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Childhood


I (Richard) write and produce several eNewsletters. One I do for an automotive paint and supply distributor named Auto Color. I released the last issue of the newsletter for 2006 today – called SupplyLines (you can review all of the archived issues here … if you care to). I included in this last issue of 2006 a little piece I ran across from a website I follow by Richard Weylman. It’s about Christmas. It’s about all the politically correct crap we go through these days during the Christmas season. It is short and sweet and it just makes sense ….. and, it ain’t brain surgery. So, I decided to pass it along to our faithful and loyal readers. I hope you enjoy and will pass along the link to you friends. Thanks – Richard.

The other evening a dear friend (a former executive of a large multinational company) told me that my wife and I were courageous because we openly declare to others “Merry Christmas” and we celebrate the birth of Christ. I never before saw this as anything to do with being courageous. Since my earliest childhood memories, I have always known that Christmas is a birthday celebration. Compromising one’s principles or denying beliefs for the sake of being accepted or approved by others is situational ethics at its worst. Perhaps it is time people were willing to voice and discuss that which it is they believe. Why? History records what happens when people do not celebrate Christmas if they are of the Christian faith.

In 1647, when Oliver Cromwell came to power, celebrating Christmas and singing carols were stopped. Carols survived because they were sung in secret. Not until Queen Victoria’s reign was Christmas “politically correct” again.

In a free society, no matter what each of us believes, it should not take courage to speak up and, in the case of Christmas, celebrate this historic event. Thus, with all respect and deep appreciation for every single subscriber to this weekly tome, I do wish you a very Merry Christmas and a happy, healthy and prosperous New Year!

~ Richard Weylman

Hey – from Richard and Terry … Have a very, merry Christmas and a prosperous New Year. And remember …. Life Ain’t Brain Surgery.

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The following compilation of stories is based on true happenings. Some of the events may be slightly exaggerated but for the most part they really happened. The names may be changed to protect the innocent. Now there are a few stories from grammar school and high school that personify bubba but the true measure of a modern bubba is found in his college days. Ah college, the heady days when one learns that his bed need not be made up every day and that drinking beer any night of the week is accepted.  Going to class is an option and generally becoming involved in foolish and sometimes dangerous acts is commonplace.  The most memorable bubba I have ever know was an acquaintance of  mine during high school and once in college we were able to forge a friendship that has lasted for 4 decades.  (If I forgot to mention it Bubbas are loyal also.)  For the sake of saving a marriage and preserving some dignity I will refer to this individual as Jerome.    

Jerome and I managed to squeak by our freshman year in college with minor bouts of debauchery and alcohol abuse. Little did we realize we were in training for our sophomore and junior year?   One must keep in mind that the Vietnam War was in full swing and the military draft was alive and well.  For example in April of 1968 the total number of individuals drafted was 50,000.  The United States Marines were even taking draftees in 1968.  This was the largest draft since 1943-44.  The draft is important because the only way most of us stayed away from the draft was to make decent grades in college or as an alternative, get married and have a baby.  We were so young and stupid we envisioned the marrying and baby idea as worse than going to Vietnam.  A key comment in the prior sentence is the “decent grade” comment.  Now this seems like a fairly simple task.  All one must do is go to class and study enough to keep their young ass in school.  If this feat was accomplished then no worries concerning being shot at by some 5 foot oriental who was protecting his homeland. Fail to keep up your grades and it was “GOOoooood Mornin VietNam.”  We somehow managed to make it until spring quarter of our sophomore year before the reality of the real world set in.  (More on this later.)   

Fall quarter of our sophomore year.  Man what a great time.  I had a grade point average of about 1.7, my roommate had about the same and Jerome and the rest of our crowd had all achieved the sought after status of being drunk and stupid, but well liked by the student body, the local bartenders and some of our professors.  This distinction was not lost on my mother who often lamented that she hoped I saw her tears in the bottom of every beer that I drank. ( No, she is not Jewish but would have made a great Jewish mom.)   The art of assigning guilt was finely honed in our family and since I am an only child I managed to be on the receiving end more than the giving end.  After receiving my 1A status (eligible for the draft) she once told me that if I did not straighten up that I would go to Vietnam and end up coming home in a box.  Instead of feeling guilty I was now determined to prove her wrong.   Several circumstances during my sophomore year helped set the stage for my remaining college career.  One of these circumstances involved drinking beer at a local slop shoot, (a redneck bar).  Four of us, including Jerome, had ventured to an establishment we had named The Star.  The Star got its name from a beat up old fluorescent sign that was shaped like a Star.  This fine establishment would serve alcohol to anyone tall enough to reach the top of the counter and lay down some money.  The legal age in Georgia at the time was 21 and we were all between 18 and 19 with ID’s from various colleges that said we were 21, not that anyone at The Star every asked us for and ID.  Anyway after a few rounds of beers, the door to the bar opened up and one of our buddies said  “ohhh Sheeeit!  A neighbor from his home town over 220 miles away had dropped in for a cool one.  Upon seeing Mac, the neighbor came over and spoke to all of us and asked if we were having a good time prior to sitting down with his group.  Once the neighbor left our table Mac said, “Son of a Bitch.” And it was at that point that we knew were in deep kimchi.  As it turned out the neighbor was a state revenue agent and a great friend of Mac’s family.  During the dark ages of 1967 you could get into real trouble by drinking under aged and returning to the college campus drunk.   

