

"Do you think she'll file a complaint?"

"Yep. I bet she's headed there now." With that, Dave clicked the button on his radio and told the desk there was incoming and what to expect. Judging from the laughter I overheard, they were looking forward to it.

Once it was all done, I showed him the photographs and the video. Dave asked for a copy.

"You going to file it with your report?"

"Yeah, and then I'm going to show a copy to Janet if you don't mind?" Janet is Dave's wife.

"You'd probably be in trouble if you didn't. I don't suppose you caught any of it on your body cam, did you?"

With mock indignation, he said, "Jeb, I'm insulted! I am a consummate professional law enforcement officer." Then after a pause, he added, "I got it all. Here, sign this request and I'll send you a copy" and he did just that.

As if that wasn't crazy enough, I got a letter from the court about two weeks later stating that she was, in fact, pressing charges. Barbara did as Barbara always does, and she began to worry. Then she would get mad. Then she would worry again. Truth is, keeping her calm was the most difficult part of the whole affair.

The court date rolled around, and Barbara insisted that I put on my Sunday suit. Another thing my daddy always told me was to pick my battles, and I didn't need to battle my wife while I was already battling this city woman, so I did as I was told. It was traffic court, so there were no lawyers involved. She told her story, I told mine, and then Officer Perkins told his. The whole time Dave was testifying, Judge Daniels was giving him a funny look as if to say, "Really? You of all people, and you're trying to convince me you're impartial in this matter?" Of course, he never said a word to that effect.

When Dave got to the point of saying, "I took photographs of the damage and Mr. Greene took photographs of the two vehicles before I arrived" Judge Daniels got interested.

"Well, let me see them!" Some fancy glossies were passed over his desk, the judge examined them for a minute, and then asked the city woman, "Tell me, did you move your car after the impact?"

"No sir! I kept it exactly where it was."

"And did Mr. Greene?"

"Mr. Greene's truck was moving when he hit my car."

"But did he move after the impact?"

"No, sir. He jumped out of his truck and tried to intimidate me, but there were too many people around for him to get away with that!"

The judge turned to me with a decidedly disapproving expression on his face. "Is that true, Mr. Greene?"

"No, sir. I simply turned off the engine, got out of my truck, and walked around to assess the damage."

I suppose at that point it might have gone badly for me, but Officer Dave spoke up. "Your honor, I do have video of their interaction if you would like to see it." He did. I swear that watching the video of that woman go after me was almost enough to bring about a mild case of stress if it hadn't been for a slight smile I saw cracked on the old man's face.

"Mam, it appears from the photographs that Mr. Greene's truck is well within the lines of his parking space. Moreover, it's your car door striking the side of Mr. Greene's truck and not the other way around. You've already testified that Mr. Greene did not reposition his truck before the photographs were taken. I'm afraid you have no case; however, Mr. Greene does if he wishes to pursue it."

I never got the chance to respond. She lit into him like he was an umpire at her only son's baseball game. She called him all sorts of things and yelled them at the top of her voice. However, it wasn't until she called the judge an "ignorant redneck" that he took umbrage and sentenced her to a night in the slammer. She kept on yelling as the bailiff took her away. I swear if a man had behaved that way, they'd have gotten a week instead of a night.

Judge Daniels banged his gavel, said "We'll take a short recess" and then motioned for me to come to his bench. "You tell your daddy we're going fishing just as soon as he gets that boat in the water, you hear me, Jeb?"

"Yes sir, Uncle Harry."

I need to explain a few things about Judge Harry Daniels. First, he is as honest as anyone I have ever known. He didn't rule in my favor because of our relationship. He would have decided against me if I'd been wrong. Second, he really hates being called a redneck as the city woman learned. Last, he's not really my uncle in the sense that he's not my mother's brother. He's just a friend of my daddy's that I've known all my life, who is there when he's needed, taught me by example how to scare off a black bear, turned a blind eye to some of my more innocent teenage hijinks when he could have told my parents, and gave me a very sobering lecture when he caught me drinking my daddy's bourbon. Some relatives you're born with, and some adopt you along the way. Uncle Harry adopted me the day I was born, and I've been lucky to call him my uncle ever since.

Life continued as the wedding plans roped in more of the wives to offer opinions. I was beginning to worry that my friend might be a fish out of water as the wedding plans took over her life and took on a life of their own. Bebes had never been what you might call a girly girl, although I never disrespected her once I was old enough to know what that meant. It's just that I was suddenly seeing a new side to my friend. She was looking over bridesmaid dresses, considering flowers for the tables and the church, debating a menu, and interviewing musicians. At one point I made the mistake of offering to have a cookout just to keep it simple and I was called some things that I am not embarrassed to admit I had to look up in a dictionary!

