Hank Griffin Podcast

This Classic, You’ve Been Hanked episode is Part 1 in a series. Part 2, is coming soon.

Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked!

“I recall my much younger self, just in kindergarten, sitting through a halfhearted presentation at school about the dangers of smoking. I learned about heart disease, cancer, and all kinds of other deadly illnesses and frightening complications apparently brought on by smoking.

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

The fact that the presenter was smoking in our classroom while giving her presentation on the dangers of smoking never occurred to me as an oddity. After all our principle always smoked while walking up and down the halls during the school day. Remember, in those days everyone in Beautiful smoked. The miniature cloud of bluish-gray smoke that poured all day, everyday, from beneath the door of the teachers lounge never drew a second notice from anyone except the very occasional kid who tried to ascend prematurely to the company of his or her older peers to start smoking at a still-to-tender-age and both smarted and chaffed at the consequences coupled with the burden of a precocious understanding of and resentment for, irony. Yes everyone smoked but, we had standards and there was nothing quite so effective a state sanctioned paddling with a three foot wooden board to remind an errant seven or eight year old that smoking was reserved for when one was older. Well, a little older anyway.

Thank you for reading You've Been Hanked. Please share this episode and help us grow!

We weren’t savages!”

Part 2, coming soon!

“It was decided that we would try to purchase a very small church house available for sale from The Church of Christ. Their congregation had grown large enough that the little chapel could no longer house them all. It was in a grievous state of disrepair but, the foundations were solid and our people were confident that we could do the work needed to bring it up to snuff… so to speak.

The only thing in the way of progress was the selling price of $10,000 dollars.”

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

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

Please give the episode a like and leave a comment! :)

“Prissy? C’mon!”

The Blue Heeler appeared with a toothy grin on her little face. She seemed uncertain whether or not she was being invited to come along.

“This is your big moment,” I said. “Let’s go!”

Together we raced back down the hill from the house towards the hay meadow. The burning sun continued its western journey. I knew that before long, it would set and, if we didn’t have the bull out of the pasture when dark came, it would be a much more serious problem.

Like my work? Please subscribe?

If you find my work worthy of your financial support, please consider a paid subscription!

Thanks,Hank

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

“In the weeks and months after my appointment to this role, I struggled to learn what a chaplain needs to do, to understand how to do those things, to begin to grow in my responsibilities, and finally to become what I hoped to ultimately be – a real Chaplain and to entirely disdain the thought, idea, or even the appearance of a man satisfied to merely have a title and fill a chair.

How does one learn these things?

When I was a boy of five, my grandparents loaded me, my brother, and a cousin of ours into the back seat of their 1973 Plymouth Fury III. Gold, it was with black vinyl seats, and – thank goodness, ice cold air conditioning. We drove from Beautiful, East Texas to Florida on our way to Disney World. Such a memory!”

Thanks for reading and listening! Please leave a comment and give us a like. :)

Much Love,Hank

You’ve Been Hanked!

Granddad Bob and Granny Alice were married a long time, decades – a life time. They loved each other. They must have to stay together because they really didn’t seem like each other very much. Don’t get me wrong. They made it work and I really admire them for it! Frankly, a whole lot of people could learn from their example.

It wasn’t easy for them. During the day, they occupied themselves with very different tasks. Sometimes they shared morning or mid-day meals, though often they did not. If company was over they usually took supper together. When the day’s labors were finished she relaxed in the bedroom to read or watch television. He relaxed in the front room to do the same.

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

Each had their own domains. His was his shop were he welded, did other kinds of work, and worked on hobbies he enjoyed. Hers was the house, particularly the kitchen and the yard where she liked to garden.

The front room was common ground. Both loved horses and riding so the barn was also common ground. There wasn’t a lot of other common ground.

Granddad and Granny did family dinners really well. Granny would always make a big pot of cornbread dressing, a variety of pies, trays of things like olives, pickles, and cheeses, and other tasty things.

Granddad always made a salad. He made it the way he liked it, lettuce, tomato, celery, and onion, all very finely chopped. I don’t know what kind of dressing he used or if he made his own. I wish I did. It was a very good salad.

Granddad built a huge smoker that he liked to use. There was almost always a smoked ham or turkey, as well as smoked venison or beef. The food was abundant and delicious.

Thank you for reading and listening to You've Been Hanked. Please share this episode with a friend!

We didn’t begin our meals with prayers at Granddad and Granny’s home. Conversation was usually fraught and cautious as they had little patience with each other. I think we mostly tried to keep it light during the meal.

Those meals were always good. Both he and she worked hard to provide truly delicious food, the kind of food, prepared in such a way that not everyone has had an opportunity to enjoy. When the meals were over there were always leftovers, enough to eat the next day and the day after. The kinds of leftovers everyone was glad to eat again and again.

