Hank Griffin Podcast

Good Community Is Where You Build It

The day was hot. Such was then and continues now to generally be the case in Beautiful, East Texas. That heat, y’all. There are many things I miss about home. That heat is not among them.

Earlier in the day Momma called, “Why don’t y’all come to my house for Sunday Supper?” she asked. “I’m gonna fix fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, salad, and make a chocolate cake.”

At that time in my life, Momma’s fried chicken was my very favorite food and I always enjoyed her good chocolate cake.

“Can’t wait,” I said. I hung up the phone then looked at it marveling at the progress of technology.

When I was a boy the phone in our home, a modern home in its time, was hard wired and permanently mounted to the wall in the kitchen. Our telephone was rotary dial, green, and was equipped with the standard three foot cord. Dub, my dad, had no interest in one of those fancy twenty foot affairs that might encourage people to get comfortable and lay about the den while talking on the phone.

Our phone was part of a party line. Don’t be fooled. Despite the name, using the phone was not a party. The phone line was shared between four families.

When one wished to make a telephone call, it was impolite to just pick up the receiver and start dialing. First one had to pick up the receiver and listen to ensure someone else was not already having a conversation. If no one was using the line, then a call could be made.

If someone was already using the line, a polite person would refrain from interrupting the ongoing conversation and return the receiver to its place. I say, a polite person, because very often people were impolite. It was all too common for noisy neighbors to pick up the receiver, listen to see if a conversation was ongoing then, instead of returning the receiver to its cradle, place their palm over the microphone, and settle in for a listen.

I remember a cousin of mine, Gary who’d just married his second wife. She was a pretty sort of girl, not a knock out by any stretch of the imagination but, pretty. It helped that she was young. Sadly she had not lived out in the country before. Party lines were new to her as was, apparently, common courtesy. The bride of my cousin loved to eavesdrop on other people’s telephone conversations and had no problem with interrupting others who were using the phone to announce that she had an important phone call to make and demand the line be made available only to later to be overheard engaged in conversation that was less urgent than she’d led her neighbor’s to believe.

We all loved Gary. No one particularly cared for his wife. That said, what are you going to do?

I asked Dub about it once as we were working on his old 64’ model pickup. Dub dipped snuff. He had a gap in his two front upper teeth through which he could and often did launch a shocking stream of tobacco juice as far as fifteen feet with astonishing accuracy. In doing so a peculiar sound effect was produced. It was a sort of, “squinch,” though that description is inadequate.

After I asked bout cousin Gary’s young new wife, he chuckled, spit, then said, “Gary didn’t marry her for her telephone manners.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“You’ll understand one day,” my father assured me.

From that wall mounted, rotary dial telephone, we’d improved over the years to a phone that was light weight, rested on the glass top table next to the couch, had caller ID, a long cord from the back of the phone to the wall, anther long cord from the phone to the handset, and most happily – was not a shared party line.

The kids will be pleased to see Grandma I thought. Then ruefully, hopefully she won’t try to send them home with another baby chicken… or, Heaven help me, worse.

… Listen to the podcast to hear the rest of the story.

Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked!

Friday Nights In Beautiful Part 1

When my brothers and I were still little fellers we spent every single weekend with my Great Uncle Carl. He really was great, in every sense of the word that little boys could ever possible care about. Uncle Carl grew up in Oklahoma. It is a testament to his real and enduring greatness that I even mention that. Texans, don’t necessarily like folks from Oklahoma. Uncle Carl is different. He grew up farming cotton with his family. Eventually, the Dust Bowl drove the family off the farm and on towards California.

If you’d like to know more about how Uncle Carl was ultimately blessed – and it was a blessing – to wind up in Texas, check out the earlier episode of, You’ve Been Hanked titled, Fleeing The Dust Bowl, where I relate that story.

Weekends spent at Uncle Carl’s home were a treat. My mother and natural father divorced while we were still just babies. Both were young themselves when they did so. It was a gift to have a steady safe port in that awful storm that raged for years…

My dad, I’ve always called him, “Dub” was a bad ass.

Maybe all sons think of their fathers that way. The thing is, my dad really was. He was strong in the way that a man becomes when he works hard on the farm, cutting wood, operating heavy machinery, building barbed wire fences, and raising watermelons. If that weren’t enough, Dub ran and lifted weights regularly.

He was physically powerful but not only that.

Dub wanted to learn to fight and to do so with real skill. He sought out a student of the great martial artist, Joe Lewis and said, “teach me to fight.”

Walking With Granddad

“Son,” Granddad began, “What say we go for a walk?”

