August 2010

Volume 24

Dry August and warm doth harvest no harm. ~ Old Folk Saying

It's hot and dry in Bodock Land. We are smack dab in the middle of the Dog Days of Summer, named for Sirius, the Dog Star. They range from early July till early August.

An Amish lady of the Randolph community once told me when I asked about the tornado which had struck their farms: "We take whatever the Lord sends our way."

Not only can we accept, we can look on the bright side of all the heat, and even rejoice in the beautiful sunlight, which we sons and daughters of the South do. I remember Momma singing us to sleep with the song "Heavenly Sunlight". Mimi did the same for our children and granddarlings.

Late summer is a time of harvest of our summer garden bounty. Our rich red dirt on the hills and in the bottoms gives us food enough for the entire year. We eat food grown in concert with the times and cycles of Mother Nature when our local soil has rising nutrients, is sweetened with warm summer rains, and direct sunlight enables photosynthesis to be at maximum.

If you don't have access to a garden, visit a local farmer's market like the one in New Albany for fresh delicious garden veggies like peas, Bella Rosa tomatoes, and corn raised by local farmers Tim Burress and Stanley Wise, Jr., and others.

As we dig the taters, pull the onions and harvest the last few melons, we can take advantage of the precious summer time by planting a late summer garden of a few more squash and cucumber vines and crowder peas. Now is the time to freshen up our mater vines. The ones which have stopped bearing large fruit can be trimmed back to about one third size or replaced with a rooted sucker from one of your best vines. Bugs are much less of a problem this time of year, having completed their annual cycle. Consider mowing your spent pea vines to return their nutrient rich foliage and roots to the soil to feed the next planting.

Now is the time to plan your fall garden. My in-laws of the Hurricane community liked to have their fall greens planted by Labor Day, so now is the time to plan for that. Try something different such as collard greens, chard or kale. Try more than one variety of turnip greens. Mix a few mustard seeds with your turnip green seeds.

Don't forget the Bodock Festival on the Pontotoc Town Square August 6 and 7. Be there on the square or be square.

I trust you will enjoy this month's edition of the Bodock Post. I have enjoyed the many articles from several contributors who have shared stories from their lives in the red clay hills of Bodock Land.

~ By Carl Wayne Hardeman, Editor

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.

"What kinda chickadee you got out there in the bushes?" asked the carpenter, who was building a deck on my house.

"Chickadee?" I asked.  "I don't have anything living out there."

"Yep, you do," he responded, "I been seeing him for a couple of days!  He's bright red and must be scared of me, 'cause he hides when I'm around, but
I've seen him several times."

I thought no more about the conversation, but several days after the carpenter left I was in the backyard when I saw a glimpse of red.  I remembered what had been said, and I sat quietly in the deck chair and watched.  Soon I saw a patch of red and green feathers slowly exit the bushes and start scratching in the grass at the edge of the wooded area.

When I moved, he quickly eased back out of sight.  I looked in my pantry and found a package of un-popped popcorn.  I filled a bowl with water and took
it with the popcorn to the general vicinity where I had seen the fowl.

Placing them on the grass, I softly called, "Here, Chickadee, here Chickadee," and went back into the house.  I watched through the window until I saw him gingerly ease out to the corn and water.  He was a beautiful gamecock and became "Chickadee," the name the carpenter had first given him.

I left the corn and water each day, and in a few days he would appear even when I was sitting outside on the deck.  As time passed, he would appear as
I waited quietly with the food.  He would bravely get closer and closer to me, and one day he accidentally brushed my ankle.  The next day he actually came to my ankle, and from then on every time I walked in the yard, Chickadee walked beside me brushing against my ankle.

Chickadee was a beautiful bird--he arrived at my house from God knows where--with red and green and black feathers that glistened like they were
freshly oiled.  He lived in my backyard and patrolled the perimeters constantly.  When I opened the door to go to the mailbox, the security chime would alert him, and he would sail around the house to walk with me to the street, and then he would return to the backyard.  When I left for work in the mornings, he was on the crest of the roof, Dog Patch style, watching as I backed out of the driveway.

Since owning a rooster was illegal in the city, I was afraid one of my neighbors would report him to the Health Department, but they all seemed to enjoy his low-key crowing every morning from his perch in the magnolia tree.

He made friends with his neighbor, Annie, a huge black fuzzy dog who was always within her fenced back yard.  They would "talk" through the fence,
and Chickadee would crawl through the fence and share Annie's food. 