When the meal was at an end, depending on the season, the family might retire to the front room to watch a ballgame. At Christmas, we gathered there to exchange and open gifts.

We received separate gifts from Granddad and Granny. She always gave us boys a knitted hat, a bag of underwear, a bag of socks, and once we were eleven or so, a bottle of cologne – always Stetson or Chaps.

When the gift giving was just about finished Granddad had everyone line up in front of his recliner where he handed out folding money. Sometimes there were silver dollars, quarters, or dimes.

Granny always opened all her presents along with everyone else. No matter what Granddad was given, he’d set it behind his recliner unopened. It wasn’t until I was nearly grown that I ever saw Granddad actually open his gifts.

I remember being moved, truly moved when I was sixteen. That Christmas, after the gift giving was over, Granddad sought me out.

“Hank? Hank?,” he found me in the kitchen. “There you are, Hank! Is this from you?”

In his hand was a cassette tape.

Granddad was a gifted violinist who liked to play Western Swing. For years he’d been popular at house parties all over Beautiful, East Texas. In later years, he spent time playing alone and with others in his shop and in the house depending on the weather and time of year.

I worked as a waiter at Chris’s Café five evenings a week. That year, I wanted to do something special for Granddad but just didn’t know what it might be. For the life of me, I couldn’t quite pull my various ideas together. On a particular evening, I made a trip in my Oldsmobile to Hastings – a music store there on the edge Beautiful where I found a tape of violin music that I hoped he would enjoy. It wasn’t Western Swing, I didn’t have the musical sophistication then to understand what that was then. No, it was classical violin.

I’d brought it home, wrapped it, wrote his name on it, and put it under the tree when we arrived at Granddad and Granny’s home Christmas morning. I assumed he would place it behind his recliner as was his custom but hoped he might, at some later time open it.

I never thought he would actually open it while I was still there at their home. Never mind comment on it.

He stood there in the kitchen holding the tape in his hand. “Yes sir,” I said.

Granddad smiled in what appeared to be genuine pleasure. “Thank you, Hank. I really appreciate this.”

My face flushed with embarrassed pleasure. The best I could manage was, “Thanks Granddad, um, you’re welcome.”

I was floored, truly astonished, when I heard classical violin music playing in the front room just a few minutes later. He’d put the cassette tape into his tape player there by his chair and was actually listening to it.

As I said, I was moved and had to step outside.

Typically, when the meal was finished, if there was no ballgame on, and we’d finished with gift giving at Christmas time, Granddad exited the house and went out to his shop.

Granny remained in the house.

Usually the ladies would visit inside, at least for a while. The men, if Granddad could tolerate them would go to his shop to visit with him.

The grand kids were encouraged to play outside which we always did until we were hungry again at which point we again descended upon the leftovers until satisfied and once again went out to play until it was either dark or time to go home.

As we got a little older we spent time fishing or talking among ourselves. It was not until we were much, much older that we were permitted to remain among the grown people for any length of time.

Very often, while still little, us boys were invited to stay the night or even several nights. This invitation always came from Granny. I know that Granddad loved us but he had little time for children. I don’t fault him many men struggle with the noise and nonsense that comes with having kids around.

Granny wasn’t great with girls. This observation is not meanness on my part. It just the truth. She just didn’t like girls very much.

However, she was much better with little boys!

I have such sweet memories of time spent with her.

When I was two, she and I would sit together at her kitchen table there in Beautiful. She was a coffee drinker. As a devout Latter-day Saint, I am not a coffee drinker. That said, in those days, at just two years old, I didn’t know that.

Granny always poured a little coffee sweetened with sugar into a saucer to cool for my benefit. Once it sat a while and was tolerable, I helped myself.

Together we also enjoyed butter and jalapeno sandwiches. These were a delicacy at Granny’s table. One that was in no wise approved of by my parents.

Eating those wonderful butter and jalapeno sandwiches, washed down with saucers full of cooled coffee, Granny and I smiled, laughed, and truly enjoyed those moments that were just for us.

When I was just a little older, and after all the other grown people were gone, I sometimes made my way out to Granddad’s shop. Usually, I found him welding, black-smithing, or fiddling. I learned that if I remained quiet and didn’t bother Granddad, he would permit me to observe for a while. Sometimes, he even indulged me in just a little conversation.

Memories of butter and jalapeno sandwiches washed down with illicit saucers of cooled coffee with Granny in her kitchen and usually awkward but kind conversation with Granddad out in his shop remain with me and are precious. Treasured memories like priceless heirlooms kept hidden in safe places, wrapped in soft protective cloths, shared on occasion with those we hope will remember after we’ve gone.