Granddad always called me, “son.”

I jumped up from my comfortable pallet made for me by Grandma from a particularly soft yellow and white quilt. Eager to join Granddad, I hurried to put shoes on my feet before having to be told to do so.

The old man’s eyes sparkled with humor as he watched me get read and he, likewise began lacing up his own shoes.

From his lips hung a burning cigarette. An unfiltered Camel. His brand and style of choice. I knew he would not put it out before we left and he did not.

Instead, Granddad reached for the pack of cigarettes on top of the wooden console radio, felt to be sure there were plenty for the outing, then stood to signal his readiness to get moving.

I too was ready and like my natural father’s father, I stood to join him.

Outside, the sky was dark. Granddad had little interest in walking during the day unless it happened to be pleasant out. He much preferred the night for it was cooler and he had a love of the night sky. It was a love he shared with and inspired in others.

“Come on, Smokey!” Granddad called. Smokey, was a shepherd mix of medium build, some sixty-five pounds, cream colored, and with a smokey grayish ring around his neck. He rose from the comfort of his dog house, stretched from his front to his back first leaning on the left front and back right feet then on the right front and left back feet, giving himself a thorough shake before finally deciding to join us.

Granddad lived, like many of us in that time in Beautiful, East Texas in a home that was still remote enough that there was little or no noise pollution from traffic or neighbors and even less light pollution. Airplanes flew overhead but there was little else to take away from the loveliness of God’s Beautiful Creation. Along his property line on the north side were two structures, the only two for a while in any direction. On the north east side, his home. A three bedroom, red brick ranch style home enclosed by a chain link fence. On the north west side a white dairy barn in front of which was the only source of light pollution to be found, a bright shining, white security light atop a large wooden pole of the same type and similar height of those used to suspend electrical wires.

The roads all around were dirt roads, that is, all except the road for the well paved farm to market road a mile or so away from Granddad and Grandma’s house to the dairy barn.

Granddad, Smokey, and I stepped from the grass covered lawn, on to the white rock driveway, and then onto to black oil top road as we headed from the house towards that dairy barn.

I did not like to show it but, at just five years old, I continued to harbor a youthful fear of the dark. I was not so very afraid with Granddad there beside me but would have been altogether unwilling to go out past the glow of the porch light if he were not there beside me, not even in Smokey’s comforting and, when necessary, formidable presence. I reached out for my grandfathers rough, calloused, work-worn hand, and was much comforted when, without a word, he took my very young hand into his own.

Old man and little boy walked on the oil top road together in companionable silence for a while. The only lights were those shining overhead in the night sky, in the distance at the dairy barn, and suspended from Granddad’s lips. Several times a minute that one grew much brighter, then dimmed again as he inhaled and exhaled lungs full of smoke.

We did not walk fast. Granddad suffered from Emphysema as a consequence of his life-long addiction. Our steps were slow, plodding, but purposeful and taken with the shared joy peculiar to old men and little boys who share a special bond.

On the opposite side of the oil top road from Granddad and Grandma’s farm was more farmland owned a good friend and neighbor of Granddad, Mr. Guy Wade. Directly across from Granddad’s hen house was a stock tank. That is a “pool of water” for those of you who may not know. In token of friendship and the respect that Mr. Guy Wade had for Granddad, he invited him and me so long as I accompanied by him, to fish there.

It was a kindness as the stock tank was brimming with crappie, small mouth bass, catfish, and perch. A kindness that was only ever extended to Granddad, no one else was ever permitted to fish that stock tank despite many desiring to do so.

Smokey, loved Mr. Guy Wade’s stock tank as well though he had little interest in fishing. No, Smokey didn’t fish but he loved, loved, loved, a wonderfully cool, wet, splash and a swim. He never missed the opportunity to disappear for several minutes on those evening walks to avail himself of the opportunity.

When he did so, the pleasure, the obvious and abundant pleasure the dog took in this activity was clear in the sound produced as a consequence of his antics. Also evident was his desire to remain near Granddad. For though the dog loved his time in the water. He did not linger there. When the stock tank drew near, Smokey left us. As we walked the dogs splashing, swimming, shaking, and all his carry on was obvious and delightful, drawing grins across the faces of all who heard it. Then, when the body of water was behind us and without prompting, Smokey, now dripping wet, despite a good shake, reappeared and rejoined our walk, wearing a grin of his own

As we walked my young mind began working through questions. Granddad was a service station man. He was not a dairyman. He owned a filling station in Beautiful that boasted two mechanics bays as well as a full service and a self service fuel. Why then, did he have a diary barn?

