Hank Griffin Podcast

This episode originally aired in May of 2023. It is the story of how I met one of the very best friends I ever had: Prissy the wonder dog. I hope you enjoy it. Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked!The Hank Griffin Podcast This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

So, You or Someone You Love, Just Got a Parkinson’s DiagnosisFirst of all, I am sorry. Parkinson’s sucks. I wish this weren’t happening to you.Secondly, while I am sorry and Parkinson’s absolutely does suck, you’ve been diagnosed, and most likely this is real and is really happening.So, now what?Well, life goes on. It is different. No doubt you feel like someone who just got ran over by a large truck. At least that is how I felt when I was diagnosed. The shock was, it was tough and stayed with me for many weeks.I’d been living with it for years by then. I’d had tremors that began in my hands when I was seven. Over the years, it moved to my whole body. Minor at first. Pretty bad eventually.If you or a loved one is experiencing it, you know just exactly what I mean.In my case, as I said, the shock lasted a long time. That may have been in part, because I chose not to talk about it. Not to anyone except my Bride. It is not an exaggeration to say that, for the first few years, I could not even bring myself to utter the word, “Parkinson’s” aloud in the presence of others.I was embarrassed; ashamed. Looking back, that was really dumb. I’d had an essential tremor since I was a kid. My hands always shook. People would ask, “Why are you hands shaking?” Thoughtless adults who should have known better asked questions like, “Why are you so nervous, you up to something?”That last one really irritated me because I was a good kid who was struggling but was being treated like a kid whose behavior was suspect and shown no compassion by people who could and should have demonstrated some degree of care knowing it would have cost them nothing.I may have felt embarrassment knowing I would be asked for additional explanations. I was really concerned about my employer finding out. Plus, Parkinson’s, as I understood it, is an older person’s disease. I’d been dealing with it since my early thirties. I didn’t know anyone else, personally, who was similarly afflicted. I mean anyone else in my age bracket.Obviously, the first name that leaps to the mind of most people is, Michael J. Fox. As it happens, he and I were both stricken with Parkinson’s at similar ages but ten years apart which is also the difference in our ages. I admire the work he has done, the example that he sets.Like the majority of those reading this, I am neither wealthy nor famous. I am unlikely, for example, ever to be asked to testify before congress about Parkinson’s and what living with it is like.If I were to be asked, I would gladly tell them that it sucks. Parkinson’s sucks.I wish I had not lived with that shame and embarrassment for so long. If I could do it over, I would have started talking about it right away. I would have sought out the advice, counsel, and support of those who’d already walked this path a while. But, I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was just too ashamed.I was a fool!Listen to the full episode by clicking on the player at the top of this email!Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked!The Hank Griffin Podcast This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Weary Woodcutter’s Winter LamentMomma and Dub worked hard to provide for our family. They were good people, young, in love, and they loved us kids. They were, neither of them, perfect. Like me, they were not even close. Curiously, to my mind these several decades later, though it is fair to say that neither of them were perfect, it is also entirely correct to say that they were more perfect, together than either of them were, individually.I think back to the words of the prophet, Nephi who, in introducing himself in the Book of Mormon, wrote, “I Nephi, having been born of goodly parents…” Be patient with me, we aren’t about to have church today. He wished immediately to convey a sense of who he was to the reader. Who we are, particularly, in our youth, really does begin with where we are from, who our folks are.Nephi was a Jew fleeing to a Land of Promise prior to the destruction of, Israel. He would go on to become a great leader of his future people. He would see and do extraordinary things. But, there, in that moment, he wasn’t yet the prophet, Nephi. He was still just, Nephi, a son of Lehi and Sariah.In Sunday School we are often encouraged to “liken ourselves to the scriptures.” That is a fancy way of saying, put yourself in the place of those about whom you are reading.They like to talk real fancy at church. Do that do at your church? Whew boy, they sure do it at mine. You should come sometime and listen to them. So dang fancy!Its good stuff, to be sure, if occasionally laid on a little thick… and fancy.I’ve done it of course, likened myself unto the scriptures, I mean. Sometimes it is wonderfully useful. Other times, it just serves to demonstrate to me how very, very far from the scriptural ideal my life is, was, and most likely, will ever be. But then, perhaps that is the point. Maybe when we do this we are meant to gain personal insight into our mortal state as compared to some ideal that we can then aspire to.Let me try it here: “I, Hank, having been born of goodly parents, therefore I was taught somewhat in all the learning of my father, and having seen many afflictions in the course of my days, nevertheless, having been highly favored of the Lord in all my days; yea, having had a great knowledge of the goodness and the mysteries of God, therefore I make a record of my proceedings in my days.”Huh, I’ll be. I was prepared to write as to how that felt silly. In fact though, it sorta felt right. I won’t dwell further on it. Rather, I will carry on with the record of my proceedings in my days.Still, pretty fancy, huh...Momma and Dub worked hard to feed, clothe, and shelter us. Dub was a coal miner. Momma was usually a work-in-the-home mother. With four children to tend to, corral, and provide for, both of them worked hard.I often felt that Dub was addicted to hard work. He spent twelve hours each workday in the mine. He worked four on and three off then three on and four off. When he wasn’t working mining coal, he was working during what were, ostensibly, his off hours in other ways that usually involved working our farm. We raised watermelons commercially, a huge garden that fed our family and other families too, and we kept beef cattle.Aside from the mine and our farm, Dub cut wood to heat our home and to sell to members of our community. He hired himself out to build barbed wire fence. He had a lot of irons in the fire.By the time I was just about eight years old, maybe just a little earlier than that, Dub started taking me with him. Where ever he was going, whatever work he was doing, I was right there with him.I hated it.To hear this podcast in full, please click on the link up top. I hope you enjoy part 1 of this two part episode of the Hank Griffin Podcast. Much Love,Hank This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

