From The Arbor Happy Valentine's Day Love is in the air. In the spring a young man's fancy turns to love. Poppa robin is already bringing a fat worm or a handsome twig to his prospective mate. Our beloved bodock trees will soon be gravid with buds. The buttercups have already pushed their noses into the warming air. Feb. 2, is my love's birthday. It is also groundhog day, but I learned long ago Mimi has been asked far too many times if she saw her shadow on that day. I hope she doesn't so spring comes early. We are a month away from official spring in late March, but spring comes early here in the south, and Pontotoc County is smack dab in the middle of it. We begin to garden in February and are gardening in earnest in March, while the folks in more northerly climes, who won't eat grits, are still shovelling snow. I wouldn't want to live like that. Feb 14 is Valentines Day, when the old folks say we should have our sweet pea seeds in the ground. You might want to plant them in a spot with lots of sunshine and preferably with a southern exposure. This issue is full of love, too. I have enjoyed these stories even more than usual. Some are funny, some nostaglic, and some are just good stories. We have a new contributors this month and solicit more. We believe everyone has a story worth telling. Just pretend we are sitting on your porch with you telling us about your life and the old days, then write it down. Dont worry about the grammar or spelling, editor Wayne can fix most anything. Besides, I knew an old fellow who thought you weren't very smart if you could only think of one way to spell a word. Happy Valentines Day! Happy Birthday, Mimi, Happy Groundhogs Day, and Happy Reading. ~ By Carl Wayne Hardeman, Bo Diddleysquat. PS: I will be guest speaker at the Webster County Library at noon on Feb 8. I would love to meet you. Note: From The Arbor is a regular feature of our newsletter from which our "Editor of the Month" introduces each issue, season, or theme, as the case may be. Thoughts On Mud From Around The World Sometimes thick, gooey, and sticky; sometimes slick, cold, and slimey; black, brown, red, or yellow-white; mud always comes with a unique smell, an odor that once smelled, can remain embedded in your subconscious forever. Most of the unpaved roads around the farms of my childhood were covered in a pale, yellow-white soil called caliche. When crushed, put down over a roadbed, and watered down, it sets like concrete and withstands years of use and wear. It does however, put off white dust that covers everything downwind. When wet, the dust and very top layers of a caliche road undergo a dramatic transformation. The road becomes covered by a thin layer of pale mud that makes driving something akin to ice skating. Approximately 15 miles southeast of Amarillo, Texas, is Palo Duro Canyon. Its shear walls and outcroppings consist of brightly colored bands of orange, red, brown, yellow, grey, maroon, and white soils. As a child, I spent many wonderful hours playing in and around the canyon and the stream that winds along the canyon floor, the Prairie Dog Branch of the Red River. The silt washed from the walls of the canyon formed a finely grained, rich red-orange mud that settled in the threads of clothing, dying lightly colored clothes random shades of red-orange. It had a similar effect on skin, leaving color that seemingly would not wash off, but had to wear off, and prompting my mother to refer to me as a little "redskin." The few "cricks" and ponds were sources of endless fascination and recreation for me and my playmates. Outings involved swimming, fishing, catching frogs, crawdads, and tadpoles, as well as some form of chasing/tagging/hiding games. There was always mud; the deep, cool, soft mud that lay at the bottom of a swimming hole, the slippery, slimy mud covered with "green stuff" that lay along the edges of pools with little or no current, and the thigh-deep, black, clutching mud in and around the cattails where we hunted frogs, snakes, and imaginary monsters. And over all, that mud smell, released whenever the surface was disturbed; a "bouquet" of farmland/barnyard smells.
