by Gerry House
A stove. Probably something from Sears. Not an ancient, wood-burning wonder, but a stove like you saw in your Aunt Velma’s kitchen last Thanksgiving. Somebody carried a stove into the heart of darkness and dumped it there, along with some bald tires and a half-filled garbage bag of drywall.
No, you are not in the woods, you are in the sticks. As man asks, “Is there life on Mars?” and as we ponder the building of the pyramids and formations of crop circles, why has no one solved the mystery of the stove in the sticks? (Where is Stephen King when we need him?) The truth is that it’s why country people go to the sticks. When you hear them announce they’re going hunting, they are really not after squirrels or wild turkey; they are really hoping to find another Kenmore. And if they are lucky and go far enough, a fridge.
My agent, Frank, asked me, “What does this have to do with country music?” It has everything to do with country music, although you wouldn’t know it if I didn’t explain as follows:
All the artists in the Country & Western world fall into one of those two categories. Jason Aldean, Gretchen Wilson, and Brantley Gilbert are from the sticks. Keith Urban, Ronnie Dunn, and Carrie Underwood are from the woods. One is not any better than the other, just different.
Do not make the mistake of noticing “sticks” rhymes with “hicks.” Just because somebody is really, really country doesn’t mean they ain’t smart. Conversely (I love saying that), the more sophisticated-looking, “woodsy” type could easily be a hidden dullard. The difference is that one of them might collect beaver pelts and the other has a house filled with Louis XIV antiques.
I made that mistake early on by insinuating to Conway Twitty that he probably didn’t know what I was talking about. Conway, to be honest, probably wouldn’t have done all that well on Jeopardy, but he knew what was going on. He shot back, “Son, you know we get CNN at our house just like you do.” It was a little lesson. Just because someone is standing in front of you in tiny running shorts, a skin-tight T-shirt, and a polyester ball cap perched on his head doesn’t mean he don’t know some things. After all, Mr. Twitty had recorded some of the most “woods”-like songs in country history: “Love to Lay You Down,” “That’s My Job,” and “You’ve Never Been This Far Before.” I never mentioned to him that he also recorded “You’re the Reason Our Kids Are Ugly” with Loretta Lynn. That song is from the sticks. I hope, Frank, you now understand.
Waylon Jennings
WAYLON JENNINGS WAS AN OUTLAW. I knew Waylon. He was Lonesome, On’ry & Mean, as one of his albums was titled. He took country to CBGB’s in New York City and flattened them. He had quite a life story that’s been told several times, but now I get to tell my Waylon story.
First of all, he was hilarious. He was kind and intelligent and very friendly, but most of all, to me, he was a total stitch. He didn’t care one gnat’s ass what anybody thought of what he said. You had to be prepared for an answer if you asked his opinion. He also held court on a variety of other subjects that floated through his mind, and it was always a hoot.
Ding! Ding! Ding! Learning moment alert!
It was Ol’ Hoss (a name my father had also called me) who taught me to stop worrying about others’ opinions of me and just have fun and live it up. He also had a way of saying things that summed up the situation like no one else could.
John Lennon liked Waylon, and I always pestered Waylon about their relationship because I am a Beatles fan. Waylon was in the Crickets with Buddy Holly. John Lennon named his band the Beatles because he loved the Crickets so much—there’s a lot of stuff going on there.
On the air, I once asked Waylon what in the world John Lennon saw in Yoko Ono. She’s an intelligent, artistic person, but I never felt Vogue was gonna chase her down for a cover shoot. We were “live” and Waylon didn’t quite know how to answer my question as truthfully as he usually did. What he said was, “Have you ever had a horse eat corn out of your hand?” I paused for a second to figure that one out. He just smiled at me and raised his eyebrows like, “Come on, dude, he’s a guy. Do the math.” I will let you figure it out, but I always thought that was the best answer you can say publically without actually spelling it out. If you can’t figure it out, please call me.
I was also one of the three people to play golf with Waylon the single time he played golf in his life. He was living in Nashville, wasn’t touring or appearing as much, and thought perhaps golf would be fun. I should have told him the truth up front. He’d had open-heart surgery and complained about it constantly and how he needed to “get out somewhere.” It was me, Tony Joe White (“Polk Salad Annie” soul-singing Southern white boy), music publisher/all-around character Bob Beckham, and Waylon.