When I asked Lonnie what Beatrice had decided, he just shrugged his shoulders and said, "I was told to be on time, clean under my fingernails, and wear the tux she picked out for me." I looked around the man cave and there seemed to be a general agreement that this was very sensible.

Once the decisions were made and the deposits paid, I thought that all we needed to do was wait. Again, I made the mistake of expressing this thought to my wife who responded, "Where were you when we got married? Were you even paying attention?" I guess I wasn't. I do remember being told in very clear and loving terms to not be late, clean under my fingernails, and wear the tux she had picked out for me. I went a little further and trimmed my beard.

About a month before the wedding, when I thought "Finally, all the work is done, and life can be normal again" Barbara informed me that she was throwing a bridal shower for Beatrice. I said, "That's nice. Let me know if I can help." I really hate it when she looks at me that way. I knew I'd stepped in it, but I had absolutely no idea what I'd stepped in. I just knew it wasn't good.

"She's your friend, you know."

"Actually, I thought she was our friend. I mean, who did Bebes turn to when she wanted help with the wedding plans?"

I hate that look! "Beatrice didn't need help. She just didn't want to do it alone."

This time I kept my mouth shut. I was learning.

With some exasperation, my loving wife explained to me, "A wedding is all about redefining her place in society. She's changing her identity in a profound way, and she wants her friends to approve."

I've always approved of Beatrice. She is one of my closest friends, certainly my closest female friend, but I wasn't going to say that right then. So I did what husbands have always done, and I nodded as if I understood.

With what I considered to be genuine risk to my future happiness, I asked, "So what can I do to help?" That seemed to work.

"We'll be having the shower here."

I liked that idea and offered to help clean and prepare. She informed me that I was already scheduled to help clean.

"I need you to rent a tent."

A tent? What does that have to do... I was confused again.

"I've invited her friends and family. It turns out that she has a lot more friends than she knows and they all want to come."

I couldn't argue with that. I was happy for her.

"And I want you to hire a caterer."

"What's that again?"

"I said that I want you to hire a caterer." She didn't wait for a response. "Here's their name and phone number. I've already arranged the menu. Also, I've rented tables and chairs. The tables come with some nice tablecloths. They'll need some help carrying everything into the back yard, so I'd appreciate it if you could arrange for your friends to help."

Once the shock wore off, I found a fraction of my voice and managed "Okay. I'll look into renting a tent and..."

"I've already arranged that. It's two tents, one for the shower and a smaller tent for coats if it rains. They need to set up the day before the shower."

My head was spinning. "Okay, so you want me to drive around and make the deposits?"

She smiled at me for what I think was the first time since she said, "She's your friend, you know" and placed her hand on my chest. In the most loving tone she could manage, I heard, "I've already given them our credit card. I just wanted you to know so you don't get surprised by it when it happens."

And that is how we came to hold a bridal shower for my childhood friend, Beatrice, two weeks before the wedding. Barbara seemed to think that giving me two weeks' notice prior to the shower was a major concession on her part and that I should be grateful while I thought it best that I keep my opinion to myself.

Of course, I'd heard the words, but some of the details had been left out. The main tent was big enough to hold a small circus, and I was beginning to think that "circus" might be the best description for a wedding that I knew. It wasn't enough to invite the women that I knew Bebes knew. We drew women from neighboring towns. One carload of women came from Pennsylvania and another from West Virginia, and I never knew that Bebes had ever been to those states.

Since I had to be there to work, I got my first up close view of what a bridal shower entails, and I am here to tell you that I don't know if the goal is to make the bride feel loved or everyone else feel embarrassed. Maybe it's both. I will tell you this and I learned it the hard way: no man wants to get caught within eyesight of a woman's bridal shower. The women are emboldened and being seen just makes you a target. So I retreated to my man cave and told my wife to call if she needed anything.

My man cave became something like a deer blind and from that vantage point, I could see what was happening without being seen. What I saw confused me, frightened me, and made me so very proud of my wife and all the other wives. I saw my lifelong friend become the woman she'd never been. For reasons I will never understand, I saw her covered in bows that had been used to wrap her presents. I saw them all play silly games. I saw my friend giggle when I've never seen her giggle before. And I saw those few seconds when she cried happy tears. I know because I cried them, too. Like most husbands, I will never fully understand women, but on that day, I looked on in awe and wonder and I said a quiet prayer of thanks that these women were in my friend's life.