"Bottomland" was prized for the yields it produced, even though some plantings might be lost to occasional floods or when the rains kept it so muddy it couldn't be harvested. Then there is the "Delta." All rivers that flow to the sea have deltas. The delta of the "Mighty Mississip’ is an ever expanding, 10,100+ square mile, flood plain of, you guessed it, fragrant mud. I remember the smell and feel of the mud and scum from the pond, on the outskirts of Nashville, where fraternity brothers dumped newly "pinned" brothers before hauling them back to campus. And there is the brackish mud of the Florida swamps where I and thousands of other fledgling Naval aviators endured our first tastes of Survival School. I used mud from a Maine stream to cover my face, neck, and arms to keep the black flies at bay and to add some camouflage as I struggled through Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape School. Then there is the oily, black, polluted mud of harbors around the world; each one little different from another. I've stood in verdant, black, muddy fields on the slopes of active volcanoes in the Caribbean, the Mediterranean, and Hawaii. Greece, seemed to me to be one of the dustiest places in the world, where everything is covered in fine, white dust when it is dry and slick, white mud when it rains (very similar to caliche). I traveled east from Jerusalem, to the Dead Sea, to feel/smell the brackish, tan mud along its ancient shores. Then a few miles north, I squeezed the rich, brown mud of the Jordan River through my toes. Further north, is the Jezreel Valley, the most fertile land in Palestine. Loomed over by mountains and the Golan Heights, standing in the fragrant mud of a vineyard, I closed my eyes and thought I could hear the crash of arms, the screams of the dying, and the laments of the mourners. It is here that so much blood has been shed it is said, "the blood of the vanquished feeds the crops of the victors." And, it is here, atop centuries of blood and mud, some say Armageddon, the final battle between good and evil, will be fought. Battlefields have their own kind of mud. For many, the smell of mud is the smell of battle; exhilaration, fear, and death. From the foxholes of WWII and Korea to the rice paddies of Vietnam, theirs is a mud that clings to memories as it clung to clothes and bodies. It smells unclean; it retrieves vivid memories, stark fear, courage, selfless sacrifice, and always, death. Yet, for most if not all, it was a time and place that defined them; as warriors, as mortals, as men and women who made their mark on history, just as it marked them, for life. Mud, to me, is the complete circle of life; birth, living, dying, and new life born out of the lives and deaths before it. It is a chronicle of life if one just stops to see, feel, smell, and then remember. ~ By Lee McNeil, Guest contributor Biographical Sketch: Lee McNeil is a native of the high plains of Texas and a 1971 graduate of Amarillo High School. In 1975, he graduated from Vanderbilt School of Engineering and NROTC, married his "Georgia Peach," Wendy Cresswell, and entered the Navy. After more than seventeen years as a Naval Officer and pilot, he was medically discharged at the rank of Lieutenant Commander, in 1993. Lee and Wendy have a daughter/son-in-law and three sons and have lived in Memphis since 1990. Lee is a Power Plant Engineer/Manager and Wendy is a realtor associated with Keller-Williams Realty. A lifelong outdoorsman and history buff, Lee is also an avid reader and cook."
Paper Or Plastic Before They Asked
Young readers will not remember before plastic sacks, much less, paper bags. Page’s Grocery had no styrofoam boxes to keep foodstuff from cooling off, or warming up too fast. Carter and Austin’s Market had no plastic containers to keep the juice from oozing out of fresh cut meats and poultry. Yes, this was before you could buy a dozen chicken breasts without getting two dozen chicken legs, two dozen wings, a dozen chicken heads, hearts, and livers. Chicken was sold by the whole bird, not by it’s individual parts. You got all of the chicken parts whether you wanted them or not. I wonder who eats all those chicken necks now days? If you went by R.L. Ray’s Department Store and bought a couple pair of overalls, a shirt or two, and a pair of "long johns," they did not put them in a sack. They did not ask if you wanted paper or plastic either. And no, you did not have to take them all wadded up under your arm. Those of you old as dirt, like me, remember that they all had a big roll of brown paper near the cash register. When the sale was completed, the clerk would stack the items together. Reaching back, he or she, would pull out a long piece of the brown paper and in one motion tear it off from the roll. Laying it out on the counter, the items would be placed on the paper and then