We got to the golf course and there, standing in the middle of the country club golf pro shop, was Waylon Damn Jennings in all his leathery glory—black T-shirt, leather vest, black jeans, and boots—not exactly up to the usual country club dress code.
In that familiar voice of his, he barked, “These sissies told me I can’t play unless I have the right outfit. Who gives a cowfart about how you look playing golf?”
Beckham took him aside and said, “Calm down, I’ll buy you some clothes.” He then proceeded to pick out the single ugliest horizontal striped red-and-white polo shirt in the store.
Waylon pronounced, “The jeans stay, the boots stay, and I’ll wear this shirt, and I’m gonna look like a damn barber pole.”
It took a few minutes to calm everyone down. It was Waylon Jennings, for cryin’ out loud, and the clothes police sort of looked the other way as we strode toward the first tee.
Once there, Tony Joe pulled out a box of pink balls and explained to Waylon, “These are the latest balls. All the pros use them, and I wanted you to look good.”
Waylon eyed them suspiciously and said, “Son, I’ve got balls of my own, and if you are screwing with me I’ll cut off your head and shit in your neck.”
Tony Joe: “Trust me, Waylon. Would I do anything to embarrass you?”
Now understand Waylon had never picked up a club, putted a ball, or even been to a golf course before. This was like spotting Bigfoot at a Chamber of Commerce lunch. I could see many faces up against the window of the pro shop trying to figure out what was gonna happen.
After a thirty-second lesson, I handed him a rented driver, put a tee in the ground and one of his lovely pastel balls on top. It was then that Waylon learned all you need to know about golf and how a man enjoys this lovely, pastoral sport.
A mighty swing, a rush of air, and the ball shot sideways, hit a sign ten feet right and ricocheted into the bushes.
“Golf!” Waylon grunted. (He actually said, “Fuck!”, but since both words are four letters and mean basically the same thing, I used “Golf!”) He was now a part of the grand tradition.
“Try one more, Waylon.” I teed up another. Tony Joe was suddenly very interested in something off in the distance. I could see his shoulders shaking from laughter. Beckham was rooting around in his golf bag for a spare bottle of vodka.
Whack! His drive dribbled forward about thirty yards. I beamed like a parent at his kid’s T-ball game. “Now we’re off. We’re playin’ golf.”
And we did . . . for nine holes. Us playing and Waylon kicking the grass, shouting and cussing, and scraping the ball along the fairway—the way most people play every day. Some of his divots required a backhoe to fill in.
When we got to the turn, Waylon got out of the cart and said, “Boys, I’ve now played golf. It ain’t for me. When I swing, I can feel the bones in my chest move around. That ain’t good, and I ain’t good. I’ll see ya down the road.”
And we stood and watched the Outlaw, Mr. “Ain’t Livin’ Long Like This,” stroll toward his car in the parking lot. And yes, he looked like a barber pole.
I know I shouldn’t tell this. I’m probably not the only one he told, but I’ve never seen it or heard it from anybody else. I hope his beautiful wife, Jessi Colter, won’t mind.
It was a blazingly hot s
ummer afternoon. I was at the old Music Row hangout called Maude’s Courtyard. A whole book could be written about the people and the stories that came out of what was actually a nice restaurant that the songwriters and singers sort of adopted and actually took over during the afternoons. We played golf in there, liar’s poker, smoked cigars, and generally did very little songwriting or singing. We did have a lot of cold ones.
Waylon sat down next to me at the end of the bar and said, “Hoss, you would not believe what happened to me yesterday.”
This was coming from a guy who’d roomed with Johnny Cash, been the voice of the Dukes of Hazzard, performed in every honky-tonk in America, floated above the stars with Willie Nelson, and had almost single-handedly changed the sound and politics of Nashville.
“What happened to you, Waylon?”
“Now, don’t go blabbing this story on the radio. As if you could, but somebody sent me one of them machines.”
I was hooked. “What machines?”
