You've Been Hanked

This episode originally aired in May of 2023. It is the story of how I met one of the very best friends I ever had: Prissy the wonder dog. I hope you enjoy it. Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked!The Hank Griffin Podcast This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

So, You or Someone You Love, Just Got a Parkinson’s Diagnosis First of all, I am sorry. Parkinson’s sucks. I wish this weren’t happening to you. Secondly, while I am sorry and Parkinson’s absolutely does suck, you’ve been diagnosed, and most likely this is real and is really happening. So, now what? Well, life goes on. It is different. No doubt you feel like someone who just got ran over by a large truck. At least that is how I felt when I was diagnosed. The shock was, it was tough and stayed with me for many weeks. I’d been living with it for years by then. I’d had tremors that began in my hands when I was seven. Over the years, it moved to my whole body. Minor at first. Pretty bad eventually. If you or a loved one is experiencing it, you know just exactly what I mean. In my case, as I said, the shock lasted a long time. That may have been in part, because I chose not to talk about it. Not to anyone except my Bride. It is not an exaggeration to say that, for the first few years, I could not even bring myself to utter the word, “Parkinson’s” aloud in the presence of others. I was embarrassed; ashamed. Looking back, that was really dumb. I’d had an essential tremor since I was a kid. My hands always shook. People would ask, “Why are you hands shaking?” Thoughtless adults who should have known better asked questions like, “Why are you so nervous, you up to something?” That last one really irritated me because I was a good kid who was struggling but was being treated like a kid whose behavior was suspect and shown no compassion by people who could and should have demonstrated some degree of care knowing it would have cost them nothing. I may have felt embarrassment knowing I would be asked for additional explanations. I was really concerned about my employer finding out. Plus, Parkinson’s, as I understood it, is an older person’s disease. I’d been dealing with it since my early thirties. I didn’t know anyone else, personally, who was similarly afflicted. I mean anyone else in my age bracket. Obviously, the first name that leaps to the mind of most people is, Michael J. Fox. As it happens, he and I were both stricken with Parkinson’s at similar ages but ten years apart which is also the difference in our ages. I admire the work he has done, the example that he sets. Like the majority of those reading this, I am neither wealthy nor famous. I am unlikely, for example, ever to be asked to testify before congress about Parkinson’s and what living with it is like. If I were to be asked, I would gladly tell them that it sucks. Parkinson’s sucks. I wish I had not lived with that shame and embarrassment for so long. If I could do it over, I would have started talking about it right away. I would have sought out the advice, counsel, and support of those who’d already walked this path a while. But, I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was just too ashamed. I was a fool! Listen to the full episode by clicking on the player at the top of this email! Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked!The Hank Griffin Podcast This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Weary Woodcutter’s Winter Lament Momma and Dub worked hard to provide for our family. They were good people, young, in love, and they loved us kids. They were, neither of them, perfect. Like me, they were not even close. Curiously, to my mind these several decades later, though it is fair to say that neither of them were perfect, it is also entirely correct to say that they were more perfect, together than either of them were, individually. I think back to the words of the prophet, Nephi who, in introducing himself in the Book of Mormon, wrote, “I Nephi, having been born of goodly parents…” Be patient with me, we aren’t about to have church today. He wished immediately to convey a sense of who he was to the reader. Who we are, particularly, in our youth, really does begin with where we are from, who our folks are. Nephi was a Jew fleeing to a Land of Promise prior to the destruction of, Israel. He would go on to become a great leader of his future people. He would see and do extraordinary things. But, there, in that moment, he wasn’t yet the prophet, Nephi. He was still just, Nephi, a son of Lehi and Sariah. In Sunday School we are often encouraged to “liken ourselves to the scriptures.” That is a fancy way of saying, put yourself in the place of those about whom you are reading. They like to talk real fancy at church. Do that do at your church? Whew boy, they sure do it at mine. You should come sometime and listen to them. So dang fancy! Its good stuff, to be sure, if occasionally laid on a little thick… and fancy. I’ve done it of course, likened myself unto the scriptures, I mean. Sometimes it is wonderfully useful. Other times, it just serves to demonstrate to me how very, very far from the scriptural ideal my life is, was, and most likely, will ever be. But then, perhaps that is the point. Maybe when we do this we are meant to gain personal insight into our mortal state as compared to some ideal that we can then aspire to. Let me try it here: “I, Hank, having been born of goodly parents, therefore I was taught somewhat in all the learning of my father, and having seen many afflictions in the course of my days, nevertheless, having been highly favored of the Lord in all my days; yea, having had a great knowledge of the goodness and the mysteries of God, therefore I make a record of my proceedings in my days.” Huh, I’ll be. I was prepared to write as to how that felt silly. In fact though, it sorta felt right. I won’t dwell further on it. Rather, I will carry on with the record of my proceedings in my days. Still, pretty fancy, huh... Momma and Dub worked hard to feed, clothe, and shelter us. Dub was a coal miner. Momma was usually a work-in-the-home mother. With four children to tend to, corral, and provide for, both of them worked hard. I often felt that Dub was addicted to hard work. He spent twelve hours each workday in the mine. He worked four on and three off then three on and four off. When he wasn’t working mining coal, he was working during what were, ostensibly, his off hours in other ways that usually involved working our farm. We raised watermelons commercially, a huge garden that fed our family and other families too, and we kept beef cattle. Aside from the mine and our farm, Dub cut wood to heat our home and to sell to members of our community. He hired himself out to build barbed wire fence. He had a lot of irons in the fire. By the time I was just about eight years old, maybe just a little earlier than that, Dub started taking me with him. Where ever he was going, whatever work he was doing, I was right there with him. I hated it. To hear this podcast in full, please click on the link up top. I hope you enjoy part 1 of this two part episode of the Hank Griffin Podcast. Much Love,Hank This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