the paper was folded very neatly around the items. While holding the paper in place with one hand, the other hand would pull white cotton string out from a holder and in a flash they would wrap the string around the package in one direction and then the other. Meat markets did a similar wrapping process only in white "waxed" paper, then sometimes rolled and tied it with a brown paper covering as well. "Thank you, Mr. Phillips, won’t you please come again," would be the clerks next cheery words as the package was gathered up by the customer. Some years later, paper bags came into use and were much more convenient, especially in stores that sold small and/or loose items. Bigham-Anderson Hardware had tiny little paper sacks for vegetable seeds and large heavy-duty sacks for nails, screws, and bolts. Large quantities came in a wooden box, crate, keg or barrel. When empty these wooden containers were used again and again around the homestead for other purposes. Plastic bags, bubble wrap, shrink-wrap and the like, have all come about in recent years. As a kid, the closest I can remember to plastic was celluloid that came out during World War II. It would be a long time before someone invented the plastic cola, or milk bottle. I’ll bet it’s hard to milk into one of those narrow mouthed milk bottles, but I digress. So when you’re at the store and they ask you "Paper or Plastic," tell ‘em I said "Plastic." Twill give our grand kids something to collect! Now, you can start looking for the new hemp rope! ~ By Ralph R. Jones, Managing Editor
My Maggie As Fair As Ever When my wife and I were with our Senior Adult church-friends a few months ago in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, we were killing time taking in the sights near the "Old Mill" restaurant as we had to wait almost one hour before being seated. Barbara and some of her women friends were in line, but Mickey Gentry and I found ourselves listening to a three-piece band play and sing old-time Country Music. They were playing in an informal setting on the porch of the Old Mill General Store. Perhaps a dozen folks were seated; some in cane-bottomed, ladder-back chairs and another handful were standing along the porch railing. I asked them if they took requests, and upon learning that they did, I asked them if they knew, "Precious Jewel." Sure enough, they did, and they played it rather well. Another old tune came to mind, and I asked about "Maggie." The lead singer thought he had it in his book of lyrics, but the other two weren’t sure they knew the song that began, "I wandered today to the hill, Maggie." However, once the singer started strumming his guitar, the other two picked up the music right on key. For those of us who’ve been married forever, and especially those over sixty, there’s a good possibility you’ve sung or heard this song. Some of the lyrics as I recall them are:
I wandered today to the hill, Maggie
Before there was a Pontotoc Lake and Recreation Area (now, Howard Stafford Park), I had found a tranquil place on a hilltop overlooking a stream below. The undeveloped land held a stand of pines whose random placement led me to believe man played no part in their being there. An abandoned railroad bed was only yards away. It was a good place to sit in partial sunlight on a cool, late fall day and contemplate one’s place in the created order. When I first experienced the solitude of this place, I had not met the woman who would later become my wife, but in the song I am able to picture her as my Maggie. The first time she saw the place I viewed as special was when the park was being dedicated and the "stream below" had become part of the lake. The song writer concludes that people change, also, with the passage of time. Barbara, "my Maggie," and I aren’t as feeble or as aged as the song writer describes, but we’re getting there. And, somehow, in a way I can’t explain, my Maggie is as fair to me today as she was when we were young; she’s as beautiful, no, more beautiful than the day I met her. Yeah, my eyesight’s not what it used to be, but my imagination is better. There’s a lady at the nursing home where Barbara’s mom resides who raves about my beautiful wife every time she sees us. "I don’t know how in Sam Hill you got her; she’s a pretty woman. How’d you get her?" she’s apt to say with the implication being that I’m not much to look at. She has what I believe is the middle stage of Alzheimer’s disease. She can talk my ear off, but she repeats herself over and over. Since she can’t remember from one Sunday to the next what I tell her, I often make up a different answer for her question. Sometimes, I tell her that I picked out my wife from a Sears Roebuck catalog, or that she came in a box of Cracker Jacks, or maybe I’ll tell her the truth that I met her on the doorsteps of her parent’s home in Ripley, Mississippi.
