Git up. C’mon now, I said, git up.
It’s time to eat the eggs I done fried up in the pan and the coffee I done made with my sock. The sun done’s broke the horizon and we best be movin’ on toward the schoolhouse.
Hushpuppy, are you serious asking? I ain’t got but life experience, I’m justa ole cowboy, but’s gonna be differn’ for you and yer baby sister. You gonna be edumacated, learn you how to use them iPhones and iPads instead of feedin’ them chickens.
Leave off plaitin’ your honey-colored hair, Missus B. This time the whole family’s goin’. Maybe you’n I cin sit in the back of the one room schoolhouse and wear dunce caps on our heads, hunh, Missus B -- that got you smilin’ up a storm though, don’t it? Your smile is like the East Texas rain when I’ve been livin’ there in a tent for a month, mindin’ the cattle didn’t starve to death from a lack a grass. Put off shellin’ them peas though it’s the only thing you know, besides heartbreak.
Lemme give y’all a hand up. Seat yourself on ole Cool Glass A Water. Ain’t he a fine specimen! Ain’t we a sight for sore eyes, hushpuppies, goin’ down 695 through Pikesville on a bull while other people, fancy city people, honk at us in their S.U.Vs.
Bet they think we’re some kinda Amish. We ain’t though, kids. Yer ole Momma here definitely ain’t Amish. Why, she took first prize in rodeo when she was a crumbgrabber, ‘bout your age. Get up Momma and show ‘em your stuff.
Don’t that beat all, Missus B, little Nathaniel here’s says he’s embarrassed and is hidin’ his shame under the buffalo blanket. Dang it, boy, yer my blood, the fruit of my nether regions and yer old grandpappy didn’t die young in the Pony Express for you to be one of ‘em fancy pants. Be proud of yer daddy, though I don’t know ‘bout how to twitter n‘Tweet, I do do a fair matin’ turkey call.
How shall I further amaze you?
I know. I’ll lasso that McDonald’s sign yonder and we’ll take a turn through the drive-thru and we’ll see if it’s true, if their McGriddlers are better’n yer Momma’s.
If’n you were worried we’d drop you off and make for the border--we ain’t gonna run, we still own ‘bout half an inch of wheatfield and we gonna plow it with the toothpick yer Momma done whittled all last winter. Don’t you worry ‘bout nuthin’ but yer studies, hushpuppy. While yer in the schoolhouse learnin’ ‘bout our indebtedness to China and whatnot, us, yer family, will be waitin’ for in the yard all day long, scratchin’ in the dirt outside, lookin’ for grubs.