Once upon a time I was a redneck. Never wore a MAGA cap, but I did spend an inordinate amount of my teenage years sandwiched between bumpkins in the cab of a pickup truck. I can say such things as, “Me and Willis Butolph used t’ rope and tie mountain lions up Knuckwoodard Crick,” and it wouldn’t be a lie. So, how come I don’t still reside in Carbon County?
I blame books, which I didn’t discover until after I went away to college. Previously, I had looked upon libraries as repositories for musty books and fusty spinsters. My wife, a professional librarian, has disabused me of that notion. Turns out librarians are the guardians of democracy and free speech—not anything like old Miss Barnes, who if you let loose even the smallest peep in her study hall, would beat you to death with a ruler.
Reading has opened my little mind. It’s not as if I know everything, which I clearly don’t. Rather, it’s knowing how much I don’t know that fuels my liberal mind set. Whenever someone brags to me what a great brain he has, I understand instantly that I’m in the presence of an ignoramus.
Which is not to say that I don’t hold a soft spot in my heart for the little town where I grew up. What we lacked in the way of cultural amenities was made up for by limitless opportunities to wander freely hither and yon and to interact with coal miners, bus drivers, auto mechanics, railroaders and shopkeepers such as Barney DeVietti, who allowed me to buy my first camera—a ten dollar Brownie—on installment payments of two dollars per month. Try negotiating a deal like that with your local WalMart Superstore and see how far you get!
I never earned much as a lad, but, oh, my, how can you put a figure on a job managing a county airport when the boss is away? Well, actually, there was a figure—a salary of one dollar per hour, half of which went into flying lessons. What a perfect backstory for a future fighter pilot—that is, if World War I were to break out again and was fought with flimsy aircraft of the era.
As for roping and tying mountain lions, I must confess that I never was that much into it. Basically, all I wanted to do was take a picture of a mountain lion, and the only way to get close to one was to hook up with someone who had a pack of tracking dogs. Also, my literary influences at the time were different. For example, I labored under the impression that Zane Grey was a great writer. I’d never heard of Henry David Thoreau, nor Edward Abbey, who at the time was just an obscure backcountry ranger at the equally obscure Arches National Monument. Whoever dreamt that someone from our neck of the woods would ever become famous?