That remark usually merits a slap on my arm and a scolding, "You won’t do!" Yet, I think my made-up answer contains an element of truth. Surely, aging is apparent, but at the same time blooming has occurred in the process. And, I can say with all honesty, "But to me, you’re as fair as you were, Barbara, when you and I were young." ~ By Wayne L. Carter, Associate Editor & Publisher
My New Old Truck Granddarlings Like Opie It’s no coincidence testosterone begins with the letter "t" as do truck, train, tractor, transmission, tools, t-bone, and countless other manly likes." ~Carl Wayne Most men folk I know either have a truck or want one. Recently I found one in the right price range, cheap, and unlike me, has everything working. He, and I imagine he is a he, is a high mileage 1991 Ford F-150. A truck I could afford had been on my wish list and prayer list for quite some time. Frankly I had grown impatient and doubtful. I was resigned to accepting the Good Lord had other plans for me. Some of us meet for lunch in the cafeteria occasionally to discuss and solve world problems. When I brought up my unanswered prayer, Mike, a great American, related how he was in that same situation for years when he finally told the Good Lord he would quit asking and accept His will. He got his cheap old/new truck the next week. I did the same and soon had my truck. I don't think it was a coincidence. I believe it was a gracious God who waited until I realized everything good comes from Him, and would now appreciate the truck more, give Him the glory, and use it for good helping with growing veggies for His needy people in the Victory Garden. My old van Bluebird is still with me. She, and she is a she, is worth more to me than what little I could get for her. Besides, to Mimi’s consternation, she will remain a rolling storage shed and Spring greenhouse. Plus, I can get all four granddarlings and Belle, the pom-a-poo, in her after only twenty minutes of unloading and rearranging my stuff. My immediate challenge is finding a name for my new old pickup. Since the truck bed is already full of my valuable gardening stuff, The Great Full Bed sounds right. I like Rocinante, after Don Quixote’s pretend knightly steed. Our granddarlings prefer Opie, so that’s what he will be. Me and Belle are making big plans for Opie for next year. Mimi thinks we are just napping in the recliner. We read Steinbeck’s Travels With Charley, but we don’t want to go on a trip without Mimi. Belle can’t see out the windshield unless she’s standing on Mimi’s lap. We are thinking of borrowing an idea from Felder Rushing and plant a garden in Opie’s bed. Felder says it’s organic, since he can drive faster than bugs fly. We gardeners are liable to fill just about every empty spot with a plant. Me and Belle have a lot more planning and discussing with Mimi on this idea. ~ By Carl Wayne Hardeman, Editor
Esperanza Later Became Hurricane The names of places, and people, and the way they are pronounced has always been a mystery to me. One of my favorite sayings came from the movie, Sgt. York, which was set in the hills of East Tennessee, back during World War I and happedn during a knock-down, drag-out fight at a nightclub on the Kentucky/Tennessee border. The actor was Ward Bond, and as the fight began he said, "Huar we go," and doubled his fist and joined the fight. He was instantly knocked down. He got up, spit on his fist, and said, "Huar we go again." Down he went again, but said, "I’m still a-coming."
One of the men then said something about "Jim-town." The salesman said, "I thought it was Jamestown." "It air, said the Old-timer". One of the towns in my story involves the little town where my wife was born. She lived the most of her growing years in and around Memphis, but she was born in a little town in McNairy County by the name of Finger. I had seen the return address on Christmas cards and other mail, and they were postmarked, "Finger, TN." I just assumed that was the way it was pronounced. Then one of her cousins came to visit, and someone asked where he was from. He said, "Fanger." I wanted to say, as the man in the movie said, "I thought it was Finger." I would almost have expected him to say, "It air." In the early years of my career I sold bus tickets. I got to the point that I could almost tell if a person was visiting the town where they were going, or if they were from there. For instance, there is Selmer, TN, but the people that were from there seemed to throw in an "ai", as opposed to an "e." To me it sounded as if they were saying Sailmer. Lafayette in Louisiana sure does not sound like Lafayette Springs in Mississippi. I found that out on my first trip while working there. The lady who I was working with was from there. The way she said Lafayette was sure different from the way I said it. She said, "Just say it as if you were saying Laugh. Then put in the e, add ette, put it all back together and say it fast, like Laugh-e-ette." It still did not sound right to me. I am afraid that I realized that my own pronunciations might have been a little strange to some people when I worked with a French Lady one time. I suppose she used near perfect English. She asked where I was from. I said, "Pontotoc County, Mississippi", or at least that’s what I thought I had said. Apparently, according to her, I