The Billy Club

There have been two times in my life when I knew I was destined to become a redneck, a hick, a hillbilly. The first was when I began shopping at Walmart. I hated going there. God forgive me, but everyone looked like they had come out of the hills to shop. I was there for the occasional bargain I might be in need of, and one day when the store manager announced, "Attention Walmart shoppers!" I stopped what I was doing and looked up. It was then I realized I had become one.

The second time we had trees taken down in our yard and lots of brush was laying about. Richard said he was going to build a firepit. So I went along with it and you know what? It was pretty fun! We burned small pieces of wood and brush and sat around the pit in the dark, drinking beers in our pajamas.

Now a third and final(I hope) instance has occurred. Living in the hillbilly shack that we do, the deck covered with tools and tarps and empty wine bottles. I shuffled out to get the attention of the garage door repairman who had walked around front. Standing there hunched over (I pulled out my back), just out of bed with bed head, Richard's slippers and robe on, yelling "HELLLLOOO, HELLOO!" The construction workers next door stopped to look over at me and all that was missing was the bottle of beer in one of my hands and a cigarette in the other. They must have thought, "wonder where she keeps the moonshine."

So I am officially a member of the Hillbilly Club. Come join me on my "deck" and we'll drink in our bathrobes and slippers.