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Speaker 1: Welcome to this country Life. I’m your host, Brent Reeves from coon hunting to trotlining and just in general country living. I want you to stay a while as I share my experiences in life lessons. This Country Life is presented by Case Knives from the store More Studio on Meat Eaters Podcast Network, bringing you the best outdoor podcast that airways have to offer. All right, friends, grab a chair or drop that tailgate. I’ve got some stories to share. A ghost bull, fox ears, and the Giant as you can well imagine. Reeve and I get a lot of submissions for listeners stories. Even though you may not hear yours soon after you send it in, or even ever, I promise you I read every one of them. I make notes about where they might fit a theme I formatted for future episodes, and wait for the appropriate time to read them again and see if they do. The ones I’m sharing today were submitted well over a year ago, and I say that to encourage all the would be storytellers out there to continue to send them in. Please include your name, where you’re from, and a phone number. Sometimes I need to reach out directly for specific answers about things, especially pronunciations of family names and places, and you send that in to my tcl story at the meat eater dot com. Lastly, before we get started, I want to say this. I received an unflattering review once that complained about me telling someone else’s story. They said they didn’t want to hear me read about someone else’s experiences and that I should concentrate on my own. Well, I reached out to that person, and I like him. We had a great conversation. I didn’t try to change his mind. I just wanted him to know why I do this, as I believe I’ve done a poor job of the reasoning behind my idea for doing it in the first place. I believe everyone has a story to tell, and every story deserves to be heard. I’m blessed to have a place where telling stories is more or less my job, and to make the most of it. I want to share this platform with all the people who make my job possible. If it weren’t for all of you, who knows what I’d be doing now. It is my hat tip and appreciation for your time, and also a conduit to show that no matter where we’re from, what we’re doing, or the folks we’re telling these stories about at the end of the day, we’re all very similar people, all right. This first story comes to us from Luke Williams. Luke is a native of our Ca who was working for US undercover, disguised as an Oakie. Over there in Oklahoma City. I met Luca a couple of World Championships, World Cookoffs are going. He brought me a white hat with a big coon on it, and the next time I stepped out on the links to swing the wrenches, I’m going to be sporting that unit. So, without further ado, in Luke’s words, in my voice, here we go. I was born in Stone County, Arkansas, in the small town of Mountain View in nineteen seventy four. My older brother and I were taken in by our grandparents in nineteen eighty as my newly single mother went on to the University of Arkansas to pursue her education to become a registered nurse. And once my mama finished her education, my brother and I moved back with her and we spent one year in Little Rock and then it was off to Oklahoma City and nineteen eighty seven, where I have stayed and raised my family and still reside to this day. However, there is only one place in this whole world I’ll ever call home in that Stone County, Arkansas, the town of Mountain View, and that valley farm of Rocky Bay You Patch. My grandfather, Hugh Irwin Williams, was born in Stone County, Arkansas, in nineteen thirteen, about three or four miles down the creek from the end of what is now called Purple Road. As an adult, he made his way to and worked most of his life in northeast Oklahoma farming and was a licensed plumber in both Oklahoma and Arkansas. In the mid to early seventies, he and my grandmother bought the valley farm where I grew up, Rocky by You Patch, which is just a few miles up the creek from where he had been born some sixty or sold years earlier. He passed away in two thousand and seven, but left a multitude of members and stories of his wild youth in the herb area of Rocky by U Creek for my cousins and I to cherish and rehash when we are present with one another. Now, I reached out to all the cousins of my generation and asked them if they’d heard this story if they had, please share with me the version they remembered. Each one who’d heard it repeated it to me almost word for word the way I’m sharing it with you. And it’s called the Ghost Bull of the Purple Swimming Hole. Well, my granddad was about ten years old. He and some of his buddies, probably his cousins, were at the swimming hole by the Purple Spring. As the gang of boys were playing in the water, swimming, jumping off rocks, and just having the genuine good old time, there happened to be a young bull roaming around the pasture behind him. Somehow the boys got this young bull all wrangled up and then to the swimming hole, and they took turns riding him into the deep water. Eventually young bull wore out and he drowned. Now, not knowing what they should do, but knowing the world of trouble they’d be in if they were found out, they somehow got that bull pulled up out of the water and on the bank next to the water’s edge. One of the boys decided to be fun to just jump off his lifeless carcass used him as a springboard, so as the boy spent the next hour or two taking turns of running down the creek bank and jumping on top of that bull and off into the water. Every time they did that young bull would spit out a little water. Eventually, that young bovine let out a cough, a bella, and a grunt, and jumped up in dismay and took off of the same pasture from which he had come. As the bull was making all that commotion and making his way to his feet, the boy scattered in surprise, and my grandfather leading the way. Once they caught your breath and some understanding of what just happened, having annoying preferred maybe the very first procedure of CPR to an adolescent bovine, they all broke out into laughter. They had saved their own hides without