A country boy can survive
a funny few days in western Virginia
Remember those days back in college and the post-college years when you did a lot of group-socializing or hanging out? You could be telling a couple of roommates you were walking down to a local store and then all of a sudden three people wanted to walk with you. Or you called a good buddy or two to “come over and drink and watch a movie,” then all of a sudden there were nine people at your place for the movie. These days, in my middle years, I’m excited beyond measure if the mail carrier rolls by and offers me a few moments of idle conversation if I’m down at the end of my driveway by chance. Those group outings from back in the day were so much fun.
My friend James (not his real name, and he was profiled in the story Unseemly Banter from May, 2025) figured prominently in this era of college and the post-college years. I believe it must have been the summer after our junior year in college back in the early 90’s. I lived in an old six-unit apartment building. There were only two washers and two dryers in the basement of the building for the whole building to share. I had two roommates in my apartment on the first floor. James lived about two blocks away in an eight or ten unit building with two roommates in his apartment. James would often hang out with us in our building, and vice-versa. It was truly kind of like the funny tv sitcom Seinfeld from back in those days. Only we’d knock on the apartment door instead of just barging in.
Up on the third level of my little building with its little apartments lived three fellas in one of the two third-floor units. One of those guys was from Covington, Virginia. His name was Chet (not his real name). Covington is a little under three hours west of the Richmond area. Chet invited a few of us to “come out to the mountains for Memorial Day weekend” or something. To college kids, Covington seemed states away in terms of distance. But it was a road trip invite, and college kids enjoy their road trips. That “few of us” turned into like eight or ten of us on the road trip.
We were all supposed to cram into say a couple of cars for the road trip. Since others joined our trip out west, I believe three cars ended up hitting the highway. Chet said “he had to call his Mama to tell her the headcount had increased.” She replied to him something along the lines of “well, ya’ll need to pitch a tent or two out back for the overflow guests.” Now that’s country… ”Ya’ll need to pitch a tent or two out back for the overflow guests.”
We must have stopped at a grocery store to get a bunch of inexpensive food and of course whatever inexpensive beer that might have been on sale. My friend James, the one who’s parents were loaded and kept plenty of money in his bank account, drank a little better. He never drank anything less than Miller Genuine Draft…in the bottles. It seems so hilarious to think back on it now. College kids on a budget seeing the rich kid among them drink bottled beer. The rest of us had to make do with the canned beer.
We also bought some candy for the road trip. When you’re in college, you sometimes made road trips with candy. Its almost as if we were still ten years old, but we had a little bit of cash in our pockets and we could drive a car. When you’re still a kid, but not really a kid, know what I mean? James of course would get the jumbo-size chocolate bars, because he could. We offered to give him some cash towards the gas for the car. He refused our offer for gas money. “Don’t worry about it, Dad’s given me a gas credit card, he doesn’t care what the bill is, so neither do I,” James told us.
When we finally made it to Chet’s parent’s home, it was like entering the set of the old-school tv show The Dukes of Hazard. There was a clothes line - in the front yard. There was lots of little garden gnomes all over the front lawn. I must have lost count at 30 or so. It’s like his Mom went to Wal-Mart one day and say “I’d like to buy every damn garden gnome you’ve got.” They had an 80’s Chevy Caprice Classic Wagon, an 80’s Chevy K-5 Blazer, a newer Chevy Cavalier sedan, and an older Chevy Camaro. The Chevy Camaro was up on blocks. Well, of course it was. But they were pretty consistently Chevrolet people, that was obvious.
Their home was comfortable-looking and generally tidy. I didn’t know that it was a double-wide manufactured home until we got in the house. In the main front room, they had a few Elvis Presley things on the wall. They had NASCAR memorabilia on every table. They had a few framed photos of the late westerns movie actor John Wayne. They had medium-green shaggy carpet. All over the home were various framed family photos. They all looked like those hilarious Awkward Family Photos (google this if you are unfamiliar) in terms of how they were dressed, or positioned, etc. In the corner of the living room was a small wood-stove with a stovepipe chimney that was cut through the roof.
The house smelled like fried chicken, cheap ciggies, and cheap beer. Don’t all homes in the country smell this way? No fewer than three large mounted deer heads were right up by the front door. I felt as if I had entered some little Museum of Rural American Living. Even as it was May, both of Chet’s parents were wearing flannel shirts, with the sleeves rolled up. And both of his parents were wearing cowboy boots. I think his Mom was a clerk for the local town or something, and his Dad was a traveling long-distance truck driver.
