Ya’ll Come Back Now, Ya Hear?

*This is my account of the first (and hopefully annual) White Trash Summit in Aledo, Texas. I do not have pictures to accompany this dispatch because I let Eric take all the pictures. As you can tell from my photo albums, pictures often fail me, when words rarely do. If there are lapses in this report, they are to be blamed on the author's increased consumption of cold Lone Star beer and other distractions.*

Wednesday-Eric and I roll into Aledo at 11pm. As is befitting a white trash gathering, we drove in on four bald tires. After fumbling around the house (quietly, so as not to wake our hosts), we sat on one of Hip's three porches and looked at the stars.

Thursday-I woke up early and went to the porch to smoke cigarettes, where I stumbled into Hip as he left for work. We discussed dinner options before deciding that chili dawgs was an excellent choice.

Eric woke up, and we headed to the mid-cities to visit friends. On the way there, we spotted a Cracker Barrel and couldn't resist the siren song of biscuits and gravy. The breakfast was tasty, and my enjoyment was only slightly dampened by the fact that our waiter looked catastrophically hungover, and on the verge of vomiting on my table. I left a big tip, because I understand the pain of working through a hangover.

We got to Jack and Shannon's house, where I was allowed to snuggle their new baby, Ollie. The top of his head smelled as delicious as I imagined it would, and he was beautiful. Ollie was sleepy, so we left him to a nap, and sat in the garage and smoked for awhile, making plans for future creative endeavors.

We had other folks to visit, so we left them with hugs and headed to my inlaw's house. We got there to find that our cousin's toddler was in a rip. He showed us motorcycle magazines and made motorcycle noises that caused slobber to fly. When Eric asked what bikers wore on their head, the toddler reponded, "helmet hats". After I got my fill of babies for the day, we headed back to Aledo with the chili dawg fixin's.

When Hip got home, we drank beer on the porch until he worked up a hunger powerful enough to compell him to cook. He put a burn on the jalapenos and dawgs, and them bitches were tasty, as well as sinus clearing. After dinner, we retired again to the porch, where we were joined by William Bryan Massey III, home early from work. We sat there and discussed matters of the world and enjoyed the hospitality of our hosts. We went to bed when our beer supply ran low.

Friday-Eric and I lounged around Hip's house while he and Robert headed to the airport to retrieve Lisa Marie and Dianne, our Yankee guests. While they explored the sights of the Stockyard and ate burgers at Fred's, I took a four hour nap. I like a laidback vacation.

When they got back from Fred's, I was just emerging from my coma. Being firm believers in the value of a porch, we all sat down and commenced to drinkin' and visiting. We dug through a trunk of old pictures that WBM III bought at a garage sale. We laughed at the pictures of an unfortunately ugly girl that Hip has christened "Ol' Goggle Eye" for reasons that are obvious to anyone that's seen her. Eric and Hip went to the backyard to play horseshoes. I spectated. Eric won.

WBM III left work (Fred's Cafe) early so he could visit with the guests. He brought some leftover porkchops (special of the day) which he skewered and presented as an appetizer while we waited for the pizza. They were good and spicy, and hit the spot real good. Robert stood at the end of the driveway to flag down the pizzaman, until he got tired of waiting. He came back just as the pizzaman called, and was forced to rush back to the end of the long drive. While we ate, we discussed the southern habit of accent exaggeration. We never really got to the bottom of why we do it, but that is the way of drunken front porch conversation. I talked to Miss Megan and found out that, due to her new job, she would be unable to attend the summit on Saturday. She was missed.

Saturday-I woke up early, only to find that my new heroes, Lisa Marie and Dianne had hunted up a coffee maker and brewed a pot. I drank coffee from a coffee cup so small that I couldn't grasp the handle, and I was forced to cradle it in my palms. We sat at the dining table and talked until everyone was about to starve slap-to-death. We went back to the Cracker Barrel, where we learned a valuable lesson about herd mentality, and it's associated wait time. Our waiter, though polite, was VERY laidback in his service, meaning we waited a long time, for everything.

Hip, Lisa Marie and Dianne headed to Dallas to see the grassy knoll and school book depository. I hate Dallas, so Eric and I went to buy beer and snacks for the summit, and lolled for the rest of the day.

Shortly after they returned from their Dallas excursion, summit guests and white trash luminaries began arriving. Hip's brother came with his family, and we got to hear his nephew play drums, which was amazing. WBM III and his sons arrived with the fixin's for dinner, and a fire was built in the backyard pit to roast veggies for the salsa. Linda, HIgh-Brow Hick contributor and Austin resident, arrived in time to see a rematch of the battle of horseshoe supremacy. This time, Hip handed Eric his ass, but it was a close game (that's how I remember it anyway). I talked to WBM III's son, Gareth, about the importance of pits in horseshoes. I proclaimed that I didn't know dick about the game, so he schooled me on the finer points, and taught me about washer pitching. By the time the game was over, the house was full, as were all three porches.

I wandered from porch to porch, swapping stories and making new white trash friends, until WBM III declared that dinner was ready. Aside from making the best salsa that I've had yet, he also made a pot of beans and a pork stew that I've regretfully forgotten the name of. We ate the pork on hot corn tortillas. I sat on an unoccupied porch so that I could eat with the juice drippin' off my face and arms and not worry about grossin' folks out. I was very drunk, and when WBM III came out and asked what I was doing by myself, I unleashed some rambling bullshit on him. He looked at me intently, and said,

"Elegant."

"Did you just say elegant?"

"Yeah, the way you talk, it's just...elegant"

This is the first time anyone has ever referred to me as elegant, and I suspect it will be the last. I'm thinking about putting it on a t-shirt so I don't forget.

The rest of the night is blurry, but I remember snatches of stories and laughter, and being happy about life. Luckily, I brought my voice recorder and got several hours of porch talk that I can refer to when writing my story about the white trash renaissance (and I ain't talkin' 'bout Kid Rock and the Blue Collar Comedy douches). At midnight, I decided that I'd better go to sleep, so me and Linda headed to the living room to bed down. I slept on the most uncomfortable cot in North America, which somehow caused my elbow to ache the next morning.

Sunday-We woke up and packed our stuff, and then wisely spent our last few hours on the porch, talking to folks, and cleanin' up messes. We hugged everyone goodbye, and headed to buy a new set of tires. I tried to buy just one tire (to replace the one that was worn smooth), but the National Tire & Battery employee laughed at me and explained all of my tires were dangerously bald. I chose to buy all new ones and avoid a fiery car crash that might leave me horribly mutilated, or worse, dead. The new tires remedied a host of problems that had plagued our drive to Aledo, and we made it home in record time. I never thought I would be so in love with $300 of rubber.

It was good to get back to Alto, as I'd been missing the pines, and more importantly, my bed. I fluffed my feather bed and put on clean sheets, only to fall asleep on the couch during "Tim & Eric, Aweome Show, Great Job!".

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The summit was southern hospitality at it's finest, and I hope more folks come next year. But if we have it at my house, we'll have to camp in the backyard, under the pines and stars. My house is too small, and I don't have a porch. Hip has my share of porches.