This Classic Hank episode of the, Hank Griffin Podcast is intended as a companion piece to this week’s episode, “Crack In The Mountain.” It originally aired on Father’s Day, 2023.I hope that you enjoy it here. Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked!The Hank Griffin Podcast Ps. The Hank Griffin Podcast needs your help. Help me grow this podcast by sharing it with those you enjoy storytelling. Thanks in advance! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Father and Son Camping TripRecently, my son and I drove into the mountains to enjoy a father and son camping trip. It was not one sponsored by a third party. He is active in his Deacons Quorum at church. He is also active in the Masonic, appendant group, DeMolay, for boys. Both of those worthy organizations are known to host such trips but this time was set aside for just he and I.We drove some hours north and west. As we did so the topography over which we traveled changed. We do not lived on the flat earth I knew and loved in, Beautiful, East Texas. Here there are hills. As we traveled those hills began to increase in size and scale and were joined by beautiful valleys. Eventually, those hills and valleys were left behind as we progressed and in their stead were mountains.“Dad?”“Yes, son?”“Isn’t this beautiful?” I heard the inspired awe in my young son’s voice and could not help but be moved.“It really is, son. So beautiful.”“We drove this way when we went on our young men’s camp out at church a few weeks ago.”“Did you?” I knew perfectly well that they’d gone this way but wanted to hear him tell his tale.“Yes sir, we did. There is a crack in the mountain that we drove through. Are we going to drive through the crack in the mountain today?”At this, I was stumped. I’d drive the region numerous times but had never driven through a crack in the mountain and could not say with any certainty that we would.“Son, I don’t recall having seen such a thing but, I sure hope we do. I’d love to drive through a crack in the mountain.”“Me too, Dad. Its really neat. Its one of my favorite things to see. I hope you get to see it too.”… To listen to the full story, click on the link above. Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked!The Hank Griffin Podcast This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Please enjoy this Classic Hank episode of the Hank Griffin Podcast.I like to garden. Always have. Inherited the trait and learned the basics from, Momma.Momma has always been a forward thinking, able, and diligent gardener. For all I know, she had to be, after all, old gun fighters sometimes need a place to bury the fools who occasionally show up to challenge the legend.Just kidding, Momma – on the off chance you are listening, just a little jokey-joke.For the rest of y’all, its not really a joke. When you see Momma at the Piggly Wiggly, you really should treat her courteously.When my father died, we had a good supply a preserved meat that he and I hunted, our family, fished, a hog done in a sugar cure, and jars and jars and jars of Momma’s good home canned garden produce that she’d labored to put away in case of hard times.Hard times… ugh.Little do we know, especially in our youth just how sudden and painful hard times really are.Death is no respecter of persons. If it were, the world might be far more orderly, predictable, and make sense. Perhaps babies would come into the world, live their lives contributing to society, the happiness of their families and other loved ones, then, at a ripe old age, pass from this world to the next.It is a sweet thought, but naive.There are lots of folks who live good, or awful, long lives. Some do great good in the world. Others do little else but wickedness. Most of us are likely somewhere in between. Then, when age settles as winter upon them, they go. For some, its sudden. For others, death lingers about them for decades before it finally provides relief for their suffering.For too many, it comes as a thief in the night, sudden, terrible. No thought given to preparation. In its wake, wailing, pain, misery, hunger, cold, fear, abuse, maybe years of it, or a lifetime.There is a subset of the population that we refer to as, “preppers.” They are viewed with suspicion, concern, derision, condescension, and little of anything like respect. This despite the fact that many of them are actively engaged in activities that help ensure their family’s resiliency in the face of sudden difficulty.I think part of this is probably because of the buffoonery we see on YouTube and other digital platforms. Some of these people talk a lot about zombies, the end of the world, and other catastrophes that are devastating to a degree that can only be societially fatal if not world ending. Some appear to seek attention that is self affirming or are trying to see items that will make sure that, “you too will find yourself safe, sound, and at the top of the food chain when all the, ‘sheep’ are nothing more than food for the wolves.”How silly.Meanwhile, there are also thoughtful men and women in the world who save a little money, set aside something extra in their pantry, and try to ensure that they have a few paper books to refer to in case something unexpected happens.My grandparents were like that. Uncle Carl was too in his way. They were the children of the Great Depression. They were the soliders and wives of the Second World War. They knew, from first hand experience the hell of want, real hunger, and war. None of them wished to experience those things a second time. Those old men and women worked hard – not to merely buy toys but to ensure that they had a bulwork, a hedge against any storm be it sudden or well forecast. They did not want to go hungry again. They had no desire to fight the Nazis and the Japanese again.Those good men and women did not want to see their children or grandchildren suffer for lack of forethought, care, and planning. They did what they could to inculcate in their posterity all that was needed to thrive in times of plenty and persevere in the face of hardship.Now, they are gone and there are none left who share a collective memory of terrible hardship, world war, and starvation.Momma and Dub listened to their old folks. They worked hard to ensure that we had a secure home, something set aside to eat if things went south of a sudden, and thank God they did. When my father died, there was little else but hard times.There was no credit life insurance on our farm. We lost it and moved into town.Momma, a stay at home wife and mother, with an eighth grade educaton, had no marketable skills. She took job waiting tables at Chris’s Cafe during the day. At night, she attended school to become and emergency medical technician or EMT. When she graduated from EMT school she took a job, out of town, as an EMT during the day and continued to attend school at night to become a Paramedic.Eventually, she graduated, went to work in our little Beautiful as a Paramedic and was even made Shift Sergeant. For all her hard work, she was paid 18,000 dollars a year. That is how she fed us.I have always been incredibly proud of her for that.Eventually, we ate through the venison, pork, fish, peas, corn, tomatoes, and Momma’s good jelly of wild blackberry and wild plums.Thankfully, through all of it, she continued to garden and can what we couldn’t eat.In those days there was no talk of zombies or other silliness. Rather, we were living through the loss of father, provider, and protector, and Momma simply did what she and Dub did before – made sure that our family worked to set aside a surplus that would continue to see us through whatever might come.Were my parents, “preppers?”Heavens no!They were practical people who paid attention to the world around them and never wanted to either go hungry or see their children starve.Dub was a coal miner. From time to time there was talk of strikes. I remember a particular time when the talk was serious. Dub was worried enough that he sat me down to discuss it, man to man.You've Been Hanked is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.It was clear that my father wanted to work. “Can’t you just vote no and keep working?” I asked.Dub, not wishing to make me afraid but also desiring to convey the honesty that should be respected between a father and son said, “No son. If the union votes to strike, I will strike. If I did anything else, our family would be made to suffer. Let’s pray the mine remains open and union doesn’t strike.”My folks weren’t concerned with foolishness. No. They, like their old people before them, were worried about things that were real. We never worried about, zombies. We were afraid my father might lose his livelihood.When I was five, Momma and I presented Uncle Carl with a young pear tree. Before long a second pear tree was planted alongside it. Over the next twenty years, I benefited by watching that pear tree grow and seeing it produce a rich abundance of delicious buttery pears year after year. It didn’t happen all at once of course. It took three or four years for the tree to mature to a point that it could produce any fruit. Eventually though, the pears came and in such wonderful abundance!Uncle Carl and us boys ate all the pears we could stand and every old woman that Uncle knew came to pick pears from which they made preserves. The smart ones shared a few jars with Uncle Carl and continued to benefit by being able to come pick. Those who did not… well, they usually faded from the story pretty quick.In addition to two large pear trees, Uncle Carl had a good producing fig, a gigantic series of wild black berry bushes, an ancient mulberry tree, dewberries, hack berries, and passion fruit that grew wild in the corral. He also tended a modest garden until he just couldn’t anymore.In that wonderful old gentleman’s yard were two huge native pecan trees. They provided shade for the house, shade for sitting, a home for squirrels, and a rich harvest of pecans year after year.After my father died, things were difficult between my mother and I. This trauma affected each of us deeply.I was not an easy child to raise. She was not an easy woman to be raised by. There were only seventeen years separating us. There is no fault finding here. I was a child being raised by a child – one who’d just lost the only man who really and truly ever loved her - as a man ought to love a woman.Those were desperately hard times.Despite this, we were blessed for Momma loved to garden. Our home there in Beautiful sat on good sandy soil. It was the kind of earth that would grow anything worth growing! On the south side of the house we had a large garden plot and just as was true with Momma, it called to me.I loved to work my hands in that good earth.It was not only “good” earth, it was something akin to “sacred” earth. When Momma and I stood on that garden plot, within the confines of the barbed wire fence that surrounded it on every side, and worked there together, there were no unkind words. There were no ugly looks.Momma taught. She was patient.I listened, worked, and learned.That garden plot was blessed ground; a place of miracles.With hard work, prayers for rain, more hard work, patience, and the blessings of Heaven, our garden grew. We planted seeds, hoed weeds, killed pests, worried over the infreqency of rain, hoped, and prayed. Seeds sprounted. Sprouts became plants. Plants grew, flowered, fruited, and went to seed.Our family’s garden was not some exercise in meditation. We were not trying to connect with the earth. This was not some hippy experience for us.We were poor. My father was dead. Momma worked very hard but there were many mouths to feed.The success or failure of our garden mattered. It determined much of the quaility of our diet for most of the next year.On a particular evening, I sat on the floor in the front room as I often did working on my school work. Momma sat up on the couch. As I remember it, we were alone. Movement on the periphery of my vision drew my attention. Turning to look I was surprised to see someone in our garden apparantly helping herself to our vegetables.My much younger self lept from the floor, yelped the alarm, turned to lead the charge outside, only to be stopped by Momma.“What in the world is wrong with you boy?”“There is a woman in the garden stealing our vegetables!”“What?!?”Momma turned to look out the window. I saw her eyes narrow. Knowing my mother’s temper, a sense of glee made itself known to me as I considered the fate of the thief in the garden.“Let’s go get her,” I said.Momma turned to face me. Her already narrow eyes took me in and narrowed further.“What do you mean, ‘Let’s go get her?’”“She is stealing from us!”Again Momma turned apparantly considering then turned back to face me.“Stay here.”Momma walked to the dining room, found her stash of paper grocery bags that she liked to keep from our shopping trips to the Piggly Wiggly, brought four large ones back with her and pressed them into my arms.“Take these out to the garden, fill them up with the prettiest vegetables you can find out there. Fill up every single bag – to the top. Load them into the back of that woman’s car then come back inside.“Momma, she is robbing us!”“Shut your mouth and do what I said.”My heart raced. Blood and rage rushed to my face. My pulse pounded. Tears of acute frustration threatened to spill from my eyes.I thought to say more but looked into the eyes of my mother who, though she only stood 5’2” and weighed no nore than 110 lbs, was known to shoot first and ask questions later – literally. She was the kind of woman who might burn your house down while you slept inside. Had made clear to more than one of our school teachers who called her to announce that one of us was about to receive a paddling that, “certainly you can whip him if you think thats best, but I know where you live and if you do whip him, when you get home, I’ll be there waiting and am going to whip you.”She was not much physically but Momma was very like a storm in her way. Sometimes she brought rain. Other times thunder. From time to time a terrible East Wind - biblical.Looking in her eyes, it was that terrible East Wind I saw looking back at me and I had no intention of reaping it.I turned with the brown paper bags, stepping towards the front door.“Son,” my mother said. I turned to hear what she had to say. Her features had not softened, if anything that awful wind seemed to gather about her as she said, “If you say a single ugly word to that woman, if you so much as look sideways at her, you will regret it.”In the part of the world where I live now, good manners are less important that they were when I was a boy. Many seem to look on them as, ‘qauint.’ In my childhood and in that of many of my contemporaries, good manners were a matter of childhood survival.“Yes ma’am,” I said then stepped outside.The woman, a dark skinned black woman who appeared to be in her mid-forties did not see me at first. She was bent over an okra plant cutting ripe okra. Her car was parked on the side of the road on the other end of the garden. When she did see me, I was already in the garden. I thought she would run, she seemed about to bolt, then saw the paper bags I carried.Cold rage coursed through me. I said nothing, I could not trust myself to do so without precipitating the fury of the storm that waited in the house. I did not so much as look at the woman who wantonly robbed our family’s only means of feeding ourselves.Green cucumbers, yellow crook neck squash, okra, purple hull peas, corn, tomatoes, onions, zucchini, cantaloupe, cream peas, jalapeno and cayenne peppers, and much more went into the bags until they were filled – to the very top.For a while the woman just watched me. As I worked and said nothing to her, she returned to her labor of helping herself to our garden. She wore a large apron that she held open in front of her like a sack, filling it with vegetables.When my work was done I turned to her working hard to control my facial expression, preparing to speak, hoping I could do so in a way that not doom me to the Terrible East Wind.“Ma’am, if you will open your car I will put these bags in your back seat or trunk.”There was fear in her eyes though at my words the fear softened. She lead me to a well worn, old blue hatchback. Something like a chevette or B210. Paint faded and worn. In any other state it would have been ravaged with rust but not in, Texas.She opened the hatch and I sat the paper bags full of our family’s hard work and future meals into her car then turned and started toward the house. As I began to step away the woman, who had not yet spoken a word, laid a gentle, tentative hand on my forearm then quickly pulled it away. I turned back to her working hard to control the anger that fought to consume me.“I have not eaten in two days. My children have not eaten anything today. Tonight, we will eat these vegetables. May God bless you.”With this the woman gave me a tearfilled smile, closed the hatch, sat in her worn out old car, worked to get it started – the car did not want to start. Gave up a moment, assumed an attitude of prayer, tried again and, after a loud backfire, and an excess of awful smoke, was able to drive away.I watched, there on the side of the road next to our garden as she did so. The anger that threatned to overtake me faded. In its place I felt shame. The color of rage melted from my face only to be replaced by shades of humilation.Returning to the house I walked up the concrete steps, entered the door, and saw that there too the East Wind had subsided. In its place was a much gentler Momma. She hugged me and said, “Son, charity is the perfect love of Christ.”It is a lesson that I have never forgotten.Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked.Thank you for listening to, You’ve Been Hanked. Are you a subscriber? If you are, thanks so much! I hope you enjoy receiving these episodes in your inbox when they are published. If not, what are you waiting for, hit the subscribe button.Also, do me a solid and share this episode with someone who might enjoy it. With each episode You’ve Been Hanked seems to grow by 1 to a half dozen subscribers. With your help, I think we can do better.Finally, if you find my work worthy of your financial support, thank you for that, please consider a paid subscription. Your material support makes it possible for me to continue this happy work. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Present DayLast evening, Dearest Love and I were lying in bed ready to turn out the lights to go to sleep when we heard the alarming sounds of tires screeching on pavement, a scream, the sound of several crashes, a moment of comparative silence, and then a den of mayhem outside our home. I jumped from the bed, threw on something to cover my modesty, ran from the bed room to the parlor where I was surprised to see My Bride already there. “Baby, you need to put something on to cover yourself.”“I just want to see what happened.”Upon opening the door we saw a startling sight. One so startling that it might have been the set of a disaster movie. Heart’s Desire quickly went to put something more on. As she did so, my son appeared.“Dad, what happened?”“I don’t know son. Let’s see what is going on. Stay close to me.”Before me where no fewer than three savagely damaged cars, two of which were on my front lawn. One of them, a small white sedan, just feet from having crashed into our home. It was a frightening scene made all the more so because of the smoke rising from beneath the hood of the car that was so near to my home. More frightening still was, the greatly increasing rate at which that smoke steadily increased.I called 911. Tried to remain calm and un-frustrated in the face of numerous questions that, I know very well are important, but were much less important to me than was the reassurance that help was on its way.The driver was being questioned by a pedestrian, who’d witnessed the crash.“Sir, are you okay? Are you okay, sir?”He was dazed but soon emerged from the car.My neighbors, good people that I esteem greatly, joined us on my lawn, on the sidewalk, on the county easement. In time there was a real crowd. Across the street, more people gathered to observe, talk, and try to understand.I talked to one of the witnesses and learned that the driver, when he came into view around the curve in the road was driving much too fast, and already losing control of his sedan. He struck the curb two houses down. Sure enough, when I walked down to take a look there were metal, not plastic, but metal car parts that were lying there on the ground.He then, completely lost control of the sedan, came up off the road, struck an ancient maple tree in the yard of my nearest neighbor, crashed into a medium size four door sedan, which was absolutely demolished, crashed into a large four door sport utility vehicle which was rotated a full forty-five degrees and pushed over two car lengths into my family’s yard, the driver of the white sedan, whose car had done all this, was propelled forward past all the wreckage that lay in his wake, and finally – finally, stopped… just feet from the exterior wall of my home.I paused at this to offer a silent but heartfelt prayer of thanksgiving that my home and family were spared and to also seek blessings on my neighbors, our community, and the driver of the white sedan.Consider a moment if you will, the speed that must have been in play and the enormous expenditure of kinetic energy that had to occur, in order to crash over a concrete curb, clip a huge hardwood tree, demolish not one but two large vehicles, and still keep moving!The driver was fine. He got out of the car, was speaking animatedly, and announced his intention to leave the scene which notion he was quickly disabused of by relevant parties.After a few more minutes wait, Emergency Services arrived: Police, Fire, EMS. Having evaluated the scene and the driver the police made an arrest. One of the officers left. The others remained to assist with traffic and in other ways. Once EMS knew they were no longer needed, the ambulance left.It took more than two hours for the scene to be cleared. For three tow trucks to come and take the ruined vehicles from my yard and my good neighbor’s driveway.I watched the ongoing confusion and found myself taken back in memory and time to other crashes. Crashes that happened in Beautiful, East Texas.Beautiful, East Texas, Circa the Early 1970sTo listen to the rest of this episode, click the link above. Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked!The Hank Griffin Podcast This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Recently, while driving together, My friend, Buddy, who’d been occupied with his phone for a while, looked up from it and said, “So, you are a Mason.”“I am.”“What is it, exactly, that Masons do?”“What do you mean?”“I mean, what do y’all do, really? There are some crazy things out there, you know? I want to understand what Masonry really is.”“Crazy things?”“You know what I mean. In the shallow end of the pool, its movies and television shows about treasure if its American media or evil plots if its out of the UK. In the deep end, on the internet, there are some really weird ideas out there.”I laughed. “Yeah, I’ve seen some of that.” Then asked, “Have you ever read anything by Kipling?”“The guy that wrote the, ‘Jungle Book?’”“The same. He wrote a lot more than that. You should read some of it.”We were in heavy traffic. Another driver signaled her desire to get in line ahead of me. I slowed, let her in, looked for a wave, which was not forthcoming, and sighed.“C’mon, not so much as a wave?”“The only wave you are going to get around here is a one finger salute,” Buddy laughed and he was right.“Back in, Beautiful, East Texas, if you didn’t wave, someone was calling your mom, granddad, or talking trash about you at the cafe, the bank, and in church too,” I said.“Whatever Toto, you ain’t in, Beautiful, anymore.”“You’ve got that right,” I said.“You also aren’t answering my question. Should I have avoided asking it?”“Not at all and, I am answering your question, or beginning to.”“How is a reference to Kipling the beginning of an answer?”“Like me, Rudyard Kipling was a Mason.”“That isn’t an answer, or the beginning of one, that I can see.”“Be patient. I promise this is going somewhere. Kipling was a Mason. He was a lot of things. There are people who think well of him. There are other people who think poorly of him.”“Okay, that is true for everyone.”“It is,” I agreed.My friend asked, “Isn’t pretty much every President of the United States a Mason?”I laughed, “I wish they all were. We’d live in a better world but, no. We are able to claim a few though and particularly good ones too. George Washington to start with. I think Gerald Ford was the most recent.”“How long have you been a Mason?” my friend asked.“A quarter century.”“Did you know any Masons before you joined?”“I did. Good men. Our local retired pharmacist, the county attorney, a judge, a farmer, at least two of my great grandfathers, several others.”“What about your dad or grandfathers?”“Nope.”“So it skips a generation or two sometimes?”… To enjoy the rest of this episode, click on the link above to play it in its entirety.Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Granddad struggled with retirement. For twenty-two and a half years he’d owned and operated the only service station with a mechanic on duty, twenty-four hours a day on the two hundred mile stretch of interstate between Texarkana and Dallas. He’d done is bit and finally sold out. I think he was glad to be free of the hard work of being a service station owner. However, he wasn’t fine with the lack of social stimulation. Granddad was, perhaps more than any of the men and women of his generation in my family, gregarious. He missed conversation. He missed people.Grandma, an introvert who was happy to remain in her bedroom reading trashy novels, eating cherry flavored cough drops, and smoking Pall Mall cigarettes, was a wonderful grandma who I loved, but offered nothing like the conversation and social outlet that Granddad longed for.As such, everyday, without fail, Granddad loaded up in his beautiful 1977 model, Chrysler Cordoba. It was white with gold velour seats, alas, there was no Corinthian leather. It was, nevertheless, a pleasure to ride in and was an automobile that Granddad loved.I enjoyed taking turns with my brothers spending nights with Granddad and Grandma. They were so kind to us but, unlike Uncle Carl, who was glad to see all of us each and every weekend, Granddad and Grandma could only take us on one at a time.“Put your shoes and socks on, son.” Granddad always called me, “son.” We need to run into town.” As he did so, he extinguished the last remaining nub of an unfiltered Camel cigarette that he’d just used to light a fresh one. Granddad was a chain smoker.It was not until I was 25 years old that I lived in a house with proper air conditioning. One of the real treats of spending time with Granddad and Grandma was one that many of us, me included, now take entirely for granted, air conditioning. They lived in red brick, ranch style home and liked it to be very cool in the hot East Texas summers. Stepping outside, from the refrigerated inside of my grandparent’s well insulated and air conditioned home, into the stark reality of summer in, Beautiful was always an experience. It was the experience of being restored to reality as one stepped from the carefully controlled environment inside to the wildly hot and humid truth that lay without.The air, even in the shade offered by the porch was hot. Stepping off the porch and out of the shade was hotter still. Walking across the lawn meant stepping upon much too dry Bermuda grass that crunched along the way. Crunch, crunch, crunch, with each step. Granddad, long tired of mowing or of even bothering to hire anyone to cut his grass, had taken to keeping three sheep. A friendly, if tiny, flock of ewes that kept his grass well mowed but who were less inclined to also eat the weeds. For that Granddad would either need goats or need to manage the weeds himself. Not being a man who wished to keep goats and being neither inclined to manage the weeds, Granddad did what many of us do. He settled. It was enough for him to know the grass was managed and to accept that in his yard, just as in life, there were simply going to be a few weeds.Surrounding Granddad’s and Grandma’s yard was a four foot tall chain-link fence. It kept the dog and the sheep in and helped the dog dissuade the coyotes from troubling the ewes. At the chain-link gate the too dry Bermuda grass transitioned to the white rock that composed the driveway.Grabbing hold of the metal door latch on Granddad’s splendid Chrysler Cordoba, burned the skin. Thankfully, when he bought the car he upgraded to the gold velour seats that were far superior in terms of comfort to the black vinyl of his old Plymouth Fury III. One could at least sit in the car without being burned by the very seats upon which one sat. Despite that happy blessing, the car was still as hot as an oven. Had we bothered to put on seat belts, the metal housing of both the male and female ends of the latches would have been painful to the touch in that heat but that was before what my old folks would later refer to as the, “tyranny of seat belt laws.”To hear the rest of this episode, click on the link above!Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

A Beautiful, LieI remembering transitioning from elementary school to what we then referred to as Junior High School. My children and the children of my friends tell me nowadays it is more commonly known as, “Middle School.” No matter what is called today or may be called tomorrow, in those days, in that part of the world, and particularly in the Beautiful Independent School District (BISD) it was, Junior High School.Junior High was a different experience from that to which I’d been accustomed. It was a big change. Every class was held in a different room. There was no, one teacher, we would spend a majority of the day with. So many new faces and we now found ourselves competing for space in the restrooms, band hall, gym, the hallway, and every where else, with kids that were much older than we were.Just as is true in any community, some of the folks with whom we worked, students, teachers, and staff alike, were just wonderful, some of them were just awful, and most where somewhere on the scale between those two poles. One of the great things about Junior High School was the liberating truth that if a teacher truly was awful, and some really were, one only had, for the most part, a single class that had to be endured each day rather than being interred for the full school day with a single rotten teacher.On the first day of the new school year when I entered the sixth grade, my first year in Junior High School, an assembly of the students was called. We were instructed on how the school system in Texas was funded and that it was important that we attend school every single day so the school would receive the monies it needed from the state.As an incentive, our principal promised us that every single student who achieved perfect attendance that year would be awarded two silver dollars. I knew what silver dollars were. Both of my grandfathers, at different times, had expressed to me the value of silver and demonstrated to me the difference in silver coins versus those made of less valuable alloys. The promise of two silver dollars really motivated me to attend school every single day, no matter what!To hear the full story, please click the link to listen above.Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

A hum of conversation droned, punctuated by loud laughter, and was occasionally brought to near silence when for reasons unknown to me, the whole crowd, whether seated at tables, in booths, or at the counter, grew suddenly quiet. Eerily so. Chris and I were at the counter. She sat in her customary place, on the comfortable padded stool between the counter and the cash register. I stood, wrapping metal forks and butter knives in paper napkins and stacking them in their designated holder on a shelf against the wall opposite the cash register. Startled by the silence, I looked at Chris who looked back at me. She cocked one eyebrow high up on her forehead and inhaled deeply from the Winston cigarette that she held in her right hand. I narrowed my eyes wonderingly and paused my work. Even the noise from the kitchen where Betty worked to prepare supper had gone quiet. Then, just as suddenly, the hum resumed.“What is that all about?” I asked Chris.“Honey, there are three things here that are inevitable: Everyone has to stop to breath eventually. Most of our customers are smokers and just like breathing, have to pause to inhale from their cigarettes. And Sugar, it is a cafe, eventually someone is going to take a bite of food, chew, and swallow. Sometimes, all those things just seem to come together and happen all at the same time.”I marveled a moment then eyed my friend suspiciously. “Are you pulling my leg?”“Pulling your leg? Oh Honey, no. I’m imparting wisdom gathered over a lifetime!” Again Chris took a drag from her cigarette. Seeing the unconvinced furrow in my brow, she winked, exhaled, and we both laughed and resumed our work.It was Tuesday. The Lions Club always reserved the second largest of the cafe’s three dining rooms to hold their meeting and share a meal. Betty had to work extra hard on those evenings to prepare a meal especially for them as well as the usual supper special for our regular patrons. I would work extra hard cleaning up and washing dishes. The cafe would have a good night. The thought made me happy.To hear the rest of this Beautiful, East Texas tale, click on the link above and thanks for listening!Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

My good friend and fraternal Brother Michael Arce of, The Craftsman Online Podcast invited me back on his show after an initial collaboration that aired at the beginning of the year. Some of his listeners wanted to know more about the connection between The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and Freemasonry. Being both a Latter-day Saint and a Freemason, Brother Arce kindly thought of me as he searched for answers to the questions that were posed to him. Brother Arce’s podcast, a Masonic podcast, is one that I’ve come to genuinely enjoy and strongly recommend. If you aren’t already a listener, particularly if you are a Mason, you should be. This episode may have a broader appeal to both Masons, members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and those with an interest in faith and fraternity. I hope you enjoy listening to this episode as much as I enjoyed making it with me good friend and excellent Brother. Much Love,Hank GriffinYou’ve Been Hanked! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Like many of you, our family took time to view the recent solar eclipse together. I set up comfortable chairs in the front yard, brought out a few pairs of the eclipse glasses I like to keep stashed away to view signs and wonders in the heavens both the expected, and the unexpected. Dearest Love prepared tasty food for us to enjoy together while we watched the heavens in motion. Specifically, she made eclipse tostadas and sliced yummy Cara Cara oranges. For those of you who may be wondering what exactly makes a tostada an eclipse tostada, it is simply tostadas, prepared specifically to be eaten while also enjoying an eclipse!Did I mention the Cara Cara oranges? They are such a treat. I had no idea, that is until one of my BFF’s, traveling in Florida and thinking of us, sent a box of them or something very similar in the mail. Have you ever received a box of delicious fruit in the mail? It is a wonderfully delicious surprise! We ate it up right quick and started looking carefully for replacements anytime we are at Piggly Wiggly.We enjoyed a fine afternoon that, while not entirely clear, was clear enough to enable to see what we hoped to. We ate our food, drank cold drinks, shared stories, and generally enjoyed each other’s company. At one point, our neighbors pulled into their driveway after having been out and about. We waved them over, brought out another couple pair of eclipse glasses and were delighted when they joined us for totality…Well, eighty seven percent totality, which ain’t too shabby!When totality was past and the neighbors took their leave, my family and I continued to sit a while, until the eclipse really was finished. I couldn’t help but think back to a solar eclipse from my childhood and shared that story with them as we wound down our family’s 2024 solar eclipse event.The Eclipse Over BeautifulIt was always exciting to go visit Granddad Bob and Granny Alice at their dairy in Beautiful, East Texas. It wasn’t always fun, though it often was. It was, however, always exciting.The dairy was situated on a large piece of property that supported the dairy barn, a large hay barn where the calves were also housed, a large shop where Granddad welded and did other work, a very large pool of water that folks in Minnesota might well classify as a lake, a storm house, the Yankees listening might better recognize that as a tornado shelter, and my grandparent’s home. A creek ran along the eastern edge of the property and at least one homestead from days gone by was known to me to be hidden in the woods. It was a place where my siblings, cousins, and I could run and play at length. It was also a place where we learned important lessons about hard work, family dynamics for better or worse, and so much more.In the episode, Granny’s Butter and Jalapeno Sandwiches and Granddad’s Country Fiddle, I talked about the fact that while Granddad and Granny really did love each other, they didn’t necessarily like each other very much. Despite this, they figured out a way to make it work and God bless them both for it! One never knew when things might go south as a result of some abrupt or long simmering disagreement between them. On the other hand, you it was also hard to predict when a memory making fishing excursion make spontaneously occur.Granddad and Granny both loved horses and riding. They kept, rode, and showed, Missouri Fox-trotters. As I grew, I was included in this in a way that I’ll never forget and always appreciate… To listen to this episode in its entirety, click on the link at the top of the page. Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked!Photo, “Solar Eclipse 2024” by and used with permission from, Fallon Harris. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

On April, 6 of 2000 I was raised to the sublime degree of Master Mason. That happy occasion occurred inside of Beautiful, East Texas Lodge No. 1. I have been a Master Mason nearly but not quite, half my life, and for the great majority of my adulthood.Does it matter? To the greater world, not at all. To me, it matters a great deal.Some of you listening, having experienced it and then lived it understand. Others of you may find yourself wondering, “What’s the big deal, why Masonry?”If you will sit with me a while, I’d like to talk about that.Many times I’ve talked about the shabby little dilapidated Lodge building that sat right at the edge of the school grounds there in Beautiful when I was a kid. Its still there as it goes and has benefited from a greater degree of pride in ownership than it did in those days. When I was last in Beautiful, that once tiny sort of pitiful little building that had always had great patches of paint peeling off and flapping in the wind but that nevertheless remained standing and stalwart, was both expanded, perhaps entirely rebuilt, obviously cared for in a way that I’d never seen it cared for previously and was, finally not only a reminder of what once was in Beautiful but a beacon of what could be!Day after day, week in and week out, as months turned into years and childhood faded into adulthood, I saw the tiny little Lodge on the edge of the school grounds. The square and compass, while I had no idea what they represented or meant, daily in my sight began to be planted in my thoughts.For most of twelve years I saw them almost everyday at least twice a day. The thing is, when I saw them, the building was always empty. There were no cars. There was no activity. There were no banners, no flags, no indication of the good works that Masons across the nation regularly engage in. It was just a truly pitiful looking little, even tiny, building that was not well cared for – except for the square and compasses, which were, despite the building’s otherwise obvious neglect, keep sanded and freshly painted.Imagine the impression that might have been made on the minds of young boys if, instead of neglect and emptiness, there had been occasions where the building could be obviously seen receiving the love and care that it deserved and frankly, should have been getting all that while.Imagine the wonder that might have been inspired in a generation of young men if that little Masonic Lodge – the only building next to the only school in the county, an opportunity that should have been coveted and exploited but, was apparently, never properly understood or appreciated in those days (again to their credit, things are much different now – or were last time I was there and good for those good Brothers) imagine what might have been had they used proximity and visibility to greatest advantage.As a note to those with ears to hear: Every organization that is blessed with a building, should do its very best to make that building an important part of its public relations effort and calling card. This is particularly true for Masons who do not actively recruit. Your buildings could, if you care for them properly and use them in a way that brings them into the community’s spotlight, do a great deal to plant seeds in the minds of men and boys.That’s all well and good but back to the topic at hand, “Why Masonry?”Twenty four years ago, I joined the ranks of my Brother Master Masons. For years, more than a decade even, prior to doing so, Masonry was on my mind. I saw the little Lodge at the edge of the school ground each day coming to school and going home then later, after I graduated and took on adult responsibilities I saw it twice a day going to work and returning home. At some point, I am unsure when exactly, I began to notice that some men in our community wore rings, had pins on their suit coats, or even hat pins with the same square and compass that I saw on the front of that dilapidated little Lodge building.These men tended to be men that were well thought of in Beautiful. I knew some of them, though not well enough to ask personal questions, but well enough to know that I liked and respected them. Eventually, I don’t remember now how this came to be but, eventually I began to understand that these men were Freemasons and that the tiny little building at the edge of the school grounds was a Masonic Lodge.I recall an occasion, I was visiting my Great Uncle Carl. He was a man who was great, truly great in every sense of the word that I cared about. He wanted me to help him work on some things around the farm. We spent hours replacing fence posts, stretching barbed wire, patching up the smoke house, and making other repairs around his place.“I think I’m starting to get hungry,” the old man said. “How about you?”“Yes sir, I am a little hungry.” The fact is, I was quite a bit more than a ‘little hungry.’ I’d been looking at the horse apples on the bois d’arc trees for the last hour wondering just how poisonous they really were.“Okay then, lets get back up to the house, put the tools away, and fix something for our supper.”I wiped the running sweat from my eyes and face, felt the cool drip of it on the back of my neck, and wished it weren’t so terribly hot. My neck was burned as were my arms and face. I knew I’d peel terribly and hated the thought. There was a girl I had a crush on. My peeling arms, neck, and face were not the way I wanted her to see me.“Why the long sigh?”“What? Oh, uh, nothing, sorry.”“Uh huh. Well then, why don’t you put these tools and the roll of barbed wire up then come inside and wash your face and don’t worry, once all that red peels off, the girls will think you are handsome as ever.”As I did as I’d been instructed, I considered that if there were a benefit to being sunburned it was the my blush would be less obvious.In the house Uncle Carl was frying potatoes and onions along with two thin, breakfast style pork chops. Pork chops and fried potatoes was a regular feature at Casa de Tio Carl and one greatly appreciated by any whom he loved enough to prepare it for.While my Great Uncle cooked the man on the radio spoke from the analogue clock radio that rested on the shelf built years ago when I was just a little feller. Uncle Carl never changed the radio station from 1230 on the am dial. Thanks to its height from the floor neither I nor my brothers did either. Having grown, I would never consider such a thing as a matter of respect.The smell of frying pork chops, potatoes, and onions made waiting for supper difficult. I really was very hungry. The man on the radio continued talking. We listened to the weather report, local news, several advertisements, and then a series of announcements about goings on in the greater community… For the full episode listen by clicking on the link above! Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked! Photograph: Stained Glass in the Corinthian Room of The Grand Lodge of Ancient Free & Accepted Masons of Maryland, by Hank Griffin. Some Rights Reserved. Photo may be used with credit and a link to this podcast: hankgriffin.substack.com. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

While still just a little feller, though transitioning to young manhood, I was what we referred to in those days as a, “Blazer.” That is to say, an eleven year old boy who would soon see the end of his time as a part of the Primary. The Primary being the Sunday School program for children age two to eleven at church.I was a serious lad, thoughtful, and one who never enjoyed Primary. To say I was eager to move on is an understatement. I wasn’t, “too cool for school” like some eleven year old boys and girls can be. Rather, I never liked Primary, not ever. Oh, my individual classes were sometimes good. For example, I loved Sister South’s Primary class. That sweet woman loved us kids and it showed.I also loved Sister Juanita’s class. She was delightfully funny and a good friend to my mother. Sister Juanita was the wife of the Branch President who baptized me. She knew all the best and most interesting gossip and was glad to share it with you if you showed the least interest and sometimes, even if you didn’t!Our little church house, The Beautiful, East Texas Branch of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was a tiny building. Even for our extremely small congregation, it was just too small. When we bought the chapel from The Church of Christ after they’d outgrown it, the men and older boys worked hard to remodel it to make it as useful as possible.The chapel was made smaller than it originally was in order to wall off space for a Branch President’s office, a Priesthood room, and a Relief Society room. There were to unfinished rooms behind the stage and adjacent to the bathrooms. These were used by the Young Men on one side and the Young Women on the other. This arrangement left no dedicated space for the Primary or Nursery to meet. We all found a corner or space along a wall to try to have our classes. There was nothing like calm, quiet, or any ability to have a lesson that was free from interruption, nevertheless, that is how we did it.Well, that is except for Sister Juanita. She was having none of that. When we were blessed to have Sister Juanita for our teacher, and it really was a blessing, we loaded up in her Cadillac after our Sunday Service, drove to her nearby home, and there had our Primary lesson. Oh, you could never do it today but that was a freer time, a better time, a time when we were both able and continued to be permitted to govern ourselves.Frankly, I miss the days before everything was centrally controlled as it is today.In Masonry, for example, we continue with the worthwhile tradition of individual free will and thought as beautifully evidenced in the often used statement, “Take due notice thereof and govern yourselves accordingly.” I regret that there are few, if any, other settings in the world wherein the average individual is taught best principles and then actually trusted to govern him or herself.When we met at Sister Juanita’s home, our lesson was had in splendid comfort. The treats were memorable for being a cut above the usual. And the Spirit could be easily felt, heard, and appreciated for want of noisy distraction. Sister Juanita was the coolest Blazer teacher ever.Did I mention that she was my Blazer teacher? She was my second Blazer teacher. She took over after Brother Overstreet was um… well, after Brother Overstreet moved on to other things… Listen to the full episode by clicking on the link above. Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Sex, Drugs, and Rock and RollPart 1 of the You’ve Been Hanked Brain Surgery ProjectYou are listening to the initial installment in a special, You’ve Been Hanked series about life with Parkinson’s and Essential Tremor leading to brain surgery. This special series is not meant to steer the podcast in a different direction. Rather, story telling will remain the primary focus. I will, however, seek to tell a life long story of living with one then both of those two conditions from a very young age, eventually culminating in my personal experience with Deep Brain Stimulation Surgery.I’ll not lie, this is difficult to write, even to begin. If you will bear with me though, I’ll do my best.“You nervous boy?”“No sir.”“Have you been up to something?”“No sir.”“Why are your hands shaking that way?”“Don’t know. They just do.”I sat in my little wooden desk, writing answers to the questions of whatever third grade assignment I labored to complete. “Why are you even in here?” I wondered but dared not ask out loud. The man was our elementary school principal. He’d not been in the classroom before and it was unclear to me then and remains unclear to me now, why he was there on that occasion. Even less clear is why he towered over me watching me write while venturing questions and comments about the shaking evident in my seven year old hands.I recall multiple teacher evaluations over the years I attended school in Beautiful, East Texas. This particular memory had none of those elements. Our principal was neither sitting alone nor alongside some assistant or another at the back of the classroom observing. Instead, he was standing over me, watching me write, and discussing, in front of all my classmates, something that I would much prefer not be so publicly addressed and certainly not by the greatest authority figure to whom I was personally subject outside my home.The large man, wide of girth with gray streaked hair, did not move on to the other students to engage with them. He continued to stand there, just behind me and to my right, peering over my shoulder, watching me work. His comments continued as well.“I’ve never seen anyone’s hands shake like that unless they were sick, nervous, or had a guilty conscience.”As this was not addressed directly to me in the form of a question, I chose to remain silent but wished with all my inner self that my principal would go away. He did not.“Is something wrong with you boy? Are you sick?”“No sir.”“How do you know? You seen a doctor?”… This episode can be heard in its entirety in the audio link to the podcast above. Later this week look for a special recipe!Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Sunday Supper: Fried Chicken, Biscuits, & GravyEach month back in Beautiful, East Texas, Beautiful Lodge No. 1 prepared smoked chicken, pinto beans, macaroni and cheese, dinner rolls, cornbread, and banana pudding there at the Lodge to sell to the public by way of raising funds to help ensure our ongoing ability to conduct good works without interruption. There were a half dozen or so dedicated Brothers who worked hard to prepare the meals, package them into large square to-go type containers, then stack them, and hand the meals out to those who placed orders in advance or who, not having had the presence of mind to pre-order, where still hopeful that they might score the truly delicious meal nonetheless. Each container held a quarter smoked chicken and all the aforementioned sides and was provided with a separately packaged cup of banana pudding all for the entirely reasonable price of $9.00.My goodness, what a bargain! Where are you getting a quarter of a chicken, smoked, served with pinto beans, mac & cheese, dinner rolls, corn bread, and banana pudding for nine bucks? Nowhere, that’s where.In those days though, people lined up in the cars around the block when it was time to pick the food up. The community knew we were doing it. They knew when, where, and at what time. They were accustomed to it and wanted it.I say the community. What I mean is the Greater Community. Sure, many Lodge members supported the fundraiser. But, more importantly, the Greater Community, people entirely unaffiliated with the Lodge were wonderfully supportive of that smoked chicken dinner fundraiser. They liked the food and valued the good we did there and were enthusiastic supporters!We easily served out 200 of those thoughtfully and generously packaged meals. It was a lot of work but the support we received was undeniable. That ongoing effort raised a lot of money that was put to very good use for the benefit of others by Beautiful Lodge No. 1.Smoked chicken is good, no doubt. I think that was probably my first introduction to smoked chicken. Before then, I’d usually eaten it fried, stewed, with dumplings, or in a pot pie.Thinking on it though, of the many delicious ways to eat chicken, fried chicken, good fried chicken, remains my favorite.One of the hallmarks of life in Beautiful, East Texas was that eating fried chicken was usually reserved for special occasions. We loved to eat it but only did so when the time and effort to make it was warranted. Picnics, big events, family trips, funerals, and Sunday supper are a few examples of when one might have expected to eat that desirable treat.I recall an occasion, very special and accordingly memorable. Gordon B. Hinkley, then the leader of my faith, was speaking at a regional meeting in Denton, Texas. I was still very young and terribly poor but was invited to be a part of the Regional Choir that was to perform at the event. It was such blessing to be able to see President and Sister Hinkley speak. I drove a long way there and home again, the conference itself was about two hours long. I did not take into account just how long I would be away from home and did not think to prepare a meal or bring snacks. Did I mention that I was both young and poor? It was all I could do to afford the gas, never mind stop for a meal.As I made my way from the stadium where the conference was held back out to my car, a 78 model Datsun 280ZX, (oh y’all, how I loved that car!) I heard my name called repeatedly. Surprised at being recognized so far from home, I turned to see who wanted my attention. I saw an older couple from the Beautiful, East Texas Branch waving me over to where they sat on the tailgate of their pickup apparently enjoying an ad hoc picnic. “We are so happy to see you here, please won’t you join us for something to eat.”I was genuinely hungry but was also embarrassed that I had nothing to contribute, “I’d better not, I hate to be a bother,” I said.That sweet old couple were having none of it and before I could get away, I had a paper plate generously heaped with fried chicken and all sorts. I’ll never forget that kindness, their wonderful generosity. The weather was nice, the chicken was so good, but the company… nothing short of heavenly.In those days there in, Beautiful, there were no convenient places to just go and buy it anytime one was in the mood to have fried chicken. The nearest fried chicken, from a fast food place, was thirty miles in any direction. In the Heart of Beautiful, I was a teenager before fried chicken was locally available as a regular menu item. Once it was, I tried it. It was… okay, I suppose. You know, for store bought.The thing is, I was accustomed to really good fried chicken. Over the years Momma learned to make and did make it. Uncle Carl made it. Many of the old men and women in my life made good fried chicken.Over time, one learned to recognize a few important truths when it came to eating fried chicken in, Beautiful… This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Details MatterFor most of my life my community has revolved to a lesser or greater degree around my faith. It is there, outside of family and friends from school, where of much my tribe has been found. It has been consistent, predictable, and for the most part, felt right.A few years ago, before The Rona was a thing, this changed in a way that surprised me and left me unsettled. My worship community, of a sudden, was just to busy to accommodate those who continued to need a strong element of fellowship in their lives. Much of the community building activities I’d been accustomed to all my life, suddenly were no longer being supported.. It was then that my fraternal community became much more important to me. Some of you may wonder if I am being critical. Not at all. However, I maintain that fellowship is absolutely one of many important reasons that some people attend church where they do. To dismiss that need is to dismiss for whom it matters.When I was still a little feller, the three hour Sunday meeting block that was, until a few years ago, the standard for most of the last half century, was not yet part of our routine. We attended church on Sundays, often twice on Sundays. We attended church again on Wednesday evenings. We were there very often, just about anytime the door was unlocked we were there.Every major holiday and more than a few minor holidays found us at the church house, gathering with our fellow Saints. We always had a big Christmas party. There was another big dinner at Easter to look forward to. We celebrated with a meal sometime around Thanksgiving. Halloween, while not a religious holiday was one that saw a carnival put on for the benefit of the kids. This was no mere trunk or treat, no ma’am. It was a sure enough carnival with a cake walk, bobbing for apples, treats, candies, prizes, and loads of fun!When we were glad, our worship community was glad with us. When we mourned, they mourned with us. This wonderful setting wasn’t just there – that was our community.We gathered as friends and neighbors, every fifth Sunday of the year at the church house to share a meal. Everyone ate and there was always plenty. The grown people sat together inside talking among themselves. The children played outside. As I write this, forty-five years later, I still smell the food. I hear the voices of the grown folks and the laughter of the children with whom I played.What happened to it? Why did this have to change? I yearn for a revival of this close knit, wonderfully strong and vibrant community.There is no time for that kind or degree of close community anymore. Our buildings are over used and there just aren’t enough of them. We get chased out of the chapel after church to make room for the next group to meet then chased out of the hallways to help keep the noise down. We even have leaders give talks about how we don’t come to church for fellowship. But, I do - at least in part. No, our congregations aren’t close like my childhood church back in Beautiful, East Texas. Everyone is busy with other things.Why did it change? I suppose it doesn’t really matter. It changed. It just did.I wish it hadn’t but then, if wishes were fishes, we’d eat seafood every night.Momma, who is just bursting with her own ironic sort of wisdom, would undoubtedly observe, “You can wish in one hand and poop in the other then see which one fills up faster.” Only Momma didn’t say poop. Now that I think of it, in all my life I don’t recall ever having heard her say the word, ‘poop.’No, Momma has always been more lyrical in her expressions. She is also remarkably handy in a gunfight, as it goes.My family helped establish The Beautiful, East Texas Branch of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I did an episode about that experience. If you want to hear the story, its titled, “Faith In Beautiful, East Texas.” I’ll include a link for those of you are are email subscribers.Ours was a wonderfully close community. It was small but we loved each other. That is, until it all changed.I remember my parents calling me from my playing to speak with them. I’d been enjoying my toy flatbed farm truck. It was made of metal and painted green. The doors opened and closed. I had fencing and farm animals. There was little barn. It’d all been part of my Christmas. Santy Clause brought it to me.My mother and natural father sat on the couch. Rough plaid cushions dyed in earth tones and set up on a heavy wood frame. Uncomfortable for sitting even less so for sleeping. It was the kind of couch one bought if one had no taste, couldn’t afford anything more comfortable, or if one really didn’t care for company.“Hank, we are getting a divorce.”What does that mean to a five year old boy?It means nothing. Well... nothing except that, everything is about to change and not likely for the better. However, the innocence and inexperience of childhood cannot fathom these things. Children are left with nothing but to trust their parents to do the right thing even when they demonstrate an appalling track record that doesn’t even come close to living up to that ideal. But then, this isn’t an episode on divorce.Listen to this episode in full in the podcast above! :)Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Recently, it was my pleasure to record a crossover podcast episode with WB Michael Arce of the excellent, Craftsman Online podcast. We had a lot of fun doing it and I am pleased to share it with my listeners here on, You’ve Been Hanked. Michael’s podcast is a good place to hear many worthwhile Masonic voices. Incidentally, Michael and I also participated together in the recording of, “A Christmas Carol” heard here in December as well as on the excellent, Scottish Rite Podcast.I will include a link to Michael’s wonderful, Craftsman Online for those of you who subscribe to my email newsletter.The Craftsman Online PodcastMuch Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Chicken, My ChickenIt’d been a good family Easter dinner as far as family gatherings go. I love family, my family. All the people, blood or not, who I’ve chosen or permitted to be a part of my life. Of course, when a gathering is not at one’s own home, there’s little choice in who attends and only, really, a choice in whether or not to be a part of the gathering.No doubt most people can relate. If you can’t, well... good for you.Poor Granny. She’d consumed one adult beverage too many and was now sitting in the parlor quietly recovering her dignity. The signs were all there. We knew it was happening. But, like any train wreck already in motion, there was no stopping it. Rather, it simply had to be observed or turned away from with varying degrees of horror and or mirth depending on the observer’s age, perspective, and understanding.The too loud laughter, excessive, slurred, increasingly confused speech, and repeated failure to recognize when others were trying to talk were included among the dead giveaways. Attempts by one of the gentlemen present to divert Granny from beer to coffee was expected as was her reaction – to completely brush those attempts off and continue on in typical, ‘Damn the torpedo, full speed ahead,’ fashion.When the tears arrived, they did so suddenly. The expression of her grief was acute. For the little one’s it was confusing. The adults who’d seen it all before were embarrassed or frustrated. Those new to our family gatherings weren’t sure just exactly how to react.There was some internal chemistry inn Granny that unfailingly ignited anytime she drank a little too much. Some chemical reaction that, combined with difficult life experiences and past traumas, inevitably coaxed from her a story about her late father. When her thoughts and conversation turned to him, the tears were inevitable. Just one sip too many, the crisis would achieved and then, with time and coffee, it would all be over.Granny was led to a comfortable place to sit and recover from her ordeal. Our post dinner conversation similarly attempted to recover. Neither recovery was immediate.Though it may seem that I am making fun at Granny’s expense, I am not. Her youth was difficult. She was the daughter of a woman who, might be most charitably described as a, ‘character’ or a ‘pistol’ Unfortunately, while many of the stories about Granny’s mother may be entertaining, she wasn’t necessarily a noble character. When I think of my Great Grandmother there is always an association with the late and notorious outlaw, Belle Starr. Generations of our family, Granny included, have suffered as a consequence of her poor decisions and questionable or often frankly ugly actions.Granny loved her father. She always spoke of him kindly and her love for him could be heard in her words and voice. When she drank hooch, particularly when she’d consumed a little too much, she couldn’t help but think of him. Those thoughts, affected by alcohol, always brought on tears. Unfortunately she was prone drinking more than was altogether wise, particularly at parties and family gatherings.Something in that combination of chemistry, life experience, personal trauma, and hooch caused a predictable and anticlimactic outcome to many a family dinner. One that happened so often as to be noteworthy but also one that inspires in me a wish that things had gone differently for Granny in her youth.Are there difficult memories that are also sometimes humorous? You bet! I’m not ashamed of either the laughter or the tears. The fact is, a sort of curse has worked its way through the generations. Sadly, as it made its way, it was too often manifest in my Granny, who I truly loved and still love. It is ugly. It was ugly to her and sadly, through her.But, more of that another time.I watched Granny dab tears from her eyes in the other room. Uncle Carl brought her a cup of coffee, piping hot no doubt. I saw her pat her benefactor’s hand, give it a squeeze, and bring the cup to her lips and thought, “She’ll be okay.”“Hank,” Momma said, “I have something outside for the girls.”“You do, what is it?”“It’s a surprise.” Then, “Girls, y’all come with Grandma and your Daddy. I have a surprise for you outside.”My daughters, very young, were all pleased excitement. The four of us exited the house to go outside to see Grandma’s surprise. Having had some experience with a string of those surprises over the years, I was torn between mild excitement and foreboding. With Momma, things could go either way… This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Good Community Is Where You Build ItThe day was hot. Such was then and continues now to generally be the case in Beautiful, East Texas. That heat, y’all. There are many things I miss about home. That heat is not among them.Earlier in the day Momma called, “Why don’t y’all come to my house for Sunday Supper?” she asked. “I’m gonna fix fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, salad, and make a chocolate cake.”At that time in my life, Momma’s fried chicken was my very favorite food and I always enjoyed her good chocolate cake.“Can’t wait,” I said. I hung up the phone then looked at it marveling at the progress of technology.When I was a boy the phone in our home, a modern home in its time, was hard wired and permanently mounted to the wall in the kitchen. Our telephone was rotary dial, green, and was equipped with the standard three foot cord. Dub, my dad, had no interest in one of those fancy twenty foot affairs that might encourage people to get comfortable and lay about the den while talking on the phone.Our phone was part of a party line. Don’t be fooled. Despite the name, using the phone was not a party. The phone line was shared between four families.When one wished to make a telephone call, it was impolite to just pick up the receiver and start dialing. First one had to pick up the receiver and listen to ensure someone else was not already having a conversation. If no one was using the line, then a call could be made.If someone was already using the line, a polite person would refrain from interrupting the ongoing conversation and return the receiver to its place. I say, a polite person, because very often people were impolite. It was all too common for noisy neighbors to pick up the receiver, listen to see if a conversation was ongoing then, instead of returning the receiver to its cradle, place their palm over the microphone, and settle in for a listen.I remember a cousin of mine, Gary who’d just married his second wife. She was a pretty sort of girl, not a knock out by any stretch of the imagination but, pretty. It helped that she was young. Sadly she had not lived out in the country before. Party lines were new to her as was, apparently, common courtesy. The bride of my cousin loved to eavesdrop on other people’s telephone conversations and had no problem with interrupting others who were using the phone to announce that she had an important phone call to make and demand the line be made available only to later to be overheard engaged in conversation that was less urgent than she’d led her neighbor’s to believe.We all loved Gary. No one particularly cared for his wife. That said, what are you going to do?I asked Dub about it once as we were working on his old 64’ model pickup. Dub dipped snuff. He had a gap in his two front upper teeth through which he could and often did launch a shocking stream of tobacco juice as far as fifteen feet with astonishing accuracy. In doing so a peculiar sound effect was produced. It was a sort of, “squinch,” though that description is inadequate.After I asked bout cousin Gary’s young new wife, he chuckled, spit, then said, “Gary didn’t marry her for her telephone manners.”“What does that mean?” I asked.“You’ll understand one day,” my father assured me.From that wall mounted, rotary dial telephone, we’d improved over the years to a phone that was light weight, rested on the glass top table next to the couch, had caller ID, a long cord from the back of the phone to the wall, anther long cord from the phone to the handset, and most happily – was not a shared party line.The kids will be pleased to see Grandma I thought. Then ruefully, hopefully she won’t try to send them home with another baby chicken… or, Heaven help me, worse.… Listen to the podcast to hear the rest of the story. Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Friday Nights In Beautiful Part 1When my brothers and I were still little fellers we spent every single weekend with my Great Uncle Carl. He really was great, in every sense of the word that little boys could ever possible care about. Uncle Carl grew up in Oklahoma. It is a testament to his real and enduring greatness that I even mention that. Texans, don’t necessarily like folks from Oklahoma. Uncle Carl is different. He grew up farming cotton with his family. Eventually, the Dust Bowl drove the family off the farm and on towards California.If you’d like to know more about how Uncle Carl was ultimately blessed – and it was a blessing – to wind up in Texas, check out the earlier episode of, You’ve Been Hanked titled, Fleeing The Dust Bowl, where I relate that story.Weekends spent at Uncle Carl’s home were a treat. My mother and natural father divorced while we were still just babies. Both were young themselves when they did so. It was a gift to have a steady safe port in that awful storm that raged for years… This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

My dad, I’ve always called him, “Dub” was a bad ass.Maybe all sons think of their fathers that way. The thing is, my dad really was. He was strong in the way that a man becomes when he works hard on the farm, cutting wood, operating heavy machinery, building barbed wire fences, and raising watermelons. If that weren’t enough, Dub ran and lifted weights regularly.He was physically powerful but not only that.Dub wanted to learn to fight and to do so with real skill. He sought out a student of the great martial artist, Joe Lewis and said, “teach me to fight.” This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Walking With Granddad“Son,” Granddad began, “What say we go for a walk?”Granddad always called me, “son.”I jumped up from my comfortable pallet made for me by Grandma from a particularly soft yellow and white quilt. Eager to join Granddad, I hurried to put shoes on my feet before having to be told to do so.The old man’s eyes sparkled with humor as he watched me get read and he, likewise began lacing up his own shoes.From his lips hung a burning cigarette. An unfiltered Camel. His brand and style of choice. I knew he would not put it out before we left and he did not.Instead, Granddad reached for the pack of cigarettes on top of the wooden console radio, felt to be sure there were plenty for the outing, then stood to signal his readiness to get moving.I too was ready and like my natural father’s father, I stood to join him.Outside, the sky was dark. Granddad had little interest in walking during the day unless it happened to be pleasant out. He much preferred the night for it was cooler and he had a love of the night sky. It was a love he shared with and inspired in others.“Come on, Smokey!” Granddad called. Smokey, was a shepherd mix of medium build, some sixty-five pounds, cream colored, and with a smokey grayish ring around his neck. He rose from the comfort of his dog house, stretched from his front to his back first leaning on the left front and back right feet then on the right front and left back feet, giving himself a thorough shake before finally deciding to join us.Granddad lived, like many of us in that time in Beautiful, East Texas in a home that was still remote enough that there was little or no noise pollution from traffic or neighbors and even less light pollution. Airplanes flew overhead but there was little else to take away from the loveliness of God’s Beautiful Creation. Along his property line on the north side were two structures, the only two for a while in any direction. On the north east side, his home. A three bedroom, red brick ranch style home enclosed by a chain link fence. On the north west side a white dairy barn in front of which was the only source of light pollution to be found, a bright shining, white security light atop a large wooden pole of the same type and similar height of those used to suspend electrical wires.The roads all around were dirt roads, that is, all except the road for the well paved farm to market road a mile or so away from Granddad and Grandma’s house to the dairy barn.Granddad, Smokey, and I stepped from the grass covered lawn, on to the white rock driveway, and then onto to black oil top road as we headed from the house towards that dairy barn.I did not like to show it but, at just five years old, I continued to harbor a youthful fear of the dark. I was not so very afraid with Granddad there beside me but would have been altogether unwilling to go out past the glow of the porch light if he were not there beside me, not even in Smokey’s comforting and, when necessary, formidable presence. I reached out for my grandfathers rough, calloused, work-worn hand, and was much comforted when, without a word, he took my very young hand into his own.Old man and little boy walked on the oil top road together in companionable silence for a while. The only lights were those shining overhead in the night sky, in the distance at the dairy barn, and suspended from Granddad’s lips. Several times a minute that one grew much brighter, then dimmed again as he inhaled and exhaled lungs full of smoke.We did not walk fast. Granddad suffered from Emphysema as a consequence of his life-long addiction. Our steps were slow, plodding, but purposeful and taken with the shared joy peculiar to old men and little boys who share a special bond.On the opposite side of the oil top road from Granddad and Grandma’s farm was more farmland owned a good friend and neighbor of Granddad, Mr. Guy Wade. Directly across from Granddad’s hen house was a stock tank. That is a “pool of water” for those of you who may not know. In token of friendship and the respect that Mr. Guy Wade had for Granddad, he invited him and me so long as I accompanied by him, to fish there.It was a kindness as the stock tank was brimming with crappie, small mouth bass, catfish, and perch. A kindness that was only ever extended to Granddad, no one else was ever permitted to fish that stock tank despite many desiring to do so.Smokey, loved Mr. Guy Wade’s stock tank as well though he had little interest in fishing. No, Smokey didn’t fish but he loved, loved, loved, a wonderfully cool, wet, splash and a swim. He never missed the opportunity to disappear for several minutes on those evening walks to avail himself of the opportunity.When he did so, the pleasure, the obvious and abundant pleasure the dog took in this activity was clear in the sound produced as a consequence of his antics. Also evident was his desire to remain near Granddad. For though the dog loved his time in the water. He did not linger there. When the stock tank drew near, Smokey left us. As we walked the dogs splashing, swimming, shaking, and all his carry on was obvious and delightful, drawing grins across the faces of all who heard it. Then, when the body of water was behind us and without prompting, Smokey, now dripping wet, despite a good shake, reappeared and rejoined our walk, wearing a grin of his ownAs we walked my young mind began working through questions. Granddad was a service station man. He was not a dairyman. He owned a filling station in Beautiful that boasted two mechanics bays as well as a full service and a self service fuel. Why then, did he have a diary barn?“Granddad, why do you have a diary barn if you don’t milk cows?” I asked.“Son, when your mother and I first moved here from California I decided the best way to support my family would be as a diary man. I’d had enough farming for a lifetime and knew I didn’t want to do that. So, I worked hard, we saved our money, and eventually we were able to buy this land. I built a diary and we lived in the little house that used to be there next to it before it fell down.”I never understood why Granddad always called me son and why he always referred to Grandma as, “your mother.” It didn’t matter. I knew I was loved. That was enough.My mother’s parents also owned a dairy. My Granny Alice worked the barn. I had some slight experience around working diaries. Enough to know that the work was hard and demanding.“Did you like milking cows?”Granddad inhaled deeply from his unfiltered Camel. In the suddenly much brighter light, I saw that only a fragment remained. He took another cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket, lit the new cigarette from the fragment, threw the still glowing discard to the ground without bothering to extinguish it, inhaled another deep lung-full of smoke, exhaled, and said, “No. But it allowed me to provide for my family.”We walked a while further, again in relative silence. The cicadas, crickets, and tree frogs all talked and sang but neither I nor Granddad said a word.In time, we began to draw near to the dairy barn. As we did so, Granddad said, “I was in town one day and got wind there was an opportunity to be had in the service station business. Your mother and I decided it was time for a change. We bought the rights to the station and went into business. Since then We’ve rented the dairy to young dairymen over the years and its been good to us.”At the dairy barn, I asked, “Where was the old house you and Grandma used to live in?”“There,” Granddad pointed. “Part of it still stands.”He was right and I marveled never having realized it before. The house was a ruin. Mostly torn down but still identifiable as once having been a home. It was a part of our family’s history I would never personally know as anything more than a ruin. A remnant of something that came before but was no longer. The thought caused my young mind to reel there in the white light that existed to deter ner-do-wells from making trouble at the barn.I listened in that light as my grandfather spoke. I heard his words, the cicadas, crickets, tree frogs, and night birds. He continued to talk of days by gone long before I arrived on the Earth. I listened with a sense of wonder and stored it away never knowing, then, that I would carry it all forward in my heart, mind, and spirit. Great volumes, troves of history, of incalculable worth that too few would long remember. Stories, jokes, gossip, laughter, tears, rebukes, admonitions, and confidences, that in the context of that relationship were mine and his alone.And now, to a lesser extent, shared here. A glimpse into something that could never otherwise be known. A fragment of something beautiful and sacred despite its being a kind or type of experience shared by Grandfathers and Grandsons across time and space.Granddad, Smokey, and I walked out of the field of that harsh artificial light, into the velvet darkness softly lit by starlight and cigarette light. No moon hung in the sky. Had it already set? Perhaps it would rise later. I do not recall. I only remember that there was no moon then.In its absence, the star-filled sky shimmered and glimmered with stars that shone like independently lit gemstones of many colors. Beautiful it was. A state of beauty in that Beautiful geography. A beautiful moment, a beautiful memory of a beautiful time, experienced there, in Beautiful, East Texas.As we walked together back towards the house, away from the dairy barn, on the oil top road, old man and little boy, hand in hand, we did so with two very different understandings.For my part and with the limited understanding of a little feller of only five, that was just life. It never occurred to me that those moments were either sacred or fleeting. The simply were.For his part, Granddad knew all too well just how sacred, special, and fleeting those precious moments were. He knew that just as my time on the Earth was still in its earliest days, his was nearing its end. There was a little time left. A little space to move about yet. But, as is always the case, that precious time was ever-expiring.Old man and little boy walked hand in hand sharing something special. As they did so, in a sense, time flowed from the one and into the other. With it also flowed the stories, history, shared experience, and sacred trust that provides continuity in families, or should if we honor those who came before and dearly love those to whom we are correctly obligated to entrust it too, this legacy, this inheritance that has nothing to do with money, temporal wealth, or probate courts.What passed between us then and there was life and something greater. May the Good Lord help me to pass it on to my children and their children. We live in a world were families are no longer tied to each other by geography. Children move away. Grandchildren are well loved but not often seen. And yet, this obligation remains. I am filled with the stories and memories of what came before.It is hard to compete with distance, Tik-Tok, Youtube, Xbox, and all the activities that consume the youth of children and grandchildren today.I wonder if they will ever listen, when I am gone. If it is worthwhile to record them here. After all, it is primarily for their sake that I do. Don’t get me wrong, I love the idea that others might also enjoy hearing the stories. Still, I long for some reassurance that it might benefit my own babies and their babies.Will it?I do not know.I know this though, I will continue to make the effort to create something that might, just might, bless them, some of them, any of them today or eventually. As I do so, I will take additional pleasure in the idea that others may also enjoy, benefit from, and be blessed by this ongoing effort as well.Passing Mr. Guy Wade’s stock tank I heard Smokey splashing unseen in the dark.“Granddad?”“Yes son?”Granddad always called me, “son.”When we get home can we have root beer floats?“We sure can!”“Granddad?”“Yes son?”“Thank you for showing me whats left of the old house and telling me about the dairy and the service station.”“You’re welcome.”“Granddad?”“Yes son?”“I love you.”Granddad’s gnarled old hand gently squeezed mine.“I love you too, son.”Thank you for listening to this episode of You’ve Been Hanked. If you enjoyed my stories of Beautiful East Texas and want to support my work, please consider becoming a paid subscriber. Please also consider writing a five star review on either Apple or Spotify to help the podcast grow.Thanks for being here. Thank you for listening. Talk to you again soon.Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

I wish I’d known about silence and circumspection on the occasion of that fraught Sunday dinner!Please help this show grow. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

In a recent episode of, You’ve Been Hanked entitled, “The Warrior’s Path” I discussed my pursuit of martial arts as a kind of physical therapy to help manage the increasing symptoms of Parkinson’s as well as my own journey as a karateka. I talked about some of my anxiety in preparing for my brown belt test.Tonight I faced that test.It was one of the most difficult things I have ever done. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Prissy and The RulesI’ve talked about my Sweet Blue Haired friend, Prissy the Wonder Dog previously in the episodes, “That Time I Stole a Dog” and, “Prissy and The Bull.” She was truly a dear friend, among the dearest I’ve known. She was the kind of dog that makes one wish that dogs might live much longer than they do.You've Been Hanked is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.Prissy had a list of rules that she referred to simply as, The Rules. She felt strongly about them. Indeed, aside from the love she gave and received from my family, I am convinced it was the unfailingly strict enforcement of The Rules that gave her purpose.Thank you for reading You've Been Hanked. Help this podcast grow by sharing it.Let’s review: This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

The year Jerry died his special tree, the Japanese feather leaf maple he’d planted sixty years before showed signs of stress. He loved that tree. All the family did. It was important to each of us.I sought advice from the county extension agent as to how to restore it to health. Watered it. Fed it. Amended the soil. Pruned it. Did all the things I’d been counseled to do and did them for three years hoping for the best. Despite my earnest prayers and significant efforts, each year Jerry’s special tree grew worse.Three years after my father-in-law died, his beautiful Japanese feather leaf died too.Below is a special supplemental for You’ve Been Hanked paid subscribers. Thank y’all for your significant and enthusiastic support!Much Love,Hank This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

“As I opened then closed the front door a great set of bells hanging from the inside door knob jangled. They didn’t ring. They didn’t jingle. They jangled. It was a distinctive sound, one that remains with me despite time, distance, and age.You've Been Hanked is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.There were three dining rooms. The smallest there by the door, another long and narrow one adjacent to it, and the main dining room. I passed them all and found an older woman sitting at the counter on a stool next to the cash register smoking a cigarette. Next to her on the counter was a pack of Winston and a black ashtray full of cigarette ashes and butts.“Hello there,” she said. “How can I help you.”” This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

“Eighteen months ago my Movement Disorder Specialist (MDS), a Neurologist who specializes in treating Parkinson's Disease, gave me news that was necessary but entirely unwelcome. You've Been Hanked is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.It went like this, "Mr. Griffin, you need to start physical therapy right away or you are absolutely going to wind up in a wheelchair." To which, I responded, "But Doctor, I don't like physical therapy." Thank you for reading You've Been Hanked. Help me grow this podcast by sharing it.My physician was unmoved by my eloquence. "Mr. Griffin, no one like physical therapy. If you don't do something AND start doing it soon - you ARE facing a future in a wheelchair."To which I responded, "But I don't want to live in a wheelchair. Also, I feel like you aren't listening to me. Did you hear me say, I don't like physical therapy?"The Doctor, someone I both like and whose professional expertise I respect and trust was, again, unmoved by the brilliance of my position. "Mr. Griffin," she began and y'all, I think I heard a note of near-exasperation in her voice as she said…” This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

This Classic, You’ve Been Hanked episode is Part 1 in a series. Part 2, is coming soon.Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked!“I recall my much younger self, just in kindergarten, sitting through a halfhearted presentation at school about the dangers of smoking. I learned about heart disease, cancer, and all kinds of other deadly illnesses and frightening complications apparently brought on by smoking.You've Been Hanked is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.The fact that the presenter was smoking in our classroom while giving her presentation on the dangers of smoking never occurred to me as an oddity. After all our principle always smoked while walking up and down the halls during the school day. Remember, in those days everyone in Beautiful smoked. The miniature cloud of bluish-gray smoke that poured all day, everyday, from beneath the door of the teachers lounge never drew a second notice from anyone except the very occasional kid who tried to ascend prematurely to the company of his or her older peers to start smoking at a still-to-tender-age and both smarted and chaffed at the consequences coupled with the burden of a precocious understanding of and resentment for, irony. Yes everyone smoked but, we had standards and there was nothing quite so effective a state sanctioned paddling with a three foot wooden board to remind an errant seven or eight year old that smoking was reserved for when one was older. Well, a little older anyway.Thank you for reading You've Been Hanked. Please share this episode and help us grow!We weren’t savages!”Part 2, coming soon! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

“It was decided that we would try to purchase a very small church house available for sale from The Church of Christ. Their congregation had grown large enough that the little chapel could no longer house them all. It was in a grievous state of disrepair but, the foundations were solid and our people were confident that we could do the work needed to bring it up to snuff… so to speak.The only thing in the way of progress was the selling price of $10,000 dollars.”You've Been Hanked is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.You've Been Hanked is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Please give the episode a like and leave a comment! :) This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

“Prissy? C’mon!”The Blue Heeler appeared with a toothy grin on her little face. She seemed uncertain whether or not she was being invited to come along.“This is your big moment,” I said. “Let’s go!”Together we raced back down the hill from the house towards the hay meadow. The burning sun continued its western journey. I knew that before long, it would set and, if we didn’t have the bull out of the pasture when dark came, it would be a much more serious problem.Like my work? Please subscribe? If you find my work worthy of your financial support, please consider a paid subscription! Thanks,Hank You've Been Hanked is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

“In the weeks and months after my appointment to this role, I struggled to learn what a chaplain needs to do, to understand how to do those things, to begin to grow in my responsibilities, and finally to become what I hoped to ultimately be – a real Chaplain and to entirely disdain the thought, idea, or even the appearance of a man satisfied to merely have a title and fill a chair.How does one learn these things?When I was a boy of five, my grandparents loaded me, my brother, and a cousin of ours into the back seat of their 1973 Plymouth Fury III. Gold, it was with black vinyl seats, and – thank goodness, ice cold air conditioning. We drove from Beautiful, East Texas to Florida on our way to Disney World. Such a memory!”Thanks for reading and listening! Please leave a comment and give us a like. :) Much Love,Hank You’ve Been Hanked! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Granddad Bob and Granny Alice were married a long time, decades – a life time. They loved each other. They must have to stay together because they really didn’t seem like each other very much. Don’t get me wrong. They made it work and I really admire them for it! Frankly, a whole lot of people could learn from their example.It wasn’t easy for them. During the day, they occupied themselves with very different tasks. Sometimes they shared morning or mid-day meals, though often they did not. If company was over they usually took supper together. When the day’s labors were finished she relaxed in the bedroom to read or watch television. He relaxed in the front room to do the same.You've Been Hanked is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.Each had their own domains. His was his shop were he welded, did other kinds of work, and worked on hobbies he enjoyed. Hers was the house, particularly the kitchen and the yard where she liked to garden.The front room was common ground. Both loved horses and riding so the barn was also common ground. There wasn’t a lot of other common ground.Granddad and Granny did family dinners really well. Granny would always make a big pot of cornbread dressing, a variety of pies, trays of things like olives, pickles, and cheeses, and other tasty things.Granddad always made a salad. He made it the way he liked it, lettuce, tomato, celery, and onion, all very finely chopped. I don’t know what kind of dressing he used or if he made his own. I wish I did. It was a very good salad.Granddad built a huge smoker that he liked to use. There was almost always a smoked ham or turkey, as well as smoked venison or beef. The food was abundant and delicious.Thank you for reading and listening to You've Been Hanked. Please share this episode with a friend!We didn’t begin our meals with prayers at Granddad and Granny’s home. Conversation was usually fraught and cautious as they had little patience with each other. I think we mostly tried to keep it light during the meal.Those meals were always good. Both he and she worked hard to provide truly delicious food, the kind of food, prepared in such a way that not everyone has had an opportunity to enjoy. When the meals were over there were always leftovers, enough to eat the next day and the day after. The kinds of leftovers everyone was glad to eat again and again.When the meal was at an end, depending on the season, the family might retire to the front room to watch a ballgame. At Christmas, we gathered there to exchange and open gifts.We received separate gifts from Granddad and Granny. She always gave us boys a knitted hat, a bag of underwear, a bag of socks, and once we were eleven or so, a bottle of cologne – always Stetson or Chaps.When the gift giving was just about finished Granddad had everyone line up in front of his recliner where he handed out folding money. Sometimes there were silver dollars, quarters, or dimes.Granny always opened all her presents along with everyone else. No matter what Granddad was given, he’d set it behind his recliner unopened. It wasn’t until I was nearly grown that I ever saw Granddad actually open his gifts.I remember being moved, truly moved when I was sixteen. That Christmas, after the gift giving was over, Granddad sought me out.“Hank? Hank?,” he found me in the kitchen. “There you are, Hank! Is this from you?”In his hand was a cassette tape.Granddad was a gifted violinist who liked to play Western Swing. For years he’d been popular at house parties all over Beautiful, East Texas. In later years, he spent time playing alone and with others in his shop and in the house depending on the weather and time of year.I worked as a waiter at Chris’s Café five evenings a week. That year, I wanted to do something special for Granddad but just didn’t know what it might be. For the life of me, I couldn’t quite pull my various ideas together. On a particular evening, I made a trip in my Oldsmobile to Hastings – a music store there on the edge Beautiful where I found a tape of violin music that I hoped he would enjoy. It wasn’t Western Swing, I didn’t have the musical sophistication then to understand what that was then. No, it was classical violin.I’d brought it home, wrapped it, wrote his name on it, and put it under the tree when we arrived at Granddad and Granny’s home Christmas morning. I assumed he would place it behind his recliner as was his custom but hoped he might, at some later time open it.I never thought he would actually open it while I was still there at their home. Never mind comment on it.He stood there in the kitchen holding the tape in his hand. “Yes sir,” I said.Granddad smiled in what appeared to be genuine pleasure. “Thank you, Hank. I really appreciate this.”My face flushed with embarrassed pleasure. The best I could manage was, “Thanks Granddad, um, you’re welcome.”I was floored, truly astonished, when I heard classical violin music playing in the front room just a few minutes later. He’d put the cassette tape into his tape player there by his chair and was actually listening to it.As I said, I was moved and had to step outside.Typically, when the meal was finished, if there was no ballgame on, and we’d finished with gift giving at Christmas time, Granddad exited the house and went out to his shop.Granny remained in the house.Usually the ladies would visit inside, at least for a while. The men, if Granddad could tolerate them would go to his shop to visit with him.The grand kids were encouraged to play outside which we always did until we were hungry again at which point we again descended upon the leftovers until satisfied and once again went out to play until it was either dark or time to go home.As we got a little older we spent time fishing or talking among ourselves. It was not until we were much, much older that we were permitted to remain among the grown people for any length of time.Very often, while still little, us boys were invited to stay the night or even several nights. This invitation always came from Granny. I know that Granddad loved us but he had little time for children. I don’t fault him many men struggle with the noise and nonsense that comes with having kids around.Granny wasn’t great with girls. This observation is not meanness on my part. It just the truth. She just didn’t like girls very much.However, she was much better with little boys!I have such sweet memories of time spent with her.When I was two, she and I would sit together at her kitchen table there in Beautiful. She was a coffee drinker. As a devout Latter-day Saint, I am not a coffee drinker. That said, in those days, at just two years old, I didn’t know that.Granny always poured a little coffee sweetened with sugar into a saucer to cool for my benefit. Once it sat a while and was tolerable, I helped myself.Together we also enjoyed butter and jalapeno sandwiches. These were a delicacy at Granny’s table. One that was in no wise approved of by my parents.Eating those wonderful butter and jalapeno sandwiches, washed down with saucers full of cooled coffee, Granny and I smiled, laughed, and truly enjoyed those moments that were just for us.When I was just a little older, and after all the other grown people were gone, I sometimes made my way out to Granddad’s shop. Usually, I found him welding, black-smithing, or fiddling. I learned that if I remained quiet and didn’t bother Granddad, he would permit me to observe for a while. Sometimes, he even indulged me in just a little conversation.Memories of butter and jalapeno sandwiches washed down with illicit saucers of cooled coffee with Granny in her kitchen and usually awkward but kind conversation with Granddad out in his shop remain with me and are precious. Treasured memories like priceless heirlooms kept hidden in safe places, wrapped in soft protective cloths, shared on occasion with those we hope will remember after we’ve gone.I have a photograph of Granddad and Granny, the only photograph I have of them together. Its in our parlor on a place of honor, prominent among other pictures similarly beloved by our family.They were newly married and very young. She was but fifteen. He was not much older. They were in the company of friends that I don’t recognize. She was a real beauty and he a handsome young man. They were smiling, laughing, obviously enjoying themselves.I know that they loved each other. I saw it. I heard it in their voices from time to time. They didn’t always like each other. I am not convinced that they often liked each other. None of that detracts from the truth that they loved each other.Granddad and Granny loved each other and all of us enough to figure out how to make their marriage work when perhaps no one else could have or would have. They did so at a time when divorce was entirely permissible and frankly encouraged.How did they do it? Why did they do it? They didn’t have to. I suspect there were times, many times, that they probably didn’t want to.But they did. Granddad and Granny persevered in-spite of everything. They endured to the very end. I find that I can’t help but love, respect, and admire them all the more for it!Today, Dearest Love and I are Granddad and Granny. Those aren’t the nicknames we use but that doesn’t matter. It is our turn to be the family’s old folks.I am grateful that our marriage is happy.None of our grand-babies live close by. I worry that they won’t have the kinds of memories of us when they are grown and we are gone that I have of my old folks.Perhaps in the end, none of that matter as much as, that the babies are healthy, safe, happy, well-loved, and know it when they are old enough to understand.I hope that these stories will be preserved in a way that will make it possible for them to have and enjoy long after Dearest Love and I are gone. Maybe in this, there will be a legacy for them not unlike that which I have benefited from.Papaw loves you kids.Much Love,HankYou’ve Been HankedDid you enjoy this episode of You’ve Been Hanked? I hope you did. Are you a subscriber? If not, please do subscribe. Is there someone who you think might enjoy my stories? If so, please share them. If you find my work worthy of your material support, I hope you’ll consider a paid subscription and know that it is most appreciated. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Brother OliveTim Olive is my double brother. He is my brother in the gospel and my brother in Masonry. My only regret where that good man is concerned is, I never met him.My wife, Dearest Love knew him.Some years ago, she served an honorable mission after having converted to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. When the mission call came she found that she was to serve in Southern California. Then, just as it is now, the cost of living in that part of the United Sates was high.You've Been Hanked is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.Indeed, the cost for housing was such that the missionaries just couldn’t afford it. The Mission President, recognizing the severity of the problem, approached the Wards in his mission and announced no congregation would be assigned missionaries unless they housed them.Mormon congregations love the missionaries. Most of those Wards figured out how to make it happen. Like other families in that part of the world, the Olive family decided to open their home to a missionary companionship at much lower than usual cost for rent.The Olive’s were good people and a lovely family. Tim and Becky had four sons. Becky’s father lived with them. The house was full of people, full of love, full of faith, and with the addition of two sister missionaries – maybe just a little over full.Dearest Love was one of the missionaries that resided in the Olive home during her missionary service. She often tells stories of her time in the mission field. Among the happiest of those stories are the ones that fall within the period of time that she lived with the Olive family.Brother Olive was born in Tonga. He was the youngest of several boys. All of Tim’s brothers were giants standing more than 6’5” each. Tim on the other hand, was but 5’8”. Like his brothers he was immensely strong but, having been born with Polio, his growth was adversely affected.Thank you for reading You've Been Hanked. Please help us grow by sharing this epidsode.As a boy in Tonga, struggling with Polio, there was not adequate medical services to properly treat and help him. Candidly, the cost of those services, had they been avalable, was beyond his family’s means. In addition to being much shorter than his brothers, one of Tim’s legs was shorter than the other one. He wore special braces, special shoes, and walked with a limp.Despite his challenges or perhaps, in defiance of them, Tim worked hard. He had a good job at Boeing. He was a faithful Latter-day Saint who served a mission in Canada. He loved his family.Tim was also a Mason and as a part of his Masonic path, a Shriner.Polio struck Tim very early in life. As there was no adequate care, or means with which to pay for care, his family sought help beyond their immediate community. When the local Masonic Lodge became aware of their needs, the Olive family was put in touch with the Shriner’s Hospitals for Children in Hawaii.Young Tim was flown from Tonga to Hawaii where he began his treatment at the Shriner’s hospital. Tim’s family was flown in to visit their son twice a year. However, they could not afford to remain there with him. Neither could they afford to fly him back and forth. In order for Tim to receive the important medical care he desperately needed, he remained at the Shriner’s Hospital for Children in Hawaii year round for many years.Dearest Love has often recounted to me that Becky, Tim’s wife, often told her, “When Tim was little new nurses would occasionally come to work at the hospital. When they met Tim they typically asked, ‘where do you live?’ to which Tim always replied, ‘I live here.’ No, no, I mean where are you from, where do you come from? Tim, having lived so long in the hospital and from such a young age, couldn’t remember any other home and said, ‘I come from here. This is my home.’”Young Brother Olive received the best possible care for Polio at the Shiner’s Hospital for Children. Not only did he receive excellent care but, he was treated kindly and with love by the doctors and nurses there. Though his family could not be there with him often or for long, they were able to see him at least twice a year. The care that he received, many years of care, was provided to him and his family free of charge. His family was provided a means to travel back and forth and given living accommodations while there at no cost to them.This is true for the many thousands of children who are treated each year at Masonic care centers all over the United States. The Shriner’s Hospitals, Clinics, and Burn Centers for Children, The Scottish Rite Hospital and Speech and Language Pathology Centers for Children, and research funded by the York Rite are all examples of Masonic medical charities that provide millions of dollars a day to make the world better by treating children and making their lives and the lives of their family’s better.In time, young Tim grew up. With the help of the Shriner’s hospital, he overcame Polio and went on to be an able, productive, hard working man, husband, father, faithful Latter-day Saint and enthusiastic Mason. He and his wife Becky opened their home to provide safe shelter to the Mormon missionaries so that his congregation could enjoy the blessings that come with having missionaries assigned to them.Tim, in the spirit of giving back, not only joined the Masonic Lodge but went on to become a devoted Shriner. Dearest Love has often related to me her surprise at seeing Brother Olive return home from those weird meetings he went to, wearing his suit and a fez.I enjoy writing and talking about those various meeting places in mine and my family’s everyday life at the intersections of our Latter-day Saint faith and Masonic fraternity. Dearest Love’s experience with the Olive family is a particularly sweet one.Curiously, another fraternal Brother and personal friend of mine related to me that when he was but a boy, his mother rented a room in their home to a pair of Latter-day Saint Sister Missionaries. My good friend has been a Mason for some 45 years. He is the Right Eminent Grand Commander of the York Rite Masonic Body known as The Knights Templar.My fraternal brethren are very kind to me about my faith. They know that it is important to me and seem to look for opportunities to connect with me in some way. Very often I am asked, “Brother Hank, you are a Mormon, is that right?”“It is.”Then I hear things like, “My mother in law is a member of your church or my wife grew up as a Mormon or though I am not a member, I have read the Book of Mormon, the Doctrine and Covenants, and the Pearl of Great Price how do you like that?”Each time someone seeks to connect with me in this very kind way, I cannot help but find my heart warmed towards them.Masonry is not a church. It is a fraternity. To be a Mason one must be a man, must believe in a Supreme Being, and must seek membership of his own free will. Religion is important in Masonry as no atheist is knowingly admitted. Each Lodge has a holy bible on its altar. Masonry is a respecter of religion but we do not discuss secular religion or politics within our Lodges as there is no surer or faster way to divide men.Given this, the eagerness I see in my brethren to make these kinds of connections with me, cannot be anything less than heart warming. It demonstrates a generosity of spirit that is worthy of them and that I hope they see me reciprocating.When I was a young Mason back in Beautiful, East Texas I was impressed with the Shrine. I knew, even then, that there was much good being done in the world as a result of the efforts of those good men. When I joined the Sharon Shrine Center there in, Beautiful, I had little interest in the various clubs but found purpose in participating in the monthly blood drive.Each month we hosted the American Red Cross’s Blood Bus in a particular parking lot for several hours. All the Masonic Lodges in the region turned out in number to support the effort. The Brothers, their wives, families, friends, and neighbors came to donate blood. The members of the local Shrine worked to prepare fresh hamburgers, cheese burgers, hot dogs, sausages, chips, fresh vegetables, buns – toasted or untoasted, and ice cold sody-waters free of charge for the benefit of all who supported that laudable endeavor.My goodness at the blood we collected there. Every month, barrels and barrels of blood! All of it was provided for use by the Shriner’s hospital in Shreveport, Louisiana which was the nearest Shriner’s hospital to us there in, Beautiful.There are endless opportunities to do good in the world.Likewise, there are countless men and women willing to do their individual parts. There are two places I see this most often.In houses of faith and worship and in my fraternal activity.I do not mean to say that these things only happen in the Latter-day Saint faith – goodness no!Men and women of every faith are doing so much good in the world. It gives me joy to be a witness to it!Some years ago when serving as the Executive Secretary to the Stake President of the Washington D.C. Stake of the Chruch of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, we had a General Authority visit and give us special instruction. He observed to us, “There was a time that we wanted to convert everyone to our faith. Now we see the importance of encouraging men and women everywhere to be faithful members of their various churches no matter what that church is or where it may be. We see how critical it is that men and women of faith be active in their faith for the sake of society and the sake of the world!”I do not need my family, friends, or neighbors to be of my faith. I am glad simply to find myself in the company of men and women of any faith. Whether great or small. Whether a spark or an inferno. The world is made better as a consequence of men and women exercising their faith for the benefit of those around them.Likewise, the world is made better by those actively engaged in good works. No group, organization, religion, or charity has the market cornered on good works.There is so much good to be found if we are willing to recognize it in others. I can’t help but think there are far greater opportunities to increase the scope of these if we look for occasions to join together to make the world around us better by combining our efforts and resources.Some of you listening to this podcast have been very generous in partnering with me in the past to make the world better. I hope you know how I appreciate that. Thank you. Thank you!I hope that there will be future opportunities to do likewise at the intersection of faith and fraternity – where ever that may be for you.For me, that wonderful intersection is found where Freemasonry crosses paths with The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.I think the same must have been true for Brother Tim Olive. I wish I could have known him. Sadly, Tim died several years ago. Thankfully not before my bride was able to experience his kindness and that of his family first hand. She got to see that good Mormons could also be good Masons and vice versa.To my eternal joy and gratitude – she went on to marry just such a man.Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Happy Father’s Day 2023!We sat together in the deep woods, outside Paris, my father and I. Overhead a thick gray blanket, very like heavy cotton batting, lay over the sky as far as could be seen in every direction. From it white snow fell in fine flakes, like meal. The fineness of it an indicator that more was to be expected.Though the hour was late, both the falling snow and the fallen snow reflected every hint of light. On this night, the dark was neither grim nor uncertain. The bright white that lay upon the ground, in the trees, and upon every surface, even in the air as it continued to fall lent a beautiful strangeness to the night.Such a snow was not unheard of in East Texas. It was however, uncommon. Its choosing to fall on the night my father and I were on a father/son deer hunt and camp out made it all the more memorable.“You cold?” Dub asked.“Yes sir,” I said through chattering teeth.“Hungry?” he asked.“Yes sir!”“Boy, you are always hungry!” he accused through a bright smile.My father was a handsome man. His smile was broad and infectious. I couldn’t help but also smile.“Yes sir!”Dub was a coal miner. Most people do not associate coal mining with Beautiful, East Texas. He worked three days on and four days off then four days on and three days off in the mine as a heavy equipment operator. Every workday was a twelve hour day.I cannot recall ever hearing my father complain about his job or work of any kind, no matter how hot, difficult, or dirty it was. Dub, really was the single hardest working human being I have ever known in my life and without exception.When he was not working at the mine he worked in other ways. My dad was decidedly of the opinion that tired boys were good boys. This being so, where ever he was, what ever he was doing, you better believe I was there doing it too.Every year we raised acres of watermelons commercially. We cut endless cords of wood for ourselves and our neighbors. If you bought a cord of wood from Dub you got nothing but oak, no elm, and no trash wood. One hundred percent oak. You also got a full cord of wood, delivered to your home, and stacked in such a way that no sunlight showed through it and all for seventy five American dollars.Good heavens!I can’t tell y’all the wood we cut, loaded, hauled, split, stacked, unstacked, reloaded, unloaded, delivered, and stacked again.Dub liked to observe, “Men who cut wood are warmed by it twice, once when they cut it and again when they burn it.”I suppose he was something of a philosopher in his way.My father brought with us an ample supply of firewood to keep us warm. There was plenty of fallen dead wood to supplement it should there be need.“Look here,” he said. “When you build your fire, you want to have a backstop to keep it going after you fall asleep.” He demonstrated how this was done. “By building it this way,” Here he indicated his meaning, “you help direct the heat where you want it to go.”As the fire grew and began to burn according to this improved arrangement of the logs, I felt the improvements in terms of warmth. “How about that?” he asked grinning.“Much better,” I said.Dub’s front two top teeth had a gap between them. It gave him a look all his own and something more. My father, who dipped snuff, could launch a line of tobacco spit through that tooth gap, several feet long and a good fifteen feet in any direction he choose with an accuracy that was unsettling. My father’s sons learned the value of both listening and minding right quick unless they wanted to be his target when the next time to spit presented itself.Whenever he spit there was a sort of squinching sound, one that I am not able to adequately reproduce, though I wish I could.Before the roaring fire, my father placed a pan in which he prepared our modest but wholesome and tasty supper. As he poked and prodded the fire sparks of red and gold rose heavenward, popping and cracking. Higher they rose passing by the downward falling flakes of white.The night was quiet, oddly so. “Why is it so quiet out?” I asked.“Its like that when it snows,” my father said.“Why?”“The snow makes the world quieter,” was all he choose to offer.It was enough.My father and I reclined against the fallen tree to which we’d set our backs there in the camp. He sat to my right. Between us and the quilted sky, was a tarp that kept most of the snow off of us.Our camp was in a small clearing surrounded by seemingly endless woods. Oak, elm, cedar, and persimmons as far as the eye could see and for distant acres beyond seeing. Not far from us a community of coyotes began to howl, sing, bark, and yip.For the most part I was unafraid of the coyotes, though their nearness was such that I could not help but be reassured by my father’s presence. Dub was more than a match for whatever the Paris area night time wilderness might choose to offer up. My father was himself a, Force of Nature, one not to be underestimated or trifled with.He could shoot. He loved to fight and was stunningly good at both. He studied boxing and a martial art created by Joe Lewis. My father worked daily to increase his physical strength.His presence, confidence, and martial skill reassured me in such a way that I could frankly enjoy the coyotes not-to-distant communications, even taking pleasure in them.“You like hearing that don’t you?” he asked. I heard the approval in his voice and tried not to squirm with gladness.“I do like it,” I said.“So do I.”Father and son smiled in the surreal, snow-lined oddly bright, dark of night. I heard the tell-tale squench of my father’s spit and found even this wonderfully comforting. Hearing my boyish laughter, Dub joined me with a chuckle of his own.In time sleep began to itch just behind my eyes. Though I fought it, Dub noticed.“Big day tomorrow,” he said.“You think we’ll see any deer?” I asked.“I hope so!” he said.“I hope so too.”“We’ll be getting up in just a few hours. It will still be dark,” my father cautioned.“That’s okay.”At this Dub laughed. “You always say that and then you are hard to wake up!”“I’m not hard to wake up,” I protested.It wasn’t true. I wanted it to be true but, it was not. When those very early morning wake up calls came, it was painfully difficult for me to wake up. I was glad Dub could not see my blushing face or, if he could, that he did not remark on it.“Alright then, time to turn in,” he said.Dub and I hunted many times together. Deer, dove, quail, and squirrel. We walked, stalked, crouched, and sat silently for hours on end. My father and I hunted both with and without dogs depending on our prey.We did not often camp. Though on this occasion we did. It is among my most cherished memories with my father. I had his undivided attention – a rare and precious thing.I am unsure what prompted Dub to take me with him on that occasion. These many years, even decades, I have carefully preserved this special memory. It is one that I only have because he did take me with him, because he made the time for me, and because he was determined to allow it be a special memory.Dear Fathers,As each of you know, these special memories don’t just happen – at least not very often. They happen because you make them happen or because someone made them happen for you. Let’s you and I be sure we are making similar treasured memories unfold for our children so that they have something to cherish when it comes time for us to move on from this life – even as my own excellent father had to do so unexpectedly decades ago.Happy Father’s Day!Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked!Thanks for listening to You’ve Been Hanked. If you enjoyed this special Father’s Day episode please share it with someone you care for who may also enjoy it. If you aren’t already a subscriber, please subscribe. If you find this work worthy of your material support, please consider a paid subscription.I’d love to hear from you, please share a happy father’s day memory in the comments and give the episode a like.As always, thank you for listening. I’ll talk to you again soon. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Tanscript:Faith, Hope, Fraternal Visitation, and the Terrible Beauty of the StormBeneath a black sky devoid of stars and bereft of moon we pointed the truck north and set out for home. If all went well, my good friend who is also my good Brother, and I would be back at our respective homes in just over an hour. Our journey began some six hours earlier. I stifled a yawn.“Brother Hank, how is your son doing?” Mike asked conscious perhaps of my apparent weariness.“Doing fine. He is a good boy,” I said.“How old is he now?”We talked a while about pleasant things - that helped pass the time. Ahead, regular bolts of lightning illuminated a cumulonimbus cloud, relatively narrow from my vantage point but a towering structure and directly ahead.My companion talked about the evening, mutual friends and acquaintances, and our shared Masonic experiences. I appreciated his being there. Long drives are always better when undertaken in good company.More bolts of lightning flashed gold, lighting white clouds otherwise invisible in the dark and I found myself taken back in time to other drives undertaken in stormy weather…By the time I was eight years old, I’d been driving the tractor for three years. Mostly but, not always supervised. When I turned eight Momma decided it was time for me to learn to drive properly. In those days she had a silver Mustang II, a stick shift.The first time I recall being in the driver’s seat of that car it was parked in the shade of a great oak in front of our home. I was much too small to be able to both reach the pedals AND see over the dashboard. Momma worked to adjust the seat forward. Having moved it all the way in that directiion, there was no help for it, I just couldn’t manage to both actuate the pedals, particularly the clutch, AND see over the steering wheel.Given these significant obstacles to success I imagined that first driving lesson was over – to be postponed until I was a bit taller but, such was not the case!“You sit right here while I go get something. Don’t you move,” Momma said. As she spoke, I heard something like frustration in her voice and saw a look of determination on her face. She disappeared into the house only to reappear moments later with a pillow in her hand and a look of pleased anticipation on her face.“Raise up,” she instructed. I did so and Momma put the pillow under my backside. “Okay, sit back down and try again.”I did as she instructed but alas, it was not enough. I could either manage the pedals OR I could see out the front glass but could not do both at the same time.“Hang on,” Momma said. Again she ran inside. When she re-emerged from the house, she carried a second pillow.In a moment it was stacked atop the first and I sat upon the both. “How about now?”Beginning to be frustrated I tried to reach the pedals and see over the steering wheel, prepared to report failure. To my delighted surprise I now sat semi-comfortably in the driver’s seat of the car able to both work the pedals AND with just a little effort, see out the glass – at the same time.“I can do it. I can work the pedals and see over the steering wheel,” I gleefully reported.“Alright!” Momma was very pleased.We worked out how to shift the transmission, first, second, third, fourth, reverse, that one was a little tricky but pretty soon eight year old me seemed to have it. Before long I knew how to start the car and nominally understood braking.“Ready?” Momma asked.“Heck yeah!” I all but shouted. Exhilaration coursed through my small frame as the car successfully started. The motor revved in time with my pulse. “I am about to be driving a car,” I thought and was wildly exuberant with the sense of excited power that made itself known to my young nervous system.At this point, you may be asking, Hank, I thought you were thinking back to a time that you drove in a storm and yet there is not description here of inclement weather.I looked at Momma for approval. She smiled and nodded encouragingly. At her signal I engaged the clutch, depressed the brake, shifted the transmission into reverse, turned my body to look backwards as she’d described and realized, much too late, and to my great horror, that no matter how many pillows I sat upon I simply was not tall enough to manage the pedals while also turning my much too young body around to look behind me in order to safely reverse.My feet came off the pedals and I watched in absolute panic as the car sped backwards into the white wood fence that wrapped around our yard. Upon impact, two sixteen foot sections of that fence fell upon the ground. The car died and Momma said something that I am pretty sure she must have learned from Granny Alice who was the most prolific user of that kind of language I’d ever known in my young life.My first thought was of my very good father, “Dub” and his inevitable displeasure when he arrived home and discovered the fence.You see, not all storms are atmospheric in nature.One my suppose that with such an ending to my first driving lesson that similar, ongoing lessons might be curtailed. In such supposition, one would be mistaken. Having weathered the initial storm, my driving instruction continued under Momma’s careful supervision.By the time I was ten years old I found myself driving – ALONE - all over Beautiful, East Texas! Momma had a 1968 Buick Electra. It was twenty-one-and-a-half-feet-long, brown, made entirely of steel, and all electric. In the intervening two years since my first driving lesson I’d grow a lot. Seeing over the steering wheel was a non-issue and poor Dub, being no fool, wisely choose to purchase automatics over stick shifts for Momma to continue my illicit driving lessons.On a particular occasion, Momma sent me on an errand. “I want you to take this to your Granddad and Granny’s house. You can visit a while, if you like, then come on home.”“Yes ma’am,” I said.In no time I was behind the wheel of Momma’s Brown Buick Electra and headed down the Farm to Market road towards my grand parents home. The sky was dark gray. Rain began to fall soon after I began the trip.Beautiful, East Texas is on the southern border of what is often referred to as, “Tornado Alley.” There is rarely ever a gentle rain there. Instead, at least in those days, rain tended to come on fast and hard. Certainly there were lingering storms on occasion but, for the most part, the weather was tempestuous: sudden, usually violent, and often devastating. Or, as we liked to refer to it in Beautiful, just normal.The sky continued to darken, particularly in the west. This was usual and not unexpected as weather in Beautiful, East Texas generally moves from west to east.Momma’s enormous brown Buick Electra was a wonderfully comfortable luxury car. Heavy, its weight lent a feeling of safety in its operation. The wind began to pick up and as it did so, began also to gust, even violently. When I felt the wind shifting that heavy Buick, my ten year old self sensed danger and I grew cautious.The rain began to pour down in such tremendous volume that the wipers, even set to high, could not keep up with the deluge. I slowed the car, put on the headlights, and even engaged the emergency flashers in order that I might be more easily seen, though I’d observed no other cars on that rural route. Still the storm strengthened. So much so that I could no longer see the yellow line on the road. Indeed to my horror, I realized I could not see the front end of the hood of the car nor even the back end of the turtle hull when I looked in the back facing mirror.With this shocking recognition I quickly pulled Momma’s Buick entirely off the road and onto the grass as there was no paved shoulder. I had to open the door to even see where the grass was and torrential rain poured in upon me as I did so. Finally, feeling confident that no part of her car remained on the road, I closed the car back up and looked out the front glass.Fear mingled with frank astonishment swept over me as I realized the storm was of such intensity that I could not see any part of the outside world beyond the fury of the water pouring out of the sky and onto the glass that was all that separated me from apparent oblivion.Though still late afternoon, the sky was entirely black. White water broke upon every window of the car and was all that could be seen. No other trace of the outside world, not so much as a hint, no not even a sliver of brown could be discerned and I knew that I was that real danger stalked me that day.All that was – was chaos. The storm’s veil fell entirely upon me there. There was no world, no earth beyond the interior of the car. The storm raged. Lightning flashed almost strob-like, and thunder exploded again and again and again beginning anew before the last explosion ended. The car shook and shimmied, despite its thousands of pounds in the storm’s fury. And in the black of it lit only by the awful flashing lightning I heard a frightful roar such that tears filled my eyes for fear of imminent mortality.A 1968 Buick Electra was a car of such proportion as to be nearly unrelatable to today’s vehicles. It was truly a giant of a car and would require most of four contemporary parking places to properly park from front to back and still leave room to open both the driver’s and passenger doors. Similarly, the inside of the car was cavernous.Fearing the storm that savagely raged outside that protective frame of steel and glass, grounded only by the rubber tires that supported it, I determined to seek help from on high. What had been only a car moments before became a chapel, a cathedral, a temple and in that sacred space, I knelt upon the vinyl front bench seat and there poured my heart, soul, and very real fear out to the Creator of All That Is.My prayer may have been only that such as a ten year old boy is capable of but it mattered little for my faith was every bit of what a ten year old boy is also capable of and more than exceeded a vocabulary limited by youth and inexperience. As I knelt there praying I wept for fear of the storm. The Almighty had compassion on His creation and, in time, the storm diminished just a little.As it did so, I opened my eyes and saw the brown hood of the car but no more. The curtain of rain receded and I began to see the road and grass, both covered by a flood of water. That awful veil drew back a bit more.To my unmitigated horror I saw the tornado.The black funnel rose from the earth and reached into the heavens. Crossing the Farm to Market road not more than a hundred yards ahead of me it traveled from my left to my right. In its debris field I saw road signs, trees, whole trees, parts of what once was a house, what appeared to be a horse trailer, and heaven help me, I even saw what was left of a horse, perhaps a matched set that belonged to the trailer.The monster moved slowly so slowly. I felt the car yearning to come up off the ground and enter its orbit and begged God to prevent it. The car actually moved forward, though it was not running and I prayed, nearly shouting for my Creator to send his angels to hold it in place.I think he must have done so. I cannot otherwise explain how neither I nor Momma’s Buick did not become one with that awful beast of a storm. I can only say that I am grateful beyond measure that we did not.Back again in the present I realized my friend and Brother Mason must have asked me a question and politely waited for an answer. “Sorry Brother Mike, what did you say?”“I was just asking if you enjoyed the evening,” he said.“Brother, I enjoyed it very well. More than you know. It has been a gift. I must thank the Worshipful Master for inviting me,” I said.Ahead of us, lightning again lit the cumulonimbus structure. “You are beautiful to behold,” I thought, “But I do not fear you are only beautiful and we are not back in Beautiful.”Much Love,HankYou’ve Been HankedThanks for listening to this episode. I hope you enjoyed it. These stories are true stories. They are my stories and I love sharing them with you. If you appreciate what you’ve heard I hope you’ll give it a like, make a comment, and subscribe. If you find this work worthy of your material support, an option for a paid subscription is available. Regardless of anything else, thanks so much for being here and for listening. Talk to you again next time. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Hank and Shawn set out to enjoy a fishing trip and their friendship only to be attacked in the woods. Do you enjoy, “You’ve Been Hanked?” If so, please help us grow by sharing it with others! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

In this episode of, You’ve Been Hanked we hear the story from a different perspective. From, The Best Sandwich I Ever Ate: “Where is his mother?” Uncle Carl wondered when he saw the baby crying in his yard. Here, we find out and begin to better understand. Thanks for listening. If you like what you hear, give it a like, comment, subscribe, and share the episode with someone you love. Thanks,Hank This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

“I’m not proud of the idea of having stolen someone’s dog. Neither could I stand the idea of her living in those conditions. In the end, I suppose I’ve learned to live with my choice. If I had it to do over - I’d do it over again.”Tell me what you think in the comments. Hank This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Here is found the very beginning of a life long friendship shared by and old man and little boy. Please share this episode with someone you love. Thanks for listening.Hank This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Please help, You’ve Been Hanked Grow by sharing with others who may enjoy it. Thanks,Hank Hank openly discusses dealing with Parkinson’s Disease, the value of having good friends, neighbors, and brothers. He talks about married life, struggling to run errands, his relationship with important friends, and more. Throughout, Hank focuses on the positive while trying to overcome challenges and all the while seeking to inspire others who may be struggling and operating under the mistaken belief they no longer have anything to offer. You've Been Hanked is a reader-supported publication. If you’ve enjoyed this episode of, You’ve Been Hanked, please subscribe! Photo by Hank Griffin ©You’ve Been Hanked all rights reserved This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

The boys listen as Uncle Carl relates how his family came to Texas. Escape from the Dust Bowl. A family member falls ill. Uncle Carl and the boys enjoy an unusual supper. Thank you for listening to, You've Been Hanked. Please share help us grow by sharing this episode with someone you think might enjoy it.Dear Listeners, I hope you enjoyed this episode of, You’ve Been Hanked. Thanks so much for listening, for subscribing, and for being part of the community. You’ve Been Hanked really is only as good as you decide it is. Question:Do you prefer the style of story telling used here or do you prefer to hear Hank tell his stories in the less formal manner where in he relates the story along with stories within the story? An example of this is found in the episode, “Momma, am I going to Hell?” or the, “Happy Mother’s Day 2023” episode. Your feedback will help the podcast evolve and grow. Thanks,Hank https://www.flickr.com/photos/usdagov/6302488303/ If you like what you’ve heard, please subscribe! You've Been Hanked is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

In This EpisodeHank recounts what may be his very first memory. A trip across the Great Chihuahua desert to Mesa, Arizona from Beautiful, East Texas. Picking wild blackberries. The satisfaction that comes from contributing. Hank briefly introduces his father, “Dub.” Momma, makes blackberry jelly. You've Been Hanked is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.Happy Mother’s Day!Much Love,HankIf you enjoy, You’ve Been Hanked, please share it with others. Please like and comment on the episode. Thanks so much for listening! Thank you for reading You've Been Hanked. This post is public so feel free to share it. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

The Mormon missionaries are at the door. Now what? Its easy. Just be kind. Tell them you know me and that I say, “Hey!” Thank you for reading You've Been Hanked. This post is public so feel free to share it.Hank commiserates with those who discover that the missionaries are at the door at just the wrong, or perhaps right, moment. He relates the uncertainty and worry of those families who send their children out in the world. He offers advice in dealing with the two young people at your door. Interesting facts shared in this episode: * Dearest Love lived with a Masonic family while away on her mission. * At nearly the same time Dearest Love’s sister served her mission just outside of Beautiful, East Texas. In just a few minutes, You’ve Been Hanked might well change your perspective on the Mormon missionaries - forever. You've Been Hanked is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.Please, be kind to the missionaries.Thanks for listening.Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Why are you a Mason? What is it about Freemasonry that called to you? If you aren’t a Mason but are interested, why aren’t you a Mason? What is it that Masons do to make themselves and the world around the better? Is there a place for women and children in Masonry? All this and more in this episode of, You’ve Been Hanked. Thank you for reading You've Been Hanked. This post is public so feel free to share it.You've Been Hanked is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts, podcast episodes, and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.Thanks for listening to, You’ve Been Hanked. Much Love,Hank This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

On this episode of, You’ve Been HankedUnrequited young love. Scorpions and razorblades. The lovely spirit of Beautiful, East Texas. The first of many, many, many times I discovered a girl upon whom I had a crush, was convinced of my inevitable damnation. The Masonic Lodge on the edge of the school yard. Good trees sprout good fruit. And my sweet old, Momma. Hey, Momma! :) Much Love,HankYou’ve Been HankedPs. Please do like, comment, share, and subscribe - we need your help to grow!Thanks for listening to, You've Been Hanked! Subscribe for free to receive new episodes and support my work. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Hank discusses the intersection of East Texas, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and, Freemasonry. He expresses a desire to see the three principle stakeholders of the, You’ve Been Hanked community begin to get to know each other better and discusses how to do it. Please share this podcast with your friends who might both enjoy it and also be a part of, You’ve Been Hanked!Much Love,HankYou’ve Been Hanked This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe

Hank introduces his listeners to, “Uncle Carl.” Discusses his preparations to serve a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and reveals his membership in the Masonic fraternity. Enjoy this episode of, You’ve Been Hanked while working, driving, walking, running, or just sitting quietly. Its a good one! Also: How do you like the new intro and outro? Let Hank know in the comments!If you enjoy this post, will you please share it with someone else who might also like to listen? Thanks so much! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe