Hillbilly Wisdom, Destructive Genes and Old Enough to Chop

Last week a couple of guys stopped by for some information and advice. Frankly, I am always a little bit concerned when someone wants either advice or information from me.  Useless trivia I have. Filthy limericks anytime – bad jokes on demand – but advice or real information is questionable.  In any case, they asked for and received both.  Only time will tell if they took the advice or if it was good advice or if the information was accurate.

The stories in this column are true. Averett lives a dull life in rural Southside Virginia with his wife Management, two children and a rotating assortment of goats, dogs, cats, snakes and other local fauna.

As we chatted one of them mentioned a guy named Jim Comstock.  As it happens Jim is filed in my archives under the trivia category. Way back in 1957 he started (as he called it) a “weakly” newspaper   named “The West Virginia Hillbilly.” Once, when a national newspaper called “The Hillbilly” sophisticated, Comstock demanded a retraction and apology.

Anyway, yesterday I received a copy of Comstock’s Hillbilly book in the mail. It sort of made me nervous-when someone gives you something after you give them advice it implies the advice had some sort of value.  I’m going to have to think about this sometime.

Over the years I’ve borrowed (with permission) several of Comstock’s columns. As I was reading I found an interesting column on Israel that is as accurate today as it was way back then.  Comstock credits Doc Hunter with saying about Israel, “The fightingest dog in the world is the one under its own front porch.”

The eldest Grand-brat found a hatchet last week.  He wanted to know if he could “chop things.” Now a hatchet is a dangerous thing, especially in the hands of a five-year-old. It’s not only dangerous to the five-year-old, it’s dangerous to everything in the vicinity of the five-year-old.

Still there is the fact that “chopping things” is part of childhood. In fact, chopping things and watching them fall appears to be imbedded in the male genes.  “Chopping things” is like lots of other addictions. You start out small and before you know it your chopping habit has progressed to giant Redwoods. In addition to the “chopping gene,” most males have an “equipment gene.”  You progress from a hatchet to an ax – to a saw – and once you get to power saws there is no end in sight.  I suspect it wasn’t the loggers who decimated the Redwoods. I suspect every male who ever saw one just had to chop it and watch it fall.

I suspect most deserts were caused by herds of children with hatchets.

But back to the Grand-brat. He found the hatchet and wanted to “chop things.” First you should notice he didn’t discriminate. He didn’t want to chop wood, or trees; he wanted to “chop things.”  He wanted to chop anything chopable.

Now, as a responsible Faux Pa, I couldn’t just let him “chop things.” First, “chopping things” requires training in both technique and safety. It also requires supervision.

I remembered way back when I first discovered chopping. I had found my father’s old Marine machete in a box in the attic. I remember that machete jumping into my hand and whispering, “Let’s chop things.”

I asked my father for permission. Apparently I met his criteria for using a machete, which appeared to be “Is the boy bigger than the machete?” I was then subjected to an in-depth training course which consisted of “Be careful what you cut” and “Don’t cut yourself.”

Although in today’s overprotective climate this might be considered irresponsible parenting; in my father’s defense, I was under the supervision of my older brother.  The fact that older Sib was only 16 months my senior didn’t seem to matter.  This was one of the many benefits of being a third child. Once the sibling was allowed to do something I was somehow “grandfathered” in the permission.

So before I was turned loose on the world to “chop things” I was evaluated, trained, cautioned and supervised. I decided to do the same with the Grand-brat.

So, when the Grand-brat asked if he could “chop things” I said, “Sure, just don’t cut yourself.”