intention, and saved the life of a young bull at the same time, all in the name of funk. My granddad would tell that story every now again and laugh like he was in the moment, some of the only laughter I ever saw from he and my grandmother raised my brother and I from the time I was in kindergarten through the fifth grade, and then throughout the summers up to my sophomore year of high school. He was one of those classic old timers, reminiscent of the ones all of your stories are about, and he lived the life reflected in those stories. Plumber by trade, a farmer, a cowman by choice, and a man of God by redeeming grace. Life on the farm was tough for a small kid, and at times I hated it. I looked back now with the level of appreciation for those years that I don’t find anywhere else in life. And according to Luke Williams Displaced Arkanson reporting to us live from Oklahoma City, that’s just how that happened. Thanks, Luke, I hope to see you and Andrew again next year. Now, this next one, according to Texan Rocky Whiting, is a cherished family heritage story that embodies the ranching way of life in an upright character that they carved their family name in. Rocky says his dad has told him and his five siblings this story many times, and the older he gets, more likely he is to get a little emotional towards then the lesson is a good one, and I’m glad he shared it with us here. You’re gonna be glad he did too, So, in Rocky’s word, in my voice. Here we go. In the nineteen sixties, Bernie was a small farming and ranching community in central Texas. Locals knew everyone in the community. Ranching families worked hard to be self sufficient, but finances they were tight. Livestock was a major part of their income, but lambs easily fell created foxes in the spring, and to help local ranchers, Kendall County put out a bounty on foxes. If you killed the fox, you would cut off its ears, take them to the county Clerk’s office, and collect two dollars in reward. A barbecue chicken was fifty cents and a bottled coat was ten cents, so two dollars was a lot more money than it is now. My dad is from one of those ranching families and is the youngest of four kids. They grew up seven miles from the Burn city limits. My dad did well academically, played running back on the high school football team, and was voted most handsome lay his classmates his senior year. One evening in nineteen sixty five, my dad took a classmate, a cheerleader, on a date to watch an away basketball game. New Brownfels Canyon versus Bernie High School, and after the excitement of the game, they started to drive back home on a two lane highway. In the halligen headlights, my dad spotted a road killed fox lying on the side of the road. He remembered the bounty and was excited about the tank of gas that it would buy no cars to be seen. He turned the car around and stopped with the lights on the fox. He inspected the fox and found it to only recently be lifeless. He cut the ears off with a sharp folded knife that all the Ranch kids had just for such an occasion. His date didn’t raise an eyebrow when he placed the ears in the trunk, because she and her face family were cut from the same cloth. I should know because she’s my mom. They continued on back to Bernie without questions about the years, and before the sun got hot. The next morning, my dad and grandfather were leaning over the engine bay of a nineteen forty six Ranch jeep. My dad, with grease to his forearms, proudly mentioned the fox ears that he picked up the night before. My grandfather asking whereabouts did you pick up that fox? My dad told him where he found the dead fox, and my grandfather paused, he stood up right, and he replied, I think that’s Como County. It’s pretty close to the county line. But I don’t think they pay a bounty for fox ears and coma. My dad, with a smile and some advanced wit, replied, well, maybe that fox was born in Kendall County. It was just visiting relatives in Como, and they both chuckled. My dad, more serious, said that clerk ain’t gonna be able to tell if this is a camel fox or a Kendle fox. No one is going to know. My grandfather responded with there are three people that already know me, you and God. My dad didn’t come up with the arguments and the logic, so he shifted his focus back to the engine. A few seconds later, my grandfather said, I’ll give you the two dollars if you don’t turn them in. My dad was taking aback at the proposal. He knew that my grandfather would give him the bounty. He also knew that my grandfather never had two dollars to spare. My dad asking him, no, you can’t buy my honesty. I’ll just throw them away. My dad retrieved the ears and threw them in a brush pile. Two fox ears for a lifetime integrity, And according to Rocky Whiting, that’s just how that happened. Rocky, I appreciate you sharing that with us. They say, integrity is what takes place when no one is looking at It comes from a strong foundation morals. I’m pretty sure we just had a lesson from your family’s architect. Now you billing a fellow law enforcement officer sending in our final story of the day, and he requested I keep him and everyone else anonymous, and I intend on following his wishes. We’re just gonna jump in like it’s break time and we’re all having a cup of Joe and a doughnut, and it’s his turn to talk, So in my voice and his words, here goes. I’m a story. It starts out in the late nineteen seventies in a dirty little city in the great state of Kansas. It was a warm Saturday afternoon in midsummer, and my mama’s friend to ask if she would run to the store and pick him up a few things. She hesitated for a moment when he said, you can take my car if you want. That was all the inspirations she needed. Her friend on the nineteen sixty eight Dodge charged with light blue paint, black racing strips four on the floor in the legendary four twenty six Hemi engine poor The mama had glass packs, dual exhaust Craiger SS wills with them, big fat tires on the back. In the way she described it to me, that car shook the earth, and it rolled down the street at a night. As soon as she had the keys in her hands, she was off. Mamma said she was just sixteen at the time