I have a photograph of Granddad and Granny, the only photograph I have of them together. Its in our parlor on a place of honor, prominent among other pictures similarly beloved by our family.

They were newly married and very young. She was but fifteen. He was not much older. They were in the company of friends that I don’t recognize. She was a real beauty and he a handsome young man. They were smiling, laughing, obviously enjoying themselves.

I know that they loved each other. I saw it. I heard it in their voices from time to time. They didn’t always like each other. I am not convinced that they often liked each other. None of that detracts from the truth that they loved each other.

Granddad and Granny loved each other and all of us enough to figure out how to make their marriage work when perhaps no one else could have or would have. They did so at a time when divorce was entirely permissible and frankly encouraged.

How did they do it? Why did they do it? They didn’t have to. I suspect there were times, many times, that they probably didn’t want to.

But they did. Granddad and Granny persevered in-spite of everything. They endured to the very end. I find that I can’t help but love, respect, and admire them all the more for it!

Today, Dearest Love and I are Granddad and Granny. Those aren’t the nicknames we use but that doesn’t matter. It is our turn to be the family’s old folks.

I am grateful that our marriage is happy.

None of our grand-babies live close by. I worry that they won’t have the kinds of memories of us when they are grown and we are gone that I have of my old folks.

Perhaps in the end, none of that matter as much as, that the babies are healthy, safe, happy, well-loved, and know it when they are old enough to understand.

I hope that these stories will be preserved in a way that will make it possible for them to have and enjoy long after Dearest Love and I are gone. Maybe in this, there will be a legacy for them not unlike that which I have benefited from.

Papaw loves you kids.

Much Love,Hank

You’ve Been Hanked

Did you enjoy this episode of You’ve Been Hanked? I hope you did. Are you a subscriber? If not, please do subscribe. Is there someone who you think might enjoy my stories? If so, please share them. If you find my work worthy of your material support, I hope you’ll consider a paid subscription and know that it is most appreciated.

Brother Olive

Tim Olive is my double brother. He is my brother in the gospel and my brother in Masonry. My only regret where that good man is concerned is, I never met him.

My wife, Dearest Love knew him.

Some years ago, she served an honorable mission after having converted to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. When the mission call came she found that she was to serve in Southern California. Then, just as it is now, the cost of living in that part of the United Sates was high.

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

Indeed, the cost for housing was such that the missionaries just couldn’t afford it. The Mission President, recognizing the severity of the problem, approached the Wards in his mission and announced no congregation would be assigned missionaries unless they housed them.

Mormon congregations love the missionaries. Most of those Wards figured out how to make it happen. Like other families in that part of the world, the Olive family decided to open their home to a missionary companionship at much lower than usual cost for rent.

The Olive’s were good people and a lovely family. Tim and Becky had four sons. Becky’s father lived with them. The house was full of people, full of love, full of faith, and with the addition of two sister missionaries – maybe just a little over full.

Dearest Love was one of the missionaries that resided in the Olive home during her missionary service. She often tells stories of her time in the mission field. Among the happiest of those stories are the ones that fall within the period of time that she lived with the Olive family.

Brother Olive was born in Tonga. He was the youngest of several boys. All of Tim’s brothers were giants standing more than 6’5” each. Tim on the other hand, was but 5’8”. Like his brothers he was immensely strong but, having been born with Polio, his growth was adversely affected.

Thank you for reading You've Been Hanked. Please help us grow by sharing this epidsode.

As a boy in Tonga, struggling with Polio, there was not adequate medical services to properly treat and help him. Candidly, the cost of those services, had they been avalable, was beyond his family’s means. In addition to being much shorter than his brothers, one of Tim’s legs was shorter than the other one. He wore special braces, special shoes, and walked with a limp.

Despite his challenges or perhaps, in defiance of them, Tim worked hard. He had a good job at Boeing. He was a faithful Latter-day Saint who served a mission in Canada. He loved his family.

Tim was also a Mason and as a part of his Masonic path, a Shriner.

Polio struck Tim very early in life. As there was no adequate care, or means with which to pay for care, his family sought help beyond their immediate community. When the local Masonic Lodge became aware of their needs, the Olive family was put in touch with the Shriner’s Hospitals for Children in Hawaii.

Young Tim was flown from Tonga to Hawaii where he began his treatment at the Shriner’s hospital. Tim’s family was flown in to visit their son twice a year. However, they could not afford to remain there with him. Neither could they afford to fly him back and forth. In order for Tim to receive the important medical care he desperately needed, he remained at the Shriner’s Hospital for Children in Hawaii year round for many years.

