‘Good ol’ boys’ love their mamas, trucks and TVs
By Ronda Rich
An e-mail arrived the other day from a sophisticated Yankee who needed advice.
"I came South and fell in love with a redneck. Please tell me how to win his heart," she wrote.
I needed clarification. I’m always suspicious when Yankees talk about rednecks because they’re bad to clump all Southerners into that category.
"Is he a redneck or is he a good ol’ boy?" I asked in a reply e-mail. "There’s a difference."
Further investigation revealed he was, instead, a good ol’ boy. That established, I had plenty of advice.
So, here’s some wisdom about good ol’ boys that every woman should know, particularly the young ones who should learn it now rather than find out the hard way:
Good ol’ boys love their mamas. They always are in search of a woman just like her. Their mamas also are in search of a woman just like themselves, but the sons are more likely to find her than the mamas are.
It is OK to come between him and his mama, though both will protest mightily. If it becomes too much of fight, quote the Scripture, "A man should leave his mother and cleave only to his wife." Throwing Scripture at a Southern woman is akin to throwing kryptonite at Superman. She melts to a puddle of nonresistance.
While it is permissible, even advisable, to come between a good ol’ boy and his mama, there are things from which you must never separate him: His pickup truck, his recliner or his television and its remote.
I once knew a recliner, old and ugly as homemade sin, as the old folks say, that became the major bargaining chip in a divorce. It worked. She got the new doublewide and he got the ugly recliner.
Good ol’ boys are serious about their trucks. They use them to haul many things home including recliners and television sets.
Most of my girlfriends are married to good ol’ boys, but none more than Debbie. Her husband, Mike, is the best of his kind, the kind that fights for those he loves and allows nothing to come between him and what he loves. Like his pickup truck. When some idiot tried to steal his truck, he met more than his match.
From a sound slumber, Mike awoke to hear the sound of his adored truck rolling over crunching gravel down the long driveway. He leapt from his bed, grabbed his clothes and took off after the stupid bandit who, obviously, hadn’t done his pre-theft homework.
Apparently, the thief didn’t know that Mike is a multi-crowned racing champion who is fearless in a racecar, calm under pressure and who once beat Dale Earnhardt in a one-on-one matchup.
The thief also didn’t know of Mike’s devotion to shoot-’em-up Westerns. But he soon learned.
Mike jumped in Debbie’s SUV, and for the next several minutes, chased the idiot at high speed down red dirt backroads, jumping gullies and barely missing trees in the pitch black night.
Driving with his right hand, Mike used his left hand to shoot at the guy who surely was beginning to regret his stupidity.
"You shot at your own pick-up?" I asked incredulously.
"Yep. It was my truck. Nobody’s gittin’ my truck."
And so no one did. The hapless bandit finally had the sense to stop, jump out and run. Mike didn’t get the stealing scoundrel but got his truck back, bullet holes and all. And that’s what counts.
"People’ll say, ‘What’s them dents in your tailgate,’" Mike explains. "I tell ’em, ‘That ain’t dents. Them’s bullet holes.’"
Which, of course, then gives Mike something else that Southern good ol’ boys love as much as pickup trucks, recliners and television sets: A good story to tell.