One day I saw in the yard a blue fuzzy bear that I knew was Annie's toy.  I was puzzled because Annie never came into my yard.  I picked up the toy and tossed it over the fence.  The next day, I again saw Annie's blue bear in my yard.  Puzzled more than ever, I once again tossed it over the fence.  The next day I looked out and couldn't believe my eyes--Chickadee was coming through the fence pulling Annie's toy!  Chickadee was gorgeous, but he was a thief!

Our town offers a welcome service--citizens can rake leaves to the curb, and the city workers come by with a gigantic vacuum cleaner and suck up the
leaves and trash--no bagging.  Consequently, I would rake leaves onto an old sheet, drag it across the yard, and empty it at the curb.  Chickadee, at my
ankle as usual, would watch every move I made.  After several trips with the sheet, as I started to the curb to empty it again, he hopped upon it; the
movement, however, caused him to fall off.  The next time I pulled the loaded sheet toward the curb, he once again hopped upon it.  I moved it very
slowly until he got his sea legs, and he rode it all the way to the curb.

From that time on, he was a regular passenger on the sheet.  I was unable to get a photo of him on the sheet because the moment I stopped pulling it, he
hopped off.

Chickadee was a grand friend over the course of several years.  He never made demands and only expected his daily popcorn and water.  His constant
presence against my ankle told me that I was loved and the love was mutual.

He would look at me with twinkling eyes, and if birds could smile, he did. He would never occupy any of the birdhouses or cages I bought for him,
always preferring the limb on the magnolia tree that overlooked a transom window.  He would sit on his limb, watching through the window as I worked
on my computer in the den.  He was always there.

He was always there until the day I came home to find only a pile of feathers under the magnolia tree and a trail of feathers across the yard. It was a lucky day for the chicken hawk.  I hope he enjoyed Chickadee as much as I did.  I have lost many human friends and relatives, but I did not
cry for them.  I cried when I lost Chickadee.

By Bettye H. Galloway , Contributor

I may have known the official name of the car lot at one time, but it eludes me today. The lot was elevated and sat well above the street level and had no sign that I remember. Its location was on the east side of Main Street between Baldwin's Funeral Home and The Church of Christ. The owner was Mr. Murray Caldwell; his wife Ms. Fay, taught us English literature at Pontotoc High School. All of us guys considered him to be one of us and we knew him as "Fuzzy." He was friendly and always seemed to enjoy us coming by his place of business. His lot held about fifteen cars of all makes and models. Dream cars appeared on his lot regularly. No, not the exotic cars with the high price tags, just cars we thought were really hot.

One such car was a '40 Ford coupe; I thought was the neatest thing on four wheels. This style car was sometimes used, or so I'm told, by moon shiners to transport, some sort of, well, 'er, ah, a not necessarily legal adult beverage. It had a large trunk, to carry the booze, a front design that sliced through the air like a rocket, and a flat head Ford V-8 engine that, with a tad of modification, could run most other cars, including the sheriff, into the ground. I wanted that car, as did every other boy in the county, but alas, it cost money, and that commodity seemed to elude us guys.

Being boys about sixteen, we loved to look and drool over all the cars and pickups he had on his lot, and yearn for the day we might be able to have our very own. We checked out his lot on a regular basis and as soon as a different vehicle showed up, we all went by for a look see.

At this time youngsters could receive a license to drive at fifteen. Two days after I reached that ripe old age, the highway patrol officer came to town to administer the driving test. I had been practicing my driving since twelve years of age on everything from trucks to tractors and was most anxious to get my license. Walking out of the Court House with that driving certificate, I was one happy kid.

Having secured a summer job with a construction company I began to drive anything that would motivate. It got to the point that the boss would send me to Memphis in a two ton truck for supplies, what a joy. I had been to the city before, but did not know one street from the next. Once while in Memphis I passed Union Railway Station twice, going different directions and never knew when I turned around; so is the life of a novice driver. However, I always brought the "bacon" home.

One day Fuzzy called me. "Could you go to Memphis with me and some other boys to pick up cars that I have bought for my lot?"

Could I! Would I! Do birds sing and flowers bloom in spring? I could hardly wait! We met and all piled into one large sedan and he took us to Union Avenue. There were five of us boys all about the same age and all anxious to drive, anything, anywhere. He assigned us each a car to drive back, and he followed the convoy to Pontotoc.

There was never an accident, nor a near one, that I am aware of, but what a lark for us boys. He paid us something for our time, but had he known, we would have paid him to drive those swell, less than new cars home. We did this many times over the next several years and each time was sheer pleasure.

One of the cars I remember distinctly was a 1950 Mercury two-door. It had been a fire chief's car for the Memphis Fire Department. Bright red, originally, but with all the washing and polishing the fire department had given it, it was a somewhat blaaagh, rusty-looking thing. About halfway home that night all the electrical went out on the Merc without warning. We stopped the caravan near Holly Springs and began to search for the problem. In the trunk we found a mess of wires that had evidently hooked up the radio equipment for the fire department. After much trial and error we finally connected the correct wires and it lit up like a Christmas tree; we were on the road again.