Dearest Love has often recounted to me that Becky, Tim’s wife, often told her, “When Tim was little new nurses would occasionally come to work at the hospital. When they met Tim they typically asked, ‘where do you live?’ to which Tim always replied, ‘I live here.’ No, no, I mean where are you from, where do you come from? Tim, having lived so long in the hospital and from such a young age, couldn’t remember any other home and said, ‘I come from here. This is my home.’”

Young Brother Olive received the best possible care for Polio at the Shiner’s Hospital for Children. Not only did he receive excellent care but, he was treated kindly and with love by the doctors and nurses there. Though his family could not be there with him often or for long, they were able to see him at least twice a year. The care that he received, many years of care, was provided to him and his family free of charge. His family was provided a means to travel back and forth and given living accommodations while there at no cost to them.

This is true for the many thousands of children who are treated each year at Masonic care centers all over the United States. The Shriner’s Hospitals, Clinics, and Burn Centers for Children, The Scottish Rite Hospital and Speech and Language Pathology Centers for Children, and research funded by the York Rite are all examples of Masonic medical charities that provide millions of dollars a day to make the world better by treating children and making their lives and the lives of their family’s better.

In time, young Tim grew up. With the help of the Shriner’s hospital, he overcame Polio and went on to be an able, productive, hard working man, husband, father, faithful Latter-day Saint and enthusiastic Mason. He and his wife Becky opened their home to provide safe shelter to the Mormon missionaries so that his congregation could enjoy the blessings that come with having missionaries assigned to them.

Tim, in the spirit of giving back, not only joined the Masonic Lodge but went on to become a devoted Shriner. Dearest Love has often related to me her surprise at seeing Brother Olive return home from those weird meetings he went to, wearing his suit and a fez.

I enjoy writing and talking about those various meeting places in mine and my family’s everyday life at the intersections of our Latter-day Saint faith and Masonic fraternity. Dearest Love’s experience with the Olive family is a particularly sweet one.

Curiously, another fraternal Brother and personal friend of mine related to me that when he was but a boy, his mother rented a room in their home to a pair of Latter-day Saint Sister Missionaries. My good friend has been a Mason for some 45 years. He is the Right Eminent Grand Commander of the York Rite Masonic Body known as The Knights Templar.

My fraternal brethren are very kind to me about my faith. They know that it is important to me and seem to look for opportunities to connect with me in some way. Very often I am asked, “Brother Hank, you are a Mormon, is that right?”

“It is.”

Then I hear things like, “My mother in law is a member of your church or my wife grew up as a Mormon or though I am not a member, I have read the Book of Mormon, the Doctrine and Covenants, and the Pearl of Great Price how do you like that?”

Each time someone seeks to connect with me in this very kind way, I cannot help but find my heart warmed towards them.

Masonry is not a church. It is a fraternity. To be a Mason one must be a man, must believe in a Supreme Being, and must seek membership of his own free will. Religion is important in Masonry as no atheist is knowingly admitted. Each Lodge has a holy bible on its altar. Masonry is a respecter of religion but we do not discuss secular religion or politics within our Lodges as there is no surer or faster way to divide men.

Given this, the eagerness I see in my brethren to make these kinds of connections with me, cannot be anything less than heart warming. It demonstrates a generosity of spirit that is worthy of them and that I hope they see me reciprocating.

When I was a young Mason back in Beautiful, East Texas I was impressed with the Shrine. I knew, even then, that there was much good being done in the world as a result of the efforts of those good men. When I joined the Sharon Shrine Center there in, Beautiful, I had little interest in the various clubs but found purpose in participating in the monthly blood drive.

Each month we hosted the American Red Cross’s Blood Bus in a particular parking lot for several hours. All the Masonic Lodges in the region turned out in number to support the effort. The Brothers, their wives, families, friends, and neighbors came to donate blood. The members of the local Shrine worked to prepare fresh hamburgers, cheese burgers, hot dogs, sausages, chips, fresh vegetables, buns – toasted or untoasted, and ice cold sody-waters free of charge for the benefit of all who supported that laudable endeavor.

My goodness at the blood we collected there. Every month, barrels and barrels of blood! All of it was provided for use by the Shriner’s hospital in Shreveport, Louisiana which was the nearest Shriner’s hospital to us there in, Beautiful.

There are endless opportunities to do good in the world.

Likewise, there are countless men and women willing to do their individual parts. There are two places I see this most often.

In houses of faith and worship and in my fraternal activity.

I do not mean to say that these things only happen in the Latter-day Saint faith – goodness no!

Men and women of every faith are doing so much good in the world. It gives me joy to be a witness to it!

Some years ago when serving as the Executive Secretary to the Stake President of the Washington D.C. Stake of the Chruch of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, we had a General Authority visit and give us special instruction. He observed to us, “There was a time that we wanted to convert everyone to our faith. Now we see the importance of encouraging men and women everywhere to be faithful members of their various churches no matter what that church is or where it may be. We see how critical it is that men and women of faith be active in their faith for the sake of society and the sake of the world!”