As the bridal shower continued, my friends slipped quietly into the man cave unseen. Lonnie had orders to avoid our place during the shower, but as the day wore on Beatrice's male friends gathered, watched, listened to the screams of laughter and applause, and shook our heads while understanding none of it. I had struck a deal with my wife that when the shower was over and the guests had left, she would tell Bebes that some of her friends were waiting for her in the barn. Barbara kept her word and the woman who walked into the barn that evening bore surprisingly little resemblance to the friend I've known most of my life. My farmer friend and hunting partner, the woman who mucked out the barn and took to walking her cow home after her many escapes, was transformed into a lovely, glowing, soon-to-be bride in all her glory. Gone were all the ribbons and the silliness that we had witnessed. Then in a voice that was both soft and loving, she thanked us all for being there for her, hugged us, and kissed each of us on the cheek.

We were speechless. Honestly, I think each of us was too afraid that if we spoke, we would spoil the moment. Finally, David nudged me saying, "Jeb! You have something?"

That brought me back to the purpose at hand. "Yeah! Right." I looked at my friend who was standing there quietly smiling at my discomfort and said, "Beatrice, we got together and wanted to give you and Lonnie something to celebrate the wedding." Okay, it wasn't my finest hour. I took the envelope from my pocket and handed it to Beatrice. By that point in the evening, she was well-rehearsed in showing appreciation and surprise, but this time I think we really did catch her unprepared. In the envelope were plane tickets to Bermuda along with a two-week paid reservation at a resort that Boyd had researched online. Farmers can't leave their work for two weeks, so we included a commitment and schedule where we would care for the farm and all the animals in her absence. It would be, perhaps, the first real vacation Beatice had ever had. Now it was her turn to be speechless. We were all momentarily caught up in that growing sense of accomplishment, and then she started to cry. We were unprepared for that and rushed to console her. We promised we could do better if she gave us time and that succeeded in bringing out the bride's laughter. She hugged each of us, crying into our shirts and kissing us again on our bearded cheeks, and told us it was the most wonderful gift she had ever been given.

"You boys will never cease to amaze me. I'm so lucky to have you for friends." I'm here to tell you that it doesn't get much better than that, and we were by then all wiping tears from our eyes. It takes a lot to make a hillbilly cry, but my friend the bride had found a way.

We had hoped she would sit and have a beer with us, but that was not to be. It had been a long day, and she needed to get home. So we wished her well, hugged her one last time, and then she was gone.

While I had plans of spending the evening sitting with friends and drinking some home brew, that would need to wait. Shortly after Bebes left us my wife appeared. "Okay, you've sat around long enough! There's work to do, tables to carry, and chairs to stack. Get to it, boys!" I wonder if Lonnie knew about this part of marriage? "And when you're done, there's food left over and waiting for you in the kitchen." That got us moving!

If I thought that the shower marked the end of wedding preparations, I was soon relieved of that misconception. The comfortable ignorance that enveloped me lasted less than twenty-four hours before my wife said those words that every man dreads, "Have you written your speech yet?"

"Speech? What speech?"

With some exasperation, she patiently reminded me, "You're walking Beatrice down the aisle and giving her away, so you need to give the father-of-the-bride speech at the wedding."

"I'm walking her down the aisle?"

"Yes, Jeb, she told you after the bridal shower."

"No she didn't. I think I would remember that!"

"Well, a lot happened that day and maybe she forgot. Anyway, you need to have a speech prepared. Keep it short. It's not about you. Just wish them well and let everyone toast the happy couple."

Now don't get me wrong. I have no problem standing up at town hall meetings and speaking my mind, but this was something entirely different and I felt singularly unprepared. So I did what most men would do; I consulted my friends for advice. Their advice went something like this:

"Make sure you tell a joke."

"Don't tell any jokes."

"Oh, tell the story about Lonnie in the woods with his pants down around his ankles when that big buck spooked him!"

"Don't tell that story."

"How about the time Lonnie was on the hill with his rifle loaded and his ex-wife was in his sights..."

"No! Do not tell that story."

"Remember the time that Beatrice..."

"Jeb, skip the jokes and the stories. You'll just make Barbara mad if you do."

That was the one piece of advice I did take. These are good friends, but I swear they could get a fellow in a lot of trouble. Maybe that was their goal?

The big day finally arrived. I scrubbed extra hard in the shower, trimmed my beard, got a complaint from my wife about all the beard hair around the sink, and wore my suit that was already laid out for me. I felt ready. I was kidding myself.

We got to the church with the bride already secured in the minister's office along with most of the bridal party. My wife's arrival made them complete. I knew enough to realize that my job at that point was to stand in the back, welcome the guests, and let the ushers escort them to their seats. I did get a few compliments from the wives about how handsome I looked in my suit and a few snickers from their husbands. No matter. Uncle Harry arrived with Aunt Claire. He gave me a thumbs up with a "Looking good, young man!" while she gave me a kiss on the cheek. That calmed me and I was ready for what was ahead.

