Everything is relative
Email Bubba at tbubba@tbubba.com

Life is relative ain't it? What I'm saying here is that everything in life is different when you compare it to the world around it at the time. Things that are correct today will be wrong tomorrow because everything around it changes. See? If you don't understand this, then you are one of those people that change their own oil. You never get anything except what you don't need to get.

One day, two caterpillars were sitting on a leaf and a butterfly zoomed by, startling them. The big caterpillar, Bubba, turned to the other one and said, "Man, you'll never get ME up in one of those things!"

A snail was sitting on a turtle's back one day and the turtle was moving as fast as it could. Which was about as fast as Congress is moving on the Immigration Bill. The snail looked up with the wind in his face and yelled out "WEEEEEEEEEEE!" Now that's relative.

Many years ago in Fontainebleau, Miss., my Grandpa Walker told me to "load up;" we were going to see a friend of his in the north end of the county. Then and now, people that lived in Biloxi, Miss. thought that people in Ocean Springs were "in the country." People that live in Pensacola think that Milton is a small country town. Folks in Milton think that Jay is a small town, and the people in Jay, think that that Chumuckla is very rural. Get it? Everything is relative.

We got into that old '47 Plymouth and drove about 10 miles north on a paved Farm to Market road, then we turned off onto a gravel road. We went about six miles over several little draw bridges and never saw one house, not even a farm. We then turned off onto a dirt road and went about six miles deeper into the woods than I had ever been. At a corner of a goat path, that didn't even have two ruts to it, we turned and the road got ever narrower. As limbs and weeds were scraping both sides of the car we continued to travel for about seven and a half miles. I checked the back of the car to see if we had a jug of water and any food, in the event we got stranded. We finally stopped and way up on the top of a hill was a house. No electricity running to it, no screen windows or doors, and there was a long path running up to the house. We stopped and "hello'ed the house." If you ain't never been in the country you won't understand this, but you always "hello the house" from outside the fence in those days. If you didn't, you could get shot entering the yard. People did not cotton to strangers knocking on their front doors. You took your own life into your hands if you did such a thing. After we hello'ed the house and no one answered and the dogs seemed to all be off in the woods, we approached the house. There on door frame where a screen door used to hang, nailed with a ten penny nail was a note that read, "We are not a home, we have gone to the country for the weekend!" Now that's relative!

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