I do not need my family, friends, or neighbors to be of my faith. I am glad simply to find myself in the company of men and women of any faith. Whether great or small. Whether a spark or an inferno. The world is made better as a consequence of men and women exercising their faith for the benefit of those around them.

Likewise, the world is made better by those actively engaged in good works. No group, organization, religion, or charity has the market cornered on good works.

There is so much good to be found if we are willing to recognize it in others. I can’t help but think there are far greater opportunities to increase the scope of these if we look for occasions to join together to make the world around us better by combining our efforts and resources.

Some of you listening to this podcast have been very generous in partnering with me in the past to make the world better. I hope you know how I appreciate that. Thank you. Thank you!

I hope that there will be future opportunities to do likewise at the intersection of faith and fraternity – where ever that may be for you.

For me, that wonderful intersection is found where Freemasonry crosses paths with The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

I think the same must have been true for Brother Tim Olive. I wish I could have known him. Sadly, Tim died several years ago. Thankfully not before my bride was able to experience his kindness and that of his family first hand. She got to see that good Mormons could also be good Masons and vice versa.

To my eternal joy and gratitude – she went on to marry just such a man.

Much Love,

Hank

You’ve Been Hanked!

Happy Father’s Day 2023!

We sat together in the deep woods, outside Paris, my father and I. Overhead a thick gray blanket, very like heavy cotton batting, lay over the sky as far as could be seen in every direction. From it white snow fell in fine flakes, like meal. The fineness of it an indicator that more was to be expected.

Though the hour was late, both the falling snow and the fallen snow reflected every hint of light. On this night, the dark was neither grim nor uncertain. The bright white that lay upon the ground, in the trees, and upon every surface, even in the air as it continued to fall lent a beautiful strangeness to the night.

Such a snow was not unheard of in East Texas. It was however, uncommon. Its choosing to fall on the night my father and I were on a father/son deer hunt and camp out made it all the more memorable.

“You cold?” Dub asked.

“Yes sir,” I said through chattering teeth.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“Yes sir!”

“Boy, you are always hungry!” he accused through a bright smile.

My father was a handsome man. His smile was broad and infectious. I couldn’t help but also smile.

“Yes sir!”

Dub was a coal miner. Most people do not associate coal mining with Beautiful, East Texas. He worked three days on and four days off then four days on and three days off in the mine as a heavy equipment operator. Every workday was a twelve hour day.

I cannot recall ever hearing my father complain about his job or work of any kind, no matter how hot, difficult, or dirty it was. Dub, really was the single hardest working human being I have ever known in my life and without exception.

When he was not working at the mine he worked in other ways. My dad was decidedly of the opinion that tired boys were good boys. This being so, where ever he was, what ever he was doing, you better believe I was there doing it too.

Every year we raised acres of watermelons commercially. We cut endless cords of wood for ourselves and our neighbors. If you bought a cord of wood from Dub you got nothing but oak, no elm, and no trash wood. One hundred percent oak. You also got a full cord of wood, delivered to your home, and stacked in such a way that no sunlight showed through it and all for seventy five American dollars.

Good heavens!

I can’t tell y’all the wood we cut, loaded, hauled, split, stacked, unstacked, reloaded, unloaded, delivered, and stacked again.

Dub liked to observe, “Men who cut wood are warmed by it twice, once when they cut it and again when they burn it.”

I suppose he was something of a philosopher in his way.

My father brought with us an ample supply of firewood to keep us warm. There was plenty of fallen dead wood to supplement it should there be need.

“Look here,” he said. “When you build your fire, you want to have a backstop to keep it going after you fall asleep.” He demonstrated how this was done. “By building it this way,” Here he indicated his meaning, “you help direct the heat where you want it to go.”

As the fire grew and began to burn according to this improved arrangement of the logs, I felt the improvements in terms of warmth. “How about that?” he asked grinning.

“Much better,” I said.

Dub’s front two top teeth had a gap between them. It gave him a look all his own and something more. My father, who dipped snuff, could launch a line of tobacco spit through that tooth gap, several feet long and a good fifteen feet in any direction he choose with an accuracy that was unsettling. My father’s sons learned the value of both listening and minding right quick unless they wanted to be his target when the next time to spit presented itself.

Whenever he spit there was a sort of squinching sound, one that I am not able to adequately reproduce, though I wish I could.

Before the roaring fire, my father placed a pan in which he prepared our modest but wholesome and tasty supper. As he poked and prodded the fire sparks of red and gold rose heavenward, popping and cracking. Higher they rose passing by the downward falling flakes of white.

The night was quiet, oddly so. “Why is it so quiet out?” I asked.

