MANNERS: Those Good Ole Boys

The term has infiltrated the language, carrying nuances not found in Fowler’s Modern English Usage, shadings understood instinctively by Southerners but often baffling to armchair linguists beyond the Mason-Dixon line. TIME Washington Correspondent Bonnie Angela, a native of Winston-Salem, N.C., wrote this report on what is—and is not—a good ole boy.

It is Friday night at any of ten thousand watering holes of the small towns and crossroads hamlets of the South. The room is a cacophony of the ping-pong-dingdingding of the pinball machine, the pop-fizz of another round of Pabst, the refrain of Red Necks, White Socks and Blue Ribbon Beer on the juke box, the insolent roar of a souped-up engine outside and, above it all, the sound of easy laughter. The good ole boys have gathered for their fraternal ritual—the aimless diversion that they have elevated into a lifestyle.

Being a good ole boy is not a consequence of birth or breeding; it cuts across economic and social lines; it is a frame of mind based on the premise that life is nothing to get serious about. A glance at the brothers Carter tells a lot. There is some confusion about why Billy Carter seems in many respects the quintessential good ole boy, while Brother Jimmy couldn’t even fit into the more polished subspecies of conscious good ole boys who abound in small-town country clubs. Billy, amiable, full of jokes, his REDNECK POWER T shirt straining unsuccessfully to cover the paunch, swigs a beer, carefree on a Sunday morning, as Jimmy Carter, introspective, hard driving, teaches Sunday school. Jimmy sometimes speaks wistfully of Billy’s good-ole-boy ease.

Lightheartedness permeates the good ole boy’s lifestyle. He goes by nicknames like “Goober” or “Goat.” He disdains neckties as a form of snobbery; when he dresses up, it is to wear a decorated T shirt with newish jeans or, for state occasions, a leisure suit with a colored shirt. If discussions veer beyond football toward substance, he cuts them off with funny stories.

The core of the good ole boy’s world is with his buddies, the comfortable, hyperhearty, all-male camaraderie, joshing and drinking and regaling one another with tales of assorted, exaggerated prowess. Women are outsiders; when social events are unavoidably mixed, the good ole boys cluster together at one end of the room, leaving wives at the other. The GOB’S magic doesn’t work with women; he feels insecure, threatened by them. In fact, he doesn’t really like women, except in bed.

What he really loves is his automobile. He overlooks his wife with her hair up in pink rollers, sagging into an upside-down question mark in her tight slacks. But he lavishes attention on his Mercury mistress, Easy Rider shocks, oversize slickers, dual exhaust. He exults in tinkering with that beautiful engine, lying cool beneath the open hood, ready to respond, quick and fiery, to his touch. The automobile is his love and his sport.

Behind his devil-may-care lightheartedness, however, runs a strain of innate wisdom, an instinct about people and an unwavering loyalty that makes him the one friend you would turn to, not just because he’s a drinking buddy who’ll keep you laughing, but because, well, he’s a good ole boy.