“Granddad, why do you have a diary barn if you don’t milk cows?” I asked.

“Son, when your mother and I first moved here from California I decided the best way to support my family would be as a diary man. I’d had enough farming for a lifetime and knew I didn’t want to do that. So, I worked hard, we saved our money, and eventually we were able to buy this land. I built a diary and we lived in the little house that used to be there next to it before it fell down.”

I never understood why Granddad always called me son and why he always referred to Grandma as, “your mother.” It didn’t matter. I knew I was loved. That was enough.

My mother’s parents also owned a dairy. My Granny Alice worked the barn. I had some slight experience around working diaries. Enough to know that the work was hard and demanding.

“Did you like milking cows?”

Granddad inhaled deeply from his unfiltered Camel. In the suddenly much brighter light, I saw that only a fragment remained. He took another cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket, lit the new cigarette from the fragment, threw the still glowing discard to the ground without bothering to extinguish it, inhaled another deep lung-full of smoke, exhaled, and said, “No. But it allowed me to provide for my family.”

We walked a while further, again in relative silence. The cicadas, crickets, and tree frogs all talked and sang but neither I nor Granddad said a word.

In time, we began to draw near to the dairy barn. As we did so, Granddad said, “I was in town one day and got wind there was an opportunity to be had in the service station business. Your mother and I decided it was time for a change. We bought the rights to the station and went into business. Since then We’ve rented the dairy to young dairymen over the years and its been good to us.”

At the dairy barn, I asked, “Where was the old house you and Grandma used to live in?”

“There,” Granddad pointed. “Part of it still stands.”

He was right and I marveled never having realized it before. The house was a ruin. Mostly torn down but still identifiable as once having been a home. It was a part of our family’s history I would never personally know as anything more than a ruin. A remnant of something that came before but was no longer. The thought caused my young mind to reel there in the white light that existed to deter ner-do-wells from making trouble at the barn.

I listened in that light as my grandfather spoke. I heard his words, the cicadas, crickets, tree frogs, and night birds. He continued to talk of days by gone long before I arrived on the Earth. I listened with a sense of wonder and stored it away never knowing, then, that I would carry it all forward in my heart, mind, and spirit. Great volumes, troves of history, of incalculable worth that too few would long remember. Stories, jokes, gossip, laughter, tears, rebukes, admonitions, and confidences, that in the context of that relationship were mine and his alone.

And now, to a lesser extent, shared here. A glimpse into something that could never otherwise be known. A fragment of something beautiful and sacred despite its being a kind or type of experience shared by Grandfathers and Grandsons across time and space.

Granddad, Smokey, and I walked out of the field of that harsh artificial light, into the velvet darkness softly lit by starlight and cigarette light. No moon hung in the sky. Had it already set? Perhaps it would rise later. I do not recall. I only remember that there was no moon then.

In its absence, the star-filled sky shimmered and glimmered with stars that shone like independently lit gemstones of many colors. Beautiful it was. A state of beauty in that Beautiful geography. A beautiful moment, a beautiful memory of a beautiful time, experienced there, in Beautiful, East Texas.

As we walked together back towards the house, away from the dairy barn, on the oil top road, old man and little boy, hand in hand, we did so with two very different understandings.

For my part and with the limited understanding of a little feller of only five, that was just life. It never occurred to me that those moments were either sacred or fleeting. The simply were.

For his part, Granddad knew all too well just how sacred, special, and fleeting those precious moments were. He knew that just as my time on the Earth was still in its earliest days, his was nearing its end. There was a little time left. A little space to move about yet. But, as is always the case, that precious time was ever-expiring.

Old man and little boy walked hand in hand sharing something special. As they did so, in a sense, time flowed from the one and into the other. With it also flowed the stories, history, shared experience, and sacred trust that provides continuity in families, or should if we honor those who came before and dearly love those to whom we are correctly obligated to entrust it too, this legacy, this inheritance that has nothing to do with money, temporal wealth, or probate courts.

What passed between us then and there was life and something greater. May the Good Lord help me to pass it on to my children and their children. We live in a world were families are no longer tied to each other by geography. Children move away. Grandchildren are well loved but not often seen. And yet, this obligation remains. I am filled with the stories and memories of what came before.

It is hard to compete with distance, Tik-Tok, Youtube, Xbox, and all the activities that consume the youth of children and grandchildren today.

