Dad, Am I A Redneck?

A few days ago, my oldest son in Atlanta texted me, and the following, mostly genuine phone-text conversation ensued.


“Dad, when you get a chance…see if you can dig up that pic of mom in front of the log cabin she grew up in?” [In Spanish Fort, Alabama]

NOTE: The pictures I sent him are attached.  I must add that his MOM argued that for fairness sake to make it clear to him that she did not grow up in the log cabin.  She only lived in it for 6-7 years.

“So, why’d you want all those pictures,” I asked him.?

He replied, “My buddy, John, who lives in Vermont, is a carpenter and the most conservative person I’ve ever met.  His father and brother were both prison jailers and grew up in a trailer park in the shadows of Bernie Sander’s territory. We were having a good-hearted argument of whether my friend could be classified as a redneck even with his trailer park background since he is from Vermont.”

“And?” I asked.

“I told John I would check with my Dad,” he replied.


“So, what did you tell him?”

“Well, John wanted to know that if we conceded that he is, indeed, a redneck, could he then really compete with us, natural-southern-born rednecks.”

“So, the pictures were proof of your superior redneckendness?” I asked.

“Yep. MOM won it for me with the log cabin. However, that pic of the YOUR Dunaway-family-reunion that looks like The Grapes of Wrath also aided in the discussion.” 

Dunaway Family Fish Fry c. 1951




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