Raised Country!

Dogs baying throughout the night in the dark East Texas woods meant that some poor critter was running for its life. When a small red fox zigged and zagged through the thicket at top speed, its heart pounding, its small chest about to explode, the onslaught seemed a tad unbalanced, a bit unfair. At least, Samuel thought so. Sam consoled himself with the fact that the fox’s cleverness and agility would serve it well.

Though its prospects were bleak, it at least had a slim chance of outsmarting Papa Jim’s pack of hunting dogs. Raccoons were rarely as lucky, but this night’s hunt was for neither foxes nor raccoons. It was for wolves.
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It must be hard on your morale when you think your radio program is reaching thousands of listeners over a several hundred mile area, and then to only get the same caller for every contest.

Just as Austin claims to be the *Live* Music “Capital of the World”, Carthage prides itself on being the “Natural Gas Capital of the World”. Appropriately, their radio station’s letters were (and still are) KGAS.

KGAS has always been a great station that served the area well, but one day, back in 1963, they became so frustrated by a little boy … er, uh, that is, me, that they finally had to beg me to let someone else call in to win some contests for a change.
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Getting through a barbed wire fence was always easier for Robin than it was for Mike. Rob deftly lifted or squeezed the wires just right and slipped through without a hitch.

Even though Mike and Robin were only 9 or 10 at the time, Mike’s navigation through a barbed wire fence resembled a 90 year old doing the limbo. In spite of the extra caution and time he took, invariably, Mike snagged his pants or shirt on one of the barbs.

Robin lived on a farm, but Mike was a “city boy”. Didn’t matter that the “city” only had about 5,000 people in it, Mike lived “in town,” which made him “city.” Things that seemed ordinary to Robin were often either great adventures or daunting trials for Mike.

As always, with a snicker or two, Rob waited for Mike. He could have been cruel, given the disparity in their skills, and, of course, he had to give Mike a hard time now and then. But Rob had a sweet patience beyond his years.
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Water Moccasin (AKA Cotton Mouth)

Growin’ up in Carthage, Texas (Northeast Texas in the piney woods) in the early 1960′s, a boy is eventually going to run into the infamous Cotton Mouth snake, also known as a Water Moccasin.

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No question, about it.  Robin, having grown up on a farm, and learning all the skills that came with it, was nothing short of an expert marksman.  This wasn’t just with firearms.  Robin could hit a can off a fence from all the way across the field throwin’ a rock free handed.

Mike and Rob were off on one of their regular squirrel hunts, each with their safeties on, and their shotguns slanting to the ground as they’d been taught.  Normally, they’d head out the back pasture behind Robin’s farm.  Today, however, they chose to meander up the dirt road that ran in front of Rob’s house.

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Southern Fried Chicken

I never told Bayno when Mama was going to make fried chicken. If I didn’t say anything, then all the cracklings in the pan would be mine. When the chicken was brown and crisp, I would take the spatula and press it against the bottom of the skillet and scrape the cracklings out of the grease, and when they were cool enough, I’d pour them into my mouth.

That summer was different from other summers even though the garden was the same. All its blooming and growing meant a good harvest along with back breaking work. Sometimes I’d stand in the middle of a row with both hands pressed into my back, my hands making a V and I would bend backwards and listen to all the bones popping and feel the muscles stretch so much they hurt. But with the sun beating down, I’d set my jaw and finish the row no matter if I was weeding, hoeing, or picking.
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RC: Lee and Elaine, what are some of the earliest memories you have of wanting to play music as kids?

LR (Lee Roy): For me, I was probably about five.

I remember my grandmother playing fiddle, and my grandfather doing the old time Acadian dances. Uncles and aunts would all play guitar, piano, banjo, mandolin, fiddle, and sing.

I remember going to church, then going over to my grandmother’s for dinner afterward. It was a “gimme.” As sure as there was going to be food on the table there was going to be music that afternoon. I couldn’t wait to get there to hear them start playin’ the fiddle and start singin’.

Ira and Charlie Louvin, Approx. 1958

Childhood

RC) We’re looking forward to getting your reflections on your career in country music and any experiences you can share of growing up in the country.

Mr. Louvin:

Well, I’m sorta livin’ in the country now.   I’m out here on 48 acres.  We love it in the country.  I live 75 miles from Nashville.

I tell people constantly, don’t tell me “You live so far out.”  We live out here by choice.  I wouldn’t want to live in town where I couldn’t stand on the front porch to pee, if I wanted to.

RC) Can you tell me one of your earliest memories.

Mr. Louvin:

Ira was born in April, 1924, and I was born in July of 1927.

Musically, I started singing when I was 8 and Ira was 11.
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By Grant Langston

“The Country” means a hundred different things to a hundred different people. To me, it has always meant freedom.

There’s something about the lack of people and the open space that gives you an opportunity to stretch out and have an adventure. As a teenager that meant the ability to get into trouble without having someone on your back. Blow something up. Build a potato gun and shoot it at cars that whizzed by on Hwy 36. Build a tree house in the woods and use it as a base of operations for pine cone battles, runs to the bootlegger, or a place to stash our Playboy or OUI Magazines (which we pronounced as “O-U-I”, having no idea that it was French).

The country meant that in the summer you said goodbye to your mom at 7am and you got home when the streetlights came on. What you did in the intervening 13 hours was between you, your little brother, and whatever gang of boys you were running with that day.  You were 12-years-old.  You solved your own problems.  You made your own fun.
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By Seth Walker

I was raised in rural North Carolina in a town called Altamahaw-Ossipee. Yes – hard to pronounce and hard to find.

My parents and another couple, Jim and Susan Walton, met at a Quaker retreat and made a plan to live communally in a log house built with their own hands.

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