Bear Grease - Ep. 370: This Country Life - A Ghost Bull, Fox Ears, and The Giant

Episode Date: September 26, 2025

Everyone has a story to tell and Brent enjoys hearing one as much as he likes telling them. This week he’s selected three stories that listeners have sent him that have messages beyond his Southern flavored narrative. We think you’ll enjoy them.  Shop This Country Life Merch Connect with Brent and MeatEater MeatEater on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, Youtube, and Youtube Clips Subscribe to the MeatEater Podcast Network on YouTube Shop This Country Life Merch Shop Bear Grease MerchSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

First Lights fieldwear collection is made for the work that happens long before opening day and continues when the season ends. Products built for early mornings, full days in real use. Hard wearing where they need to be versatile where it matters. No shortcuts. Just gear designed for the work that earns the season. Built to perform, built to last. Check out. First Light's new fieldwear gear at firstlight.

Welcome to this country life. I'm your host, Brent Reeves. From Coon Hutton to Trotlining and Just General Country Living, I want you to stay a while as I share my experiences and life lessons. This Country Life is presented by Case Knives from the Storemore Studio on Meat Eat Eaters Podcast Network, bringing you the best outdoor podcasts that Airways have to offer. All right, friends, grab a chair or drop that tailgate. I've got some stories to share. A ghost bull, fox ears, and the giant.

As you can well imagine, Reva and I get a lot of submissions for listener stories. Even though you may not hear yours soon after you send it in or even ever, I promise you, I read every one of them. I make notes about where they might fit a theme I've formatted for future episodes and wait for the appropriate time to read them again and see if they do. The ones I'm sharing today were submitted well over a year ago, and I say that to encourage all the would-be storytellers out there to continue to send them in. Please include your name, where you're from, and a phone number.

Sometimes I need to reach you out directly for specific answers about things, especially pronunciations of family names and places, and you send that in to my TCL story at themeatheater.com. Lastly, before we get started, I want to say this. I received an unflattering review once that complained about me telling someone else's story. They said they didn't want to hear me read about someone else's experiences and that I should concentrate on my own. Well, I reached out to that person, and I like him. We had a great conversation.

I did try to change his mind. and I just wanted him to know why I do this as I believe I've done a poor job of the reasoning behind my idea for doing it in the first place. I believe everyone has a story to tell and every story deserves to be heard. I'm blessed to have a place where telling stories is more or less my job. And to make the most of it, I want to share this platform with all the people who make my job possible. If it weren't for all of you, who know. knows what I'd be doing now. It is my hat tip and appreciation for your time and also a conduit to show that no matter where we're from, what we're doing, or the folks we're telling these

stories about at the end of the day, we're all very similar people. All right, this first story comes to us from Luke Williams. Luke is a native Arkansason who is working for us undercover disguised as an okey over there in Oklahoma City. I met Luke, a man. I met Luke, a couple world championship squirrel cookoffs are going. He brought me a white hat with a big coon on it. And the next time I step out on the links to swing the wrenches, I'm going to be sporting that unit. So without further ado, in Luke's words and my voice,

here we go. I was born in Stone County, Arkansas, in the small town of Mountain View in 1974. My older brother and I were taken in by our grandparents in 1980 as my newly single mother went on to the University of Arkansas to pursue her education to become a registered nurse. Now, once my mama finished her education, my brother and I moved back with her.

And we spent one year in Little Rock, and then it was off to Oklahoma City in 1987, where I have stayed and raised my family and still reside to this day. However, there is only one place in this whole world I'll ever call home in that Stone County, Arkansas. the town of Mountain View and that valley farm of Rocky Bayou Patch. My grandfather, Hugh Irwin Williams, was born in Stone County, Arkansas in 1913, about three or four miles down the creek from the end of what is now called Purple Road.

As an adult, he made his way to and worked most of his life in northeast Oklahoma, farming and was a licensed plumber in both Oklahoma and Arkansas. In the mid to early 70s, he and my grandmother bought the Valley Farm where I grew up, Rocky Bayou Patch, which is just a few miles up the creek from where he had been born some 60 or so years earlier. He passed away in 2007 but left a multitude of memories and stories of his wild youth in the herple area of Rocky Bayou Creek for my cousins and I to cherish and rehash when we are present with one another. Now I reached out to all the cousins of my generation and asked them if they'd heard this story. If they had, please share with me the version they remembered. Each one who'd heard it repeated it to me almost word for word the way I'm sharing it with you.