I wonder if they will ever listen, when I am gone. If it is worthwhile to record them here. After all, it is primarily for their sake that I do. Don’t get me wrong, I love the idea that others might also enjoy hearing the stories. Still, I long for some reassurance that it might benefit my own babies and their babies.

Will it?

I do not know.

I know this though, I will continue to make the effort to create something that might, just might, bless them, some of them, any of them today or eventually. As I do so, I will take additional pleasure in the idea that others may also enjoy, benefit from, and be blessed by this ongoing effort as well.

Passing Mr. Guy Wade’s stock tank I heard Smokey splashing unseen in the dark.

“Granddad?”

“Yes son?”

Granddad always called me, “son.”

When we get home can we have root beer floats?

“We sure can!”

“Granddad?”

“Yes son?”

“Thank you for showing me whats left of the old house and telling me about the dairy and the service station.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Granddad?”

“Yes son?”

“I love you.”

Granddad’s gnarled old hand gently squeezed mine.

“I love you too, son.”

Thank you for listening to this episode of You’ve Been Hanked. If you enjoyed my stories of Beautiful East Texas and want to support my work, please consider becoming a paid subscriber. Please also consider writing a five star review on either Apple or Spotify to help the podcast grow.

Thanks for being here. Thank you for listening. Talk to you again soon.

Much Love,

Hank

You’ve Been Hanked!

I wish I’d known about silence and circumspection on the occasion of that fraught Sunday dinner!

Please help this show grow.

In a recent episode of, You’ve Been Hanked entitled, “The Warrior’s Path” I discussed my pursuit of martial arts as a kind of physical therapy to help manage the increasing symptoms of Parkinson’s as well as my own journey as a karateka. I talked about some of my anxiety in preparing for my brown belt test.

Tonight I faced that test.

It was one of the most difficult things I have ever done.

Prissy and The Rules

I’ve talked about my Sweet Blue Haired friend, Prissy the Wonder Dog previously in the episodes, “That Time I Stole a Dog” and, “Prissy and The Bull.” She was truly a dear friend, among the dearest I’ve known. She was the kind of dog that makes one wish that dogs might live much longer than they do.

You've Been Hanked is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Prissy had a list of rules that she referred to simply as, The Rules. She felt strongly about them. Indeed, aside from the love she gave and received from my family, I am convinced it was the unfailingly strict enforcement of The Rules that gave her purpose.

Thank you for reading You've Been Hanked. Help this podcast grow by sharing it.

Let’s review:

The year Jerry died his special tree, the Japanese feather leaf maple he’d planted sixty years before showed signs of stress. He loved that tree. All the family did. It was important to each of us.

I sought advice from the county extension agent as to how to restore it to health. Watered it. Fed it. Amended the soil. Pruned it. Did all the things I’d been counseled to do and did them for three years hoping for the best. Despite my earnest prayers and significant efforts, each year Jerry’s special tree grew worse.

Three years after my father-in-law died, his beautiful Japanese feather leaf died too.

Below is a special supplemental for You’ve Been Hanked paid subscribers. Thank y’all for your significant and enthusiastic support!

Much Love,Hank

“As I opened then closed the front door a great set of bells hanging from the inside door knob jangled. They didn’t ring. They didn’t jingle. They jangled. It was a distinctive sound, one that remains with me despite time, distance, and age.

You've Been Hanked is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

There were three dining rooms. The smallest there by the door, another long and narrow one adjacent to it, and the main dining room. I passed them all and found an older woman sitting at the counter on a stool next to the cash register smoking a cigarette. Next to her on the counter was a pack of Winston and a black ashtray full of cigarette ashes and butts.

“Hello there,” she said. “How can I help you.””

“Eighteen months ago my Movement Disorder Specialist (MDS), a Neurologist who specializes in treating Parkinson's Disease, gave me news that was necessary but entirely unwelcome.

You've Been Hanked is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

It went like this, "Mr. Griffin, you need to start physical therapy right away or you are absolutely going to wind up in a wheelchair." To which, I responded, "But Doctor, I don't like physical therapy."

Thank you for reading You've Been Hanked. Help me grow this podcast by sharing it.

My physician was unmoved by my eloquence. "Mr. Griffin, no one like physical therapy. If you don't do something AND start doing it soon - you ARE facing a future in a wheelchair."To which I responded, "But I don't want to live in a wheelchair. Also, I feel like you aren't listening to me. Did you hear me say, I don't like physical therapy?"

The Doctor, someone I both like and whose professional expertise I respect and trust was, again, unmoved by the brilliance of my position. "Mr. Griffin," she began and y'all, I think I heard a note of near-exasperation in her voice as she said…”