Me, John, and Goofy

As I was bouncing around on my regular Internet spots the other day, I saw that an old friend of mine posted on the blog Hillbilly Savants. The blog is one of my favorites. It documents life and culture from where I grew up, and despite the obvious disparity, it reminds me of the line from an interview with Ice Cube when he says, "You know, livin' in the hood ain't all that bad." I'm an Appalachian, and dang it there's nothing wrong with that, and yes, I have a Southern accent. At any rate, I ended up making a comment on his post. It went something like "John Louis Kerns rocks!" Our exchange, and the topics of the blog in general, for whatever reason, got me to thinking about some of the times ol' John and I have had in the past.

Now, this isn't just any old friend. I've known this kid since Kindergarten. As a matter of fact, we were in the same class. I still have a picture to prove it. I've got tons of stories on this guy, and he's probably got tons on me too. Most of which I dare not share here lest I desire retribution. In the end, and I think John would agree, some of our most memorable times were to be had during a ski trip in the mountains of West Virginia.

I think we were in college at the University of Tennessee at the time. Actually I'm pretty sure of it, but there may be an outside chance it was before our freshman year. Either way, that's irrelevant for the story. You see, John and I both grew up skiing. We grew up about an hour and a half from the slopes in Western North Carolina. So, we both have several tales from leaving school on Friday afternoons (high school that is) and heading to the mountains for night skiing which started at 6 pm and went 'til ten. We were decent skiers, and we had another buddy who was yes, in the same Kindergarten class, who was a really good skier. We called him Goofy because when this guy laughed, he sounded just like the damn cartoon character - that's another story. Well, since we all loved to ski, and since we all were really good friends, and since we were all going to be on Christmas break, the three of us decided to go to Snowshoe West Virginia for a three day ski 'marathon.'

ROAD TRIP!

Now this wasn't just any road trip. We were cruisin' along for the five or six hour drive in Goofy's old Jeep Wagoneer. I mean this thing still had the wood peeling off it, and it smelled like gasoline, but damn it, we loved it. And when I say the wood was peeling off it, I mean the stuff they used to put on vehicles that looked like wood, but wasn't. Somewhere close to getting there we stopped in this little town to eat lunch. It was at one of those Subway/Gas stations. As we were leaving Goof backed up into a light pole. No damage done, we were in the Wagon baby.

Also along the way, and I won't mention any names, but we somehow got on this spurt of talking about someone's mother. Not in a derogatory way, but just referencing yo momma over and over. For example, John would say, "Man, this snow is awesome," and either Goofy or myself would say, "Yeah, so is your Mom (names have been changed to protect the innocent)."

Now that I think about it, I know we were in college at the time because the weekend we were there was when Tennessee played Florida State in the 1st NCAA Football BCS National Championship, and kicked their ass. This is a perfect segue into my next little tale. We're skiing along through the Evergreens, enjoying the powder, having a blast. John and I were (at least I can speak for myself anyway) admiring what Goofy was doing on skis. He'd jump, we'd try it and crash, he'd pull a daffy, we'd watch, and so on and so on. So it was in the midst of our snow play when this punk kid comes flying by us decked out in this cheap Florida State Starter Jacket. I mean this guy just blows past us. There would be no having of Florida State blowing past Tennessee, regardless if it was on a ski slope in West Virginia. The next time we saw the kid, he was laying on the ground after a crash, and for some reason was shortly thereafter covered with the snow from three skiers who just happened to carve snow in his direction one after another. He was also forced to suffer through repeated harassment from three skiers on the over passing lifts. Go figure.

I'll wrap up with one more tale. I must say, this is my favorite. The skiing was over, and we were headed home. On the way up none of us had bothered to monitor the gas tank. Hell, I don't even think the gas gauge worked after, if I remember correctly, the last quarter of a tank. So we were guessing after that point and - you know where this is going - incorrectly guessed we had plenty to get us down the mountain. The problem was that 'down the mountain' was seven miles, and that was the nearest gas station. Let me correct myself, we had plenty of gas to get us down the mountain, it just wasn't under the power of a combustible engine. We coasted down that damn hill for seven miles. No shit. Seven miles. I still laugh when I think about that time. We had about 20 cars racked in behind us because during the portions of the 'down the mountain' in which the grade wasn't as steep we were creeping. On top of that, Goofy's arms started killing him, and for a college kid who doesn't take into consideration the possibility of the lack of power steering in a 25 year old Wagoneer going down a mountain in rural West Virginia in January with 20 other pissed-off spring-breakers behind them, under only the power of gravity flying off the side of the mountain into a fiery snow-filled crash, it was freakin' hilarious. I know what you're thinking, we never made it. Well you're right, we didn't. The poor, thirsty ol' Wagoneer stopped about 15 feet from the gas pump.

That 15 feet took quite awhile because the three hilbillies pushing the thing were crying with laughter and talking about someone's mother who was great at pushing vehicles to gas pumps.

John and I are still great friends. In fact there's a camping trip tentatively planned this Spring. Goofy I hear is married now and living back in our hometown with his wife. Good for him. So between now and the next trip to Snowshoe, keep one eye on the Tennessee fans and the other on the gas tank.

'Til next time...