This Classic Hank episode of the, Hank Griffin Podcast is intended as a companion piece to this week’s episode, “Crack In The Mountain.” It originally aired on Father’s Day, 2023. I hope that you enjoy it here. Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked!The Hank Griffin Podcast Ps. The Hank Griffin Podcast needs your help. Help me grow this podcast by sharing it with those you enjoy storytelling. Thanks in advance! This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Father and Son Camping Trip Recently, my son and I drove into the mountains to enjoy a father and son camping trip. It was not one sponsored by a third party. He is active in his Deacons Quorum at church. He is also active in the Masonic, appendant group, DeMolay, for boys. Both of those worthy organizations are known to host such trips but this time was set aside for just he and I. We drove some hours north and west. As we did so the topography over which we traveled changed. We do not lived on the flat earth I knew and loved in, Beautiful, East Texas. Here there are hills. As we traveled those hills began to increase in size and scale and were joined by beautiful valleys. Eventually, those hills and valleys were left behind as we progressed and in their stead were mountains. “Dad?” “Yes, son?” “Isn’t this beautiful?” I heard the inspired awe in my young son’s voice and could not help but be moved. “It really is, son. So beautiful.” “We drove this way when we went on our young men’s camp out at church a few weeks ago.” “Did you?” I knew perfectly well that they’d gone this way but wanted to hear him tell his tale. “Yes sir, we did. There is a crack in the mountain that we drove through. Are we going to drive through the crack in the mountain today?” At this, I was stumped. I’d drive the region numerous times but had never driven through a crack in the mountain and could not say with any certainty that we would. “Son, I don’t recall having seen such a thing but, I sure hope we do. I’d love to drive through a crack in the mountain.” “Me too, Dad. Its really neat. Its one of my favorite things to see. I hope you get to see it too.” … To listen to the full story, click on the link above. Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked!The Hank Griffin Podcast This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Present Day Last evening, Dearest Love and I were lying in bed ready to turn out the lights to go to sleep when we heard the alarming sounds of tires screeching on pavement, a scream, the sound of several crashes, a moment of comparative silence, and then a den of mayhem outside our home. I jumped from the bed, threw on something to cover my modesty, ran from the bed room to the parlor where I was surprised to see My Bride already there. “Baby, you need to put something on to cover yourself.” “I just want to see what happened.” Upon opening the door we saw a startling sight. One so startling that it might have been the set of a disaster movie. Heart’s Desire quickly went to put something more on. As she did so, my son appeared. “Dad, what happened?” “I don’t know son. Let’s see what is going on. Stay close to me.” Before me where no fewer than three savagely damaged cars, two of which were on my front lawn. One of them, a small white sedan, just feet from having crashed into our home. It was a frightening scene made all the more so because of the smoke rising from beneath the hood of the car that was so near to my home. More frightening still was, the greatly increasing rate at which that smoke steadily increased. I called 911. Tried to remain calm and un-frustrated in the face of numerous questions that, I know very well are important, but were much less important to me than was the reassurance that help was on its way. The driver was being questioned by a pedestrian, who’d witnessed the crash. “Sir, are you okay? Are you okay, sir?” He was dazed but soon emerged from the car. My neighbors, good people that I esteem greatly, joined us on my lawn, on the sidewalk, on the county easement. In time there was a real crowd. Across the street, more people gathered to observe, talk, and try to understand. I talked to one of the witnesses and learned that the driver, when he came into view around the curve in the road was driving much too fast, and already losing control of his sedan. He struck the curb two houses down. Sure enough, when I walked down to take a look there were metal, not plastic, but metal car parts that were lying there on the ground. He then, completely lost control of the sedan, came up off the road, struck an ancient maple tree in the yard of my nearest neighbor, crashed into a medium size four door sedan, which was absolutely demolished, crashed into a large four door sport utility vehicle which was rotated a full forty-five degrees and pushed over two car lengths into my family’s yard, the driver of the white sedan, whose car had done all this, was propelled forward past all the wreckage that lay in his wake, and finally – finally, stopped… just feet from the exterior wall of my home. I paused at this to offer a silent but heartfelt prayer of thanksgiving that my home and family were spared and to also seek blessings on my neighbors, our community, and the driver of the white sedan. Consider a moment if you will, the speed that must have been in play and the enormous expenditure of kinetic energy that had to occur, in order to crash over a concrete curb, clip a huge hardwood tree, demolish not one but two large vehicles, and still keep moving! The driver was fine. He got out of the car, was speaking animatedly, and announced his intention to leave the scene which notion he was quickly disabused of by relevant parties. After a few more minutes wait, Emergency Services arrived: Police, Fire, EMS. Having evaluated the scene and the driver the police made an arrest. One of the officers left. The others remained to assist with traffic and in other ways. Once EMS knew they were no longer needed, the ambulance left. It took more than two hours for the scene to be cleared. For three tow trucks to come and take the ruined vehicles from my yard and my good neighbor’s driveway. I watched the ongoing confusion and found myself taken back in memory and time to other crashes. Crashes that happened in Beautiful, East Texas. Beautiful, East Texas, Circa the Early 1970s To listen to the rest of this episode, click the link above. Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked!The Hank Griffin Podcast This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Recently, while driving together, My friend, Buddy, who’d been occupied with his phone for a while, looked up from it and said, “So, you are a Mason.” “I am.” “What is it, exactly, that Masons do?” “What do you mean?” “I mean, what do y’all do, really? There are some crazy things out there, you know? I want to understand what Masonry really is.” “Crazy things?” “You know what I mean. In the shallow end of the pool, its movies and television shows about treasure if its American media or evil plots if its out of the UK. In the deep end, on the internet, there are some really weird ideas out there.” I laughed. “Yeah, I’ve seen some of that.” Then asked, “Have you ever read anything by Kipling?” “The guy that wrote the, ‘Jungle Book?’” “The same. He wrote a lot more than that. You should read some of it.” We were in heavy traffic. Another driver signaled her desire to get in line ahead of me. I slowed, let her in, looked for a wave, which was not forthcoming, and sighed. “C’mon, not so much as a wave?” “The only wave you are going to get around here is a one finger salute,” Buddy laughed and he was right. “Back in, Beautiful, East Texas, if you didn’t wave, someone was calling your mom, granddad, or talking trash about you at the cafe, the bank, and in church too,” I said. “Whatever Toto, you ain’t in, Beautiful, anymore.” “You’ve got that right,” I said. “You also aren’t answering my question. Should I have avoided asking it?” “Not at all and, I am answering your question, or beginning to.” “How is a reference to Kipling the beginning of an answer?” “Like me, Rudyard Kipling was a Mason.” “That isn’t an answer, or the beginning of one, that I can see.” “Be patient. I promise this is going somewhere. Kipling was a Mason. He was a lot of things. There are people who think well of him. There are other people who think poorly of him.” “Okay, that is true for everyone.” “It is,” I agreed. My friend asked, “Isn’t pretty much every President of the United States a Mason?” I laughed, “I wish they all were. We’d live in a better world but, no. We are able to claim a few though and particularly good ones too. George Washington to start with. I think Gerald Ford was the most recent.” “How long have you been a Mason?” my friend asked. “A quarter century.” “Did you know any Masons before you joined?” “I did. Good men. Our local retired pharmacist, the county attorney, a judge, a farmer, at least two of my great grandfathers, several others.” “What about your dad or grandfathers?” “Nope.” “So it skips a generation or two sometimes?” … To enjoy the rest of this episode, click on the link above to play it in its entirety. Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked! This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Granddad struggled with retirement. For twenty-two and a half years he’d owned and operated the only service station with a mechanic on duty, twenty-four hours a day on the two hundred mile stretch of interstate between Texarkana and Dallas. He’d done is bit and finally sold out. I think he was glad to be free of the hard work of being a service station owner. However, he wasn’t fine with the lack of social stimulation. Granddad was, perhaps more than any of the men and women of his generation in my family, gregarious. He missed conversation. He missed people. Grandma, an introvert who was happy to remain in her bedroom reading trashy novels, eating cherry flavored cough drops, and smoking Pall Mall cigarettes, was a wonderful grandma who I loved, but offered nothing like the conversation and social outlet that Granddad longed for. As such, everyday, without fail, Granddad loaded up in his beautiful 1977 model, Chrysler Cordoba. It was white with gold velour seats, alas, there was no Corinthian leather. It was, nevertheless, a pleasure to ride in and was an automobile that Granddad loved. I enjoyed taking turns with my brothers spending nights with Granddad and Grandma. They were so kind to us but, unlike Uncle Carl, who was glad to see all of us each and every weekend, Granddad and Grandma could only take us on one at a time. “Put your shoes and socks on, son.” Granddad always called me, “son.” We need to run into town.” As he did so, he extinguished the last remaining nub of an unfiltered Camel cigarette that he’d just used to light a fresh one. Granddad was a chain smoker. It was not until I was 25 years old that I lived in a house with proper air conditioning. One of the real treats of spending time with Granddad and Grandma was one that many of us, me included, now take entirely for granted, air conditioning. They lived in red brick, ranch style home and liked it to be very cool in the hot East Texas summers. Stepping outside, from the refrigerated inside of my grandparent’s well insulated and air conditioned home, into the stark reality of summer in, Beautiful was always an experience. It was the experience of being restored to reality as one stepped from the carefully controlled environment inside to the wildly hot and humid truth that lay without. The air, even in the shade offered by the porch was hot. Stepping off the porch and out of the shade was hotter still. Walking across the lawn meant stepping upon much too dry Bermuda grass that crunched along the way. Crunch, crunch, crunch, with each step. Granddad, long tired of mowing or of even bothering to hire anyone to cut his grass, had taken to keeping three sheep. A friendly, if tiny, flock of ewes that kept his grass well mowed but who were less inclined to also eat the weeds. For that Granddad would either need goats or need to manage the weeds himself. Not being a man who wished to keep goats and being neither inclined to manage the weeds, Granddad did what many of us do. He settled. It was enough for him to know the grass was managed and to accept that in his yard, just as in life, there were simply going to be a few weeds. Surrounding Granddad’s and Grandma’s yard was a four foot tall chain-link fence. It kept the dog and the sheep in and helped the dog dissuade the coyotes from troubling the ewes. At the chain-link gate the too dry Bermuda grass transitioned to the white rock that composed the driveway. Grabbing hold of the metal door latch on Granddad’s splendid Chrysler Cordoba, burned the skin. Thankfully, when he bought the car he upgraded to the gold velour seats that were far superior in terms of comfort to the black vinyl of his old Plymouth Fury III. One could at least sit in the car without being burned by the very seats upon which one sat. Despite that happy blessing, the car was still as hot as an oven. Had we bothered to put on seat belts, the metal housing of both the male and female ends of the latches would have been painful to the touch in that heat but that was before what my old folks would later refer to as the, “tyranny of seat belt laws.” To hear the rest of this episode, click on the link above! Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked! This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

A Beautiful, Lie I remembering transitioning from elementary school to what we then referred to as Junior High School. My children and the children of my friends tell me nowadays it is more commonly known as, “Middle School.” No matter what is called today or may be called tomorrow, in those days, in that part of the world, and particularly in the Beautiful Independent School District (BISD) it was, Junior High School. Junior High was a different experience from that to which I’d been accustomed. It was a big change. Every class was held in a different room. There was no, one teacher, we would spend a majority of the day with. So many new faces and we now found ourselves competing for space in the restrooms, band hall, gym, the hallway, and every where else, with kids that were much older than we were. Just as is true in any community, some of the folks with whom we worked, students, teachers, and staff alike, were just wonderful, some of them were just awful, and most where somewhere on the scale between those two poles. One of the great things about Junior High School was the liberating truth that if a teacher truly was awful, and some really were, one only had, for the most part, a single class that had to be endured each day rather than being interred for the full school day with a single rotten teacher. On the first day of the new school year when I entered the sixth grade, my first year in Junior High School, an assembly of the students was called. We were instructed on how the school system in Texas was funded and that it was important that we attend school every single day so the school would receive the monies it needed from the state. As an incentive, our principal promised us that every single student who achieved perfect attendance that year would be awarded two silver dollars. I knew what silver dollars were. Both of my grandfathers, at different times, had expressed to me the value of silver and demonstrated to me the difference in silver coins versus those made of less valuable alloys. The promise of two silver dollars really motivated me to attend school every single day, no matter what! To hear the full story, please click the link to listen above. Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked! This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

