From The Arbor Muster The Patriots
Memorial Day began here in Mississippi, as a day set aside to tidy-up the graves of both Union and Confederate soldiers and was, for a time, referred to as "Decoration Day." Far from its roots, today, Memorial Day is, largely, just another holiday to be celebrated in activities of "summer fun." Oh, some of us find time to observe the day as intended originally, but the big crowds pay little attention to the day save for a bit about the day on the evening and/or late night news. After all, it’s a holiday and holidays are about what we as individuals can do for our own enjoyment, right? Next in the process of special days is Flag Day, June 14th. It’s also a day to show our patriotism with a bit of "flag-waving," and to reflect on our freedoms and the many countries around the world that enjoy a measure of freedom, today, thanks to the efforts of the brave men who carried our flag onto foreign soils. Third in this series of patriotic occasions is by far the biggest. We call it Independence Day as it is the day we honor our founding fathers in their decision to declare our independence from colonial rule by the British. July 4, 1776, was not the day we won the right to rule ourselves, but it began the process whose end result we now enjoy. This casual observer feels we do a better job in the observance of Independence Day than the other two, but that may have more to do with the order of the three events. Memorial Day and Flag Day, more or less, set the stage for our July 4th celebration. We celebrate, justifiably so, as the land of the free and the home of the brave, and we should, with equal enthusiasm, support the teaching of the principles of liberty and justice for all in our schools. It would be tragic for Americans to forget the importance of freedom and why our forefathers risked life and property to be free to govern themselves, but today we are in danger of our worst fears becoming a reality. Creeping Socialism threatens the foundations of our Republic. Let us each do our part to insure socialism dies with the current generation. Summer is officially here. Many of us are of the opinion the recent hot weather would be more welcome in August, especially, since the normally cooler temperatures of fall are not that far away. August temperatures in the middle of June are cause for concern and leave us wondering what sort of summer we have in store. Here at "The Post," we welcome two writers in our July Issue. We believe you’ll enjoy the stories by Frances Massey and Dianne Renfrow. If you have a story you wouldn’t mind us sharing with our readers, please consider submitting it per our guidelines for content and length. Our publishing year ends with our August issue. If you are interested in obtaining a soft-cover, spiral-bound edition of our second year (September 2009 – August 2010, 12 complete issues), please contact us prior to August 1, 2010. We estimate the price will not exceed $15.00, plus shipping. This is a one-time offer and will not be extended beyond the August 1, deadline. Click here for more information. ~ By Wayne L. Carter, Associate Editor & Publisher
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.
Algoma Goings-On From A Principal's Daughter My father commanded, "You are to come to a complete stop at that STOP sign." "I did," I answered. "No, you just slowed down," he replied. "Don’t swallow your food whole," said Mother. "Don’t just get up, gulp, and go. Have you done your homework?"
Teaching was their profession. We moved to Algoma, Mississippi, in Pontotoc County, in 1954 when my brother was entering the eighth grade, and I was entering the sixth grade. Dad was the principal at the Algoma School, grades one through twelve, and Mother taught the fourth grade.
I remember Mother sometimes made fudge for her Sunday school class on Sunday mornings. It seemed to me that she just stirred chocolate, sugar, and butter in a black skillet a few minutes and then it was ready. She made it look so easy! I enjoy cooking but I have never mastered whipping up fudge like she did. Truthfully, I have not mastered making fudge at all. She really didn’t use many recipes…didn’t need them. She did use a recipe, however, for the sweet, fourteen-day pickles she made in the summer time. Mother made hot biscuits every morning and sometimes at night, too. Often on Sundays she would cook "chicken in the jug." This was before the Crock Pot era. She would brown the chicken in a black skillet and then put it in the jug in the oven so it would be done when we returned from church. In addition to her domestic skill, she was a dedicated fourth grade teacher. Many high school students thought of my father as being a very strict principal. He was really very sensitive. Although he was a serious person, he enjoyed a sense of humor. One rainy Saturday night someone called and asked my father if it was raining outside. He said, "Stick your head out and see." (Ha) We all had a good laugh. I’m sure the caller did too. I was in the sixth grade when we got our first television. My father said, "I don’t know that we really need one, but students keep asking me if I watched a certain program the night before, and I hate to keep telling them no. I guess we should buy one." Of course, Robert and I affirmed that decision! In about 1958 my father bought a 1951 Ford pick-up and had it painted bright yellow. Thus, we called it "Old Yeller." He left for school earlier than we did so he drove Old Yeller to school and left the car for us. When the weather was warm we walked to school. At the time, I was disappointed that we always lived so close to school that I missed out on riding the bus. Mother and Dad had a vegetable garden every summer. One time I hoed down some of the okra plants instead of the weeds. Apparently, I didn’t cut all of them because my parents didn’t get too upset. Shelling butterbeans and peas was a family