"Arrrr" is for "Redneck"

The Appalachian appellation redneck has a kick-ass history. Beyond the standard ‘sunburned neck from day labor’ theory, there are several possible roots of the word, including, believe or not, a Celtic one. No, leprechauns did not sneak in and paint some poor sod burner’s neck red. Yes, our skin reflects our moods rather accurately. Light the ire of any Son of Erin and you’ll soon discover what redneck means. We all flare quickly and righteously.

There are many similarities in temperament between the Irish and rednecks. Both appreciate a decent home-brew, are fiercely loyal to their clans, disdain nosy government, and are ever ready to defend their turf with a verbal barb or bullet.

Obviously not all rednecks are Irish, and many of these same traits apply to Scots and others. There's a reason I'm treating 'redneck' more like an attitude and not a nationality - when you're as friendly as rednecks are, your gene pool gets a bit muddy.

Just like rednecks, Irish clans are based not on blood but on friendship. Stop in any Irish pub and you’ll quickly find that out. Everyone’s a friend-in-the-making. And they don’t care if your family is blueblood or redneck. Cross them, however, and you’re done.

On the rare occasion anyone crossed him, I remember my Celtic father’s neck turning a deep scarlet, the color soon flowing up to his face. One corner of his mouth would curl, much like pulling the hammer back on a shotgun. It seemed his words alone drew blood.

“I was supposed to go to that meeting,” he once purred to an arrogant coworker, “but they found out my parents were married.”

You may be surprised to discover rednecks living as far north as New York, but the idea that they're limited to the South is untrue. Once they figured out how to put chains on snow tires and chill beer in a snowdrift, they were everywhere. And while the borough of Brooklyn runs deep in our bloodstream, the Appalachian mountain chain runs deep into New York State, so we're closer than two fleas on a coonhound. The accents on these particular fleas, however, are a bit tough to decipher.

An Irish New Yorker moving out to the country is not a huge leap, nor is it a new idea. Early in American history, cities often encouraged their rowdier, warlike inhabitants to ‘Go West,’ where they acted as barricades or buffers between civilization and the Indians. Rednecks neighbored Redskins, bonded, traded baseball cards, and did just fine.

Yo, Vinnie, hold my beer and watch this.

England shipped its rowdies to Australia. New York City used the Taconic State Parkway. Not sure what rowdy, warlike things my parents did to be encouraged to ‘Go West’, but by the time they got there the Indians had been replaced by a much more frightening group – the Yuppies.

Comedian Jeff Foxworthy defines redneck as "a glorious lack of sophistication.” Seems to me that after a while, living in the ‘civilized’ city can get tiresome. Everyone needs to let their hair down, scratch, and dig in the mud once in a while. Whether you ever put your city shoes back on again, well, that’s your call.

For me, through the years, the term has moved from being a derogatory accusation to a badge of pride. It has taken me a long time to represent my roots, but I’m finally there.

Hell, yeaaaaaah! ….You got a problem wit dat?

Growing Up Green (Acres)

Every once in a harvest moon, a couple of city people get the wild idea that they would be better off living by a babbling brook with the pretty deer and some fluffy bunnies. Whether it's a genetic mutation, a Darwinian attempt at entertainment (hey, Einstein, hold my beer and watch this), or yet another attempt at a FOX reality show, every so often it happens.

My parents are from Brooklyn, a part of New York City whose name is derived from the Indian word for "arrow broken by heavy accent." When my parents married they decided, much like the nimrods from Green Acres, to move to the countryside. I blame this decision partly on the Dodgers leaving Brooklyn. A diehard Bums fan, my dad decided that once his beloved team headed west, he might as well hang it all up, get married, and move to the 'sticks,' because his life was essentially over.

Both of their families railed against the move. "Oh, my gawd, there are Indians up there!" howled Aunt Mary.

"You'll nevah see us again!" warned Uncle Frank. (This was the same Uncle Frank who would visit us and our pool every summer for thirty-five years.)

"Are you freakin' outta your freakin' mind? Did you even check to see where the nearest deli is? You will freakin' starve!" Uncle Louie murmured. Uncle Louie wasn't our real uncle, but Brooklyn Borough regulations stated that everyone had to have at least one relative named 'Louie,' 'Vinnie,' or 'Tony.' If you didn't have one, one was provided for you at a nominal charge.

