Being the great-grandson of the most notorious beg-off artist in panhandle country was never a piece of cake.
Though it eventually reaped advantages, my first years were a time of persecution. This took many forms. Perhaps the most common form it took was outhouse-tipping, a sport that was once considered for inclusion in the Olympics but rejected on the grounds that it was (1) an exclusively American phenomenon and (2) was practiced in the middle of the night.
I must explain to my younger readers that in my time, shacks were not equipped with indoor plumbing. When nature called, as nature likes to do, we old-timers exited the shack and hastily proceeded to an adjacent small building about the size of a large doghouse. This analogy breaks down, however, when one recalls the purposes of the two edifices. Briefly put, I have yet to see a doghouse built over a large hole into which one makes a periodic deposit I shall refrain from identifying, for reasons of taste.
Many were the times during my apprenticeship to my family’s art of begging off that I awoke of a morning to be informed by my father, Orville Slack III, that our outhouse had been tipped on its side and thus removed from its foul-smelling basement foundation. Implicit in this information was the request, disguised as a suggestion, that I “get my ass” out there to place the edifice on its intended base.
Later, of course, I recognized that my father’s request, far from being a form of persecution, was merely a test in my long apprenticeship. He was baiting me into thinking critically and constructively about the problem of begging off from this unpleasant task.
He responded, not as an average American father would, by applying a leather strap to my backside, but by extending his right hand in congratulation. Though I had left the task undone, I had passed a difficult test and was well on my way to success in my chosen hobby.
It was at this point in our family history, I believe, that Papa developed the habit of sleeping in his rocking chair, which was set in front of the window that looked out on the edifice in question, his lap playing host to a 12-gauge shotgun.
Though it eventually reaped advantages, my first years were a time of persecution. This took many forms. Perhaps the most common form it took was outhouse-tipping, a sport that was once considered for inclusion in the Olympics but rejected on the grounds that it was (1) an exclusively American phenomenon and (2) was practiced in the middle of the night.
I must explain to my younger readers that in my time, shacks were not equipped with indoor plumbing. When nature called, as nature likes to do, we old-timers exited the shack and hastily proceeded to an adjacent small building about the size of a large doghouse. This analogy breaks down, however, when one recalls the purposes of the two edifices. Briefly put, I have yet to see a doghouse built over a large hole into which one makes a periodic deposit I shall refrain from identifying, for reasons of taste.
Many were the times during my apprenticeship to my family’s art of begging off that I awoke of a morning to be informed by my father, Orville Slack III, that our outhouse had been tipped on its side and thus removed from its foul-smelling basement foundation. Implicit in this information was the request, disguised as a suggestion, that I “get my ass” out there to place the edifice on its intended base.
Later, of course, I recognized that my father’s request, far from being a form of persecution, was merely a test in my long apprenticeship. He was baiting me into thinking critically and constructively about the problem of begging off from this unpleasant task.
He responded, not as an average American father would, by applying a leather strap to my backside, but by extending his right hand in congratulation. Though I had left the task undone, I had passed a difficult test and was well on my way to success in my chosen hobby.
It was at this point in our family history, I believe, that Papa developed the habit of sleeping in his rocking chair, which was set in front of the window that looked out on the edifice in question, his lap playing host to a 12-gauge shotgun.
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