said, "Pon-toc County, Mis-cippi. She said that it sounded as if I had swallowed at least two syllables, and added a C in Mississippi, and that I may have added uh, a, or o, in Pontotoc, after dropping the "to." In any case that brings me to my story of a town, or community, near where I was born. I never claimed to be from there because I went to school in Thaxton. The town in my story is Hurricane, and you might not find it on a state map, because, according to history, and folklore, the town was originally named, "Esperanza." The story goes that a tornado came through and destroyed the town, so when they re-built, they named the town Hurricane. My father told me the story when I was growing up. I never could understand why, if a tornado blew away the town, why did they not name the new town, Tornado, as opposed to Hurricane? However, that’s not the complete story of Hurricane. I had a good friend that I worked with for over forty years who was from Hurricane, or was it Hare-kin, or maybe Hair-can. I could never pronounce it the way he did. The way he said, "Hurricane", reminds me of another movie. This one was a John Wayne Movie, and was about the American Indians. Someone asked him how to pronounce a certain Native American word in the English Language. He said, "You can’t say it in English, because it means much more than can be explained in one word." Could it be that Hurricane is the same way? Maybe you just have to be from there to say it the way my friend said it, because to those who are from there it means much more than can be said in one word. ~ By M. G. "Russ" Russell, Contributor
Protectionism Saving Us From Ourselves We are all thankful for having those on the national, state, and local levels that protect us from all sorts of real harm. However, in some cases it is getting overbearing and feels that They are protecting us to death. Some parents protect their children to the point of pulling them away from society and life itself. We grew up with a boy whose parents were so afraid he would catch a bug, skin his knee, or hurt himself in some other way that they would not allow him to grow up as an ordinary kid. He was so confined and put-upon, that he grew up with a warped outlook on life. Some fifty years ago, he moved far away from family and friends and has had no contact since. In 1949 as I began learning to drive an automobile, there were no seat belts, or air bags, not even padded dashboards. My grandchildren have been on my case about seatbelts for so long that I have about gotten use to the ornery thing. I know seatbelts are good at reducing injury and saving lives: however, they do not make me a safer driver nor do they protect others from my driving. If you read the constitution there is no provision for the government to protect "ME from ME!" So, back off, big guys! If you eat at a restaurant or cafeteria, much of the food is so tasteless that it’s almost uneatable, especially vegetables. The big, unseen, They have said salt is bad for our health, so to be politically correct, restaurants have run from salt and omitted it altogether. Example of what I’m saying, cook some oatmeal and omit the recommended dash of salt. It tastes terrible, and you cannot add enough salt, after the fact, to make it taste even close to good. All good country cooks added a little "fat back" or bacon drippings in vegetables to enhanse the flavor. Boooo – Hissss – Unacceptable says They! Fat is bad for you with a capital "B." They say that all pork and much of the red meat is a no – no. I suppose God made pigs just for pets and cows for mowing the grass. Give me a break…!
I have heard that it is against the law to kill yourself. Imagine that! I suppose if you tried, but failed, They could lock you up for attempted murder. Then They would try you and possibly sentence you to death; ain’t that a kick in the head. And another thing, is there a cemetery that is secluded behind prison walls just for those who have been successful? Do they get a "life sentence" after they have done themselves in? But each week They are enacting laws to protect "you from yourself." While walking through our church the other Sunday, I noticed large, gallon sized, pump bottles of clear liquid at various locations. To kill the germs after shaking hands with fellow believers was the answer to my question…"Why?" I’d have to strap a tank of the stuff to my back, if I were so paranoid. I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer but am intelligent enough to refrain putting both hands into my mouth after shaking folks hands. My Mom taught me not to do that almost seventy years ago before there was a swine flu, bird flu, H1N1 flu, or what-have-you flu. Do They think we are all idiots? Evidently! Young people, I do have a solution for you about the problems with spreading germs while kissing. Both of you tie a plastic kerchief over your nose and mouth similar to what the cowboys used to filter out dust. I know it will lessen the effect of that romantic kiss, but at least you’ll not get a cold or the flu; after all They are only protecting "you from you." They have passed a state law forbidding smoking in public and in privately owned office buildings. Now, I’m not a smoker, smoking is bad for you; I know that, you know that, but it is none of my business if you still want to smoke; but They ought not have the right to protect "you from you." They have become so liberal in their thinking it is to the point of paranoia. Political Correctness has brought our strong leaders to their knees and allowed twerps to capitalize on the same. The legal system seems to foster this Political Correctness for it’s own agenda of total control. The legal profession has long since thrown out "what is right," and substituted "what is legal." How long will we tolerate what They say and do? When will we begin to think and act for ourselves and say, "We’ve had enough protection?" It is not Their legal right, privilege, nor calling to protect "Me from Me!" ~ By Ralph R. Jones, Managing Editor
