"What Do They Call A Bachelor In Alabama?"

The good folks of Alabama, the place of this writer’s birth, have long been accused of all sorts of things. Anything from keeping a transmission in the bathtub to having relationships with farm animals that are not proper. To set the record straight once and for all - most folks from Alabama are able to read and write, we do wear shoes on most weekdays, and only a few of us are married to our first cousins.

Regarding marriage, Alabama folks treat marriage like they do their football allegiances. Both are, “’til death do us part.” Similarly, Alabama bachelors and old maids affirm that their lot in life is not a prison-like sentence. Rather, it is a deliberate life choice.

Meet Franklin Hardin – a confirmed bachelor who lived at home with his parents well into his forties. When friends asked him why he never married, Franklin always gave the same answer - “I reckon I’d rather want something I don’t have, than have something I don’t want!”

Alabama folks are not as dumb as some think.

Like fellow Alabamian, Forest Gump, Franklin worked when he chose to, slept and ate when he chose to, bathed when he chose to, brushed his teeth when he chose to, and, well, visited the outhouse when he chose to. There was no fuss over what to wear when he went out in public. And, no guilt over watching an Andy Griffith Marathon versus a Lifetime Channel “Chick-Flick.”

Franklin’s life creed was, “No woman – no hurry – no worry!”

Consequently, there was more than enough free time on Franklin’s calendar for the pursuit of country boy passions. Things such as deer hunting, fishing, NASCAR, and even an occasional foray into the world of, “noodling.”

Currently legal in eleven states, and highly popular in the South, noodling is an underwater sport. It involves the catching of massive flathead catfish (sometimes weighing in excess of 30-40 pounds) by sticking one’s arm under felled trees or other brush in a muddy river, lake or pond.

The noodler juts his arm directly into the catfish’s mouth and down through one of its large gills. The noodler is able to gain a sufficient grip for extracting the giant fish from its watery nest. The cuts, bruises, and an occasional severed finger are all part of a day’s work in the practice of this unique sport.

Franklin noodled, but only when he had no fishing tackle at his disposal. At those times, his hands and arms BECAME his fishing tackle.

Perhaps the greatest joy in Franklin’s life was his 20 foot Glastron Bass Boat. Equipped with trolling motor, depth finder, live well, built in refrigerator, and 500-watt sound system, Franklin’s boat was a “Mac-Daddy.” Powered by a 200 horsepower (HP) Mercury outboard motor, Franklin’s Glastron would skeet across the water at speeds well in excess of 60 mph. His could and did outrun almost anything with a propeller, and was proud to demonstrate this fact without reservation or apology.

Being the hospitable soul that he was, Franklin always enjoyed taking folks for a ride on his boat. He had a particular affinity for those who didn’t get out on the water very much. Franklin was usually on his best behavior with older folks or young children. To keep from frightening these tender souls, he would gently push his boat along the water at a very gentle pace. With those not so very old or young, Franklin was not reluctant at all to bring about fits of profound terror.

His special, pre-launch routine included asking his first-time passengers to don a life jacket, securely fasten their seat belt, and bow their head for a short prayer. Following this, Franklin would reach under his seat and pull out a motorcycle crash helmet. Strapping the helmet on, he would flip the darkly tinted safety visor down over his face. He then reached under the seat a second time. This time, he would pull out a brand new roll of toilet paper and hand it to his unsuspecting guest. These gestures were intended to strike mortal fear into the heart of the passenger.

Before his guest could leap out of the boat and back to the safety of the dock, Franklin would gun that powerful boat to full throttle. This would flip its nose upward to a near ninety-degree angle with the water, soaking the passenger in a gigantic wave. Before the terrified rider could regain any level of composure, the boat would abruptly shoot forward “out-of-the-hole” at speeds that would make even NASCAR blush.

Franklin’s high-pitched squeal of laugher and delight at what he had caused could be heard far above the roar of that powerful motor.