We parked the cars on the lot that night, but the next day in the sunshine the old chief's car looked even more like a worn out old clunker. Although the inside was nice and clean, the outside looked like it had been used up. A few days later the car disappeared from the lot. We did not see it for a while and thought Fuzzy had sold it at a reduced price just to get the ugly thing off his lot. However, sometime later an almost brand new looking maroon '50 Merc showed up. Talk about heads popping and kids talking at school; there was a beautiful two door maroon '50 Merc down at Fuzzy's place. It did not stay there very long, for someone snatched that car up right away. All of us boys were sad that we could not have had it.

Sometime later there at Sam's Wages Service Station, I was talking to Fuzzy and asked about the fire chief's old Mercury that we had driven back from Memphis. He said that he knew how popular this make and model was and took a chance and bought it even in its depilated looking condition. He said it is surprising what a new set of white sidewall tires, large chrome hub caps, and a new coat of shiny maroon paint would do for an old run-out fire chief's car.

Thank you Fuzzy for being a friend to us boys, for trusting us, and for showing us some of the ropes as we were growing up. You were our friend, a fine man, a gentleman, and a master at buying and selling cars.

~ By Ralph R. Jones, Managing Editor

I'm not sure I can pinpoint the moment in the history of manufacturing when the idea of "product downsizing" first bloomed or even name the first product whose claim to fame was the first to be sold under the now common practice of giving the consumer less value for his or her money. But, I never cease to be amazed at how readily the consumer has adapted to and accepted the change or changes.

During my teen years, I saw customers in my dad's store react to the penny price increase of a 6.5 oz. bottle of Coca Cola. For all the days of my young life Coke had sold for five cents. Folks were not happy about paying six cents for their favorite beverage. I have only memory to recall that the price soon jumped to seven cents and within a couple of years rose to ten cents, which I can only surmise was influenced by vending machine manufacturers. Even so, folks continued to purchase Coke and other popular soft drinks of the day.

I'm sure the decade of the sixties had its share of inflationary pricing, but it wasn't until I was married and raising a family in the seventies that I became acutely aware that a dollar didn't go as far as it had a few years earlier. At every turn, goods and services were costing more, and income for everyone surely didn't rise accordingly. Each year, maintaining the standard of living enjoyed the previous year became harder.

Manufacturers of food items faced a difficult choice, raise the price of their product or produce a smaller size of it and hold the price. Candy bar manufacturers did this at an alarming rate and continued to do so for the decades that followed, until all the nickel candy bars of my childhood were the same size and shape, but they now sell for ten or fifteen times their price in the fifties.

Many canned foods were sold in a number 303 can, whose contents averaged sixteen ounces. Over the years, smaller cans introduced us to 14.75 ounces portions rather than sixteen ounces. And, coffee, do you remember when coffee was purchased in either a one or three-pound container? Once folks adjusted to purchasing 12 oz. containers or vacuum-packed "bricks," the weight of these were lowered even more with 11.5 oz. or less being the norm. Why, the brand we use at our house (via mail), is packed in 8 oz. bricks, and while it tastes great, the price is outrageous by any measure.

During the years I worked in the Meat Department of a supermarket, consumers were introduced to downsized packages of bacon. Once vacuum packaging of sliced bacon came along, the most popular size was the one-pound pack. But, as price inflation made the pound-size less appealing to frugal shoppers, the 12-ounce package was introduced and is still with us.

Similarly, 12-ounce packs of sliced ham were trimmed back to a 10-ounce size, and today the pack sizes are as varied as the packaging that contains the product. Regardless the pack or the size, one may be assured the product is represented as "a value" to the consumer.

The toilet tissue industry has a long history of playing with my emotions. In my lifetime, I experienced a number of changes with regard to the paper itself. My earliest recollections of indoor plumbing and of the family's brand of toilet tissue is that of Scott tissue, a durable sheet if ever there was one, but hardly as soft as I would have preferred. Though compared to the assorted offerings in my grandparent's outhouse, Scott tissue was a blessing.

The toilet tissue industry is a competitive one, and if it's been thought of at least one manufacturer has tried it. We had pastel colored toilet tissue in the seventies (probably influenced by the hippies of the sixties), and we had, Mr. Whipple, who portrayed a stern clerk on TV ads imploring everyone, "Please don't squeeze the Charmin!" Charmin still makes "squeezeably soft" toilet tissue.

