A PSA, from me to you...

Let's be perfectly clear on something: there is a difference between a redneck and a good ol' boy. It's not gender, class, or culture specific, and geography isn't a factor, either. Like all identities, it can be a fluid thing; a good ol' boy may descend to redneckdom and a person at the other end of the spectrum may find the courage to transcend the redneck within. One may even sometimes masquerade as and perform the function of the other. At their base, though, they are two distinct species. And the primary difference is this: one doesn't know any better, and the other does.

As a concept I think it pretty much speaks for itself, but let me provide some concrete examples for those who might still be a little fuzzy on the subject.

Bo and Luke Duke: Redneck. I know what it says in the theme song, but these two couldn't get any closer to redneck without tripping over it and breaking their necks. They had good ol' boy tendencies, but they were rednecks, tried and true.

Johnny Cash: A good ol' boy. Despite all the gambling, shooting, cussin', time in jail, and addictions, the Man in Black was born knowing better and died having figured out how to achieve it.

Hunters:

• Those who eat what they kill: Usually good ol' boys, with a few redneck stragglers
• Those who hunt purely for sport: Rednecks. Especially the rich ones who hunt big or endangered game simply because they can afford to.

Any Card Carrying Member of the Good Ol' Boys Club: This is a hard one, because while its membership often consists of both, it is difficult -- and sometimes impossible -- to separate the wheat from the chaff. It also depends on whether or not The Good Ol' Boys Club is in the good graces of the general populace or if they've done another knuckleheaded thing to earn them an ass whippin'. I think this is a case of one masquerading as the other until they're all wearing the same mask, acting en masse according to which way the wind is blowing.

And now to the event that inspired this little missive:
The person who shot a hole in your mailbox? If you guessed Redneck, you'd be right. It was either a redneck or a good ol' boy in the presence of and outnumbered by rednecks (because things happen), then it becomes a crime committed under duress of redneck, and there's precedent for that going back since the beginning of time.

So, there you have it. Any questions?

Bearing (my heart on my) Arms

I function under many delusions, one of which being I'm a lot tougher and more fearless than I really am. So in addition to opening my eyes every morning to a world that does not include cabana boys, fame, notoriety, or riches that spring eternal, I must also contend with the fact that all my posturing and all my sailor-mouthed bravado means absolutely nothing in the face of the North Carolina mountains.

I can deal with feral kitties, the scavenging raccoons, and the occasional interloper in ursine form. But nothing -- and I mean nothing -- will keep this girl from hitting the deck every time a gun goes off.

I could blame it on living in the city too long. After all, whole sections of my extended family sustain themselves on what they can grow or kill. Trucks are sold with gun racks already installed. Following my last post about bears in the woods, a good friend of mine sent me the link to this t-shirt. And I'm not sure I could have named a single playmate of mine growing up whose parents didn't keep a shotgun in the house -- loaded or not -- for security purposes. In short, guns are as commonplace as sweet tea and God down here.

But to know of a thing's presence and its function is entirely different from hearing it perform that very function, repeatedly and within relative proximity to the window where I sit writing, exposed for all the world to see. I'm sure they're just shooting blanks, taking aim at soda cans or scaring off the many aforementioned feral kitties.

But let's face it, I'm still shaking as I type this. I might as well put a bullseye on my forehead and inquire as to whether anyone knows a good taxidermist, because I feel -- quite literally -- like a sitting duck.

Does a Bear Shit in the Woods?

First it was the feral kitties. Then it was the moths, followed closely by the raccoons. In a not too-distant third was the skunk that paraded odiferously across the porch at 5 a.m. two days ago, inciting feral kitties to riot and me to near heart attack.

The latest of God's creatures to tour the grounds around my little cabin? Bears. Uh-huh. That's right. Bears. Well, a bear. Just one. But.... you know, a bear!

It was small, and relatively harmless looking. What's more, it wasn't interested in me in the slightest. It went about its morning foraging business, and then went on its way. Most likely to never think about me again.

I, on the other hand, now see bears everywhere. Not real ones; there was, after all, just one of those. But there are bear themes and bear motifs everywhere I look. On billboards and dish towels; as decorative door pieces and pottery embellishments. And I'm not sure how I missed this, except to say that when nature calls, you're not too terribly concerned about the surroundings -- but there are even prints and etchings of bears in the bathroom here.

So. There's that.

Which means I can't speak to the factuality of the age-old philosophical question -- does a bear shit in the woods? But the bears can now answer the question about me.

So how about that?