As one might guess, the antics of a practical joker are seldom limited to a single circumstance or venue. Franklin’s passion for frivolity did not stop at the boat ramp. He was always on the lookout for a new way to torment a victim.

First, there was the time in the early 1980’s when a new preacher came to Franklin’s congregation. During a church workday, Franklin found a still-partially-intact six pack of beer in the parking lot. He made sure it wound up on the new preacher’s desk, and that all the men knew to give the young preacher a hard time about it.

The most infamous tale of Franklin’s fun, though, will go down as one of the all-time greats in practical joke history!

Jed Weathers was Franklin’s childhood buddy. They grew up in the same area of Alabama - hunting, fishing, racing cars, and getting into trouble for the better part of their young lives together. Like Franklin, Jed had plenty of common sense, but was probably not in line for a full academic ride to Tuscaloosa. They both worked at the same warehouse loading trucks.

If Franklin’s passion was to be on a lake with a rod in his hand, Jed’s was to be up high in a deer stand with a rifle in his. Franklin occasionally accompanied his lifelong friend on these hunting trips, though he was not as tolerant of bitter cold as Jed was. There were times when Franklin opted to stay at home in a warm, cozy bed rather than brave the sub-freezing wind-chill of a highly perched deer stand.

On one occasion when Franklin chose slumber over frostbite, Jed went ahead without him.

Jed arrived in the woods at about 4:15 AM. It was a beautifully clear, late fall night/morning in Alabama. As he trudged through the brush to reach his tree stand, Jed saw by the light of the full moon something that sent death chills up his neck. It was the silhouette of a rare, black bobcat.

Both Franklin and Jed had heard rumors about this bobcat roaming the woods and showing up at nearby farms, but they thought it was only a hunter’s tall tale. After all, fishermen aren’t the only ones adept at exaggerations and bald-faced lies.

On that dark, frigid morning, Jed saw the bobcat out of the corner of his eye. It growled at him then quickly darted away. It scared him so much he came very close to losing control of his bladder. He was known to be an extremely skittish and excitable person anyway.

Seeing nary a deer the rest of the morning, he climbed down from the stand around 10:00 o’clock and went straight to Franklin’s house.

The story he told about that bobcat could have sold several hundred thousand hunting magazines! Embellishing the tale like he had so many others, by the time he was finished the bobcat stood almost six feet tall at the shoulder and weighed over 300 pounds. Franklin greatly enjoyed his friend’s highly emotional and overblown account of the ordeal – mainly because it gave him an idea.

If Franklin had anything to do with it, Jed would be seeing that bobcat again, and soon!

Franklin allowed a week or two to pass. He wanted Jed’s memory of the bobcat account to grow just a little faint. When the next good hunting Saturday rolled around, Franklin told Jed he had again decided to stay at home in his warm bed. He strongly encouraged Jed to go ahead without him. Franklin KNEW that he would. He also knew that, if he could pull it off, Jed would not be alone in those woods.

Franklin’s mother, Margie Hardin, was a pack rat. She bought and stored away every tacky thing she ever stumbled across. Yard sales, flea markets, and auctions were her weakness. Her house was the Southern equivalent of Fred Sanford’s junkyard.

Among these pieces of useless clutter was an item that would soon be worth its weight in gold. Near the front door in Margie Hardin’s living room stood a ceramic statue of a black panther. Its white paws and the white markings around its mouth strikingly accented its otherwise jet black form. The panther had a vicious scowl on its face – with large, life-like fangs.

Franklin had knocked over this “worthless piece of refuse” a thousand times in his frequent comings and goings. Little did he know that one day it would be the perfect set-up for the gag of a lifetime.

Franklin turned his alarm off at 3:05 AM on that Saturday. He hurriedly donned his winter hunting clothes, loaded the ceramic panther in his truck, and set out for the woods. Franklin drove into their hunting land a different way than he was accustomed to, so Jed would not see his tire tracks in the heavy frost. He tracked through the woods from a completely opposite angle than he and Jed usually did.