Softness, apparently, isn't the only quality sought by savvy consumers, as quilted toilet tissues became the rage in the eighties and nineties, and today a huge variety of quilted/ embossed/ strengthened/ two-layer/ double/ ultra/ mega roll versions are available.

Recently, I have become dismayed over what seems an industry-wide change in the size of a sheet of Toilet Paper. Persons who use toilet paper, and what civilized person doesn't, can be classified as those who: wad, wrap, or fold, each of which is determined by how the tissue is "handled" by the user. I find it unsettling that the width of the roll is being downsized.

For several years, I've purchased the Angel Soft brand. Because I don't like having to change out empty rolls of toilet tissue in my bathroom with replacements with the frequency required by regular rolls of most brands of toilet tissue, I've long purchased the "double-roll" version, which is supposed to have the same amount of tissue per roll as two of the regular rolls.

The new size of a sheet of Angel Soft is a 4-inch square and is exactly 0.27 inches narrower than before. Admittedly, a quarter of an inch isn't much, but it could possibly mean the difference between a clean swipe and a…er...um...a not so clean one.

However, giving me more alarm is the fact that I believe I have stumbled across a prototype of the next rollout of downsized Angel Soft toilet tissue. As you can see from the picture, somebody accidentally slipped one of the ultra-narrow rolls into a package of regular rolls. The second picture shows the difference between the two double rolls and how they stack up against the ultra-narrow roll.

If toilet tissue sheets continue to be downsized, I may have to add disposable latex gloves to my arsenal of bathroom supplies. Well, that or adapt to another shrinking product.

~ By Wayne L. Carter, Associate Editor & Publisher

We could never have loved the earth so well if we had had no childhood in it. ~George Eliot, The Mill on the Floss

My granddarlings may never know many of the sights, sounds, and scents etched deeply in mine and Mimi's memories. How pleasant they are in our recall.

Some I remember as Belle, Mimi's pom-a-poo, and I rest in the recliner, planning this year's garden and my next column. Mimi thinks we are asleep.

The feel of the warm freshly plowed dirt. The smell of rain in dust. The sound of rain on a tin roof while lying abed. The laziness of napping in the hay loft of a barn.

Opening or closing the outhouse or shed door with its rotating wooden handle. Shelling corn for the chickens with the heel of your palm while walking in circles with chickens scrambling in circles behind you.

The early wakeup call of all the roosters crowing nearby. A hen's contented cluck as she roves the yard seeking a seed or a fat worm. Her warning clucks as you lift her with the back of your hand to gather her egg, making sure to leave the false

egg. Her jubilation after laying an egg. Chicks running under her spread wings. Shelling corn by the backdoor then grabbing a pullet by the legs for supper.

Knowing what a pullet, shoat, gilt, and heifer are. Calling the hogs and cows to be fed and put up for the night. The earthy sweaty smell of hogs and their grunts and squeals as they snuffle up their food from the trough. The ammonia odor when cleaning the hen house.

Drinking warm milk fresh from the bucket after milking the cow. The acrid taste of milk from cows which have eaten bitterweed.

A mule's silky soft muzzle. A horse's soft nickering. The way a horse twitches the skin on its withers. The clop-clop sound of a horse pulling a wagon.

The sweet smell of a tasseling corn field.

The sweet juicy taste of a tomato or heart of watermelon fresh from the garden.

Washing the porch of the juice and seeds with a broom and water to reduce the fly population. The dying buzz of flies after they eat the pink poison crystals.

The unforgettable aroma of hot fried tenderloin for breakfast from a hog killed and cleaned that cold clear morning. The biscuits and redeye gravy.

The pleasant aches in one's knees and back from picking peas and butterbeans.The soreness and purple stain of your thumb from shelling those peas and beans.

Drinking cool water from a ladle out of a bucket hanging on the porch drawn from your well. Trying to not put your lips where poppa and mammaw had been drinking,since they dip snuff.

The pleasing rasp of metal on metal while sharpening your hoe and the glint of the newly exposed metal. The clean cut of a cockle burr plant with a sharp hoe.

The smoky smell and cracking of a fireplace and the heat on the back of your pants. The exciting anticipation when the fireplace is "tromping snow" when outside temperature and barometric pressure is just right.

Our granddarlings may indeed never know these memories we cherish, but I know they are building memories of their own to share with their children and grandchildren.

~ By Carl Wayne Hardeman, Editor

Robert, my twelve year old brother, grinned from ear to ear and stated, Let's go for a ride!".

"What did you say?" my cousin Thomas asked.

He was almost a year younger than Robert. Robert was already sitting in the driver's seat.

"Come on. Hop in."