A hum of conversation droned, punctuated by loud laughter, and was occasionally brought to near silence when for reasons unknown to me, the whole crowd, whether seated at tables, in booths, or at the counter, grew suddenly quiet. Eerily so. Chris and I were at the counter. She sat in her customary place, on the comfortable padded stool between the counter and the cash register. I stood, wrapping metal forks and butter knives in paper napkins and stacking them in their designated holder on a shelf against the wall opposite the cash register. Startled by the silence, I looked at Chris who looked back at me. She cocked one eyebrow high up on her forehead and inhaled deeply from the Winston cigarette that she held in her right hand. I narrowed my eyes wonderingly and paused my work. Even the noise from the kitchen where Betty worked to prepare supper had gone quiet. Then, just as suddenly, the hum resumed. “What is that all about?” I asked Chris. “Honey, there are three things here that are inevitable: Everyone has to stop to breath eventually. Most of our customers are smokers and just like breathing, have to pause to inhale from their cigarettes. And Sugar, it is a cafe, eventually someone is going to take a bite of food, chew, and swallow. Sometimes, all those things just seem to come together and happen all at the same time.” I marveled a moment then eyed my friend suspiciously. “Are you pulling my leg?” “Pulling your leg? Oh Honey, no. I’m imparting wisdom gathered over a lifetime!” Again Chris took a drag from her cigaret te. Seeing the unconvinced furrow in my brow, she winked, exhaled, and we both laughed and resumed our work. It was Tuesday. The Lions Club always reserved the second largest of the cafe’s three dining rooms to hold their meeting and share a meal. Betty had to work extra hard on those evenings to prepare a meal especially for them as well as the usual supper special for our regular patrons. I would work extra hard cleaning up and washing dishes. The cafe would have a good night. The thought made me happy. To hear the rest of this Beautiful, East Texas tale, click on the link above and thanks for listening! Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked! This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

My good friend and fraternal Brother Michael Arce of, The Craftsman Online Podcast invited me back on his show after an initial collaboration that aired at the beginning of the year. Some of his listeners wanted to know more about the connection between The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and Freemasonry. Being both a Latter-day Saint and a Freemason, Brother Arce kindly thought of me as he searched for answers to the questions that were posed to him. Brother Arce’s podcast, a Masonic podcast, is one that I’ve come to genuinely enjoy and strongly recommend. If you aren’t already a listener, particularly if you are a Mason, you should be. This episode may have a broader appeal to both Masons, members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and those with an interest in faith and fraternity. I hope you enjoy listening to this episode as much as I enjoyed making it with me good friend and excellent Brother. Much Love,Hank GriffinYou’ve Been Hanked! This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Like many of you, our family took time to view the recent solar eclipse together. I set up comfortable chairs in the front yard, brought out a few pairs of the eclipse glasses I like to keep stashed away to view signs and wonders in the heavens both the expected, and the unexpected. Dearest Love prepared tasty food for us to enjoy together while we watched the heavens in motion. Specifically, she made eclipse tostadas and sliced yummy Cara Cara oranges. For those of you who may be wondering what exactly makes a tostada an eclipse tostada, it is simply tostadas, prepared specifically to be eaten while also enjoying an eclipse! Did I mention the Cara Cara oranges? They are such a treat. I had no idea, that is until one of my BFF’s, traveling in Florida and thinking of us, sent a box of them or something very similar in the mail. Have you ever received a box of delicious fruit in the mail? It is a wonderfully delicious surprise! We ate it up right quick and started looking carefully for replacements anytime we are at Piggly Wiggly. We enjoyed a fine afternoon that, while not entirely clear, was clear enough to enable to see what we hoped to. We ate our food, drank cold drinks, shared stories, and generally enjoyed each other’s company. At one point, our neighbors pulled into their driveway after having been out and about. We waved them over, brought out another couple pair of eclipse glasses and were delighted when they joined us for totality… Well, eighty seven percent totality, which ain’t too shabby! When totality was past and the neighbors took their leave, my family and I continued to sit a while, until the eclipse really was finished. I couldn’t help but think back to a solar eclipse from my childhood and shared that story with them as we wound down our family’s 2024 solar eclipse event. The Eclipse Over Beautiful It was always exciting to go visit Granddad Bob and Granny Alice at their dairy in Beautiful, East Texas. It wasn’t always fun, though it often was. It was, however, always exciting. The dairy was situated on a large piece of property that supported the dairy barn, a large hay barn where the calves were also housed, a large shop where Granddad welded and did other work, a very large pool of water that folks in Minnesota might well classify as a lake, a storm house, the Yankees listening might better recognize that as a tornado shelter, and my grandparent’s home. A creek ran along the eastern edge of the property and at least one homestead from days gone by was known to me to be hidden in the woods. It was a place where my siblings, cousins, and I could run and play at length. It was also a place where we learned important lessons about hard work, family dynamics for better or worse, and so much more. In the episode, Granny’s Butter and Jalapeno Sandwiches and Granddad’s Country Fiddle, I talked about the fact that while Granddad and Granny really did love each other, they didn’t necessarily like each other very much. Despite this, they figured out a way to make it work and God bless them both for it! One never knew when things might go south as a result of some abrupt or long simmering disagreement between them. On the other hand, you it was also hard to predict when a memory making fishing excursion make spontaneously occur. Granddad and Granny both loved horses and riding. They kept, rode, and showed, Missouri Fox-trotters. As I grew, I was included in this in a way that I’ll never forget and always appreciate… To listen to this episode in its entirety, click on the link at the top of the page. Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked! Photo, “Solar Eclipse 2024” by and used with permission from, Fallon Harris. This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

On April, 6 of 2000 I was raised to the sublime degree of Master Mason. That happy occasion occurred inside of Beautiful, East Texas Lodge No. 1. I have been a Master Mason nearly but not quite, half my life, and for the great majority of my adulthood. Does it matter? To the greater world, not at all. To me, it matters a great deal. Some of you listening, having experienced it and then lived it understand. Others of you may find yourself wondering, “What’s the big deal, why Masonry?” If you will sit with me a while, I’d like to talk about that. Many times I’ve talked about the shabby little dilapidated Lodge building that sat right at the edge of the school grounds there in Beautiful when I was a kid. Its still there as it goes and has benefited from a greater degree of pride in ownership than it did in those days. When I was last in Beautiful, that once tiny sort of pitiful little building that had always had great patches of paint peeling off and flapping in the wind but that nevertheless remained standing and stalwart, was both expanded, perhaps entirely rebuilt, obviously cared for in a way that I’d never seen it cared for previously and was, finally not only a reminder of what once was in Beautiful but a beacon of what could be! Day after day, week in and week out, as months turned into years and childhood faded into adulthood, I saw the tiny little Lodge on the edge of the school grounds. The square and compass, while I had no idea what they represented or meant, daily in my sight began to be planted in my thoughts. For most of twelve years I saw them almost everyday at least twice a day. The thing is, when I saw them, the building was always empty. There were no cars. There was no activity. There were no banners, no flags, no indication of the good works that Masons across the nation regularly engage in. It was just a truly pitiful looking little, even tiny, building that was not well cared for – except for the square and compasses, which were, despite the building’s otherwise obvious neglect, keep sanded and freshly painted. Imagine the impression that might have been made on the minds of young boys if, instead of neglect and emptiness, there had been occasions where the building could be obviously seen receiving the love and care that it deserved and frankly, should have been getting all that while. Imagine the wonder that might have been inspired in a generation of young men if that little Masonic Lodge – the only building next to the only school in the county, an opportunity that should have been coveted and exploited but, was apparently, never properly understood or appreciated in those days (again to their credit, things are much different now – or were last time I was there and good for those good Brothers) imagine what might have been had they used proximity and visibility to greatest advantage. As a note to those with ears to hear: Every organization that is blessed with a building, should do its very best to make that building an important part of its public relations effort and calling card. This is particularly true for Masons who do not actively recruit. Your buildings could, if you care for them properly and use them in a way that brings them into the community’s spotlight, do a great deal to plant seeds in the minds of men and boys. That’s all well and good but back to the topic at hand, “Why Masonry?” Twenty four years ago, I joined the ranks of my Brother Master Masons. For years, more than a decade even, prior to doing so, Masonry was on my mind. I saw the little Lodge at the edge of the school ground each day coming to school and going home then later, after I graduated and took on adult responsibilities I saw it twice a day going to work and returning home. At some point, I am unsure when exactly, I began to notice that some men in our community wore rings, had pins on their suit coats, or even hat pins with the same square and compass that I saw on the front of that dilapidated little Lodge building. These men tended to be men that were well thought of in Beautiful. I knew some of them, though not well enough to ask personal questions, but well enough to know that I liked and respected them. Eventually, I don’t remember now how this came to be but, eventually I began to understand that these men were Freemasons and that the tiny little building at the edge of the school grounds was a Masonic Lodge. I recall an occasion, I was visiting my Great Uncle Carl. He was a man who was great, truly great in every sense of the word that I cared about. He wanted me to help him work on some things around the farm. We spent hours replacing fence posts, stretching barbed wire, patching up the smoke house, and making other repairs around his place. “I think I’m starting to get hungry,” the old man said. “How about you?” “Yes sir, I am a little hungry.” The fact is, I was quite a bit more than a ‘little hungry.’ I’d been looking at the horse apples on the bois d’arc trees for the last hour wondering just how poisonous they really were. “Okay then, lets get back up to the house, put the tools away, and fix something for our supper.” I wiped the running sweat from my eyes and face, felt the cool drip of it on the back of my neck, and wished it weren’t so terribly hot. My neck was burned as were my arms and face. I knew I’d peel terribly and hated the thought. There was a girl I had a crush on. My peeling arms, neck, and face were not the way I wanted her to see me. “Why the long sigh?” “What? Oh, uh, nothing, sorry.” “Uh huh. Well then, why don’t you put these tools and the roll of barbed wire up then come inside and wash your face and don’t worry, once all that red peels off, the girls will think you are handsome as ever.” As I did as I’d been instructed, I considered that if there were a benefit to being sunburned it was the my blush would be less obvious. In the house Uncle Carl was frying potatoes and onions along with two thin, breakfast style pork chops. Pork chops and fried potatoes was a regular feature at Casa de Tio Carl and one greatly appreciated by any whom he loved enough to prepare it for. While my Great Uncle cooked the man on the radio spoke from the analogue clock radio that rested on the shelf built years ago when I was just a little feller. Uncle Carl never changed the radio station from 1230 on the am dial. Thanks to its height from the floor neither I nor my brothers did either. Having grown, I would never consider such a thing as a matter of respect. The smell of frying pork chops, potatoes, and onions made waiting for supper difficult. I really was very hungry. The man on the radio continued talking. We listened to the weather report, local news, several advertisements, and then a series of announcements about goings on in the greater community… For the full episode listen by clicking on the link above! Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked! Photograph: Stained Glass in the Corinthian Room of The Grand Lodge of Ancient Free & Accepted Masons of Maryland, by Hank Griffin. Some Rights Reserved. Photo may be used with credit and a link to this podcast: hankgriffin.substack.com. This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

While still just a little feller, though transitioning to young manhood, I was what we referred to in those days as a, “Blazer.” That is to say, an eleven year old boy who would soon see the end of his time as a part of the Primary. The Primary being the Sunday School program for children age two to eleven at church. I was a serious lad, thoughtful, and one who never enjoyed Primary. To say I was eager to move on is an understatement. I wasn’t, “too cool for school” like some eleven year old boys and girls can be. Rather, I never liked Primary, not ever. Oh, my individual classes were sometimes good. For example, I loved Sister South’s Primary class. That sweet woman loved us kids and it showed. I also loved Sister Juanita’s class. She was delightfully funny and a good friend to my mother. Sister Juanita was the wife of the Branch President who baptized me. She knew all the best and most interesting gossip and was glad to share it with you if you showed the least interest and sometimes, even if you didn’t! Our little church house, The Beautiful, East Texas Branch of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was a tiny building. Even for our extremely small congregation, it was just too small. When we bought the chapel from The Church of Christ after they’d outgrown it, the men and older boys worked hard to remodel it to make it as useful as possible. The chapel was made smaller than it originally was in order to wall off space for a Branch President’s office, a Priesthood room, and a Relief Society room. There were to unfinished rooms behind the stage and adjacent to the bathrooms. These were used by the Young Men on one side and the Young Women on the other. This arrangement left no dedicated space for the Primary or Nursery to meet. We all found a corner or space along a wall to try to have our classes. There was nothing like calm, quiet, or any ability to have a lesson that was free from interruption, nevertheless, that is how we did it. Well, that is except for Sister Juanita. She was having none of that. When we were blessed to have Sister Juanita for our teacher, and it