“I don’t know what it’s called—‘The Autoblow’ or something—but you stick it on your wand, and it does the rest. It’s battery-powered, or you can plug it into your cigarette lighter in the car.”
“It feels like the real dealio?” I waded in a little deeper. I thought I had the picture.
“It’s amazing. I know, I used it yesterday.”
That was about all I wanted to know at this point, but he continued.
“I was in my car driving home.”
You should know that Waylon had a white Cadillac convertible that looked like a land yacht. He was impossible to miss in this beauty.
“Hoss, I’d had a little nose candy, and I was kinda hopped up, and I saw that thing in the backseat and I thought, Well, I’ll just stick it on while I enjoy the ride home.” (“Stick it on” meant to insert your member into the suction tubing on the end. TMI.)
“I was doing fine ’til that thing started to do its job. The faster it went, the faster I went. I think I was doing eighty miles an hour going down Hillsboro Road. I was OK ’til I saw the blue lights come on. I thought, Oh, NO! So, I floored it. I just couldn’t think straight. I didn’t know which would be worse—to be caught by the cops wearing this thing on my pecker or doin’ eighty down a country road with cocaine in the glove box. I couldn’t decide what to throw out of the car.”
I guessed. “The Autoblow?”
“Nope, the real blow. I three-wheeled it onto Old Hickory Boulevard toward my house. I decided I’d rather be caught with the sex thingy than drugs. I don’t think they send you to jail for having an affair with a machine, but they frown on drugs.”
Since Waylon was sitting here with me, I cleverly figured out he had not gone to prison.
“How’d you handle it?”
“Well, I figured if I could just get in my driveway I could come up with somethin’. So I drove around my gates and through the front yard and stopped sideways in front of my house. The cop took the same route up into my yard. I yanked that thing off and stuck it under the seat and hopped out of the car and yelled, ‘Officer, thanks for the escort. I’m fine now. I guess I had something that didn’t agree with me. If you don’t mind, I’ve gotta dash for the crapper. If that’s all right with you.’ We both froze there in the driveway for a second while he absorbed what I’d said. I think my fly was still open, too.
‘Mr. Jennings. You were going mighty fast, but I had that happen to me once, and I almost didn’t make it myself. But, sir, you gotta slow it down.’”
I was howling by now, and Waylon put his hand on my arm and said, “Hoss, the best part of Outlaw is the Out part. Out of jail. Scared me to death. I’ll leave the jail stuff to Merle Haggard. I got that machine out of my car and threw it in the garbage so I wouldn’t be tempted no more.”
Waylon Jennings settled back on his bar stool and sighed. “Now buy me a drink and I’ll tell you why you never visit a truck stop in Texas with Willie Nelson at four in the morning when he’s been smokin’ on the bus.”
I miss ol’ Waylon a lot.
Hunting
I WAS FOURTEEN. I was armed. I don’t know how old Dad was. Dads are always just older. When you look back, you realize how impossibly young our parents were to have such problems as wars and the Depression. These were tough people. Brave people. Country people. He was armed, too. We were mightily prepared to defend ourselves against rabbit attacks—killer rabbits, as Monty Python later warned us about. Run away! Run away!
In case you are not “huntin’ learned,” as they say in Kentucky, the prime objective is to never let the wild things know you are in their ’hood. “Son, they can hear you thinking. Those ears didn’t get to be that size for no reason. You just gotta never let them know you’re here.” Wise words from a master huntsman.
Right, Dad. How could they possibly know we’re here? Just because you’re walkin’ through the brush, hacking and coughing, lighting up a Winston, whistling and humming some country song, and you’re slathered in Old Spice and taking the occasional potshot at a tree or squirrel’s nest, how could anything that has ears possibly know we’re coming? It was like sneaking up on somebody with a marching band.
I was cocked and loaded. Ready for the moment. Hunting. The warrior of the frozen land. Snow was melting on the ground, and I looked for any sign. Suddenly, it happened—so fast I almost missed it. Out of the bush darted a huge rabbit. You never called them bunnies. These were rabbits. Wild game. Hunted and served up for dinner. Dad let out a war whoop and fired first. I saw snow and dirt kick up some fifty yards from the rabbit who took this as a warning that one, these guys can’t shoot, and two, I could get hurt accidentally.
