Good Country People

Greg looks a little like Willie Nelson. At least like the Willie I remember from twenty years ago, a time when the Red-Headed Stranger was somewhere between his Pat Boone Sunday school teacher phase and his current outlaw scruffiness. He has the same sandy red hair as Willie; the same twinkle in his eyes. A demeanor and voice that could put anyone at ease--soft and southern, but also animated when he tells a story.

Today I am working at Greg's farm. He doesn't really know me from Adam's house cat, but he has hired me to mark and sell his timber. I was hired on a handshake, based on the recommendation of a friend of a friend. There are still places around in which business is conducted this way. Rural Alabama is one of them, and Greg is an old-school guy who believes a man's word is his bond.

Greg's land is no gentleman's farm. It is not manicured and maintained as a show place--not a "look-at-me" status symbol the way rich guys do it. It is not part of a collection that includes a trophy wife, pure bred animals, and a one hundred thousand dollar S.U.V. It doesn't have a contrived name, like "White Oak Acres" or "Whispering Hills." It is simply referred to as "the farm" or "my land." It is working class and blue collar, handed down from the previous generation or purchased with dollars earned with the sweat of hard work.

As a working farm, some might describe it as "junky." There is a vast collection of things a man might someday need--old cars and trucks, farm equipment, worn-out lawn mowers--even a jon boat hull or two. There are piles of scrap iron and steel. Old sheds and barns scattered around, filled with tools and bins and buckets. There is even a pen full of beagles kept for the hunting season, because a man can't work all the time.

Greg pays me a visit as I break for my bag lunch. He arrives with a gift of home-grown tomatoes, picked fresh from his garden. He invites me to go pick some more if I want. He wishes I would take a bunch. It has been a good year in the garden, and he is about "'matered-out."

Small talk is made while I eat. I attempt to explain the method I am using to select trees for cutting, but Greg dismisses it with a shrug and a wave of the hand. "You're the expert," he says. "Whatever you decide is O.K. by me."

As we talk, one of his beagles makes an attempt to steal some of my lunch. "Come here, dog," I say as I offer him a sardine. Greg smiles. "His name is 'Brownie'." I smile too. Alabama humor is not lost on me. The dog is solid white.

After a few minutes, Greg stands and stretches. He is off to harrow some fields. Dove season begins this Saturday, and he is planning a big hunt for friends and family. The cooking will begin in the morning, with lunch at 11:00 so the "die-hards" can be in position by noon when the season officially begins.

"Why don't you join us? There will plenty to eat and drink and it looks like we're going to have lots of birds this year."

I am surprised by the offer. The rich guys would never make such an overture. After all, I am "hired-out", and as I said, the man hardly knows me.

I say that I will probably be working Saturday.

Greg is undeterred. I can come later, after lunch. Whenever I get finished working. Anytime I want. Really. Love to have you here.

I return to work with some faith in my fellow man restored. There are still a lot of good country people scattered around the Alabama countryside.

I'm doing some work for one. Really.