really was a blessing, we loaded up in her Cadillac after our Sunday Service, drove to her nearby home, and there had our Primary lesson. Oh, you could never do it today but that was a freer time, a better time, a time when we were both able and continued to be permitted to govern ourselves. Frankly, I miss the days before everything was centrally controlled as it is today. In Masonry, for example, we continue with the worthwhile tradition of individual free will and thought as beautifully evidenced in the often used statement, “Take due notice thereof and govern yourselves accordingly.” I regret that there are few, if any, other settings in the world wherein the average individual is taught best principles and then actually trusted to govern him or herself. When we met at Sister Juanita’s home, our lesson was had in splendid comfort. The treats were memorable for being a cut above the usual. And the Spirit could be easily felt, heard, and appreciated for want of noisy distraction. Sister Juanita was the coolest Blazer teacher ever. Did I mention that she was my Blazer teacher? She was my second Blazer teacher. She took over after Brother Overstreet was um… well, after Brother Overstreet moved on to other things… Listen to the full episode by clicking on the link above. Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked! This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Sex, Drugs, and Rock and Roll Part 1 of the You’ve Been Hanked Brain Surgery Project You are listening to the initial installment in a special, You’ve Been Hanked series about life with Parkinson’s and Essential Tremor leading to brain surgery. This special series is not meant to steer the podcast in a different direction. Rather, story telling will remain the primary focus. I will, however, seek to tell a life long story of living with one then both of those two conditions from a very young age, eventually culminating in my personal experience with Deep Brain Stimulation Surgery. I’ll not lie, this is difficult to write, even to begin. If you will bear with me though, I’ll do my best. “You nervous boy?” “No sir.” “Have you been up to something?” “No sir.” “Why are your hands shaking that way?” “Don’t know. They just do.” I sat in my little wooden desk, writing answers to the questions of whatever third grade assignment I labored to complete. “Why are you even in here?” I wondered but dared not ask out loud. The man was our elementary school principal. He’d not been in the classroom before and it was unclear to me then and remains unclear to me now, why he was there on that occasion. Even less clear is why he towered over me watching me write while venturing questions and comments about the shaking evident in my seven year old hands. I recall multiple teacher evaluations over the years I attended school in Beautiful, East Texas. This particular memory had none of those elements. Our principal was neither sitting alone nor alongside some assistant or another at the back of the classroom observing. Instead, he was standing over me, watching me write, and discussing, in front of all my classmates, something that I would much prefer not be so publicly addressed and certainly not by the greatest authority figure to whom I was personally subject outside my home. The large man, wide of girth with gray streaked hair, did not move on to the other students to engage with them. He continued to stand there, just behind me and to my right, peering over my shoulder, watching me work. His comments continued as well. “I’ve never seen anyone’s hands shake like that unless they were sick, nervous, or had a guilty conscience.” As this was not addressed directly to me in the form of a question, I chose to remain silent but wished with all my inner self that my principal would go away. He did not. “Is something wrong with you boy? Are you sick?” “No sir.” “How do you know? You seen a doctor?” … This episode can be heard in its entirety in the audio link to the podcast above. Later this week look for a special recipe! Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked! This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Sunday Supper: Fried Chicken, Biscuits, & Gravy Each month back in Beautiful, East Texas, Beautiful Lodge No. 1 prepared smoked chicken, pinto beans, macaroni and cheese, dinner rolls, cornbread, and banana pudding there at the Lodge to sell to the public by way of raising funds to help ensure our ongoing ability to conduct good works without interruption. There were a half dozen or so dedicated Brothers who worked hard to prepare the meals, package them into large square to-go type containers, then stack them, and hand the meals out to those who placed orders in advance or who, not having had the presence of mind to pre-order, where still hopeful that they might score the truly delicious meal nonetheless. Each container held a quarter smoked chicken and all the aforementioned sides and was provided with a separately packaged cup of banana pudding all for the entirely reasonable price of $9.00. My goodness, what a bargain! Where are you getting a quarter of a chicken, smoked, served with pinto beans, mac & cheese, dinner rolls, corn bread, and banana pudding for nine bucks? Nowhere, that’s where. In those days though, people lined up in the cars around the block when it was time to pick the food up. The community knew we were doing it. They knew when, where, and at what time. They were accustomed to it and wanted it. I say the community. What I mean is the Greater Community. Sure, many Lodge members supported the fundraiser. But, more importantly, the Greater Community, people entirely unaffiliated with the Lodge were wonderfully supportive of that smoked chicken dinner fundraiser. They liked the food and valued the good we did there and were enthusiastic supporters! We easily served out 200 of those thoughtfully and generously packaged meals. It was a lot of work but the support we received was undeniable. That ongoing effort raised a lot of money that was put to very good use for the benefit of others by Beautiful Lodge No. 1. Smoked chicken is good, no doubt. I think that was probably my first introduction to smoked chicken. Before then, I’d usually eaten it fried, stewed, with dumplings, or in a pot pie. Thinking on it though, of the many delicious ways to eat chicken, fried chicken, good fried chicken, remains my favorite. One of the hallmarks of life in Beautiful, East Texas was that eating fried chicken was usually reserved for special occasions. We loved to eat it but only did so when the time and effort to make it was warranted. Picnics, big events, family trips, funerals, and Sunday supper are a few examples of when one might have expected to eat that desirable treat. I recall an occasion, very special and accordingly memorable. Gordon B. Hinkley, then the leader of my faith, was speaking at a regional meeting in Denton, Texas. I was still very young and terribly poor but was invited to be a part of the Regional Choir that was to perform at the event. It was such blessing to be able to see President and Sister Hinkley speak. I drove a long way there and home again, the conference itself was about two hours long. I did not take into account just how long I would be away from home and did not think to prepare a meal or bring snacks. Did I mention that I was both young and poor? It was all I could do to afford the gas, never mind stop for a meal. As I made my way from the stadium where the conference was held back out to my car, a 78 model Datsun 280ZX, (oh y’all, how I loved that car!) I heard my name called repeatedly. Surprised at being recognized so far from home, I turned to see who wanted my attention. I saw an older couple from the Beautiful, East Texas Branch waving me over to where they sat on the tailgate of their pickup apparently enjoying an ad hoc picnic. “We are so happy to see you