affair. Those fresh vegetables were certainly tasty, but those purple hull peas certainly did stain fingers! One summer day when Dad had been working in the yard, he came inside chuckling. A salesman had stopped by looking for the school principal. When he saw Dad all sweaty working in the yard, he thought Dad was the gardener. I guess he didn’t realize that in the summer the principal worked in his yard as well as in the school office. Mother and Dad thought my brother and I needed hands on experience with farm life so we each had a cow as a 4-H project. Yes, my brother and I had to milk. I cared nothing about milking a cow. In the fall we showed our cows at the dairy show at the Pontotoc County Fair. In those days, people took time to sit in the swing on the front porch either with a family member or with a neighbor. I remember sharing many fun conversations sitting in the swing, talking and waving as friends drove by. Even though Mother and Dad never tried to convince my brother or me to teach, we both chose teaching as our career and found it very fulfilling. How fortunate Robert, and I were to have been reared by model, hard-working, Christian parents. We lost our father in 1973 and Mother in 2005, but the treasured memories of growing up with their loving guidance in the caring Algoma community will always be with me. ~ By Frances Magers Massey, Contributor Biographical Sketch: Frances (Magers) Massey graduated from Algoma High School (Pontotoc County) in 1961. She received a Bachelor of Science degree from Blue Mountain College in 1965 and a Master of Education degree from the University of Memphis in 1982. She taught English in West Memphis, AR, and at Mt. Juliet High School in Mt. Juliet, TN. After teaching for 31 years, she retired in June 2009. She and her husband live in Brentwood, TN, and have two grown sons and a daughter-in-law.
You Don’t Know Peas Delectable Differences How luscious lies the pea within the pod. ~ Emily Dickinson
Some folks just don’t know peas. I recently became aware that peas,
the very staple of our Southern life, are not very well known or understood
by people in other climes and culinary
heritages. Adding to that confusion is this statement from experts at Louisiana State University: "The southern pea is also known as cowpea and field pea, but some just call it various names like black-eyes, crowders, peas, etc." That document even failed to mention Mississippi caviar, a relish made with black-eyed peas. Clearly these august folks never had to pick peas and never had the pleasure of sampling the delicate differences in taste and texture. They probably have never experienced the delicate taste differences between mustard greens, turnip greens, or collard greens, either. Sadly the newer generation is missing out too. Many of the varieties of veggies we grew and ate should be on the endangered list, as they are not available in stores and most restaurants. They would be surprised by a tasty steaming serving of soupy black-eyed or purple hull peas over hot rice seasoned with onions, salt, pepper, and bacon, or a cup of piping hot homemade veggie soup with many kinds of peas and veggies in it, and maybe some noodles or elbow macaroni. I believe I can identify from look or taste black-eyed peas, purple hull peas, crowder peas, lady peas, cream peas, whippoorwill peas, butter peas, sweet peas, and a few others. Butter peas are by far my favorite. They are large peas with a delicate taste which grow in a pod like butterbeans. Mimi cooked some from our freezer last week. Our parents used to can veggie soup for the winter with every kind of pea and veggie. We also grew butterbeans, colored butter beans, and snap beans but found them a chore to pick as they grow under the leaves and you have to bend way over or crawl to pick them, while black-eyed and purple hull and crowder peas grow on a stem that sticks out above the plant making them quick and easy to pick. When plant production dropped off, and we wanted to start the next season garden, sometimes we would pull up the vines and put them into a wagon or truck-bed and take them to the house and sit out on the porch and pick off and shell the peas and beans. The Victory Garden grows a big beautiful bounty of purple hull peas for the needy. They, along with cabbages and turnips and turnip greens are asked for the most. In my backyard I have several large containers. This year I am growing Kentucky Wonder pole beans. In recent years I have grown purple hull peas and crowder peas. I make just enough for Mimi to cook us an occasional meal in remembrance of meals past. ~ By Carl Wayne Hardeman, Editor
Hitching A Ride Great Experiences Times were harder, fewer cars, less money and many soldiers were traveling and hitchhiking was a matter of fact thing. Most folks were more trusting and more trustworthy. If you saw a person hitchhiking, especially if he was in uniform, it was common, even patriotic, to offer him a lift. Up through the 1950s it was not uncommon to see a hitchhiker thumbing a ride. The Interstate System began to criss-cross the country and with their ban on hitchhiking, the practice slowed considerably. Also there were some people killed by a hitchhiker and it got national attention at the time. That threw a wrench of fear in the cogs of the free ride. Today you may still see someone hitching on the ramp of an interstate or on a major highway, but they are few. In the mid-50s, as a college student, I hitched quite a lot. Without a car and away from home it was a natural thing to do. Glen, my roommate, and I would often hitchhike from Longview, Texas to Dallas to attend the State Fair. It was a two hundred and fifty mile round trip along U.S. 80. We would leave early in the morning, spend the day at the fair, then hitch back to Longview before midnight. We thought little of it and always enjoyed talking to the drivers; sometimes they would even buy us a meal.