“Its like that when it snows,” my father said.

“Why?”

“The snow makes the world quieter,” was all he choose to offer.

It was enough.

My father and I reclined against the fallen tree to which we’d set our backs there in the camp. He sat to my right. Between us and the quilted sky, was a tarp that kept most of the snow off of us.

Our camp was in a small clearing surrounded by seemingly endless woods. Oak, elm, cedar, and persimmons as far as the eye could see and for distant acres beyond seeing. Not far from us a community of coyotes began to howl, sing, bark, and yip.

For the most part I was unafraid of the coyotes, though their nearness was such that I could not help but be reassured by my father’s presence. Dub was more than a match for whatever the Paris area night time wilderness might choose to offer up. My father was himself a, Force of Nature, one not to be underestimated or trifled with.

He could shoot. He loved to fight and was stunningly good at both. He studied boxing and a martial art created by Joe Lewis. My father worked daily to increase his physical strength.

His presence, confidence, and martial skill reassured me in such a way that I could frankly enjoy the coyotes not-to-distant communications, even taking pleasure in them.

“You like hearing that don’t you?” he asked. I heard the approval in his voice and tried not to squirm with gladness.

“I do like it,” I said.

“So do I.”

Father and son smiled in the surreal, snow-lined oddly bright, dark of night. I heard the tell-tale squench of my father’s spit and found even this wonderfully comforting. Hearing my boyish laughter, Dub joined me with a chuckle of his own.

In time sleep began to itch just behind my eyes. Though I fought it, Dub noticed.

“Big day tomorrow,” he said.

“You think we’ll see any deer?” I asked.

“I hope so!” he said.

“I hope so too.”

“We’ll be getting up in just a few hours. It will still be dark,” my father cautioned.

“That’s okay.”

At this Dub laughed. “You always say that and then you are hard to wake up!”

“I’m not hard to wake up,” I protested.

It wasn’t true. I wanted it to be true but, it was not. When those very early morning wake up calls came, it was painfully difficult for me to wake up. I was glad Dub could not see my blushing face or, if he could, that he did not remark on it.

“Alright then, time to turn in,” he said.

Dub and I hunted many times together. Deer, dove, quail, and squirrel. We walked, stalked, crouched, and sat silently for hours on end. My father and I hunted both with and without dogs depending on our prey.

We did not often camp. Though on this occasion we did. It is among my most cherished memories with my father. I had his undivided attention – a rare and precious thing.

I am unsure what prompted Dub to take me with him on that occasion. These many years, even decades, I have carefully preserved this special memory. It is one that I only have because he did take me with him, because he made the time for me, and because he was determined to allow it be a special memory.

Dear Fathers,

As each of you know, these special memories don’t just happen – at least not very often. They happen because you make them happen or because someone made them happen for you. Let’s you and I be sure we are making similar treasured memories unfold for our children so that they have something to cherish when it comes time for us to move on from this life – even as my own excellent father had to do so unexpectedly decades ago.

Happy Father’s Day!

Much Love,

Hank

You’ve Been Hanked!

Thanks for listening to You’ve Been Hanked. If you enjoyed this special Father’s Day episode please share it with someone you care for who may also enjoy it. If you aren’t already a subscriber, please subscribe. If you find this work worthy of your material support, please consider a paid subscription.

I’d love to hear from you, please share a happy father’s day memory in the comments and give the episode a like.

As always, thank you for listening. I’ll talk to you again soon.

Tanscript:

Faith, Hope, Fraternal Visitation, and the Terrible Beauty of the Storm

Beneath a black sky devoid of stars and bereft of moon we pointed the truck north and set out for home. If all went well, my good friend who is also my good Brother, and I would be back at our respective homes in just over an hour. Our journey began some six hours earlier. I stifled a yawn.

“Brother Hank, how is your son doing?” Mike asked conscious perhaps of my apparent weariness.

“Doing fine. He is a good boy,” I said.

“How old is he now?”

We talked a while about pleasant things - that helped pass the time. Ahead, regular bolts of lightning illuminated a cumulonimbus cloud, relatively narrow from my vantage point but a towering structure and directly ahead.

My companion talked about the evening, mutual friends and acquaintances, and our shared Masonic experiences. I appreciated his being there. Long drives are always better when undertaken in good company.

More bolts of lightning flashed gold, lighting white clouds otherwise invisible in the dark and I found myself taken back in time to other drives undertaken in stormy weather…

By the time I was eight years old, I’d been driving the tractor for three years. Mostly but, not always supervised. When I turned eight Momma decided it was time for me to learn to drive properly. In those days she had a silver Mustang II, a stick shift.