and loved that car, but was a little scared of the power it had. At the same time, the drive that day it was beautiful, the weather was beautiful, and everything seemed as good as it could be for a young lady in a cool car, until she stopped at a stop sign in front of an apartment building. The injured lady ran from the building and leaped into the wide open passenger windows. She was bleeding, and the woman grabbed my mama on the leg and dug in her fingernails and yelled, he’s gonna kill me. Drive now. As if the shock of a bleeding woman gripping your leg in enough. A large man ran from the building, screaming get back here to the injured lady. Man was as big as Hulk Hogan and twice as mean, according to her. She said she recognized the man as the local tough guy. He participated in all kinds of neugh various activities. She didn’t know the man’s real name, but would never forget his nickname. His nickname, being so unique from the people in that area, would likely know it now fifty years later, So I’m gonna call him Leroy Brown. Mama said. He grabbed a woman’s foot that was still hanging out of the window with one hand and beat on the car room with his fist and yelled, I’m gonna kill you. Mama knew it was time to go, and a souped up Dodge Charging was the perfect vehicle to make that happen quick, fast, and then a hurry. With one swift movement, she panicked. She massed accelery in the floor as well as the clutch, and the hemy screamed to an RPM range rarely seen. The car didn’t move an inch At the exact moment she identified the problem. She identified the solution. Her left foot slid off the clutch delivered in every single horsepower to those big fat tires on the back of that legendary Detroit muscle car. Gravity, rotational force and soft rubber compounds were no match for torque applied in that instant, and the tires began to spin. And as the tires spun, the small rolled out from under that car, and the back end of the car kicked to the right, just before catching traction and spinning over the feet a big bad lee, roar brown Mama drove that lady straight to the police station. Now, Mama would tell me that story often while growing up. She would point out all sorts of teaching poets and morals from within it. The main one was to be kind to others and not panic. I now tell that story often to my kids in order to talk about perspective as well as honor, and remembered my mama since she passed away in twenty nineteen. Hearing this story countless times during my youth, I had no idea that I’d become part of it. And as Paul Harvey would say now for the rest of the story, it was a cold, gray early March Sunday morning that I remember well. I was a young police officer, fresh out of the academy with big dreams of catching criminals and making the world a better place. While on patrol, I received a call over the radio requestion that I go to a domestic battery, and this was not the crime I expected to be called to on a Sunday morning. My mind raised as I hurried to the address. Who gets in a fight with their spouse on the Lord’s Day? At my brain wondering. I arrived in short order and quickly discovered all the answers to all the questions and then some. After interviewing all the folks involved in the collecting statements from witnesses and a partial confession, it was determined to place the man under arrest and take him to jail, where his fate would be adjudicated not a judge. On Monday, I wrested him without incident, took him to jail, and began filling out the book and paperwork. When I asked question thirty four B of the report, do you have any injuries? The man answered no. I remembered noticing the limp as I walked him up the ramp into the jail, so I inquired about it. He replied he was run over by a lady way back in the seventies. It couldn’t be, could it. This guy was like five eight and weighed under two hundred pounds, hardly Huck Hogan’s eye. The last question made my blood run cold. Do you have any aliases? They called me? Lee Roy Brown. Sitting there before me was an average man that was once described to me as a larger than life, musclebound giant that threatened my mother so many years ago. Tom had finished up the paperwork, never letting on that I had heard all about him, or that I knew very well the lady that gave him that limp. When I finished booking him in, I sprinted back to my car and called my mom. We had a good laugh about how karma had affected Leroy Brown’s life, And it was at that point that I really learned about perspective. Two people looked at the same man thirty years apart. One saw a giant, one saw something way less. The same man, but in vastly different situations. That can change person’s perspective. And according to a law enforcement officer that wishes to keep his identity between me and him, that says, how that happened? You know, I have said forever and my career as a police officer that if you want two different stories, talk to two witnesses to the same event. Perspective is big, and in today’s climate, it might be a little friendlier place if we pause a few moments and tried to see the giant on both sides of the karma. I hope y’all enjoy the listener stories. It’s it’s such a joy to be able to get to know you folks a little better now. I appreciate so much the time y’all allow me in your lives each week. I know Clay and Lake feel the same. And by now, I’m sure you’ve all heard about the Meat Eater Christmas Tour. Tickets are on sale but going fast, so if you want to come out and say this, you might want to check on them pretty quick. That’s at the Meat Eater dot com forward slash Tour and get all the info. Me and Max Barter have a first Light film running over on first Lights YouTube channel. It’s called Good Old Days and it’s about duck hunting and it was a lot of fun to do. Y’all check it out. White Tail Week is September the twenty ninth, through October the fifth. If you’re in the need or you want some new stuff, some new clothes and gear, check out the website the meteater dot com and they’ll have all the info on there. So until next week, this is Brent Greeve signing off. Y’all be careful, don
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