We picked the last traffic light in town, and with a sign made from a cardboard box lid and black shoe polish, it usually did not take long. One of us would hold the sign and the other did the thumbing. We waved and smiled at everyone that passed whether they picked us up or not. It paid off as a driver would often say, "I’ve seen you several times and finally decided you two were O.K." Sometimes a ride would take us all the way to Dallas, sometimes it took a half dozen different rides. On occasions a trucker would pick us up. Once going to Ft. Worth the driver of a semi overloaded with fruit from the coast stopped for us. He had been driving for about twenty-four hours. The big Mack diesel he drove moaned as it started from all the stops in the small towns along this two lane highway. The truck had ten forward gears with two shift leavers. When he had to shift both levers at the same time he would loop his arm through the steering wheel and use both hands. We talked, sang, and otherwise kept him awake for a hundred and fifty miles. It was an interesting trip for us all. Glen lived in Wyoming and it was too far for him to go home on the short holidays like Thanksgiving. On those occasions he would come home with me to Pontotoc, a distance of about four hundred miles. That first year without a car we decided to hitchhike. Having had much experience on shorter trips we thought it would be a lark to try the longer journey. Another friend from school, Justin, was going on over into Alabama so he decided to come along. Our first ride let us out in Bastrop, Louisiana, it was black dark and beginning to rain. We beat it to a service station that had open bays for washing and greasing cars. Glen was in the middle as we ran inside the pitch black opening. It turned out that there was not a hydraulic lift, instead a pit that the car drove over and the mechanic worked from under the car. It just so happened that Justin and I ran on either side of the pit, Glen fell right smack into the hole. One minute he was there the next he had disappeared. Quite a shock to us all, but especially so to Glen. However, he was not hurt. We fished him out, and continued hitching through the night. One thing we learned; don’t hitchhike with more than two people. Rides were few and far between, but by the next night we were within twenty-five miles of home. I called Dad, and he came and picked us up. Justin continued toward Alabama. We opted for a bus on the return trip. Since college I have not tried hitching any more. Up until a few years ago I would still pick up a hitchhiker if I was traveling alone. Somewhere out west, I had been driving for so long and was sleepy and had determined to pick up a hiker if I came across one. About that time I saw a sign on the road that said, "HITCHHIKERS MAY BE ESCAPING PRISIONERS," Oklahoma State Prison. Needless to say, I ceased looking. While traveling south on U.S. 51 out of Memphis one cold day, I picked up an interesting older man. He was not panhandling, just nursing a cup of coffee at Steak and Egg cafe. He appeared to be hungry, so I bought both of us some breakfast, and we chatted. As we finished our meal I asked if he needed a lift somewhere. He said he was headed south for warmer weather. He was dressed rather warmly with decent enough clothes, but you could tell he had been on the road for a while. We left the restaurant, and we talked more as we rode together. Letting him out at the last traffic light in Hernando, I gave him enough money for another meal or two, something I rarely do. I had an unnatural feeling about the man. What he said and how he said it impressed me that there was more to him than met the eye. I could not put my finger on it, but later that day my mind asked, "Could this have been an angel?" Hebrews 13:2 says that some people have entertained angels unaware; I believe he may have been one. I have never had that feeling before or since; only eternity will tell. Do I pick up hitchhikers now? No! There are not many of them for one thing, and as crazy and doped up as some folks are today, it’s not worth the risk. However, there was a time when I thought nothing of stepping out on the road and lifting a thumb; it was an enjoyable way to travel. ~ By Ralph Jones, Managing Editor
Opal Austin 1914 ~ 2010
