Kes: The Art Of Hunkering Down

A lot of folks “Hunker Down with Kes” every week and don’t completely understand what is going on. Many believe they are cheering for the Georgia Bulldogs. Some have the notion we’re hiding behind a log, hoping our first ex-wife will pass by without spotting us.

A few believe I’m fixing to say something that will cause a storm, and we’ve got to prepare to ride it out. Or I want you to “hold firm” on some opinion I’m espousing that might go against the mainstream. It might be so embarrassing to get caught reading one of my yarns, you need a “low profile” stance to get the job done.

Or, quite possibly, you wisely realize if one of my stories is so bad that some offended party starts shooting, you will make a smaller target.

None of the above are correct. Except, maybe, the last two if my storytelling doesn’t pick up a bit.

I was introduced to hunkering at the small country store in Revilo. Every farmer in that part of Lawrence County would bring their cotton to the gin which was just across the Steadman Ridge Road. And they gathered at the store for a cold Pepsi, a can of King Oscar mustard sardines, and the local news.

Seating on the small store front was limited and the tree in the yard offered shade with a much better breeze. The men gravitated to it as if by magic and simply bent their knees and ankles and lowered their body straight down till their backside was resting on their heels.

Just as soon as they got comfortable, the storytelling started. There didn’t seem to be any order, if you had a good tale, you jumped in at the first pause. I was five years old, visiting Uncle Clifford, and I tried to hunker down just like them because this confab seemed too good to miss.

It was like a revolving picture show where you got to supply your own images. Time absolutely stood still. Nobody was in a hurry. And the stories flowed as if choreographed by divine appointment.

I didn’t understand at the time, but it became obvious over the years with this positional arrangement no one was elevated above anyone else. And everyone had an equal opportunity to be a part of the get-together. I never forgot how natural, easy going, and friendly the entire setting seemed to permeate around and through the group.

If only the whole world could learn how to hunker down properly….

Now, I am not saying all the stories were equal. Not by a long sight. Some could grab your attention right off. Others had a slow build. Some let you wonder what direction the story was headed next, and most always had an intriguing middle, usually with a surprise, or twist at the end.

The best story I heard that day was the one about the two brothers who hid in the attic of the Second Pentecostal Holiness Church during the Sunday night service. Just when the preacher got to shouting, “hell is real and eternity is near,” those boys pulled a log chain across the rafters. Folks were repenting and diving out windows at the same time….

The guy next to Uncle Clifford asked if anyone knew how Revilo got its name, and leaped into his monologue before they could answer. At this very store years ago, as his story unwound, an earlier group of farmers hunkered down and peered over to where the beginnings of a rural country school were being laid out. The question of a name for the school came up.

Some silence followed. Until one of the fellows spotted an old green Oliver double shovel turning plow sitting in the field next to the store. He suggested they “turn” the name Oliver around backwards to Revilo. It stuck. For the school, the gin, and the store. Sadly, the name has outlived all three of them.

But the Revilo community lives on in so many hearts and minds!

I grew up with countless hunker down sessions just like the one at the store. Maybe the names were different. But the John Deere hats, Liberty bib overalls, Camel cigarettes, and entertaining stories remain constant. The chewing tobacco did evolve with the years. In the early days it was Warren County Twist or Brown Mule. Later, it was mostly Red Man or Beech-Nut.

There was an art to drop that Beech-Nut between your legs, without hitting your Acme cowboy boots. And a good story teller learned to punctuate certain key moments in the story with a pause, to spit.

I’ve seen Womack Rosson, if the story was a rip roaring good one, let his Camel burn right down to his fingers. Now folks, that is some more storytelling!

And there is an art to it. But without a good audience to help him out, it doesn’t amount to a hill of beans.

I hope that every once in a blue moon, I hit upon a subject that might live on in your hearts and minds….

Respectfully,
Kes
kesley45@a0l.com