You will start seeing some new posts on here from Bill Joiner, who is an author here in North Texas and has some amazing stories, including many to do with hunting and the outdoors. You will also see an advertisement for his book on the right side as it interchanges with another ad. It is worth the read…
Bill was born on January 7, 1948 in Ft. Knox, Kentucky. He is married and has four children, each successful in their own right. Down through the years, he has written many sports articles for our local newspapers. At the urging of family and friends, he wrote his first book, American Entrepreneur, an autobiography. Here is a description and an excerpt from the book.
American Entrepreneur follows the amazing life of Bill Joiner, a true self-made businessman in the best American tradition. From wild early days in Texas to a life of service to God and his church, Joiner blazes his own path through hunting, sports, adventure and his love of life.
Joiner’s say-yes, can-do attitude leads to adventures across the United States, Japan and Europe. He creates businesses from home construction to insurance to oil, and each contributes lessons through the ups and downs of fortune as he develops his personal moral compass.
Throughout all, God’s love and guidance keep him on a path of service, just as his love for his own children is rewarded through his pride in their successes.
My earliest recollections from Texas were from the time I was two to four years old. I remember riding a tractor as other family members picked cotton. It was blistering hot but I didn’t care, as the thrill of riding on the tractor made it worth while.
I also remember that the men were going to butcher a hog but felt that I was too young to witness it. I was sent off but could still hear the hog squealing as he was strung up to a big tree in the yard, by his hind quarters to be butchered.
Later, I did see the hog hanging. Even though he was gutted with blood dripping, I can remember thinking, what was the big deal? I knew I was old enough even if the adults didn’t think so. This was a recurring thought throughout my childhood. I felt adults always underestimated me.
Once, I recall badgering my mother to let me have a bite of a hot pepper. She finally relented and I learned the value of a cold glass of milk. I believe it took two or three glasses to alleviate the heat in my burning mouth. I am still suspicious to this day, at the sight of a hot pepper.
I also remember getting my finger caught in a car door as it slammed. I’m pretty sure there was a lot of activity at the local graveyard as I’m confident that my yell was loud enough to raise the dead. Also, if this happened today, my talent as a dancer would have been recognized, because I did a jig that had every gyration known to mankind. To this day, my fingernail is still splintered.
Another time, my grandfather (PawPaw) took me to a greyhound race, only it was not the modern version of greyhound racing. They turned a live jackrabbit loose in a large enclosed pen. Then, they turned two dogs loose and timed how long it took the dogs to catch the jackrabbit. It was quite a sight for a young boy to see dogs tear apart a rabbit with fur and blood flying everywhere. Mothers, everywhere, would have a conniption fit if they knew their young children were exposed to such a sight. I can report that I wasn’t scarred for life. If I am, I’m too ignorant to know it.
PawPaw wasn’t a monster. He just did what men did back then. PawPaw said to me, “Don’t tell your mother I brought you here.” That was not a problem as I now felt like I was one of the men. I kept our secret until I was an adult and he had passed away.
PawPaw had a unique driving style especially in his later years: he expected everyone else to get the hell out of his way. Parking his car in the garage was also special. He entered the garage and didn’t stop until he hit the back wall, usually hard enough that we could hear it in the house.
PawPaw came from a different place and time where the man of the household was the king. At mealtime, the men ate first, followed by the kids next. The women ate last. My grandmother, my mother, and my aunts hovered around the table as he ate. He didn’t expect to have to ask for anything. They watched his plate and glass and made sure they stayed full. Once, the women fell down in their duty and PawPaw had to point his finger at something he wanted. All hell broke loose just because of a minor movement of his finger as the women double- timed around the table to serve him. That kind of behavior could get a fellow killed in this day and time.
They raised a lot of their own food. They kept chickens. They didn’t go to the store for fried chicken. They went to the chicken coop. The men didn’t kill the chickens, the women did. My Granny would catch a fat hen, stretch its neck over a chopping block and chop its head off. Sometimes, she would just twist its head off. Either way, there was a flopping, headless chicken with blood squirting from its neck, running around the backyard.
This is the time that I began to believe there was a Devil. The Devil would enter into the dying chicken and chase me around the backyard, no matter which direction I ran. Well, maybe it wasn’t the Devil, but it sure seemed like it at the time. I was always relieved when the chicken was dead. That meant I had escaped with my life, again.