Carter & Austin Grocery was formed in the mid-fifties and was a family owned and operated business. There were few workers that were not family members. After school and on Saturdays, both my older brother and I worked in the store, as did the two Austin brothers, Billy Carl and Paul David. Miss Opal was not a full time employee, but she would often drop by to help "clean up." The woman was a whiz with a feather duster. Dad was not too keen on using a feather duster, claiming it only stirred up the dust. Yet, that didn't stop Miss Opal from her appointed rounds. I can still picture her "flying in" to dust the canned goods or straighten up a work area. She was the human equivalent of the cartoon character named the Tasmanian Devil. I don't know if Miss Opal's parents gave much thought to the meaning of "Opal," but "opal" comes from the Latin opalus, meaning seeing jewel, and she was definitely a jewel. Maybe they knew that symbolically "opal" expresses "hope, happiness, and truth," all desirable characteristics for their newborn. With four children to tend, a husband, and all that goes with a household to maintain, I once wondered where she got the energy to do all the things she did. At age 53, Miss Opal went back to school. As a bright student of Science, she soon earned enough college credits to become a Licensed Practical Nurse (LPN), and later worked at the hospital in Pontotoc. Opal also took in boarders during the natural gas pipeline construction days in the sixties, ran a day-care center in the seventies, and, somewhere along the way, found time to pursue an artistic interest in painting, both in oils and water color. As long as I knew her, Miss Opal had a thirst for knowledge. She knew the Bible as well as a lot of preachers. If she had not been "died-in-the-wool Church of Christ" she'd have been a lot more fun in the scholarly/ theological sense. I always respected her, though I expect she'll be more surprised to see me in Heaven, than I will to see her. Since 2000, my mother-in-law has been in the same nursing home with Miss Opal. And each time I visited my mother-in-law I would also visit Miss Opal. I was always impressed with Miss Opal’s positive attitude and sense of humor, and I never left her room feeling worse than when I entered. Many of her Nursing Home days were spent limited by a nerve/ muscle dysfunction, that left her unable to walk and wheel-chair bound. Her Common sense and her medical knowledge stimulated her to maintain a modest exercise regime. She extended her exercise program to her mind, too, reading as she would say, "anything I can get my hands on." Even in the confining atmosphere of a nursing home, Miss Opal continued to express herself in various forms.
At a time when most folks in their upper eighties might have thought of slowing down, Miss Opal, like the Energizer Bunny, just kept going and going. In fact she kept going right up to 95. The big difference between the Energizer Bunny and Miss Opal is she didn’t have replaceable batteries to keep her going. Her earthly batteries just ran down. However, the Miss Opal that we have known has been made new, and she now dwells in a new body that will never grow old and never wear out. I doubt she’s using a feather duster today, but I’m confident she’s busy doing whatever it is folks do in Glory Land and is looking forward to the day when she will help welcome us there. ~ By Wayne L. Carter, Associate Editor & Publisher Note: Opal Austin died June 08, 2010. Eulogy by Wayne Carter is adapted from an article honoring Miss Opal in 2001 Issue of Ridge Rider News.
Blackberries & Cows A Childhood Remembrance When I was a very young girl, my parents, two brothers, and sister would ride with my grandparents to the family farm in Arlington, Tn. where my grandmother grew up and my great uncle, then, lived. In the summer we’d visit on Saturday or Sunday and stay most of the day. Our arrival at the farm was always announced by howls and barks from my uncle’s pack of dogs. The farm house’s screen door would swing open with a long springy creak and then it would shut with a quick bang, as my uncle came out on the tin covered porch to calm the dogs. We’d pile out of the mint green sedan trying to skirt around the many dogs that greeted us, but they were quick to leave, usually to chase a rabbit. We kids would wander the farm to play until lunch, when we usually had fried chicken, potato salad, cool well water and home-made ice cream. When it was blackberry picking time on the farm, our parents would put us in thick socks, long sleeved shirts and long pants. Better to be hot than to get chiggers, they’d say. Sometimes, if we were lucky, we’d get sprayed with OFF. On one memorable visit, I wanted to go blackberry picking, while the others went to play. One of the adults gave me a bucket and sent me on my way. I had traveled passed the outhouse and chicken coops, through the wooded gate, across the pasture, under the barb wire, over the creek and into the wooded area until I reached the fence where blackberry vines hung over the many bushes. I‘d pick those dark purple, plump blackberries and placed them into the bucket. Of course while I was picking, I ate quite a few and even had some of the honey suckle; you’d break off the back and suck the nectar.