Memory Trigger Hickory Smoke And Cold Weather Roughly twenty-five years ago, the ten Sunflower Meat Merchandising Specialists for the Lewis Grocer Company, their boss, and a couple of office workers were treated to a fishing trip on the White River near Mountain View, Arkansas. I was one of the specialists. Bryan Brothers, a meat packing company headquartered in West Point, Mississippi, arranged the trip, and provided their company plane to transport us from Jackson Mississippi to Mountain View, Arkansas, and they even saw to our accommodations and provided our fishing guides. Representatives of Bryan Brothers were our hosts. The trip would become one of my favorite memories of my days as a Meat Specialist. As a group or team, we specialists saw each other roughly once a month at called meetings in Indianola, and as such were able to learn from each other’s experiences as well as learn more about one another. But, that fishing trip was not so much a business trip as it was a retreat. Retreats provide individuals the opportunity to be themselves outside a normal business environment. Ben Franklin said, with perhaps more truth than irony, "There are more old drunkards than old doctors." I suppose that is meant to imply that drinking improves longevity. And, if that’s the case, old meat men stand a chance of living a long life, too, as most are well acquainted with beers, ales, wines, and liquors that contribute to drunkenness. I dare say I was the only man in the group who had never been drunk, and for what it’s worth, I was at that time and still remain a teetotaler. Alcohol flowed freely from the time we departed until we returned, and a few of my co-workers drank to the point of excess, and several, in various states of drunkenness, told tales of sexual conquests and misadventures that might have been better left untold. The smell of alcoholic beverages was a dominant one during the entire trip, but it’s not the one I best remember. We stayed in cabins along the river, but our meals were prepared on an open campfire along the riverbank. As we were there in October, the weather had enough nip in the air for one to appreciate a warm fire. There has always been something about a good campfire that draws me to it. Maybe, it’s the leaping flames when it is first lit; maybe, it’s the crackling sounds of wood splitting as the moisture within is heated and expands, creating cracks and splits; maybe, it’s watching glowing embers become coals of ash; Maybe, it’s all these and more.
Smoke follows beauty, or so they say. I doubt there is any truth to that adage, but regardless, the wafting smoke kept me frequently moving to different positions around the campfire. For a few days, I was in outdoor heaven. Watching the flowing river, catching a few fish, enjoying the beauty of the autumnal foliage amid the hills, all added to the enjoyment of our outdoor meals. Here at my home in Pontotoc, I occasionally catch the sweet aroma of smoke from a neighbor’s chimney, but fall and spring spur others to clog my air passages with the unpleasant smoke of smoldering leaves. More often than not, however, the smoke I smell comes from my Weber kettle grill, which I must say is a pleasing fragrance. On a recent December night, I was readying the grill for a few baby-back ribs. After placing the meat on the upper rack, I grabbed a handful of dry hickory chips and tossed them on white-hot charcoal briquettes right before placing the domed lid back on the grill. When I opened the top air vents, four columns of sweet hickory smoke enveloped my face. In that instance, I was back on an Arkansas riverbank, with all my old meat-specialist friends. The first and only old friend to come to mind was John Carter, the eldest member of our group and a delightful gentleman, who passed away a few years ago. For a few moments, I felt as though he and I were standing beside a campfire watching rib eye steaks sizzle. I’m left wondering if John arranged that set of circumstances to visit me or if it was but one of those instances which smell-scientists describe as a memory trigger. I’m comfortable with either. Feel free to drop in anytime, John; if you don’t want your steak, I’ll eat it. ~ By Wayne L. Carter, Associate Editor & Publisher