Laughing heartily, Thomas jumped in the front seat--shotgun. He pulled the back of his seat forward to make room for his sister Carolyn and me. We half-eagerly and half-concerned sprang into the back seat of our grandmother's 1936 black Chevrolet Coupe.

The keys had been left in the ignition. The dusty, old car had been parked in the garage and had hardly been driven since our grandfather's death four years earlier. The garage was outside the front fence that surrounded the two-story house. Mamaw never locked the garage or even closed its door. There was no reason to. The inside of the vintage Chevy smelled musty, and the seats were dusty. The high windows required all of us to tilt heads high to view anything outside.

It was 1953. My parents, brother, and I were visiting my maternal grandmother for a few days out in the country near Baldwyn, Mississippi. My cousins, Thomas and Carolyn, lived up the road from our grandmother and were frequent playmates when my brother and I were there. They were always ready for adventure when we arrived.

I was two years younger than Robert, and Carolyn was two years younger than I. Robert, the oldest of the foursome, took charge of finding activities for us to explore. He was always filled with mischief and curiosity.

All four of us juveniles were tan from sunshine and had been running around barefooted playing tag under Mamaw's shady Bodock trees. After romping through the orchard, we had ended up near the garage.

With Robert's rear end perched on the edge of the car seat and his eyes peering through the steering wheel, he turned the key. The car started! The motor sputtered, babbled, and then hummed a solid tune. (Chug, Chug, Chug) He turned his curly head around and flashed each of us a smile as wide as a slice of watermelon.

Thomas bounced in his seat and cackled with laughter. Carolyn squirmed with excitement and giggled. Filled with anxiety and wonder, I leaned forward from my respective corner in the back seat.

"Where are we going?" I said.

"Oh, just up the road," Robert said nonchalantly.

He quickly worked the gear shift, and the car jerked and backed out of the garage. Halfway looking around, we didn't see our parents or grandmother. They were apparently in her backyard. Robert then steered the Chevy down her long driveway and eased it out onto the gravel road. He didn't even hit the mailbox!

"Whew," we seemed to all say in unison.

The wheels spun a little gravel as Robert turned the corner and maneuvered the car down the hilly, narrow road. The engine was rumbling right along. We were not traveling fast. I doubt if my brother's foot would have reached the pedal with enough force to make the car go any faster than it was.

We had each rolled down the window nearest us. Although I could feel the wind blowing my stringy brown hair, the car was hot. My legs were sticking to the seat. Beads of sweat rolled down Carolyn's face. My throat felt as dry as a gourd, and I could taste dust. With Robert's eyes aimed at the road ahead and Thomas's cheering, they didn't seem to notice the heat.

After passing a grove of trees and a couple of cow pastures, Robert steered our vehicle into a neighbor's driveway and slowly turned it around without even running into the ditch. The smell of bitter weeds was wafting through the windows. Fortunately, no other cars were coming. We laughed and hollered with glee all the way back to Mamaw's.

As the car roared up the driveway and we spotted our parents and grandmother running out to confront us, our laughter ceased. My brother stopped the car abruptly. He did not try to park it in the narrow garage. All four of us slowly crawled out of the car.

Mother and Dad were pointing and shaking their fingers at us, waving their arms, and raising their voices. "What do you mean by taking off in her car?" Dad said.

"You could have been killed!" Mother said. "You could have hurt someone else!"

Dad stood with his hands on his hips. "You could have wrecked her car! What were you thinking? You know better than that!"

Holding to the gate post, Mamaw stood with her mouth wide open but no words came out. A trickle of perspiration was running down each side of her head. Her gray hair, pulled back in a bun, had a few loose strands. She was intently peering at us over the top of her spectacles that had slid down her nose.

Mother and Dad were red-faced with anger and fear. We were red-faced from a sweltering but cheerful ride in a cherished car on a dusty road. Our shirts and shorts were wet with sweat.

We were in big trouble. My brother was in the most trouble for they knew he was the culprit. I am not sure if he got a spanking or not for I scampered past the adults and headed for the house as fast as I could without looking back. Well, that joy ride backfired!

I have a feeling my grandmother was relieved to know her car would still run. I would like to believe that deep down inside she was amused.

~ By Frances Magers Massey, Contributor

Photo courtesy Brandon Warren at http://www.americantorque.com/page/0/3/

It must be the feeling that "groupies" get as they hang out with famous singers and other performers. I suppose it gives them a sense of importance, possibly even a feeling of being a celebrity also, to be among that group. Yup, I too, have mingled with celebrity.