And it's called the Ghost Bull of the Purple Swimming Hole. Well, my granddad was about 10 years old. He and some of his buddies, probably his cousins, were at the swimming hole by the Hurple Spring. as the gang of boys were playing in the water swimming jumping off rocks and just having the genuine good old time there happened to be a young bull roaming around the pasture behind him now somehow the boys got this young bull all wrangled up and into the swimming hole and they took turns riding him into the deep water eventually young bull wore out and he drowned now not knowing what they should do but knowing the world of trouble they'd be in if

if they were found out, they somehow got that bull pulled up out of the water and on the bank next to the water's edge. One of the boys decided to be fun to just jump off his lifeless carcass, used him as a springboard. So, as the boy spent the next hour or two, taking turns running down the creek bank and jumping on top of that bull and off into the water every time they did, that young bull would spit out a little water. Eventually, that young bovine let out a car. cough, a bella, and a grunt, and jumped up in dismay and took off for the same pasture from

which he had come. As the bull was making all that commotion and making his way to his feet, the boy scattered in surprise and my grandfather leading the way. Once they caught to breath and some understanding of what just happened, having unknowingly preferred maybe the very first procedure of CPR to an adolescent bovine, they all broke out into land. They all broke out in the laughter. They had saved their own hides without intention and saved the life of a young bull at the same time, all in the name of fun. My granddad would tell that story every now again and laugh like he was in the moment, some of the only laughter I ever saw from. He and my grandmother raised my brother and I from the time I was in kindergarten through the fifth grade and then

throughout the summers up to my sophomore year of high school. He was one. He was one. He was, one of those classic old-timers, reminiscent of the ones all of your stories are about, and he lived the life reflected in those stories. Plumber by trade, a farmer, a cowman by choice, and a man of God by redeeming grace. Life on the farm was tough for a small kid, and at times I hated it. I look back now with a level of appreciation for those years that I don't find anywhere else in life. and according to Luke Williams, displaced Arkansas reporting to us live from Oklahoma City,

that's just how that happened. Thanks, Luke. I hope to see you and Angie again next year. Now this next one, according to Texan Rocky Whiting, is a cherished family heritage story that embodies the ranch and way of life and an upright character that they carved their family name in. Rocky says his dad has told him

and his five siblings this story many times. And the older he gets, the more likely he is to get a little emotional toward the end. The lesson is a good one. And I'm glad he shared it with us here. You're going to be glad he did too. So in Rocky's words in my voice, here we go.

In the 1960s, Bernie was a small farming and ranch community in central Texas. Locals knew everyone in the city. the community. Ranch and families work hard to be self-sufficient, but finances, they were tight. Livestock was a major part of their income, but lambs easily fell prey to foxes in the spring. And to help local ranchers Kendall County put out a bounty on foxes. If you kill the fox, you would cut off its ears, take them to the county clerk's office and collect two dollars in reward. A barbecue chicken was 50 cents and a bottled Coke.

was 10 cents, so $2 was a lot more money than it is now. My dad is from one of those ranching families and is the youngest of four kids. They grew up seven miles from the Byrne City Limits. My dad did well academically, played runnerback on the high school football team, and was voted most handsome by his classmates his senior year. One evening in the 1965, my dad took a classmate, a cheerleader, on a date to watch an away basketball game. New Brownfields Canyon versus Bernie High School.

And after the excitement of the game, they started to drive back home on a two-lane highway. In the halogen headlights, my dad spotted a roadkill fox line on the side of the road. He remembered the bounty and was excited about the tank of gas that it would buy. With no cars to be seen, he turned the car around and stopped with the lights on the fox. He inspected the fox and found it to only recently be lifeless.