Going To Town Now going to town was a big thing in those days! ~Carl Wayne As we grow older, we reflect on the old days and old ways, forgetting the comforts and conveniences we now take for granted. Since most everyone we knew lived "in the country," going to town was a big event. We lived in several small towns, but still went to town on Saturday mornings to buy groceries, or at least the things we didn’t raise or make ourselves. The summer I lived with Aunt Cora and Uncle Charlie, we went to town sitting on the fender skirts of his Ford tractor and standing on the axle. Aunt Cora could also tote the bag of whatever she bought from her egg and butter money. One story I cherish told me by my daddy-in-law, Ralph Graham, was about going to town in the old days. The subject would come up when we would travel the old route from their home in the old Esperanza community through Thaxton to Pontotoc. As the oldest boy, Ralph got to go with his daddy, Sanford Graham, riding in a mule drawn wagon. They would leave after working all day Friday and travel to a grove of trees a few miles west of Pontotoc, where they would meet up with others with the same intentions. He would reminisce about the wood fires, the knife swapping, and the old stories told over and over in a deep darkness we seldom see nowadays. Next morning they arose early enough to hitch up and drive the last few miles into town by sunup to trade and do more visiting. This was the way they got most, if not all, of their news, whether about politics or how the war was going. Many had sons off to war and were anxious for any scrap of news. They stayed all day, returning home after dark. Bazel McLaughlin recently told me a story about that road. In those days it was not paved. There was a spot called big hill, not noticeable nowadays after years of grading and roadwork. If the road was muddy, as it often was, folks would help each other get over that hill. They would unhitch one mule team and use both teams to get the wagons over big hill, one at a time. Folks helped each other in those days. Over time I understood that when the old folks drive the old roads, they see things I never saw or will ever know. ~ By Carl Wayne Hardeman, Editor
Boxes and Boxes A Family Heirloom When I was a little girl I thought that my grandmother "DEN" held the mysteries of the universe. She had the most interesting stories to tell me and always had the time to stop and answer any and all my questions, and believe you me, there were plenty. I wanted to know everything about anything and my curiosity only peeked more and more as I grew older.
About the time I entered Jr. High, Den gave me that old tin box and told me that someday I would realize the significance of it and also appreciate the rarity of the box itself. I packed it away among my most prized possessions and there it stayed for the next half century. This tin had been in her possession for at least a zillion years she’d said. Written on the box was the word, Salmagundi (pronounced, sal-ma-gun-di). When I moved to my retirement place by the river, it was the one 'needless' thing I brought with me because it held so many memories of her and me sneaking away quietly on the back porch with the box for a little impromptu history lesson about our family. One day the tin might hold pictures of people who had long gone on to be with the Lord and the stories that surrounded them and how significant they were to the making up of our family. Other times there might be a rhinestone pin that someone had given to her and a story about how and why she had kept it for so many years and still other times there might be the old postcards that she and my grandfather had written to one another almost at the turn of the century when they were courting. But the times I remember and liked the best were the times when the tin box held edible treats such as the sneaking candy I mentioned earlier. I’ll never forget all those many times we sat on the steps of the back porch eating candy out of that old tin box. The candy would either be a Milky Way or caramel kisses. You remember those little squares that were individually wrapped? Over the years I came to realize how important that little tin candy box really was to Den and I also realized what she meant when she told me that someday I would appreciate its worth. In all these years I had never seen another one just like it and it slowly became my connection to the past as the floodgates of memories started opening up to me while writing this column. Each time I looked inside the box I remembered one of her stories. Well today, on my trip to Hobby Lobby in Florence, Ala. I stopped off at the Big Lots and there it was; another tin like my grandmothers that I’ve had for the past 50 years. The mosaic looking tin caught my eye right off and I was filled with so much emotion I actually cried. I bought it!!! I was thrilled to see that it was a full tin and that the same word, Salmagundi, was inscribed on the lid. Was I having a good day, or what? You bet’chum Red Rider. Den and I shopped together the rest of the afternoon as memories of her flooded back in. For just one short afternoon I was a little girl again, sitting on her back porch anxiously waiting for her to open the lid to her tin box and begin her amazing story of the treasure she’d placed inside for me that day. ~ By Clarene Evans, Guest Contributor