Not being very big, I was watching them to ensure they weren’t too close to me, before I began to make my trip across the pasture. Then as I took a step into the pasture, all the cows suddenly turned to look at me. I froze a few seconds and then just as suddenly the cows that where resting under the trees slowly rose to their feet. They were still a ways from me so I wasn’t fearful, just a little concerned. I took another step or two and as I looked side to side, I saw all the cows in the pasture were moving towards me at a quick walk. Seeing them heading my way, I stepped up my pace as well, and then the cows began to move at a fast trot. I looked up to see my parents, grandparents and uncle had gathered together on the back porch and were watching and smiling at the sight. I was getting more nervous as the cows, drawing ever closer, had began to follow me at a faster speed. What was I to do? I started to walk faster, with the bottom half of my body leading the way and leaving my upper half a little behind. I turned to see the cows were picking up speed and were right behind me. Then, I began to run, my family was laughing so hard, all the while the fear was clearly showing on my face, as the cows ran after me. I just barely made it through the rickety wooded gate, when the cows reached me leaning their heads over the fence. I was nearly in tears and quite shaken up. My family came down to calm me, and I was told that the cows weren’t after me. You see, my uncle fed the cows from a bucket, and when the cows saw the bucket they thought it was feeding, time and came running, literally. It was an experience that will stay with me in memory, but now, I am older, I can be the one to laugh about it. I have recounted this story many times and one time to a friend, who clearly didn’t understand about the bucket or blackberry picking or the cows and said to me after hearing my story," I didn’t know cows liked BLUEBERRIES". Oh yes, there is another story about me wanting to get the last baby chick following it’s mom, but anyone who knows about hens will know, I didn’t get that baby chick. ~ By Dianne Renfrow, Contributor Biographical Sketch: Dianne Elaine Ryan Renfrow is a native of Memphis, Tennessee. A middle child, Dianne has two brothers and one sister. She holds an Associate Degree in Computer Science, graduating with honors. For the past twenty-five years she has been employed by FedEx. Dianne loves to cross-stitch and has won numerous awards at the Delta Fair and the Mid-South Fair. Lazy-Man Gardening Working Smart Not Hard There is peace in a garden. Peace and results. ~ Ruth Stout Suppose you want a nice new flowerbed or veggie garden. The traditional thing to do is to till it up, amend with organic material and sand or gypsum if it has a lot of clay, till some more, and plant right away, all of which does work and is work and requires machinery and money. There is a better cheaper way, if you have the time. It’s called sheet mulching. We tried this method with one of our six plots in our Victory Garden for the needy. Going cheap was a necessity and a goal, as was minimizing our labor, and staying out of the hot sun. We spread a thick layer of newspaper on top of Bermuda grass- at least five sheets thick. We shredded and spread about two hundred bags of leaves one foot thick on the 22 x 35 plot. We did this in cool weather last fall and winter. We then added rotted manure and alfalfa pellets because we did not have time for the leaves to compost before planting time. We had to add nitrogen occasionally as decomposition uses up nitrogen. This spring we planted and grew large beautiful cabbages, broccoli, and potatoes in that plot. We are scroungers of the first order. We gather bags of leaves and grass from curbside. We use the grass to keep down weeds during growing season as Ruth Stout describes in her No Work Garden Book, though she prescribes straw. The idea is to eliminate the need to hoe and weed and to preserve moisture. The grass decomposes into new humus.
We use leaves for soil amendment and composting. We shred them with a mulching
lawn mower and spread on the garden. The shredding is not necessary, just
saves us some time. This is the same as rich humus from the
woods. Another way I would like to try is also low maintenance and low cost and if it saves me labor and money, I’m all for it. The catch is you need time. Most of our land in our area has heavy clay which requires loosening the soil. Tilling is the last thing you want to do since it is work, requires machinery, and destroys earthworms and soil structure. So, if you have the time, a native plant, yarrow can be your friend. It is easy to raise from seed, tolerates poor soil, and is drought tolerant. You can also plant turnips, parsnips, or rutabagas. The idea is to plant something which grows easily in poor soil and has a deep or wide root system. Instead of harvesting the root, they are left to decompose in the ground, which breaks up the hard clay and creates pockets of organic matter with beneficial microbes, and oxygen and water channels, thereby creating a nice loose soil bed. And yarrow has lovely blooms. Another strategy to break up and enhance thick clay soil is to plant a cover crop in the fall that has a dense root system and grows easily, such as rye or hairy vetch. You will have to knock it down mechanically or chemically to kill it in early spring, leaving the dense root system to decompose and enhance and loosen the soil. You then plant directly into the stubble. That’s what over 70 percent of Tennessee’s famers do, per Dr John Bradley, local no-till expert. Spend a little time; save a lot of work and money. Sounds like a winning combination to me. ~ By Carl Wayne Hardeman, Editor
VBS Time More Fun Than Regular School Yes, it’s that time of year again, short sleeved shirts, cotton pants, both starched to a ‘fare-thee-well’ for boys and colorful sun dresses with broad shoulder straps and wide skirts are being readied for the girls. It’s Vacation Bible School time! Seems that it gets later in the summer as public schools are closing later than before. In the l940s there were three churches in Pontotoc that had a Vacation Bible School each summer. These churches scheduled their meeting times so that it would not conflict with the other churches. Most of the kids, regardless of their church affiliation, attended all three VBS. None of the Vacation Bible Schools tried to proselyte the kids to their church; instead, they just told us about Jesus. Do you remember lining up outside on the east porch of the Baptist Church, or on the sidewalk at the Methodist or Presbyterian Church, ready to march into the sanctuary? What a grand feeling, all sparkly clean, even behind the ears, with such nice, however, uncomfortable, clothes and marching inside to a proud marching tune. We tried to stay in step, but at that age it was difficult because someone always stumbled, or stepped on someone’s heel and messed it all up. But we still enjoyed it.