The time finally arrived. The bride took my arm as she stood by my side, and I told her she was the loveliest bride I'd ever seen. Barbara wasn't there to hear it, or I might have said the second loveliest. Beatrice was beaming. She really was lovely in her white gown. The music started, we began our slow march down the aisle, and then when we reached the front of the church and the minister asked, "Who gives this woman in marriage?" I froze. I took a deep breath, looked around the church at all the smiling faces behind me, and said, "We all do." That seemed to please the bride. I lifted her veil, kissed her on the cheek, gave her hand to Lonnie, and quietly whispered to him, "I still have hunting rights." He smiled with a nod, and I took my seat alongside Barbara with half of my responsibilities met.

The wedding went off without a hitch. Nobody spoke up when the minister asked, "Does anyone know of any reason..." and a quiet laugh went through the congregation. The minister was smiling and said to the happy couple, "Sorry, but I had to ask." That got a bigger laugh.

When it was over and the happy couple walked back up the aisle toward the back of the church, the bridal party followed a short distance behind. The plan was to form a receiving line inside the back of the church and then allow the guests to enjoy the sunshine of a lovely day for a wedding. As each guest stepped into the light we heard the laughter, but the bridal party was left in the dark to wonder.

No sooner did the bride step foot in the sunshine than she let out a loud, "What the hell?! Whose idea was this?" Standing there in the sun, tethered to the railing, stood Bertie the wayward cow. There she stood and there she remained to greet each guest as they exited the church. Nobody ever did confess to being involved in getting Bertie to the church, but whoever it was has since gone down unnamed in the oral history of our little town to be remembered by generations as the man who smuggled a cow into a wedding.

As the bridal party posed for the usual array of photographs, some involving a very contented cow, the guests all made their way toward the reception. If you haven't had the experience, then you don't know the joy of listening to a bluegrass band play a waltz for the newlywed couple's first dance. The whole affair went off without a hitch, and somehow during it all Bertie was taken home to rest and enjoy her well-earned reward. I got through my speech which to this day I cannot remember, and the party went on into the early evening long after the bride and groom departed. It was about as perfect a day as could be asked for with the love and good wishes shown to the happy couple as genuine as any I've ever seen.

Eventually, the band finished playing, the bar was packed up, and the guests were saying their goodbyes to one and all. Then on the drive home, just when I thought I was out of the woods, my wife asked, "So, do you think you learned anything from this experience?"

I wasn't going to answer that question honestly and just nodded with "Yes. It was quite something."

"Good!" she said. "Because our wedding was a quieter affair and I was thinking that our thirtieth anniversary is coming up and maybe we should renew our vows."

It's a wonder I didn't drive off the road.

I told you earlier that husbands and wives live in different universes, so you can understand that I could not see the purpose of renewing our vows when we had a perfectly fine working marriage, but you also know I wasn't stupid enough to say that. So a few months later as fall was in all its color and glory, right in the gol durn middle of hunting season, I found myself renting that same enormous tent, hiring those same caterers, engaging the services of a very good bluegrass band, and throwing a party for all our friends and a bunch of people I hardly knew. In the middle of the party we renewed our vows with Uncle Harry officiating, but I did put my foot down on two things. I told my soon-to-be bride again that we could have wine and champagne along with fancy finger food if that's what she wanted, but we would also have good bourbon and barbeque and that was the deal. She accepted once I promised that none of my friends would drink too much, and then not long after that I begged my friends, "Please, don't drink too much! I promised Barbara."

So that's the story of Beatrice's and Lonnie's wedding. They are still married today all these years later and still just as devoted to each other. Lonnie has surprised us all by learning the skills of farming and working the land beside his bride. The woman who thought she'd never marry and the man whose first wife betrayed him knew the value of their commitment, invested themselves in their marriage, and built a life together that to this day remains rich with friends and loving in their time together. I still get together with my friend and hunt her farm from time to time, and they both still visit me in my man cave to sample my latest brew and discuss the comings and goings in our little town. Bertie passed on long ago, but her granddaughter Bonnie shows all the same mischievous behavior and talent for escape as her grandmother. My wife is still by my side and my friends are still with me despite our advancing age, and we still find our way into the woods when hunting season arrives.

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I need to make a small apology. In part 2 of this series, I described Beatrice as divorced from a husband who had been a poor fit for her. As the series advanced, I came to think of her as having never married and that is how I wrote her here. Someday, I may go back and fix part 2.

I honestly don't know if there can be another installment in this series. I surprised myself with this one, but then I am reminded that Hillbilly has daughters, and daughters tend to produce grandchildren, so perhaps in time I can again take a peak and find out what grandpa is getting up to with the young ones.