Bubba Bodock Who Dat Cajun ~ In Hell Cajun died and went to hell. The devil assigned him the usual punishment and put him in the mass pit, where the heat was melting others. The devil came back some time later surprised to find the Cajun just sitting around, not even misting, much less sweating. ">How come you're not so much as sweating here when everyone else is screaming for relief from the heat?" The Cajun laughed and said, "Man, I was raised in the bayous of Sout Looziana.. Dis ain't nothin' but May in Morgan City to me!" The devil decided to really put the Cajun through it. He put him in a sealed off cave in the pit with open blazes and four extra furnaces blasting. When he came back days later, the Cajun was sitting pretty, had barely begun to bead up with sweat. The devil was outraged and said, "How is this possible!? You should be melted to a shrieking puddle in these conditions!" The Cajun laughed even harder than before. "Hey, man! I done tole you. I was raised in Sout Looziana. You tink dis is heat?! Dis ain't nothin' but August on Cow Island!" So the devil thought, 'Alright, a little reverse ought to do the trick.' He put the Cajun into a corner of hell where no heat ever reached. It was freezing and to add to the Cajun's misery, he added massive icebergs and blasting frozen air. When he returned, the Cajun was shivering, ice hung from every part of him but he was grinning like it was Christmas. Exasperated, the devil asked "HOW!? How is it possible?! You're impervious to heat and here you sit in conditions you can't be used to...freezing cold and yet you're happier than if you were in heaven. WHY?!" The Cajun kept grinning and asked, "Don't dis mean de Saints won da Super Bowl?" The Lemon Picker The woman applying for a job in a Florida lemon grove seemed to be far too qualified for the job. The foreman frowned and said, "I have to ask you this, "Have you had any actual experience in picking lemons?" She sighed, turned to him and said, "Well, as a matter of fact, I have! "I've been divorced three times, owned 2 Chryslers, and I voted for Obama! "
Our Mission Purpose - The Bodock Post It is our desire to provide a monthly newsletter about rural living with photographs of yesterday and today, including timely articles about conservative politics, religion, food, restaurant reviews, gardening, humor, history, and non-fiction columns by folks steeped in our Southern lifestyle. Copyright © 2010 The Bodock Post. Return to home page. Open This Issue with MS Word Click to Subscribe to The Bodock Post
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Paper or plastic is something you hear asked
a lot these days, in grocery stores especially. I personally like plastic
the best; you can carry so many more sacks that way. Just hook many sacks
over your fingers and away you go. Before those of you fretting about the
environment start to gather a good hemp rope to hang me with, let me say
this. I know it takes a long time to disintegrate that plastic stuff, that
it will be in the land fills for a gazillion years, and that the little micro
bugs will not even eat it, but lets face it; something has to stay around
to tell generations in the far distant future that we all shopped at Wally
World. My great-great-great-great-grandchildren will dig those bags up and
sell them on "mental telepathy-mail" for ten hundred gullion dollars each.
They will be so glad that their dear old grand pappy was "hip" enough to
go with the modern trends.
In this song, I particularly like the nostalgia
of the words and the gently flowing sounds when it’s played. The songwriter
sort of draws me into his world in the first couple of lines. I can closely
identify with his return to a once familiar area only to see all that has
changed over the years. I have a place in mind right here in the City of
Pontotoc.
But, I am more likely to stretch the truth
a little with, "You should have seen her before we got married. Over the
years, she’s really blossomed!"
The other saying in the movie that
reminded me of the towns in this article was when all of the men were sitting
around in the store talking when a traveling salesman came in. He mentioned
something that had happened over in Jamestown.
If we don’t already
know about dietary matters, there are those who will gladly share openly
and honestly. My doctor is quite good about what to eat and what to shun.
However, he does not recommend taking all salt and fats from my diet. He
doesn’t steal my chickens so that I have no eggs. They
are slowly but surely doing just that, stealing our chickens, in the name
of saving "me from me."
I think what I most remember about
the campfires along the White River, were the smells. I love the smell of
hickory burning, and while I don’t remember what type of wood fueled
our morning and nightly campfires, I remember enjoying the smoke from the
wood almost as much as the smoke rising when fat drippings from our steaks
were ignited by the coals beneath the iron grid that comprised our "stovetop."
Den owned this small square tin candy box
that she claimed held all kinds of secrets and only she knew how to interpret
them and when to reveal them. The tin box had been put out by the Whitman
Candy Company and she kept some of her most prized ‘valuables’
in it. That meant that most of the time it held her best 'sneaking
candy'. (Now, you know what sneaking candy is. That is the candy
you eat when no one is looking right before your dinner. It’s
the kind of candy that makes you not want your supper and it’s the kind
of candy that drives your mama crazy because she can’t figure out why
her child is never hungry at meal time.)