Some time back, Regina Butler, of the Pontotoc Progress, wrote a fine story about a discovery that had been made in Pontotoc. She said that we have a celebrity in our midst, a champion of enormous proportions. This champ stands eighty-two feet tall, has a span of seventy-nine feet, five inches and is fourteen feet, ten inches around the middle. Now folks, let me tell you, that's some kind of a champion

We are talking here of our giant Bodock Tree. For those of you not born around these parts, its call an Osage Orange or Bois-de-Ark in some places and in other areas it's simply called the tree with the big green "Horse Apples." To us natives, it's our beloved Bodock Tree and now we have another champion since the other one came to its demise in the storm of 2001. It is said that our former tree's mass, strength and location probably saved "Lochinvar" our beautiful antebellum home from being totally destroyed. Even though the home was damaged in the storm, that tree shielded the home enough to save it, but in the process gave its own life.

Currently, the Foresters say that there is yet another tree to take that one's place as Champion Bodock Tree of Mississippi. It is located right here in town and in my former neighborhood of "Happy Hollow."

The reason I'm feeling so giddy about all this is because it was growing in our yard as I was growing up. It was "MY" tree. We moved into that house in 1942 when I was five years old and lived there for a number of years. Our house was adjacent to the creek there on the north side of Marion Street and the tree stood between us and Mrs. A. D. Moreland. Our driveway ran between the house and tree and Dad always parked our '36 Plymouth under its shade. All the kids in the neighborhood played under its cooling branches. Dad even hung us a car tire swing from one of its strong limbs. Us boys climbed that tree hundreds of times to enjoy the breeze, to get the view, and probably to get away from the girls.

Under that tree, Howard Huey, Nancy Abernethy and I made some of the most beautiful mud pies and cakes to come along, or so we thought. Decorating them with our mother's flowers, we were going to have an official showing of the creations to our Moms with real ice cream for their treat. However, we could only come up with enough money to buy three nickel cups of cream. It seems that Nancy could not find a cup of ice cream and had to settle for a cone instead. The ice cream cone began to melt much too quickly, and we were "forced" to eat the entire treat ourselves.

We finally got all our Moms to the scene of the crime, I mean, to the scene of the decorated cakes and pies. And even though we had probably played havoc with their flower gardens, they seemed to enjoy the handy-work we had prepared for them. This was all made possible because of a large Bodock Tree with an enormous limb span that made such a wonderful shade for us kids to 'create' under.

I should not tell this, but it needs to go on the record I suppose. A friend of mine, who shall go anonymous, and I climbed the tree occasionally. we felt so grown up in its uppermost branches. With a cool breeze blowing and a clear view all around, it was invigorating. Being all of seven or eight years old we felt we were becoming adults and should learn the ways of adults and especially talk like grownups.

While sitting up in those branches we would practice new words we had heard, some of which were "cuss" words. These new words were said and re-said until we could use them in conversation. Of course we made sure our fingers were crossed when we said the bad words, which in a kid's mind negated any of the bad connotations of using such foul language. Evidently it did not get bad enough to stunt the growth of our Bodock. As years passed, so did the bad words. Why, my friend and I hardly ever even say "hecky-darn" anymore. Maybe the tree had a good influence on us; it never did join in on any of our cussin' sessions.

Between you and me Mr. Bodock, I'm glad at least one of us made the big time. I'm truly in your debt. You shaded, sheltered, and were a good friend to me along the way. You deserve the prestige and respect that goes along with your honors. May your lengthy bows give shade, comfort, and safety to many more who seek relief from the summer's heat and the winds of storm. May many more boys and girls enjoy your canopy as they laugh and play happily there. May your championship be a 'feather in the hats' of all who reside in our fair city and county of Pontotoc. May your life span extend for many years!

~ By Ralph Jones, Managing Editor

I have been a little surprised at the number of folks criticizing the parents of Abby Sutherland (the sixteen year-old who failed in her solo attempt to circumnavigate the globe and become the youngest person to do so) for allowing their daughter to experience the adventure of a lifetime.

On Facebook one of my friends expressed her feelings toward seeming irresponsibility on the parent's part by stating she would not let her once, sixteen-year old daughter venture more than thirty miles a from home in a Toyota Corolla, which is a far less dangerous feat.

Other of her friends expressed similar thoughts, but I took a different tack (nautical term).

"Maybe she's a descendant of John Masefield. Where's y'all spirit of adventure? Who among you would not be proud to say your daughter was the youngest female to sail around the globe? Not your daughter...okay, then whose?"

For the most part, my comment was the exception to the stated views. I think there was a lack of thought in most of the responses by mostly over-protective moms agreeing with each other.

One of my favorite responses was, "All 16 year olds have dreams and grand ideas but as a parent we have to filter those things and decide what is safe, what to encourage, and not let them do everything they decide they want…There is no way...absolutely NO WAY I'd let my child do that!! The parents are negligent [sic]...no two ways about it."