Arriving at the tree stand, Franklin positioned the ceramic panther so that it was facing the open trail that Jed was certain to use. He then hid himself out of sight in a nearby thicket, well out of Jed’s line of sight. Franklin nodded off several times as he anxiously waited for the fun to begin.

As sure as clockwork, the bouncing beam of Jed’s flashlight appeared in the distance at about 4:30 AM. Franklin could hear Jed coming several hundred yards away – tripping over roots, mumbling out loud whenever he fell, coughing and spitting from the overflowing pinch of Copenhagen in his lower lip, and softly humming to himself the University of Alabama fight song. One of the reasons Jed never became a world class deer hunter was his inability to be quiet in the woods. Every deer in Walker County, Alabama, knew full well when Jed Weathers was approaching.

Franklin could hardly contain himself as Jed drew closer to the trap awaiting him. He muffled his mouth with his gloved hand more than once to keep from giggling. His only regret was that he didn’t have a camera.

When Jed was about thirty yards from the stand, he stopped dead in his tracks. Standing deathly still, his shaking hand trained the flashlight on the base of his tree. He couldn’t believe it! “Oh, no!” Jed mumbled loudly – his fright-filled words echoing through those Alabama woods. He dropped to his knees. Still muttering a combination of curses and prayers, he fitfully struggled to load his deer rifle in the dark.

Franklin, stifling his laughter and glee, suddenly had an idea. One of Franklin’s talents was his ability to mimic just about any wild animal sound imaginable. Franklin never used duck calls or other mechanical devices to lure wild game. He didn’t need them.

As Jed was still trying to load his rifle, Franklin threw his head back and bellowed a bobcat imitation that would have made even the late Steve Irwin tremble.

“Rrrrrrrrroooooowwwwww!!!”, “Rrrrrrrroooooowwwwww!!!”, again and again he screeched. Each time, as he collected his breath for the next growl, Franklin couldn’t help but snicker like a kid in church. He could hear Jed scuffling around and calling out to The Almighty in reaction to each of these wild screams.

Franklin Hardin was having the time of his mischievous life!

Until, that is, Jed snapped. His wildly excitable, hair-trigger imagination convinced him that the woods were filled with these bloodthirsty bobcats. Now completely over the edge, he swung his bolt-action 30.06 caliber deer rifle into the air and began to fire – wildly, and in every possible direction. The almost thirty rounds of magnum, high velocity, ammunition he brought with him that morning were being rapidly spent. Deadly force was zinging randomly through those dark, cold Alabama woods.

Franklin’s master plan had been that his jumpy friend would see the ceramic panther, think it was real, and turn and run away in mortal fear. Franklin hadn’t factored in the wild barrage of hot lead now ricocheting through bushes, branches and tree limbs all around him. “That idiot is going to kill somebody!” Franklin moaned, as he dodged bullet after bullet flying in his direction.

Jed was known far and wide as a terrible marksman. He couldn’t hit the side of a barn on most days. Almost everyone and everything except that ceramic panther was in danger of being hit.

Too, the Good Book promises that everyone shall, “reap what they sow.” Franklin Hardin had played practical jokes on others for many years. He had gotten away with every outlandish thing he had ever pulled on unsuspecting victims. He seemed far too clever to ever get caught, and almost impervious to payback. On this morning, however, Franklin’s chickens came home to roost.

Finally, one of Jed’s last remaining shells found its mark. The bullet hit the ceramic panther dead in the middle of its chest. It exploded with a sound similar to a detonated hand grenade. Shards of jagged ceramic glass flew through the air – with a few pieces hitting Jed’s shirtsleeve. He crouched, edged slowly forward, shining his flashlight on the spot. The biggest remaining portion of the now demolished panther was a piece of the top of its head. Lying right side up, it was coated with frost from having been outdoors during those cold, morning hours.

Suddenly, Jed recognized that this was no live animal he had just blown to bits. He correctly identified his kill as Mrs. Margie Hardin’s black ceramic panther. He growled, “F-R-A-N-K-L-I-N!...No wonder he said he was gonna’ stay home this morning!”