One year I had spent too much time down at the creek without a shirt and
had blistered very badly in the hot Mississippi sun. That starched shirt
I wore each day was terribly scratchy to say the least. However, it wilted
soon enough after we had run and played for a
while. What a ride I had to VBS, one year. Clinton Tutor, a friend and almost a family member was at our house on his motorcycle. Man, what a magnificent machine that was: a Harley-Davidson, OHV 74, white tires, and two-tone turquoise and white paint, the biggest bike on the road. Today it would be called a "Big Hogs." He was kind to this little red head, and gave me a ride to the First Baptist Church on his Harley. Can you imagine the thrill I got, not only from riding the bike, but pulling up in front of the church on that magnificent machine for all my friends to see? I was "King of the Hill" that day. Once inside the church, we stood and with all the respect we could muster, said the Pledge of Allegiance to the American flag, then the Christian flag, and concluded with the Pledge to the Bible. Two cords were played on the piano, "bling," "blong." It sounded like the piano was saying "sit down." Those same two cords were sounded when we were to stand, only this time it was, "blong" "bling," or "stand up." Oh, how loudly we sang, trying to out-sing the girls, such beautiful songs just made for us kids. Each day someone would tell us an interesting story from the Bible, one that we could associate with. Mid-morning was snack and play time. The ladies of the church provided lemon-aide, punch, or another cool drink for our little parched throats. Delicious cookies stacked high, made by these same mothers, and covered several of the tables brought from the primary department, just awaiting the hungry little guys and gals. (Editor’s note: only store bought/wrapped cookies are legal at many VBSs today.) With a sugar rush as big as a barn, we devised impromptu running and chasing games. One time we found a fishing boat out behind the church that had partially filled with rain water. Having recently learned how a siphon works, I proceeded to find a section of garden hose and empty the boat to the amazement of all my friends. No telling how many bugs I ingested as I sucked the hose full of water to obtain the siphoning effect. Going back inside, we enjoyed more singing, stories, and the part that most of us liked best; crafts. The boys got to make some simple wooden item like a tie or belt rack, while the girls sewed up something special, all to be presented to moms and dads at the end of VBS. Most of what the boys made required a coping saw and sand paper; the leader would furnish the wood and varnish. Everyone made the same thing, cut it out of wood, sanded and re-sanded, then coated with way too much varnish. I can remember some of those items staying around our house for years, you know how moms, can't throw away their kids handiwork. At the end of VBS a night program was planned with the parents in attendance. We sang them the special songs we had learned, displayed the items we had made, and some of the kids had a special part on the program. One year my part was to tell a "Flannelgraph Story" of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego and the Fiery Furnace. Miss Wright our Bible teacher at school loaned me the Flannelgraph characters and background for the story. At home I used a high backed stuffed chair that the flannel would adhere to as a place to practice before the big night. Although nervous as could be, I did get the story told. Most Vacation Bible Schools gave each of us a "Certificate of Attendance." I still have one of these certificates in our "Keep Sake" trunk. One year the Presbyterian Church gave us a beautiful, red, New Testament for attendance. On the fly leaf it said, "Presented to Ralph Jones for perfect attendance, Vacation Church School 1943, First Presbyterian Church." I attribute Vacation Bible School with much basic spiritual understanding and giving me a good start in my walk with the Lord. ~ By Ralph R. Jones, Managing Editor
Barbara’s Birthday Too Good To Be True Robert Burns said it best (look it up), stating how even the grandest of plans or schemes often collapse. I shall now detail how his words ring true, even today. My wife’s birthday falls on May 13, and has done so with uncanny regularity since 1946 (don’t do the math; I’ll get into trouble). With regard to knowing what gift to buy my wife or anyone else, for that matter, I score poorly in the categories of selection and remembrance of the occasion. If I buy her anything at all, I usually do so at the last minute, because it’s often the last minute when I remember the important date. This year was different. What happened, I tell you, was nothing less than Divine intervention. Yes, it came in the way of an e-mail, but it had a Heavenly glow round about it…yes, a halo.