Similarly another one stated, "I would like to say that most 16 yr olds dont [sic] have the maturity or brain compacity [sic] to operate a motor vechicle [sic] must [sic]  less the the [sic]  responabilty [sic] to do so, so I would imagine that it should be considered poor judgement [sic] and maybe just a little idiotic thinking on the parents part to allow their 16 yr [sic] old to navigate a sail boat around the world ALONE or believe the [sic] are mature and responsible enough to do so."

Note: Facebook doesn't have a grammar/ spell checker and poor spelling and poor grammar are usually tolerated.

If I were to be truthful, I would admit that I would not have given my permission for my sixteen year-old daughter to set sail alone around the world, but then she didn't have a father with the means to supply her with a $2,000 car, let alone a $200,000 sailboat. Furthermore my sixteen year old wasn't exposed to sailing at an earlier age and was not schooled in seamanship.

It would be idiotic on the part of any parent to allow their child to attempt such a voyage with no prior sailing experience. And, to my way of thinking it's idiotic for overly protective and control-freak parents of teens to believe everybody should feel as they do about parenting and responsibility.

Maybe, it's just the headline of sensational news that spurs parents into "not my child" mode. Every year, hundreds of teens are killed in automobile accidents either on prom night or traveling to or from a senior party, but moms and dads don't go ballistic with vows of "not my child." Teen irresponsibility with respect to driving and drinking is more a norm, these days, than an exception.

While the open sea is fraught with peril, it statistically presents no more danger of loss of life than does our country's network of interstate highways, and roadways at every level from rural counties to those designated national highways.

Personally, I salute Abby for her attempt at a world record and admire her parents for supporting their daughter and preparing her for a great adventure, one that is in Abby's still-young life the adventure of a lifetime.

~ By Wayne L. Carter, Associate Editor & Publisher

Your momma's words will live as long as you do. ~ Carl Wayne

This morning I worked in the garden picking peas, tomatoes, squash and okry. Momma was there with me, in my mind.

Yes, Momma, I remember now that my arms are itching. I should always wear a sleeve when pulling okry. The fuzz gets under my skin.

And, I need to start picking away from the house and work back toward the house so I don't have to tote a full bucket very far. And, I need to pull weeds as I pick so's I will leave the garden cleaner than I found it. A little work now avoids a lot of work later, and a stitch in time saves nine.

And, I know I need to pay attention to what I'm doing, because otherwise I'm gonna hurt myself and everyone around me.

Yes, your irises were beautiful, but I never did like having to pull the Bermuda grass out of their beds. I never told you, but I liked Aunt Cora's glads better. Maybe because she never made me weed them when I stayed with her and Uncle Charlie after Daddy died.

I know, Momma, I don't have anything to complain about. I have a roof over my head, a shirt on my back, and food on the table. What more can a body need? I know you had a hard life raising five children after Daddy died. And, I know we never did without.

Yes, Momma, I know now that your arthritic joints were hurting and you probably were sufferin' death with every breath you drew. Mine hurt too nowadays, and sometimes sharply.

And, Momma, I know not to cry, or you'll give me something to cry about. I try not to. I know you only want us to be tough and self-reliant. I love you for that.

~ By Carl Wayne Hardeman, Editor

The heat has been extreme this past week and I hope everyone is taking plenty of breaks and drinking plenty of water to stay hydrated when working and playing. Remember to keep all your potted plants watered in this heat. Fertilizing in this weather should not be on your to do list as it will most likely burn your plants unless you have an irrigation system that runs on a regular basis.

Recently, the Union County Master Gardeners taught a program at the Union County Historical Museum. Twenty eight kids showed up for museum madness for a program entitled "Wiggles and Giggles".

The day started off with Union County Extension Agent Stanley Wise bringing in a quiz show game. We set up the game with the boys versus the girls. They were asked a series of questions about farming and Mississippi agriculture in general. Questions ranged from "How fast can a honey bee fly" to "What is the number one product that is grown on a farm."

It amazed me that these young people actually knew the answers to these questions better than the fifth graders that play this very same game at Earth Day every year. Afterwards, the kids were ready for the next part of the program, the meat of the program so to speak.

Each kid was given a plastic container about the size of a shoe box. They then were given newspapers to rip into pieces; next they took a water bottle and wet the newspapers. After this each kid took tongs and spread some food scraps in their boxes, then on to the next part of the buffet to get a couple of scoops of peat moss to go on top of that.

The next item on the buffet was moving around in the box. Each kid now had to stick their hand in a box and get a handful of worms. I did not know that boys could be more squeamish than girls,

"I ain't sticking my hand in there," was their response.