The first time I recall being in the driver’s seat of that car it was parked in the shade of a great oak in front of our home. I was much too small to be able to both reach the pedals AND see over the dashboard. Momma worked to adjust the seat forward. Having moved it all the way in that directiion, there was no help for it, I just couldn’t manage to both actuate the pedals, particularly the clutch, AND see over the steering wheel.

Given these significant obstacles to success I imagined that first driving lesson was over – to be postponed until I was a bit taller but, such was not the case!

“You sit right here while I go get something. Don’t you move,” Momma said. As she spoke, I heard something like frustration in her voice and saw a look of determination on her face. She disappeared into the house only to reappear moments later with a pillow in her hand and a look of pleased anticipation on her face.

“Raise up,” she instructed. I did so and Momma put the pillow under my backside. “Okay, sit back down and try again.”

I did as she instructed but alas, it was not enough. I could either manage the pedals OR I could see out the front glass but could not do both at the same time.

“Hang on,” Momma said. Again she ran inside. When she re-emerged from the house, she carried a second pillow.

In a moment it was stacked atop the first and I sat upon the both. “How about now?”

Beginning to be frustrated I tried to reach the pedals and see over the steering wheel, prepared to report failure. To my delighted surprise I now sat semi-comfortably in the driver’s seat of the car able to both work the pedals AND with just a little effort, see out the glass – at the same time.

“I can do it. I can work the pedals and see over the steering wheel,” I gleefully reported.

“Alright!” Momma was very pleased.

We worked out how to shift the transmission, first, second, third, fourth, reverse, that one was a little tricky but pretty soon eight year old me seemed to have it. Before long I knew how to start the car and nominally understood braking.

“Ready?” Momma asked.

“Heck yeah!” I all but shouted. Exhilaration coursed through my small frame as the car successfully started. The motor revved in time with my pulse. “I am about to be driving a car,” I thought and was wildly exuberant with the sense of excited power that made itself known to my young nervous system.

At this point, you may be asking, Hank, I thought you were thinking back to a time that you drove in a storm and yet there is not description here of inclement weather.

I looked at Momma for approval. She smiled and nodded encouragingly. At her signal I engaged the clutch, depressed the brake, shifted the transmission into reverse, turned my body to look backwards as she’d described and realized, much too late, and to my great horror, that no matter how many pillows I sat upon I simply was not tall enough to manage the pedals while also turning my much too young body around to look behind me in order to safely reverse.

My feet came off the pedals and I watched in absolute panic as the car sped backwards into the white wood fence that wrapped around our yard. Upon impact, two sixteen foot sections of that fence fell upon the ground. The car died and Momma said something that I am pretty sure she must have learned from Granny Alice who was the most prolific user of that kind of language I’d ever known in my young life.

My first thought was of my very good father, “Dub” and his inevitable displeasure when he arrived home and discovered the fence.

You see, not all storms are atmospheric in nature.

One my suppose that with such an ending to my first driving lesson that similar, ongoing lessons might be curtailed. In such supposition, one would be mistaken. Having weathered the initial storm, my driving instruction continued under Momma’s careful supervision.

By the time I was ten years old I found myself driving – ALONE - all over Beautiful, East Texas! Momma had a 1968 Buick Electra. It was twenty-one-and-a-half-feet-long, brown, made entirely of steel, and all electric. In the intervening two years since my first driving lesson I’d grow a lot. Seeing over the steering wheel was a non-issue and poor Dub, being no fool, wisely choose to purchase automatics over stick shifts for Momma to continue my illicit driving lessons.

On a particular occasion, Momma sent me on an errand. “I want you to take this to your Granddad and Granny’s house. You can visit a while, if you like, then come on home.”

“Yes ma’am,” I said.

In no time I was behind the wheel of Momma’s Brown Buick Electra and headed down the Farm to Market road towards my grand parents home. The sky was dark gray. Rain began to fall soon after I began the trip.

Beautiful, East Texas is on the southern border of what is often referred to as, “Tornado Alley.” There is rarely ever a gentle rain there. Instead, at least in those days, rain tended to come on fast and hard. Certainly there were lingering storms on occasion but, for the most part, the weather was tempestuous: sudden, usually violent, and often devastating. Or, as we liked to refer to it in Beautiful, just normal.

The sky continued to darken, particularly in the west. This was usual and not unexpected as weather in Beautiful, East Texas generally moves from west to east.

Momma’s enormous brown Buick Electra was a wonderfully comfortable luxury car. Heavy, its weight lent a feeling of safety in its operation. The wind began to pick up and as it did so, began also to gust, even violently. When I felt the wind shifting that heavy Buick, my ten year old self sensed danger and I grew cautious.