While she’s never said so, I believe she thinks Willie had her in mind when he wrote, "You Were Always On My Mind," but, if not, at the very least, he surely pictures her when he sings the song. Thus, when I read the email, dated 3/30, from Crossroads Arena in Corinth, Mississippi stating Willie Nelson would be in concert there on May 13, 2010, bells rang and lights flashed brightly, not unlike a pinball machine, in my mind. I realized concert tickets would be a perfect, and I do mean perfect, gift for my wife’s birthday. I quickly navigated to the website in order to purchase some tickets, only to realize, I had not absorbed the details of the email, and tickets would not be available for purchase until 10:00 a.m., April 3rd. Fortunately, the third was a Saturday, and I was at home and on my computer. Unfortunately, because I was on my computer, I let the time slip up on me, and it was ten minutes after ten when I got to the website to order tickets online. By then, the first couple of rows down front were filled, but there were vacancies on row four. I quickly ordered four tickets, one of which was seat number 13. How divine is that? My wife’s birthday is the 13th; she could sit in seat 13 and see Willie live, up close, and personal. Did I do good or what? On top of that, I emailed the legendary DJ, Bill Mack, and asked him to relay a request to Willie Nelson ~ mention my wife’s name that night or possibly sing happy birthday to her. I told Barbara about the email, hoping to surprise her, if my request were honored. But, as the bard so aptly stated, things don’t always work out as planned. One week before the concert, a second email from Crossroads Arena informed me Willie had cancelled the concert due to illness. Heartsick, I broke the news to Barbara the next morning, who took the bad news far better than I expected. The "perfect" birthday plan had crashed and burned, and I was left to ponder what I could do to make the best of a bad situation and what I could give my wife that would come close to the perfect gift that had suddenly evaporated. I chose the modern version of "dinner and a movie," which is flowers and dining out, two good choices that my wife certainly appreciated, but my best gift on her birthday was a last minute idea. Since she couldn’t go see Willie, perhaps "Willie" could come to see her. In the early morning of Barbara’s birthday, a divinely inspired plan began to form. I would don a bandanna, play a guitar and sing Happy Birthday to her. My vintage guitar (a ’63 Gibson model B25) was at my son’s residence, but a perfectly good broom in the garage offered itself as a substitute. I theorized how I might intone certain of Willie’s vocalizations into my "act," but as soon as I stepped into the dining room, where Barbara was seated at a computer, she began to laugh at my attire, which caused me to lose my composure in laughter as well. Somehow, I "air-strummed" and sang my way through the birthday song, much to her delight, and in that moment all the guilt of not being better prepared for her birthday evaporated. A large bouquet of spring flowers arrived at our home that afternoon, and dining out that evening consisted of a family affair at a popular Tupelo restaurant, attended by the two of us, my sister, my niece and her husband. Truly, the best-laid schemes don’t always work out, but there’s something to be said for those plans that are second best! ~ By Wayne L. Carter, Associate Editor & Publisher
Den’s Fried Okra Fast Food Of Yesteryear One of my grandchildren recently asked me which of all the fast foods we eat today, was my favorite when I was a little girl. I almost fell over laughing. "You gotta be kidding me honey, all our foods were slow foods when I was a kid." I replied. I should have just answered her with a simple ‘French fries’, because the discussion that ensued took me back to a place I hadn’t visited in a long time. She began talking to me about Whoppers and Big Macs, and I listened as my mind traveled back to my grandmother’s back door steps where I often played as a little girl. "Clarene, are you still out there playing on the porch?" Den called out to me from her kingdom that disguised itself as a kitchen. "Yes ‘um, I’m right here." I called back to her as I dug my big toe deeper into the freshly cut grass Gookie has just manicured with his walk behind lawnmower. "Well supper's about ready, don't run off." What was she thinking? I wasn’t about to be anywhere else when she was cooking supper. (I’d seen the big aluminum pot out on the back two eyes of the stove when I got up for breakfast so I knew we were having the fresh black eyed peas we'd picked the day before for supper.) The air was filled with so many ‘homey’ smells and these were enticing enough to keep me 'put' for now. The clean outdoorsy smell of fresh cut grass mixed with the smell of the fresh cut okra Den was frying up in her big ol’ black iron skillet filled my nostrils. Her fried okra was the best I’d ever eaten. It was always well done and crispy. It was 'wheeled and mealed' as she called it and she always insisted that the little end piece of the okra pod was as good to eat as the rest of the okra. She fried these up till they were almost black and these tiny tip morsels ended up being my favorite part. I called them the okra crunchies. If I could have figured out some way to keep them from getting soggy after they got cold, then I could have saved them in a napkin and had my own version of ‘fast food’ ready to eat when I was ready for it. The same thing could also be said for Den’s creamed potatoes. I suppose that is the correct pronunciation for them but they would always just be ‘Den’s mashed taters’ to me.