Brooklynites live by a different map. First, there are the local neighborhood landmarks consisting of the deli, bakery, corner store, and butcher. All local places are on a first name basis, for instance, Third Street Delicatessen is called Vinnie's because it was owned by Vinnie Constantino. It doesn't matter that Vinnie died twenty-three years earlier - it is Vinnie's, dammit.

Travel is by bus and subway. Routes are referred to by the letters of the train or bus - take the 'A' Line to Rockaway- for instance. A big trip involves a 'transfer,' or multiple trains and buses, maybe even to one of other boroughs of New York City. Beyond the city is the frontier town known as Yonkers, then the wilds of Indian country where my parents ended up, then Canada. We learned quickly not to tell relatives that Indians didn't really live here, because if we did, they'd be up here all the time asking us where the nearest deli was.

City people do not use standard directions such as north or south. Instead, you're told to "go to Avenue D and hang a right at Vinnie's." If you don't know that Vinnie's is actually labelled Third Street Delicatessen then you must be from freakin' Yonkers and don't deserve to live anyway.

Countryborn, I learned to tell time and direction by the sun and stars. I gave valid directions to the citidiots that attempted to visit us, but sadly, they'd get lost anyway. For color, I'd throw in 'take a left at Jimmy Joe's turnip truck' knowing full well the truck wasn't there. Jimmy Joe was serving three to five for embezzlement and not selling turnips anymore. Hee, hee, hee. With no cable television, we made our own entertainment. Ain't no hatrack on my neck, suh.

Green Acres was an amusing show. My childhood was amusing as well, mainly because I survived it. Unlike the television show, though, my childhood consisted of many trips to the emergency room. Even then it was entertaining, at least for the nurses and doctors attending to my injuries. They usually got a good chuckle out of my medical record, which included:

• bitten by horse (stitches)
• bitten by dog (stitches)
• trampled by cow (contusions)
• trampled by horse (lacerations, contusions, and a concussion if I remember correctly)
• kicked by horse (cracked ribs & an impressive double horseshoe bruise/tattoo)
• thrown by horse (severely bruised bottom and pride)
• thrown by cow (massive embarrassment)

Once (thank goodness only once), I was in the henhouse gathering eggs when a chicken hopped off a rather high nest right onto my head. As she landed, she slipped and entangled herself in my hair. Naturally the birdbrain panicked, flapping her wings in my face as her claws scraped my scalp. I couldn't get a grip on her and the weight of her body hanging off my hair bent my head almost to the ground. Make a note- when you're in a henhouse, don't fall down. The floor is incredibly nasty and slippery with....stuff.

After several long minutes of flying feathers and torn follicles, I was able to unleash the beast. Since the giggling of the emergency room staff was still ringing in my ears from my last visit, I skipped reporting this to anyone. When an incident like that goes public in a small town, just try to get a date to the prom. Nobody wants to be seen with the owner of a Girl Scouts' Chicken Attack Survivor badge.

One morning before school my mom was out back feeding our massive herd of cattle, Larry and Suzy. Yes, two whopping head of Angus. How tough could that be, right? Larry, however, was still cranky about losing his Rocky Mountain oysters and, much like many cuckolded cowboys, was determined to prove how macho he still was without them. He pawed the ground and charged at my mother and her grain bucket. A tough redhead from Brooklyn, my mother refused to relinquish the grain, opting instead to head for the nearest tree, where she remained all through breakfast. Finally my siblings and I had to head for the school bus. My dear mother, still treed by Larry, gave us a lovely Rose Queen wave from a sturdy branch, warbling, 'Have a nice day at school!'

In Algebra class, a friend asked me what I was thinking about. By then I knew better than to share the embarrassing truth, so I made something up. Never, ever tell a friend that you're wondering if your mom's still stuck in an apple tree with a fierce steer named Larry waiting below. It took me years just to tell my therapist about it.

I watched Green Acres for years, waiting patiently for them to unmask the dark side of nouveau agrarianism, but it never happened. Arnold the pig never ended up as bacon next to Sunday morning pancakes. None of their cows ever ambled by with meat cuts outlined in surveyor's chalk on their bodies. They never addressed the problem of turning a horse around in your bedroom and getting her downstairs again before your mom found out she was in the house. Serious flaws in a sitcom, if you ask me. Reality, however, kept me in stitches.