The rain began to pour down in such tremendous volume that the wipers, even set to high, could not keep up with the deluge. I slowed the car, put on the headlights, and even engaged the emergency flashers in order that I might be more easily seen, though I’d observed no other cars on that rural route. Still the storm strengthened. So much so that I could no longer see the yellow line on the road. Indeed to my horror, I realized I could not see the front end of the hood of the car nor even the back end of the turtle hull when I looked in the back facing mirror.

With this shocking recognition I quickly pulled Momma’s Buick entirely off the road and onto the grass as there was no paved shoulder. I had to open the door to even see where the grass was and torrential rain poured in upon me as I did so. Finally, feeling confident that no part of her car remained on the road, I closed the car back up and looked out the front glass.

Fear mingled with frank astonishment swept over me as I realized the storm was of such intensity that I could not see any part of the outside world beyond the fury of the water pouring out of the sky and onto the glass that was all that separated me from apparent oblivion.

Though still late afternoon, the sky was entirely black. White water broke upon every window of the car and was all that could be seen. No other trace of the outside world, not so much as a hint, no not even a sliver of brown could be discerned and I knew that I was that real danger stalked me that day.

All that was – was chaos. The storm’s veil fell entirely upon me there. There was no world, no earth beyond the interior of the car. The storm raged. Lightning flashed almost strob-like, and thunder exploded again and again and again beginning anew before the last explosion ended. The car shook and shimmied, despite its thousands of pounds in the storm’s fury. And in the black of it lit only by the awful flashing lightning I heard a frightful roar such that tears filled my eyes for fear of imminent mortality.

A 1968 Buick Electra was a car of such proportion as to be nearly unrelatable to today’s vehicles. It was truly a giant of a car and would require most of four contemporary parking places to properly park from front to back and still leave room to open both the driver’s and passenger doors. Similarly, the inside of the car was cavernous.

Fearing the storm that savagely raged outside that protective frame of steel and glass, grounded only by the rubber tires that supported it, I determined to seek help from on high. What had been only a car moments before became a chapel, a cathedral, a temple and in that sacred space, I knelt upon the vinyl front bench seat and there poured my heart, soul, and very real fear out to the Creator of All That Is.

My prayer may have been only that such as a ten year old boy is capable of but it mattered little for my faith was every bit of what a ten year old boy is also capable of and more than exceeded a vocabulary limited by youth and inexperience. As I knelt there praying I wept for fear of the storm. The Almighty had compassion on His creation and, in time, the storm diminished just a little.

As it did so, I opened my eyes and saw the brown hood of the car but no more. The curtain of rain receded and I began to see the road and grass, both covered by a flood of water. That awful veil drew back a bit more.

To my unmitigated horror I saw the tornado.

The black funnel rose from the earth and reached into the heavens. Crossing the Farm to Market road not more than a hundred yards ahead of me it traveled from my left to my right. In its debris field I saw road signs, trees, whole trees, parts of what once was a house, what appeared to be a horse trailer, and heaven help me, I even saw what was left of a horse, perhaps a matched set that belonged to the trailer.

The monster moved slowly so slowly. I felt the car yearning to come up off the ground and enter its orbit and begged God to prevent it. The car actually moved forward, though it was not running and I prayed, nearly shouting for my Creator to send his angels to hold it in place.

I think he must have done so. I cannot otherwise explain how neither I nor Momma’s Buick did not become one with that awful beast of a storm. I can only say that I am grateful beyond measure that we did not.

Back again in the present I realized my friend and Brother Mason must have asked me a question and politely waited for an answer. “Sorry Brother Mike, what did you say?”

“I was just asking if you enjoyed the evening,” he said.

“Brother, I enjoyed it very well. More than you know. It has been a gift. I must thank the Worshipful Master for inviting me,” I said.

Ahead of us, lightning again lit the cumulonimbus structure. “You are beautiful to behold,” I thought, “But I do not fear you are only beautiful and we are not back in Beautiful.”

Much Love,Hank

You’ve Been Hanked

Thanks for listening to this episode. I hope you enjoyed it. These stories are true stories. They are my stories and I love sharing them with you. If you appreciate what you’ve heard I hope you’ll give it a like, make a comment, and subscribe. If you find this work worthy of your material support, an option for a paid subscription is available. Regardless of anything else, thanks so much for being here and for listening. Talk to you again next time.

Hank and Shawn set out to enjoy a fishing trip and their friendship only to be attacked in the woods.

Do you enjoy, “You’ve Been Hanked?” If so, please help us grow by sharing it with others!

In this episode of, You’ve Been Hanked we hear the story from a different perspective. From, The Best Sandwich I Ever Ate: “Where is his mother?” Uncle Carl wondered when he saw the baby crying in his yard. Here, we find out and begin to better understand.

Thanks for listening. If you like what you hear, give it a like, comment, subscribe, and share the episode with someone you love.

Thanks,Hank