He cut the ears off with a sharp folded knife that all the ranch kids had just for such an occasion. His date didn't raise an eyebrow when he placed the ears in the trunk because she and her family were cut from the same cloth. I should know because she's my mom. They continued on back to Bernie without questions about the ears. and before the sun got hot the next morning, my dad and grandfather were leaning over the engine bay of a 1946 ranch jeep. My dad with grease to his forearms proudly mentioned the fox ears that he picked up the night before. My grandfather asking, whereabouts did you pick up that fox? My dad told him where he found the dead fox, and my grandfather paused.

He stood upright and he replied, I think that's Comal County. It's pretty close to the county line, but I don't think they pay a bounty for fox ears in Colmo. My dad with a smile and some advanced wit replied, well, maybe that fox was born in Kendall County and was just visiting relatives in Colmore. They both chuckled. My dad, more serious, said, that clerk ain't going to be able to tell if this is a Comal Fox or a Kendall Fox. No one is going to know.

My grandfather responded with there are three people that already know. Me, you, and God. My dad didn't come up with the argument and logic, so he shifted his focus back to the engine. A few seconds later, my grandfather said, I'll give you the two dollars if you don't turn them in. My dad was taken aback at the proposal. He knew that my grandfather would give him the bounty. He also knew that my grandfather never. had two dollars to spare.

My dad answered you, no. You can't buy my honesty. I'll just throw them away. My dad retrieved the ears and threw them in a brush pile. Two fox ears were a lifetime. Integrity, according to Rocky Whiting. That's just how that happened. Rocky?

I appreciate you sharing that with us. They say integrity is what takes place when no one is looking at it. It comes from a strong, Foundation morals. I'm pretty sure we just had a lesson in your family's architect on how he built. Last spring, Clay Newcomb and I collaborated with Jason Phelps at Phelps game calls in building each of our own favorite turkey diaphragms called prime cuts. Now, I'm going to tell you, I love mine because it's easy to use.

I'm not going to go, I'm not going to win a turkey calling contest. It's just not going to happen. But when I run this call, I get the sounds that gobbler's, are looking for. I have a great turkey hunting track record. If you go listen to real turkeys out in the woods, they're not going to win calling contests, right? That's who I listen to. I can make those sounds on my cut. I also hunt with Phelps's cut, and I hunt with Clay's cut because they're all three great cuts. Check out Prime Cuts at Phelpsgamecalls.com. I think you'll be glad you did, and you'll find out that the Steve Rinella cut is an easy-to-use cut for being.

beginning callers who just want to start making good turkey noises and getting action. A fellow law enforcement officer sending in our final story of the day, and he requested I keep him and everyone else anonymous, and I intend on following his wishes. We're just going to jump in like it's break time, and we're all having a cup of Joe and a donut, and it's his turn to talk. So in my voice and his words,

here goes Mama's story. It starts out in the late 1970s in a dirty little city in the great state of Kansas. It was a warm Saturday afternoon and midsummer, and my mama's friend asked if she would run to the store and pick him up a few things. She hesitated for a moment when he said, you can take my car if you want. That was all the inspiration she needed. Her friend owned a 1968 Dodge Charger with light blue paint,

black racing stripes, four on the floor, and the legendary 426 hemie engine. According to Mom had had glass packs, dual exhaust, Crager SS wheels with them big fat tires on the back. In the way she described it to me, the car shook the earth when it rolled down the street at an island. As soon as she had the keys in her hands, she was off. Mama said she was just 16 at the time and loved that car

but was a little scared of the power it had at the same time. The drive that day was beautiful, the weather was beautiful, and everything seemed as good as it could be for a young lady in a cool car until she stopped at a stop sign in front of an apartment building. An injured lady ran from the building and leaped into the wide open passenger window as she was bleeding, and the woman grabbed my mama on the leg and dug in her fingernails and yelled, He's going to kill me, drive.

Now as if the shock of a bleeding woman gripping your leg isn't enough, a large man ran from the building screaming, Get back here to the injured lady. The man was as big as Hulk Hogan and twice as mean, according to her. She said she recognized the man as the local tough guy who participated in all kinds of nefarious activities. She didn't know the man's real name, but would never forget his nickname. And his nickname being so unnamed,

unique from the people in that area would likely know it now, even 50 years later, so I'm going to call him Leroy Brown. Mama said he grabbed a woman's foot that was still hanging out of the window with one hand and beat on the car room with his fist and yelled, and I'm going to kill you. Mama knew it was time to go, and a souped-up Dodge Charger was the perfect vehicle to make that happen quick, fast, and in a hurry. With one swift movement, she panicked. She massed, tell her in the floor as well as the clutch, and they hit me scream to an RPM range rarely seen.