A couple of more pitchers of the local draft beer took our minds off of the potential trouble we faced and once the locals arrived and cranked up the juke box we were all lost in the frivolity of the moment.  Hell, once we quaffed several beers we all were too tan, too tall, too smart and too good lookin.  We could do no wrong.  Then we screwed up big time.  We returned to campus to find the dean of men and his assistant waiting at the dorm steps for us.  When asked by the Dean if any of us were drunk Jerome spoke up, or rather the alcohol spoke and said “hell yes I am drunk and so are the rest of us.”  We did not receive double secret probation but social probation was tacked upon our records and believe it or not we were put on a curfew and relocated next to the dorm mother.  Our dorm mother was a closet wino and this turned out to be a great move.  More on that subject will appear in the next chapter. Life ain’t brain surgery but is sometimes more complicated. 

Bubba Terry


The typical picture painted of a “bubba” includes dirty overalls, a short haircut, work boots and a wad of tobacco firmly implanted in the left cheek. Everyone knows that a real bubba can chew tobacco and drink Budweiser beer with no danger of mixing the juice with the alcohol.

In the usual scenario bubba is probably driving a beat up Ford pickup truck with a decal on the window of a little boy taking a leak on his least favorite NASCAR vehicle number. The truck will always be equipped with a gun rack and if the owner is prosperous a spotlight will be attached for shining deer after dark. (For those un-indoctrinated to deer hunting, the spotlight is used to illuminate the deer and render the beast temporarily paralyzed so that bubba can get off a good shot). The practice is illegal and every October and November several bubbas are introduced to the fine dining available at their local country jail as a result of the “shining.”

The inside of Bubbas vehicle will be filled with a variety of snuff cans, beer cans, McDonald hamburger wrappers, empty potato chip bags and a couple of empty coke bottles. In addition the glove box will be filled with several rounds of ammunition and at least a 3 inch knife. The rear of the pickup will have the obligatory tool box and numerous tools and devices that Bubba may use in his day to day work activities. (Note: several of these tools will have broken handles). More likely than not their will also be a dog, usually a lab or pit bull, although the lineage of the dogs may be in question.

Now that we have painted the usual Hollywood or television picture of Bubba let me offer a more realistic description.

The typical southern bubba will be dressed in freshly laundered khakis or blue jeans accompanied by either a polo shirt or a pressed button down. His feet will be sporting either boat shoes or loafers and if it is Spring or Summer he may choose to be sans socks. Tobacco is a thing of his past and he has taken to drinking Miller Light or whatever import was on sale at the local Kroger or Wal-Mart.

Bubba is probably driving a truck more expensive than Volvo’s, 3 Series BMWs and even more than the new line of Mercedes.  (Mercedes has managed to join the league of inexpensive mass produced cars for the masses)  The truck will have a “W” sticker on the back and most likely the bumper tag from his University on the front or in a window decal on the back.

Bubba likes to go hunting occasionally just to get back to his roots. This hunting may be on leased property where he and his buddies have a deer camp. The camp is generally not used for hunting but rather for drinking and reminiscing about past conquests and plans for retirement. The thrill of sleeping in the woods in order to get in a good days hunting have long been overtaken by the desire to sleep in a warm bed with a good woman, so bubba will take his leave of the camp in the early afternoon and journey back home where he will share a good meal with his peer group and drink wine and Scotch rather than sit by a fire and swill beer with the boys.