He kicked into high gear. Then, with the precision of John Wayne and all the movie war heroes I’d watched, I raised my shotgun and slowly pulled the trigger. It sounded like a gun went off. Because a gun did go off . . . right next to my head. I saw the rabbit yip into the air, turn over, and land headfirst into a snowdrift.
“You got him, Son! Son, you got him!”
I got him, all right. Three or four pellets probably had clipped his shoulder and head. The little thing lay twitching in the snow, which was slowly turning crimson. Life was running into the frozen white.
I got him. I got him, and I didn’t want him. I wanted him to jump up and shoot me the bunny bird and hippity-hop off down the trail. I looked at Dad and, and being twelve years old, tried not to cry. It didn’t work. Dad looked at me, put his hand on my shoulder, and said, “I’m sorry there, Hoss. I reckon I’ll finish him off.” Dad raised his gun, aimed right at the rabbit, and then lowered it. I think I saw tears in his eyes. He said, “Let’s move back a ways.” We walked away twenty-five yards or so. While I stared off into the sky, I heard Dad’s gun take the little guy out of his misery. We walked home in silence.
We took a lot of hikes in the woods after that day. We musta walked a thousand miles workin’ stuff out, but I never fired a gun at anything alive again.
I don’t judge people who hunt. I like steak and wear a leather belt. I get it. I just can’t do it. My dad never raised a gun at an innocent target again either.
As we walked home in the snow, I seem to remember Dad singing an old hymn, “In The Sweet By and By.” I probably imagined that, but it makes me feel better.
Dogs and Cats
I’M A DOG PERSON. I know there is the eternal debate between “us” and the “cat people,” but I’m sorry, we’re right. Dogs are better people. I can hear you now: “But you don’t know how fabulous little Furgie can be. He snuggles and purrs and sits on the bookshelf and chases the laser beam!” I’m sorry—we’re right. Cats don’t care. Cats are standoffish and stubborn. Cats are dismissive and rude. Let’s face it. Cats are French. Oh sure, Snuggles is thrilled to see you when you’re opening a nine-dollar can of Fancy Feast, but just try to get his attention later.
How many times have I tried cats? Many. Too many. When I came home after a hard day of slaving over a hot microphone, I expected Calvin and Prissy t
o run to meet me like the conquering hero I was. Instead, all I got was a sneer from Calvin as he sauntered into the other room and Prissy arching her back and jumping on the couch. Now, I admit Prissy has reason to be upset. Prissy is a guy. You name a guy Prissy, you’re gonna get some resentment. How can an animal be so difficult to sexually identify? After you remove the two obvious pieces of evidence, it’s almost impossible. I am certain Prissy blames me for ruining his reputation in Catworld.
Dogs are good people. Dogs just know. Dogs are kind and gentle. Dogs protect you. Show me somebody with a guard cat, and I’ll show you somebody missing some jewels. Prissy is missing some jewels, but that’s not my fault.
Dogs understand and forgive. I think cats keep a detailed list of complaints in their secret hideouts. Cats hold a grudge and retaliate by peeing in your slippers if they can. Cats have meetings and take seminars called “How to Become More Aloof” and “Introduction to Furniture Scratching.” Calvin, our giant Manx, would go near the cat box just to antagonize us. It was obvious that he knew why we had a giant box of litter. He understood the concept of proper bathroom habits. He just wasn’t going to submit to our rules. “General vicinity” was good enough for Calvin to show his intelligence and independence. Calvin is gone now. I’m certain if there’s a “Cat Heaven,” Calvin is not there. He’s somewhere right now taking a crap in Satan’s shoes.
Brad Paisley is a cat. I tend to think of people as one or the other. Brad is friendly and smart and adorable, but he’s a cat. I’m not saying he took a whiz in my closet, but I’m also not saying he didn’t.
I met Brad Paisley at my golf tournament, which I held for years to support different charities. It was a glorious time. To be grudgingly honest, other people did most of the work. I showed up, swanned around as host, and played golf, and we raised some money for deserving people. If you don’t play golf, you probably won’t understand charity golf. Often, it’s a long day with strangers on a sizzling patch of grass.