Her kitchen ran like clockwork. It always amazed me that everything
was perfectly coordinated with the lawn mowing outside. It seemed the
second the last round was made by my grandfather and little brother, the
ice was being popped out of the aluminum ice trays. I could not
master the lever on the trays but it broke loose easily enough for Den.
She was not only a good cook but she was also kin to Hercules. She told me
once that she had pushed out all of her babies without even so much as an
aspirin tablet. I was not so impressed by that until after I had my
first
child. At first, my little brother didn’t like fried okra and told my grandfather he was not going to eat it because it made him itch when he walked past it in the garden, but you know what? Gookie allowed him to sit there at the kitchen table one night until he did learn to like it and then he, like me, loved the green stuff. He never learned about the okra crunchies though and I decided that was a good thing. I didn’t have to share ‘em with him like I did the cornbread rim. Some things were just best kept to yourself. My mind drifted back to the present and my granddaughter was still going on and on about all the fast food places she could go to in Baldwyn and Tupelo and I listened to her soliloquy without saying a word. When she finished, I told her that we didn’t have places like that when I was growing up she laughed and said, "Really Reenie? You gotta be kidding me." She just couldn’t imagine that I wasn’t privy to pizzas and tacos when I was her age. Isn’t it funny what we take for granted? Today I love pizza and I love tacos but they would still play second fiddle to Den’s fried okra, black eyed peas and mashed taters. Oh, if only I could go back for one more day and dig my toes in the rich brown earth in Gookie’s garden and pick ripe tomatoes, butter beans and yellow crook neck squash and pull a few ears of corn from the stalk and then sit on their old back porch and brush the ‘hairs’ from the yellow ears as Gookie tells us his old silly stories. Fast food, who wants it? Not me!!! My grandchildren will never know how good a tomato can really be unless they get to take a bite out of one pulled fresh from the vine; rub it off on their pants leg and sit back and wait as the juice from it drips down their arms to their elbows. Now that my friends, is living, living in the slow lane. ~ By Clarene Evans, Contributor
Bubba Bodock Twenty-Nine Smiles Twenty-nine smiles can be found in the following list. If you’ve seen them before, you can enjoy them once again.
1. My husband and I divorced over religious differences. He thought
he was God and I didn't.
Cuzin’ Cornpone A Bodock Post Exclusive Cuzin’ Cornpone, our loveable, often laughable, friend appears only here in The Bodock Post.
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
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In slightly more than a span of thirty
days Americans celebrate or observe three patriotic occasions. Starting the
last weekend of May, we pay homage to those who’ve made the ultimate
sacrifice for our nation and mark the last Monday of the month as Memorial
Day and we observe it as a national holiday.
These were a few of the suggestions and questions
directed to my brother, Robert, and me by our parents, H. F. and Janie Magers.
They had a positive and caring attitude, not only for us, but also for other
people.
We were members of Algoma Baptist Church where
Dad was a Deacon and taught an adult men’s Sunday school class. Mother
taught the teenage class. At that time, the minister preached at Algoma Baptist
church two Sundays a month and another Baptist church the other two. When
we didn’t have a church service at the Baptist church, after the Sunday
school time was over, we attended the service at either the Presbyterian
Church across the street from our house or the Methodist church just up the
street. There was never a question as to whether or not we were going to
church on Sunday. It was understood that we did.
At some point, at or near the time
of my entrance into this world, my mom and dad lived in a duplex in Pontotoc
with Colonel and Opal Austin. This was a milestone in the life of my family
and in the relationship between the Carters and the Austins. Perhaps, seeds
were planted around that time that would later bring to fruition a business
partnership lasting roughly a decade and a half.
When I thought I had enough berries for my
grandmother to make a pie, or perhaps the chiggers had bitten me enough,
I was ready for the trip back. Usually the way back is the easiest because
of your prized pickings. I tromped through the woods, over the creek, I always
jumped it, ran up the hill to the pasture, and I made it under the barb wire
fence and once in the pasture I noticed that this time it held many cows.
I should mention my
wife’s favorite entertainer is Willie Nelson. Were he anywhere near
as handsome as I am, I might feel threatened or even a tinge of jealousy
because of her apparent infatuation with Willie. But, it’s not his looks
that draw her to this country music legend; it’s his gift of song.