Jed shouted to the top of his lungs, “Franklin Hardin, I’m going to K-I-L-L you!”

At that moment, Jed heard something BIG running through the woods toward him. Before he could lift his rifle in self-defense, he heard a familiar voice. “Jed!...Don’t shoot!...It’s me.” Having heard the panther explode and the shooting finally stop, Franklin came running – mainly to inspect the damage to his mother’s cherished panther.

“You idiot!” Franklin shouted, “You mean to tell me you couldn’t tell that this weren’t a real bobcat?...Mama is gonna’ kill us both!”

Jed stood trembling in the dark with his flashlight trained on Franklin’s head. He was breathing deeply and glaring at Franklin. Fiery hatred raged in his eyes. In a deep, resolute voice, he said, “That panther ain’t the only thing that’s gonna’ tote a bullet!” as he angrily shoved his last remaining round into the hunting rifle’s chamber.

Franklin’s glee quickly disappeared. Jed raised his rifle in Franklin’s direction. This prank had now crossed the line.

With repeated expressions of regret and pleas for forgiveness, Franklin tried to reason with Jed. ‘Put down the gun, man,” Franklin begged, “it were jest a joke!” Jed was having none of it. He pointed the rifle about two feet over Franklin’s head, and fired his last remaining round.

Panicking, Franklin took off in a dead run in the direction of his truck. “That fool has done lost his mind!” Franklin screamed, as he leaped over dead trees and ran full throttle through the bushes and briars.

Though his rifle ammo was spent, Jed’s fury was far from depleted. He ran after Franklin for a good long stretch firing blanks from his .44 Colt sidearm. Almost every hunter carries a pistol into the woods. Sometimes filled with blanks, a pistol can come in handy to alert another hunter of a kill or an emergency of some kind.

Jed figured that if he couldn’t really shoot at Franklin any longer, he might as well make him think that he could. All Franklin knew was that this lunatic was still right behind him, and firing a weapon like there was no tomorrow.

There was another surprise in store for Franklin that morning as he ran out of the woods and away from his ranting and raving pursuer.

Earlier that morning, not long after Franklin had entered the woods, one of his other hunting buddies spotted his truck. This deer hunting friend of Franklin’s was on his way to another deer stand not far away. Having been, himself, a victim of Franklin’s practical jokes in the past, he decided it was time to return the favor.

He stopped long enough to raise the hood of Franklin’s truck, pull all eight spark plug wires loose, and hide them up in the spare tire underneath the rear of Franklin’s truck bed.

When Franklin finally got to his truck, he was huffing and puffing, winded and exhausted from the run, and completely drained from the morning’s shenanigans.

He threw open the door, climbed in the seat, turned his key in the ignition and stomped the gas pedal. Nothing! He tried again. Nothing! Again. Not even a click from the starter! Franklin got out, lifted the hood, and felt a sinking feeling in his gut. Franklin Hardin now knew exactly what it felt like to be, “H-A-D!” “Somebody done took all my wars,” (Alabamian for “wires”) he moaned.

His best friend was mad enough to kill him. His mother WAS going to kill him when she found out about the panther. He was out in the middle of nowhere on a cold, windy morning. He was exhausted from the life-or-death run through the woods. And now, his truck had been sabotaged.

But, he concluded, there was really no one to blame but himself.

And so, Franklin Hardin did the only thing he knew to do. He pulled his sleeping bag out of the tool box, bundled himself against the cold, fired up some Wal-Mart brand hand warmers he kept in the glove compartment, and laid down in the seat to take a nap.

His thought was, “Oh, well.”

Such is the life of a bachelor from Alabama.

Call him, “lazy,” “fun-loving,” or perhaps maybe even a little, “touched in the head.”

One thing is certain - there is no life like his.

"Well I'll Be John Brown"

- David Decker

  June 5, 2006