It took a little prompting, but each one finally reached in and got some worms for their box. Now back at their tables they ripped up some more newspaper to put on top of their worms and wet it down a little more. A few of the older kids got involved in this project also.

Museum Director, Jill Smith, New Albany Garden Club member, Lynn Madden, and Master Gardeners, Jo Simpson and Sherra Owen also made a worm box. Lynn Madden confided that she intended to present this program to her garden club and also to their Jr. Garden Club.

The kids were now ready for a snack and keeping with our theme for the day, they had chocolate dirt cake with, you guessed it gummy worms on top. Now just for fun, they played a game called "Bobbing for Worms" where a plate was filled with whipped cream and gummy worms thrown in and they had to get the gummy worms out with their mouths without the use of their hands.

The kids were exceptionally well behaved and got a great lesson on the importance of composting to help improve the soil and to learn the importance of worms and their castings to help fertilize the garden.

Janet Burress, Union County Master Gardener led this program along with the help of master gardeners, Jo Simpson, Sherra Owen, and Tim Burress. Others that were on hand to help were Jill Smith, Museum Director, Lynn Madden, New Albany Garden Club member and favorite Museum Volunteer, and several members of the New Albany Jr. Auxillary.

I would like to thank Stanley Wise for bringing the Quiz Show game and for talking to the kids about agriculture and the importance of the farmer in today's economy. I would also like to thank Mississippi State University Extension Service for providing the training seminar to the master gardeners to be able to go out and teach this program to others. Thanks, also, go out to the Museum and it's staff for putting all of the Museum Madness programs together for the kids learning series.

If you would like more information on this program and would like to have it presented to your group or organization, please leave us a message at the Extension Office at 662-534-1916 and we will call you back or send me an email at colorsbytim@hotmail.com

Happy Gardening and keep "Digging in the Dirt".

~ By Tim Burress, contributor

One day, when a seamstress was sewing while sitting close to a river, her thimble fell into the river.

When she cried out, the Lord appeared and asked, 'My dear child, why are you crying?'

The seamstress replied that her thimble had fallen into the water and that she needed it to help her husband in making a living for their family.

The Lord dipped His hand into the water and pulled up a golden thimble set with sapphires.

'Is this your thimble?' the Lord asked .

The seamstress replied, 'No.'

The Lord again dipped into the river. He held out a golden thimble studded with rubies.

Is this your thimble?' the Lord asked.

Again, the seamstress replied, 'No.'

The Lord reached down again and came up with a leather thimble.

'Is this your thimble ?' the Lord asked. The seamstress replied, 'Yes.'

The Lord was pleased with the woman's honesty and gave her all three thimbles to keep and the seamstress went home happy.

Some years later, the seamstress was walking with her husband along the riverbank, and her husband fell into the river and disappeared under the water. then she cried out, the Lord again appeared and asked her, 'Why are you crying?'

'Oh Lord, my husband has fallen into the river!'

The Lord went down into the water and came up with George Clooney.

'Is this your  husband?' the Lord asked.

'Yes,' cried the seamstress.

The Lord was furious. 'You lied! That is an untruth!'

The seamstress replied, 'Oh, forgive me, my Lord. It is a misunderstanding.'

You see, if I had said 'no' to George Clooney, you would have come up with Brad Pitt.

Then if I said 'no' to him, you would have come up with my husband. Had I then said 'yes,' you would have given me all three. Lord, I'm not in the best of health and would not be able to take care of all three husbands, so THAT'S why I said 'yes' to George Clooney.

And, so the Lord  let her keep him.

The moral of this story is: Whenever a woman lies, it's for a good and honorable reason, and in the best interest of others. That's our story, and we're sticking to it.

Signed,

      All Us Women

Sick Leave

I urgently needed a few days off work, but, I knew the Boss would not allow me to take leave.

I thought that maybe if I acted 'Crazy' then he would tell me to take a few days off.

So I hung upside-down on the ceiling and made funny noises.

My co-worker (who's blonde) asked me what I was doing.

I told her that I was pretending to be a light bulb so that the Boss might think I was 'Crazy' and give me a few days off.

A few minutes later the Boss came into the office and asked, 'What in heaven's sake are you doing?'

I told him I was a light bulb.

He said, 'You are clearly stressed out.' Go home and recuperate for a couple of days.'

I jumped down and walked out of the office...

When my co-worker (the blonde) followed me, the Boss asked her, 'And, where do you think you're going?'

She said, 'I'm going home, too. I can't work in the dark.'

Our loveable, often laughable, friend appears only here in The Bodock Post.

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