here, please won’t you join us for something to eat.” I was genuinely hungry but was also embarrassed that I had nothing to contribute, “I’d better not, I hate to be a bother,” I said. That sweet old couple were having none of it and before I could get away, I had a paper plate generously heaped with fried chicken and all sorts. I’ll never forget that kindness, their wonderful generosity. The weather was nice, the chicken was so good, but the company… nothing short of heavenly. In those days there in, Beautiful, there were no convenient places to just go and buy it anytime one was in the mood to have fried chicken. The nearest fried chicken, from a fast food place, was thirty miles in any direction. In the Heart of Beautiful, I was a teenager before fried chicken was locally available as a regular menu item. Once it was, I tried it. It was… okay, I suppose. You know, for store bought. The thing is, I was accustomed to really good fried chicken. Over the years Momma learned to make and did make it. Uncle Carl made it. Many of the old men and women in my life made good fried chicken. Over time, one learned to recognize a few important truths when it came to eating fried chicken in, Beautiful… This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Details Matter For most of my life my community has revolved to a lesser or greater degree around my faith. It is there, outside of family and friends from school, where of much my tribe has been found. It has been consistent, predictable, and for the most part, felt right. A few years ago, before The Rona was a thing, this changed in a way that surprised me and left me unsettled. My worship community, of a sudden, was just to busy to accommodate those who continued to need a strong element of fellowship in their lives. Much of the community building activities I’d been accustomed to all my life, suddenly were no longer being supported.. It was then that my fraternal community became much more important to me. Some of you may wonder if I am being critical. Not at all. However, I maintain that fellowship is absolutely one of many important reasons that some people attend church where they do. To dismiss that need is to dismiss for whom it matters. When I was still a little feller, the three hour Sunday meeting block that was, until a few years ago, the standard for most of the last half century, was not yet part of our routine. We attended church on Sundays, often twice on Sundays. We attended church again on Wednesday evenings. We were there very often, just about anytime the door was unlocked we were there. Every major holiday and more than a few minor holidays found us at the church house, gathering with our fellow Saints. We always had a big Christmas party. There was another big dinner at Easter to look forward to. We celebrated with a meal sometime around Thanksgiving. Halloween, while not a religious holiday was one that saw a carnival put on for the benefit of the kids. This was no mere trunk or treat, no ma’am. It was a sure enough carnival with a cake walk, bobbing for apples, treats, candies, prizes, and loads of fun! When we were glad, our worship community was glad with us. When we mourned, they mourned with us. This wonderful setting wasn’t just there – that was our community. We gathered as friends and neighbors, every fifth Sunday of the year at the church house to share a meal. Everyone ate and there was always plenty. The grown people sat together inside talking among themselves. The children played outside. As I write this, forty-five years later, I still smell the food. I hear the voices of the grown folks and the laughter of the children with whom I played. What happened to it? Why did this have to change? I yearn for a revival of this close knit, wonderfully strong and vibrant community. There is no time for that kind or degree of close community anymore. Our buildings are over used and there just aren’t enough of them. We get chased out of the chapel after church to make room for the next group to meet then chased out of the hallways to help keep the noise down. We even have leaders give talks about how we don’t come to church for fellowship. But, I do - at least in part. No, our congregations aren’t close like my childhood church back in Beautiful, East Texas. Everyone is busy with other things. Why did it change? I suppose it doesn’t really matter. It changed. It just did. I wish it hadn’t but then, if wishes were fishes, we’d eat seafood every night. Momma, who is just bursting with her own ironic sort of wisdom, would undoubtedly observe, “You can wish in one hand and poop in the other then see which one fills up faster.” Only Momma didn’t say poop. Now that I think of it, in all my life I don’t recall ever having heard her say the word, ‘poop.’ No, Momma has always been more lyrical in her expressions. She is also remarkably handy in a gunfight, as it goes. My family helped establish The Beautiful, East Texas Branch of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I did an episode about that experience. If you want to hear the story, its titled, “Faith In Beautiful, East Texas.” I’ll include a link for those of you are are email subscribers. Ours was a wonderfully close community. It was small but we loved each other. That is, until it all changed. I remember my parents calling me from my playing to speak with them. I’d been enjoying my toy flatbed farm truck. It was made of metal and painted green. The doors opened and closed. I had fencing and farm animals. There was little barn. It’d all been part of my Christmas. Santy Clause brought it to me. My mother and natural father sat on the couch. Rough plaid cushions dyed in earth tones and set up on a heavy wood frame. Uncomfortable for sitting even less so for sleeping. It was the kind of couch one bought if one had no taste, couldn’t afford anything more comfortable, or if one really didn’t care for company. “Hank, we are getting a divorce.” What does that mean to a five year old boy? It means nothing. Well... nothing except that, everything is about to change and not likely for the better. However, the innocence and inexperience of childhood cannot fathom these things. Children are left with nothing but to trust their parents to do the right thing even when they demonstrate an appalling track record that doesn’t even come close to living up to that ideal. But then, this isn’t an episode on divorce. Listen to this episode in full in the podcast above! :) Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked! This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Recently, it was my pleasure to record a crossover podcast episode with WB Michael Arce of the excellent, Craftsman Online podcast. We had a lot of fun doing it and I am pleased to share it with my listeners here on, You’ve Been Hanked. Michael’s podcast is a good place to hear many worthwhile Masonic voices. Incidentally, Michael and I also participated together in the recording of, “A Christmas Carol” heard here in December as well as on the excellent, Scottish Rite Podcast. I will include a link to Michael’s wonderful, Craftsman Online for those of you who subscribe to my email newsletter. The Craftsman Online Podcast Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked! This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Chicken, My Chicken It’d been a good family Easter dinner as far as family gatherings go. I love family, my family. All the people, blood or not, who I’ve chosen or permitted to be a part of my life. Of course, when a gathering is not at one’s own home, there’s little choice in who attends and only, really, a choice in whether or not to be a part of the gathering. No doubt most people can relate. If you can’t, well... good for you. Poor Granny. She’d consumed one adult beverage too many and was now sitting in the parlor quietly recovering her dignity. The signs were all there. We