Empty Whiskey Bottles & Ankle Bracelets

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For years I’ve been collecting snatches of conversations I’ve overheard here Behind the Pine Curtain, phrases and expressions that mark this place as somewhere unique. Sometimes I think the language is all that is left to distinguish one region from another in this age of commercial homogeneity. One can be plopped down in a shopping district of a mid-sized town in Iowa, Georgia, Texas or Colorado, and — except for the weather and the accent — not notice any difference. You will see a Home Depot or Lowe’s, a Target, Wal-Mart, a smattering of food chains, a dozen or so clothing franchises, usually a Bed Bath & Beyond, and so forth. Larger cities will have tonier versions of these stores as well — Versace and Neiman Marcus, Restoration Hardware and Williams & Sonoma.

There is such a depressing uniformity to much of America’s commercial district, at least in my eyes. The same storefronts dominate, from sea to shining sea, selling the same overpriced stuff we don’t need. Sigh.

But at least each region has its own unique characters and identity, or at least I am holding on to that belief, tattered as it might be. So I gather snippets of conversation that set East Texas apart from the rest of America, even if our strip centers and malls look just like anywhere else.

I was in a fast-food place the other day and overheard a fellow proclaim, “He took to preaching 50 years ago once he gave up moonshining.” The fellow went on to explain the man in question once was a serious maker of moonshine in his youth, but now preached the Word, though he still seemed to have fond memories of his wilder days hiding from the revenue agents.

In my days running a weekly paper in San Augustine, I met a couple of folks who had retired from moonshining, as well as a fellow who used to sell bootleg liquor out of a drive-in window installed in the back of his house. Folks just drove around a circle driveway behind the home to get their merchandise before the county went wet. I sampled moonshine a few times in my foolish youth, 30 years ago. I can’t say as I would recommend it.

Along that line, I recall a fellow named Frank White, a retired railroad worker. He would come visit me at the paper and shoot the bull. Mainly he came to see Sam Malone, the founder of The Rambler, the paper I was running. Sam ran a print shop in the same building and was my mentor and grizzled muse. Frank mainly showed up because he could have a drink of Sam’s cheap bourbon without getting yelled at by his wife, who frowned on his imbibing.

The Whites had an old-time detached garage with unfinished walls, boards nailed horizontally halfway up along the wall studs. Frank bought half-pint bottles of whiskey and hid them in the toolbox of his truck. He tossed the empties in the cavity of the garage walls. Years passed. Eventually the bottles rose to the level that his wife went out to get something out of the garage and spotted the cache of empty whiskey bottles lining the walls.

“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. “What are you doing with all these empty whiskey bottles?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Frank claimed to have replied. “ I have never purchased an empty whiskey bottle in my life.” That ended Frank’s drinking days and probably extended his life a few years.

Sam Malone, who also had a fondness for bourbon and was the most fearless man I ever met, helped me cover high school football after he sold the paper. We also did a Saturday morning broadcast on radio and cable television the next day. Sam did play-by-play while I provided color commentary over the coaches’ video of the game on the cable-access channel I had rented and called Rambler Channel 2. It was hands-down the worst cable television station in the state. When the Wolves got whipped, which was often, Sam would pronounce, “They didn’t just beat us and win the halftime show, they stole our girls.” That’s when you knew the home team really got a drubbing.

Finally, I was reminded recently of the time at the Lufkin paper when we conducted one of those person-on-the-street questions, which I despise. The chances of getting intelligent answers are about as likely as winning money in one of the interminable surveys we are asked to fill out for any transaction at any store in America these days.

The question we asked was: “Why shop at home?” The honest answer received was, “”Because this ankle bracelet the police put on me won’t let me leave the house.”

Now that’s the kind of answer that makes you understand that you are among home folks.

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