The car didn't move an inch. At the exact moment she identified the problem, she identified the solution. Her left foot slid off the clutch delivering every single horse power to those big fat tires on the back of that legendary Detroit muscle car. Gravity, rotational force, and soft rubber compounds were no match for torque applied in that instant, and the tires began to spin. As the tires spun, the smoke rolled out from under that car, and the back end of the car kicked to the right

just before catching traction and spinning over the feet of Big Bad Leroy Brown. Mama drove that lady straight to the police station. Now, Mama would tell me that story often while growing up. She would point out all sorts of teaching points and morals from within it. The main one was to be kind of. to others and not panic. I now tell that story often to my kids in order to talk about perspective as well as honor and remembered my mama since she passed away in 2019.

Hearing this story countless times during my youth, I had no idea that I'd become part of it. As Paul Harvey would say, now for the rest of the story. It was a cold gray early March Sunday morning that I remembered. member well. I was a young police officer, fresh out of the academy, filled with big dreams of catching criminals and making the world a better place. While on patrol, I received a call over the radio requesting that I go to a domestic battery. This was not the crime I expected to be called to on a Sunday morning. My mind raced as I hurried to the address. Who gets in a fight with her spouse on the Lord's Day? That's my brain wondering.

I arrived in short order and quickly discovered all. all the answers to all the questions, and then so. After interviewing all the folks involved in collecting statements from witnesses and a partial confession, it was determined to place the man under arrest and take him to jail where his fate would be adjudicated by the judge on Monday. I arrested him without incident, took him to jail, and began filling out the book and paperwork. When I asked question 34B of the report, do you have any injuries? The man answered no. But I remembered noticing the limp as I walked him up the ramp into the jail.

So I inquired about it. He replied he was run over by a lady way back in the 70s. It couldn't be, could it? This guy was like 5'8 and weighed under 200 pounds. Hardly huck Hogan size. The last question made my blood run cold. Do you have any aliases? They call me Leroy Brown.

Sitting there before me was an average man that was once described to me as a larger-than-life muscle-bound giant that threatened my mother so many years ago. I calmly finished up the paperwork and never let him know that I had heard all about him or that I knew very well the lady that gave him that limp.

When I finished booking him in, I sprinted back to my car and called my mom. We had a good laugh about how karma had affected Leroy Brown's life, and it was at that point that I really learned about perspective. Two people looked at the same man 30 years apart. One saw a giant. One saw something way less. The same man, but in vastly different situations that can change persons' perspective. And according to a law enforcement officer that wishes to keep his identity between me and him,

that's just how that happened. You know, I have said forever in my career as a police officer that if you want two different stories, talk to two eyewitnesses in the same event. Perspective is big, and in today's climate, it might be a little friendlier place if we pause a few moments and try to see the giant on both sides. of the carwin. I hope y'all enjoy the listener stories. It's such a joy to be able to get to know you folks a little better. And I appreciate so much the time y'all allow me in your lives each week. I know Clay and Lake feel the same. And by now, I'm sure you've all heard about the meat eater

Christmas tour. Tickets are on sale, but going fast. So if you're wanting to come out and see us, you might want to check on them pretty quick. That's at themeetor.com forward slash tour and get all the info. Me and Max Bartah have a First Light film running over on First Light's YouTube channel. It's called Good Old Days and it's about duck hunting and it was a lot of fun to do. Y'allel Week is September the 29th through October the 5th. If you're in the need or you want some new stuff, some new clothes and gear, check out the website. Themeadeter.com and they'll have all the info on there. So until next week, this is Brent Greaves. Signing off. I'll be careful.

First Lights fieldwear collection is made for the work that happens long before opening day and continues when the season ends. Products built for early mornings, full days in real use. Hard wearing where they need to be versatile where it matters. No shortcuts. Just gear designed for the work that earns the season. Built to perform, built to last. Check out. First Light's new fieldwear gear at First Light.

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