We decided that the girls on the trip got to sleep in their guest bedroom in the house, and the guys on the trip would sleep outside in the tents. We didn’t mind the tent sleeping, it simply meant we could stay up later, and of course, drink more beer. The first night we were there, Chet’s parents cooked up some delicious homemade friend chicken and mashed-potatoes. And his Mom had made a couple of homemade apple pies for us to enjoy for dessert. So far, so good, I thought to myself.
The next day was Saturday if I recall. It was decided that we’d go on a float trip down the Jackson river, which flowed through town. Chet’s Dad had a lot of old black rubber inner tubes he had blown up for us to float on. I asked for another inner tube and some rope, please. I had to fashion a set-up whereby I could float our beer cooler as well, and then tow it behind us as we floated along. I was always thinking ahead, you might say.
One of the most memorable characters we met that weekend was one of Chet’s old friends from growing up. For the sake of this story, I’ll just call his friend Bubba (not his real name). Bubba and his family were lifers and townies from that area, and still probably are to this day. Bubba was so country that the tobacco chew went in to his mouth shortly after breakfast. He was so country he had a gun rack in his truck. He was so country that he had Hank Williams, Jr. stickers on his pickup truck. When he rolled up on Chet’s lawn that morning, the Hank Williams, Jr. classic country song “A country boy can survive” was blaring loudly from his truck. Now that’s country.
In that small town back then on Memorial Day weekend, few rules existed and we pretty well did as we pleased. The town didn’t care if you floated on the river. They didn’t care if you drank beer while you floated. They didn’t care if you played music loudly. As long as you were keeping it generally safe, and you were no harm to yourself or to others, the local police as well as the parents could have cared less.
Bubba was the source of many a fine tale as we floated down the Jackson river. He told us about his fishing exploits. About his hunting exploits. About his football exploits back in high school. About his exploits with a cute cashier down at the local Wal-Mart. About his impeccable safety record at the shop where he worked. About how he could play the guitar and sing just about any country song you might request or desire. We didn’t request or desire any singing from Bubba on that river. But the more beer he had, the more songs he sang. He wasn’t half-bad as a singer, by the way.
About two hours into our lazy float, some gal over on the riverbank started shouting our way. “Bubba…” she said. Then a little louder, “Bubba!” Then she practically screamed “BUBBA!” All eyes were on Bubba now, but he seemed to be trying to ignore that gal from the riverbank. “I know you can hear me, BOY, don’t you go drinking too much today on that river. We have our bowling league tonight, and you need to perform, Bubba,” she shouted. Bubba gave her a half-hearted “thumbs-up,” then we all continued to float on.
After the float trip, Bubba jumped in the back of someone else’ pickup truck, belonging to some other local guy that had joined us for the day. Bubba must have found James’ bottled beer, because he tore into it. He guzzled them fast, and then shattered them on a roadside sign as we drove by. James and I were behind that truck in James’ Honda coupe. His nicer Honda had a car alarm that he could somehow summon to turn on while the car was in motion. Bubba tossed another empty beer bottle on a roadside sign. James then summoned his car alarm, and he sped up behind the pickup truck. For a fleeting few moments, it sounded like a police car siren giving chase to Bubba in the back of the pickup truck in front of us. Bubba’s face melted in sheer horror and embarrassment at the sound. He soon realized it was the car behind him, not an actual police car.
That night we made a fire pit outside and cooked hot dogs and beans. Chet’s Mom brought us out some homemade cupcakes along with some ice cream. Having spent the day drinking in the river, we demolished all the food rather quickly. We stayed up until a little bit after midnight then we all headed to bed. We woke up the next day and did some nearby hiking or something. One Monday, Memorial Day, Chet’s Mom cooked up a nice country breakfast brunch, and we headed back to the Richmond area.
We all thanked Chet for having us down to the Covington area. Chet said that he enjoyed the trip as well, and that he missed the country. But he really enjoyed living in “the big city of Richmond,” he said. After college, I lost touch with Chet and several others in that group. I wonder what Bubba is doing out in the Covington, Virginia area. He’s probably still a lifer, still a townie, and he still probably loves to sing country music.
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