Turning to look at Bubba, I just shook my head. He had on a fatigue shirt of olive drab color, a pair of jeans (with his snuff in the right rear pocket), his stripes (both of them) looked like they had been super glued on, all three ribbons were old and frayed, and his belt was under his belly, maybe. He looked like a clown. But, he strutted around like he was General George Patton in review. It reminded me of how fragile the human mind is.

Ben’s uniform looked as if it was made only for him. I knew, nonetheless, it was the same uniform he had worn when he was discharged from the Army back in 1946. On his left chest were ten medals, including the silver and bronze stars. He had a Combat Infantry badge, just below his jump wings. I gave a low chuckle and looked down at his boots. The pants were bloused over the boot tops and the boots had been spit-shined to the point you could see your face in the toes. The man had changed little since his war days. He was still a paratrooper.

Willy Eugene had the best looking uniform on of the whole group. Now, I don’t care how you look at it, a Marine uniform is by far the most attractive of the whole shooting match. The whole appearance was one of dark blues and reds, with white trim. He looked professional as he stood there in the early morning light. He brought back the old adage, “once a Marine, always a Marine.” His hair had been cut to the skin, or high and tight as we used to call it. Nonetheless, his extra fifty pounds took away some from the overall affect.

In less than thirty minutes we were all seated at the VFW. I have to admit, a stranger group had most likely never been in the place. Here we were four men and a woman, home from various American wars, celebrating the honor of our fallen comrades. We sipped our beers, but, as usual, the conversation turned to current events.

“Did y’all heah ‘bout that feller up Vermont way that said Southerners were dumb or some such thang? He said we all drove ‘round with the rebel flag on our pick-em-up trucks.” Bubba said as he took a slow sip of his cold beer.

Willy asked, “I can’t find one, do you know if Cisco still carries ‘em in his hardware store?”

“Yep, and the feller is named Dean or Dan or somethang like that. He’s one of them political types. They don’t know fetch from come heah and y’all know that.” Maude added as she looked around the small bar.

“Well, now, the boy may have jess stepped on his shirt tails with that comment. I understand he said Yankees are caterin’ to Southerners too. Now, what in the Sam’s hill do ya reckon he meant by that statement?” Willy, always the intellectual of the group, added his dollar’s worth.

“Guys, he don’t care what a bunch of ragged rednecks thank ‘bout him. I bet he pays more fer a haircut than we do for a truck payment. Even if the comment costs him an election it don’t pay no neveh mind. See, they all thank we’re dumb ‘cause we have a different culture and language. They see what they call a rebel flag as a symbol of our resistance to become good Yankee wannabees.” Uncle Ben spoke, then pulled out his pipe and lit it. After takin’ a few puffs, he looked at each of us and said, “Well, don’t y’all agree?”

“Uncle Ben, I ain’t shore. I know some up north see us as ignorant and a bunch of in-bred fools, but we ain’t. Shore, we talk different, only we still take a man or woman’s word on things, but we surely ain’t dumb. Down here, your word may be all you own. We won’t cut a throat to make a dollar and we still love our families and believe in God.” Maude spoke once more.

“Maude, the man apologized for his comments today and I think we should let it go.” I spoke for the first time.

A loud laugh erupted from around the table. I looked around and all of them were red in the face and Bubba had a thin river of beer leaking down his chin. Not that that was really unusual.

“What is so funny? Did I say a funny?” I asked in frustration. See, talkin’ to rednecks can be a chore, even if you’re one of ‘em.

“You make me so laugh!” Bubba yelled in his best Curly of Three Stooges fame. This was all followed by a loud, “Nuk, nuk, nuk.”

“I’m getting sick of people a-tellin’ us how stupid and uneducated we are. I mean, look…..” Uncle Ben stopped speaking, looked at Willy Eugene, and said, “Willy, I don’t mean fer you to really LOOK. I meant that in a figure-like way.”

“Oh.” Willy responded in a weak voice and a slight smile that was visible only for a second as he lowered his head.

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