The present day southern bubba works in a variety of occupations including the professional ranks. Some Northerners and a few individuals from the South confuse the term Bubba with redneck, good ole boy or some other commonly used derogatory term. I am here to tell you that bubba is nothing to be ashamed of. Bubbas were most likely Boy Scouts and members of the MYF or BSU and might have even gone to (God save us) Catholic School. Again, for those who are uninformed MFY is Methodist Youth Fellowship and BSU is the Baptist Student Union. Remember in the deep South you were most likely Methodist or Baptist because these were the two physical churches that dominated the most prominent landscape in any downtown region of most Southern Cities. The Catholic Church although prominent in some areas, Savannah, Charleston, New Orleans is of little consequence in the rural South.

Regardless of his outward demeanor and dress the usual Southern bubba served in some branch of the armed forces and although he is extremely loyal to the Stars and Stripes you most likely do not want to downplay the importance of the Confederate battle flag. A lot of second rate organizations attempt to use the Confederate flag as their own and hold rallies while waving the flag and speaking disparagingly about cultural changes in our country. Here again we have an incorrect stereotype concerning Southern heritage and the real meaning behind the Confederate flag. The whole concept of the Confederacy was not to deprive minorities of any rights, hell, the average Confederate soldier (Yankee soldiers too) was uneducated and fighting for his country, not because he was trying to maintain the practice of slavery. A vast majority of those fighting and consequently those killed did not own slaves and were not much better off than the slaves themselves. Bubba in 1860-1865 was fighting because he was loyal to the South, and NOT what the privileged land owners were afraid of loosing.

Bubba’s never have internal conflicts concerning the treatment of women, children, small animals or anyone who cannot defend or otherwise take care of themselves. The obligatory “can of whoop ass” will be opened on those who insist on mistreating anyone or thing that may fall in these categories. Simply put, bubba sees no excuse for anyone beating up on a woman, (although some women can damn sure whip most bubbas.) picking on a child in any derogatory manner, picking on those less fortunate either physically, mentally or financially and for damn sure never beat or kick bubba’s dog or his friends dogs or any dog he may know. Most dogs are one of God’s gentlest creatures and deserve a pat on the head and perhaps a good belly rub but definitely not a whipping or beating unless bubba sees fit to perform discipline.

All of us who recognize the term bubba as one of friendship and love also realize…..

Life ain’t brain surgery.

Bubba Terry


You’ve heard the saying before. When guns are outlawed, only outlaws with have guns. Well, now the PC crowd has decided that the age-old childhood game of Tag needs to be outlawed along with guns and pointy things and dodgeball and anything else that might offend someone or actually teach a kid some real lessons in life. To all of these PC’ers and politicians and bureaucrats who want to be into every aspect of every American’s lives – catch the clue bus – get out of the way.

Life is about Winners and Losers. Sometimes you’re IT.  Kids learn from playing games like Tag and Dodgeball and when I was a kid, mumbly-peg (played with a sharp pointed knife). When will this insanity end? When will Americans just get to the point that they have had enough of this BS? For me, I’m way past that point.

I was a kid during the 50’s and 60’s. Every boy I knew owned a pocketknife and took it to school – everyday. I never knew another kid who killed anyone with his pocketknife. For Pete’s sake, we play a game with knives in the schoolyard playground – in sight of the teachers. Back then, no one I every knew pulled out their knife and threatened anyone, much less killed them. You know why? Because our parents taught us better. Because when you got home you would have gotten your butt whacked with a belt or a switch because some neighbor would have called your parents and told them what you did. And there wasn’t any arguing about who told the truth either. The parent who ratted on you was telling the truth. Everybody’s parents kept an eye on everyone else’s kids. We stayed in line (except for the hoodlums – another post) because we knew the consequences. There are no consequences any more. They need to be taught to be more like a Timex watch than a Humpty-Dumpty – Take a licking and keep on ticking.

I really don’t know how I managed to make it through some 50 odd years of living. I played Tag and Dodgeball. Climbed trees 100 feet tall without adult supervision. Went swimmming in rock quarry lakes that had no bottom (they were a 1000 miles deep as far as we knew). Went off all day “exploring” on our bikes with no cell phone but had better be home by dinner time. Had rock battles at opposing fortresses hidden deep in the woods. Advanced to BB fights with slingshots – you knew not to shoot for the head – the “Kid’s Law of the Land” back then.

I really would hate to be a kid in this day and age. I feel sorry for them. No real freedom. No room to explore. No feelings get hurt. No winners or losers. Just a bunch of ignorant PC adults watching over them to make sure they don’t get a scratch or dent or ding or their feelings hurt. We’re building a nation of wussies, in my humble opinion.

Time to reverse the trend. Get out of the kid’s way. Growing up ain’t brain surgery.

Have a great day!

Richard