knew it was happening. But, like any train wreck already in motion, there was no stopping it. Rather, it simply had to be observed or turned away from with varying degrees of horror and or mirth depending on the observer’s age, perspective, and understanding. The too loud laughter, excessive, slurred, increasingly confused speech, and repeated failure to recognize when others were trying to talk were included among the dead giveaways. Attempts by one of the gentlemen present to divert Granny from beer to coffee was expected as was her reaction – to completely brush those attempts off and continue on in typical, ‘Damn the torpedo, full speed ahead,’ fashion. When the tears arrived, they did so suddenly. The expression of her grief was acute. For the little one’s it was confusing. The adults who’d seen it all before were embarrassed or frustrated. Those new to our family gatherings weren’t sure just exactly how to react. There was some internal chemistry inn Granny that unfailingly ignited anytime she drank a little too much. Some chemical reaction that, combined with difficult life experiences and past traumas, inevitably coaxed from her a story about her late father. When her thoughts and conversation turned to him, the tears were inevitable. Just one sip too many, the crisis would achieved and then, with time and coffee, it would all be over. Granny was led to a comfortable place to sit and recover from her ordeal. Our post dinner conversation similarly attempted to recover. Neither recovery was immediate. Though it may seem that I am making fun at Granny’s expense, I am not. Her youth was difficult. She was the daughter of a woman who, might be most charitably described as a, ‘character’ or a ‘pistol’ Unfortunately, while many of the stories about Granny’s mother may be entertaining, she wasn’t necessarily a noble character. When I think of my Great Grandmother there is always an association with the late and notorious outlaw, Belle Starr. Generations of our family, Granny included, have suffered as a consequence of her poor decisions and questionable or often frankly ugly actions. Granny loved her father. She always spoke of him kindly and her love for him could be heard in her words and voice. When she drank hooch, particularly when she’d consumed a little too much, she couldn’t help but think of him. Those thoughts, affected by alcohol, always brought on tears. Unfortunately she was prone drinking more than was altogether wise, particularly at parties and family gatherings. Something in that combination of chemistry, life experience, personal trauma, and hooch caused a predictable and anticlimactic outcome to many a family dinner. One that happened so often as to be noteworthy but also one that inspires in me a wish that things had gone differently for Granny in her youth. Are there difficult memories that are also sometimes humorous? You bet! I’m not ashamed of either the laughter or the tears. The fact is, a sort of curse has worked its way through the generations. Sadly, as it made its way, it was too often manifest in my Granny, who I truly loved and still love. It is ugly. It was ugly to her and sadly, through her. But, more of that another time. I watched Granny dab tears from her eyes in the other room. Uncle Carl brought her a cup of coffee, piping hot no doubt. I saw her pat her benefactor’s hand, give it a squeeze, and bring the cup to her lips and thought, “She’ll be okay.” “Hank,” Momma said, “I have something outside for the girls.” “You do, what is it?” “It’s a surprise.” Then, “Girls, y’all come with Grandma and your Daddy. I have a surprise for you outside.” My daughters, very young, were all pleased excitement. The four of us exited the house to go outside to see Grandma’s surprise. Having had some experience with a string of those surprises over the years, I was torn between mild excitement and foreboding. With Momma, things could go either way… This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Good Community Is Where You Build It The day was hot. Such was then and continues now to generally be the case in Beautiful, East Texas. That heat, y’all. There are many things I miss about home. That heat is not among them. Earlier in the day Momma called, “Why don’t y’all come to my house for Sunday Supper?” she asked. “I’m gonna fix fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, salad, and make a chocolate cake.” At that time in my life, Momma’s fried chicken was my very favorite food and I always enjoyed her good chocolate cake. “Can’t wait,” I said. I hung up the phone then looked at it marveling at the progress of technology. When I was a boy the phone in our home, a modern home in its time, was hard wired and permanently mounted to the wall in the kitchen. Our telephone was rotary dial, green, and was equipped with the standard three foot cord. Dub, my dad, had no interest in one of those fancy twenty foot affairs that might encourage people to get comfortable and lay about the den while talking on the phone. Our phone was part of a party line. Don’t be fooled. Despite the name, using the phone was not a party. The phone line was shared between four families. When one wished to make a telephone call, it was impolite to just pick up the receiver and start dialing. First one had to pick up the receiver and listen to ensure someone else was not already having a conversation. If no one was using the line, then a call could be made. If someone was already using the line, a polite person would refrain from interrupting the ongoing conversation and return the receiver to its place. I say, a polite person, because very often people were impolite. It was all too common for noisy neighbors to pick up the receiver, listen to see if a conversation was ongoing then, instead of returning the receiver to its cradle, place their palm over the microphone, and settle in for a listen. I remember a cousin of mine, Gary who’d just married his second wife. She was a pretty sort of girl, not a knock out by any stretch of the imagination but, pretty. It helped that she was young. Sadly she had not lived out in the country before. Party lines were new to her as was, apparently, common courtesy. The bride of my cousin loved to eavesdrop on other people’s telephone conversations and had no problem with interrupting others who were using the phone to announce that she had an important phone call to make and demand the line be made available only to later to be overheard engaged in conversation that was less urgent than she’d led her neighbor’s to believe. We all loved Gary. No one particularly cared for his wife. That said, what are you going to do? I asked Dub about it once as we were working on his old 64’ model pickup. Dub dipped snuff. He had a gap in his two front upper teeth through which he could and often did launch a shocking stream of tobacco juice as far as fifteen feet with astonishing accuracy. In doing so a peculiar sound effect was produced. It was a sort of, “squinch,” though that description is inadequate. After I asked bout cousin Gary’s young new wife, he chuckled, spit, then said, “Gary didn’t marry her for her telephone manners.” “What does that mean?” I asked. “You’ll understand one day,” my father assured me. From that wall mounted, rotary dial telephone, we’d improved over the years to a phone that was light weight, rested on the glass top table next to the couch, had caller ID, a long cord from the back of the phone to the wall, anther long cord from the phone to the handset, and most happily – was not a shared party line. The kids will be pleased to see Grandma I thought. Then ruefully, hopefully she won’t try to send them home with another baby chicken… or, Heaven help me, worse. … Listen to the podcast to hear the rest of the story. Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked! This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe