J. R. was up in Boston ‘cause he travels all over the place driving a truck. He had to go up there to deliver a load of grade-a fertilizer to a Wal-Mart somewhere around there. After he unloaded, he went to this here motel for the night and in the motel bar he ran into this here Hancock fella.

While he was sipping his suds, he struck up a conversation with this fella sitting next to him. Old J. R. is the friendly type. Folks say he never meets a stranger. Now, this fella he’s talking to has this real thick accent that old J. R. had a real problem with until they got a few beers drank, then he could understand him just fine. The fella introduced himself as John Hancock. The name rang a bell with J. R. but he couldn’t quite place it at first. Then it hit him like a dead fish in the face.

J. R. asked if he was that fella that signs things and what exactly was it that he signed that made him so durn famous. Well, the guy tells him that John Hancock was one of the fellas that signed the United States Declaration of Independence. J. R. asked him independence from what and the fella told him independence from the British. J. R. didn’t remember us getting into no scrap with the British but J. R. never was that good in school. It was in his third year of the sixth grade that he dropped out and started driving a truck.

As the night soaked on, J. R. asked this fella for some kind of proof that he was actually John Hancock so the fella pulled out his driver’s license and, sure enough, there it was. That license said John P. Hancock. J. R. was a little suspicious at first ‘cause the license said Massachusetts instead of Texas but some other folks around the bar told him that it was real ‘cause he was in Massachusetts so J. R. decided it was real. That’s when he got brave.

Now even though J. R. is the friendly type, he don’t cotton to asking favors of folks he just met but on his 17th beer he asks this fella for an autograph. The guy said sure and pulled out a ball point pen. That was fine with J. R. but some folks in the bar started hollering that he needed to use a quill. J. R. didn’t know what that meant ‘til somebody in the bar pulled out this thing that looked like a chicken feather but bigger. His jaw dropped when he seen this Hancock fella stick it in a bottle of ink and start writing with it.

J. R. thought writing with a chicken feather was the most unusual thing he’d ever seen so he traded the fella out of that inky chicken feather and brought it home to show the folks. When he got home he was so disappointed to find out that that’s what everybody used to write with back in the olden days that he lost interest in the chicken feather. But he didn’t know what he had and came to see us, since the word was out about kind of stuff we’d been trading for.

Well old J. R. kept that paper the fella signed but brought us the quill. By then he took to calling it that instead of a chicken feather. Well, we haggled back and forth until we finally swapped him a riding lawn mower that didn’t run (he said he could fix it up) a case of motor oil and tickets to the Houston Grand Opera. I think he thought it was the Grand Old Opry. No matter, we got it and we really need that riding mower so buy it from us so we can get our grass mowed. It’s getting real high.

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