Under The Arbor Goodbye To The Aughts
The year 2009, was aught nine (short for twenty aught nine or two double aught nine), but I’ll wager not a lot of us never spoke of it other than as two thousand nine. A few may have incorrectly said "two thousand and nine," incorrect because in reading a number that doesn’t contain a fraction or its decimal equivalent, ‘and’ is not used. Now, that it’s 2010, will any of us continue the "two thousand" pattern and say two thousand ten, or will everyone jump on the "twenty-ten" bandwagon, which is a whole lot easier to say? I have the feeling when the 1900s came along folks were as glad to see 1910 arrive for the same reason we’re glad to see 2010, namely they could dispense with the aughts, though a few die-hards may milk another year out of the aughts by saying this is year one aught (10). About now, I reckon I ought to say, "Happy New Year" and move off the aughts. I’m excited over the promise this year holds for each of us. It could be the best year of our respective lives. It could be the worst, but the optimist in me thinks otherwise. And, the realist in me looks for 2010 to fall somewhere between the two. Anyway, if the Mayan calendar is correct the waning days of 2012, will be our biggest worry. At the time of this writing, Obamacare has not been approved to replace our health care system, which is good news, and while I’m opposed to most all things Obama, the financial impact of Obamacare will not hit pocketbooks of working Americans with any significance until 2014. My biggest regret, to date, is that I probably won’t qualify as an infantryman in the coming American Revolution, and my pockets aren’t deep enough financially to make much of a difference. Though, I would willingly lay down my life to preserve and protect the Constitution of The United States from those who would make ours a socialist nation. If you’ve enjoyed reading this free publication for the past year, and we can only assume you have, we would like to encourage you to tell your friends about our humble effort, forward them a link to our website, or print a copy for those who are technologically challenged with respect to computers and/or the Internet. Your friends will thank you. In the course of 2009, we were blessed with several guest contributors and feel obliged to thank them by listing them in the order of their being published in 2009: Dr. E. Mac Huddleston, M. G. Russell, Tim Burress, Clarene Evans, James A. Arnold, Jo Ann (Stone) Wilder, Sarah (Carter) Brown, Craig Anderson, Bettye (Hudson) Galloway, Patricia Neely-Dorsey, Terry Stewart, Gerry (Gooch) Wilson, Louanna (Cox) Fitts. The Editors feel these writers greatly enhanced our newsletter’s prestige, and again we say, "Thanks!" If you have a special memory, say something romantic relating to Valentine’s Day that’s suitable for our February Issue that you’d like to share with us, then by all means, send it to us at editor@bodockpost.com and we’ll consider it. See our submission guidelines at http://rrnews.org/bp/submissions.htm. In my family, our New Year’s tradition is to consume a southern staple, black-eyed peas, preferably seasoned with pork, particularly "hog jowl." The jowl can be smoked or fresh; we don’t care, and if a ham hock is on hand, it may find its way into the boiling pot, too. There are numerous reasons we revert to simpler food-fare to celebrate New Year’s Day, one thought is our doing so will help us prosper throughout the year, but for my family, tradition is a stronger motivation than superstition. If you’ve received this prior to January 1, 2010, please exercise caution and restraint on New Year’s Eve so that you’ll be around to prosper in 2010. Happy New Year, all y’all. ~ By Wayne 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.
Grandmother’s Quilts Remembering And Repairing
My mother inherited those creative genes, and over the years, gifted her children and grandchildren with quilts, crocheted bedspreads and the like, just as her mother had done. Since I was an only girl in a family with three boys, the "scraps" often came from clothes she had made for me and were sort of a timeline of my growing up years. While I did learn my way around a sewing machine and needle and thread, I never made a quilt. Grandmother Carter died from terminal cancer shortly after I had graduated from high school. In the last few weeks of her life I had the opportunity to spend time with her as I sat with her in her hospital room almost daily. Until she lapsed into a coma, we had some long conversations about her life and mine. By this time my career choice, nursing, had already been made so in the fall when I went off to college I took one of her quilts with me, a piece of home and her. Many nights after long study sessions or times out with friends I curled up, warm and cozy, under my "Lily Pad" quilt. It still remains one of my prized possessions.
Having completed the job they are now ready to go back to Lamar. I have always liked the idea that when I visit him, I fall asleep high above the streets of New York City under covers my grandmother made, by hand, decades ago in a farmhouse in Mississippi. They were originally made by Rebecca Ann Carter and, many years later, repaired by her namesake, Rebecca Ann Franklin. There is a nice symmetry to having them in my hands, with my needle and thread, which just feels right. ~ By Rebecca Gaillard Franklin, Guest Contributor Biographical Sketch: Rebecca Franklin was born in Pontotoc County near Thaxton, Mississippi in the home of her mother's parents, most likely the same house in which the quilts were made. She grew up in Ripley, Mississippi, then attended Methodist Hospital School of Nursing and Memphis State University, prior to completing her nursing education at NEMJC in Booneville, MS. Rebecca now lives outside Atlanta in Dallas, Georgia. She retired last June from a 40-plus-year nursing career. Rebecca has two children and three grandchildren who keep her well occupied.
New Year’s Day A Different Sort Of Feast I hope everyone had a great Christmas Day. I did, the grandkids running around playing with all their new goodies and the adults all laying around on assorted couches and chairs with their bellies bulging and on the brink of a nap. That was our house, how ‘bout yours. On January 1, the feast is on again. Only, this time, we’re going to have some real food. My wife will get the big pots out ‘cause she’s got mustard greens, black eyed peas, sweet tater casserole, hog jowl all sliced up like bacon, and two pones of cornbread. The mustard greens and black eyed peas came out of Papaw Joes garden; sweet taters came from a friend’s garden down close to Houston, Mississippi, and the cornmeal was made up around Marietta with corn from Papaw Joe’s patch also. The hog jowl came from our local Piggly Wiggly (New Albany, MS) where they so kindly sliced it for us. All the Burress and the Lambert clans gather for yet another feast. You just get in line and fill up your plate. There is plenty of hot pepper sauce for the greens, plenty of chow chow for the peas, and lots of real butter to lather your cornbread. There is always plenty of sweet tea to wash it down with, too. Turkey and Dressing is good eating, but this is the real deal. I was taught that eating hog jowl, greens, and black eyed peas on New Year’s Day would bring good luck and prosperity all year long. The sweet taters are supposed to bring gold into the house; I guess because of their color. I don’t know if those old wives tales are true, but who am I to buck Grandma Sexton’s traditions. I’d be scared she would send a lightning bolt down from heaven at me. Grandma also taught us that we never took anything out of the house on this day except the trash, and every time that you came back in you would need to bring something of value. She told us that what we did on New Year’s Day, we would be doing all year long. Okay, let me recap here, this means that we’re going to eat good, have a good time with family, have good luck, be prosperous, and bring something of value into our household all year long. Oh yeah, don’t forget the football game. The older I get, the more those old traditions mean to me. I hope that my children will continue them and I hope my grandchildren will learn them and practice them when they get grown. Happy New Year folks, enjoy the day with family, and if you have friends that don’t have a local family, invite them to your house to partake in the festivities. ~ By Tim Burress, Contributor
Winter Home Birds Buntings And Finches To Hawks
Winter has her own delights, Most gardeners delight in Mother Nature in all her shapes and forms and colors. The lady who feeds the hummingbirds also plants flowers for them to enjoy. The man who scatters sunflower seeds may also plant giant sunflower plants as a natural bird food source, and to impress his friends.
Here on the Pontotoc Ridge in the plains of the Duncan Creek basin extending into the Flatwoods region of northeast Mississippi, we are a wintering ground for many birds that migrate north in the spring. My favorites are black capped chickadees (Momma called them snowbirds), rufous-sided towhees, cedar waxwings, indigo buntings, rose-breasted grosbeaks, and the three species of woodpeckers which come to feed on Mimi’s suet cakes. They don’t migrate, but are hidden in the foliage in other seasons. The hawks are back. In addition to the sharp shinned hawk, I saw two kestrels just this morning. They can hover like hummingbirds before they stoop. The redtail and Coopers and red shouldered hawks are here year round, but in greater numbers in the winter. The Mississippi kites have gone, or at least I do not see them this time of year. On Sunday we saw a kingfisher and two mostly white hawks between Ecru and Hurricane. I am not sure what they are. Some geese and ducks stay year around, as do egrets, great blue herons. The goldfinches, without their summer plumage, visit Opal Graham’s sock feeders throughout the winter near Hurricane MS. Indigo buntings visit almost every day. In the dark cold days of winter, I enjoy sitting at the kitchen table enjoying Mimi’s fine old-time cooking and watching the birds hopping, pecking, darting, and feeding in our backyard. Say what you will, but Saturday morning when I opened the blinds at dawn, two doves and several small birds were on the patio looking at me and waiting for me to spread their breakfast. I did. Winter has her own delights. ~ By Carl Wayne Hardeman, Editor
Lesson Learned College Days Remembered Boys far away from home develop friendships with their peers and sometimes do crazy things. January 26, 1956 found me at LeTourneau University in northeast Texas, with the weather turning exceptionally nice. You know the kind of weather where for several days the temperature warms up and it feels that spring is finally here. However, looking at the calendar you know that nature is just playing with you. Having been cooped up in the dormitories for what seemed like an eternity, with gray skies, rain, and cold, most all us guys had a touch of "cabin fever." Now the sun was shining, the sky was blue and the temperature was crawling up into the seventies. Not having money for anything that had a price tag attached, we decided it was a perfect day to get outside. The Sabine River was not far away and the low land around the river was a perfect place to go. Everyone grabbed their exploring gear, hats, boots, knives, cameras, walking staffs, anything their hearts desired for this "wilderness" jaunt. Taking a couple of cars we met in the "Talley River Bottoms" ready for a fun day. Our spirits were high as we walked through the woods, surveying the hint of new green growth, crossing creeks, and in it all comparing it to the surrounding of our hometowns. Our group had boys from different states, Bill from Louisiana, Glen from Wyoming, Howard from Pennsylvania, Roscoe from Michigan, Walt from Thailand, Carl from Maine, and me from Mississippi. It was a time of much camaraderie. As the sun continued to climb in the sky, the warmer the day became. The light jackets or outer shirts began to come off; soon we were down to our "running gear" as we called it. Of course the walking, running, and horseplay that went on did not help lower our body temperature. Soon we were declaring it summer. We came upon a small horseshoe shaped lake, actually a cut off from part of the Sabine River. Although many of us in the group had traipsed through these bottoms before we had not found this particular water hole. It was intriguing to us and we stopped for a look. It was too wide and deep to ford and there was no foot log for a crossing. But for some strange reason we wanted to see what was out in the middle of this no man’s land. Something kept us from going around to the open end of the horseshoe. However, someone, though tongue in cheek, suggested we swim over to the middle. After all it was "hot" weather, and we could just strip down and swim, and it would be a lark to do so.
"I will if you will," I heard myself
say. "Naw, I can’t because…(insert reason)," came the response. It’s odd how many claimed to not even know how to swim. Only my friend Bill said, "O.K. if you will I will!" Not a single other guy, most of them from up north, would agree to go with us. But, alas, we had committed. Regardless of the temperature, it was still January, and this was a fact we had not processed thoroughly. Our bodies were hot, the temperature exceptionally warm for January, but the water was still freezing cold. That was the point we had failed to process. Even as Bill and I stripped down to our skivvies we still had not taken the water temperature into consideration. We waded down into the water and our feet and legs told us this was a big mistake, but we were committed. Bill took the lead and dived in with me not far behind. Wow! Wee! Gee-whillikers! Was that water ever cold! It almost took our breath away! That day we probably broke all swimming speed records. Climbing out on the other bank the warmer air engulfed us and it felt much better, so much better than the old river run with its icy water. Everyone was shouting, hollering, and cheering us on, it was a triumph for us all. Then reality hit Bill and me both, to get back to the others, our clothes, and blest warmth, we had to swim back across those "frozen" yards of old muddy river water. The reality of the cold water was firmly engrained in our knot heads at this point. We had accomplished only half of our lark, now we must swim back! The guys on the other side were having a big laugh on us; however, they could never know how big that laugh was unless they might someday experience the cold water. There was nothing left for us to do but swim back across. The "chilly-bumps" on our bodies kept saying No! No! No! But, our minds knew it must be done. We eased off into the water and at the count of three we both dived in at the same time and even our previous speed record was broken. What a relief to be back on this side; we were done with the ordeal. Warm, dry clothes never felt so good! Those two swimming friends, from fifty years, ago are still close friends today. They learned a valuable lesson that day. Namely: all things are not as they seem, look before you leap, and by all means check the water temperature before a plunge. As a famous Roman may have once said, "We came, we saw, we conquered, but we almost froze to death!" ~ By Ralph R. Jones, Managing Editor
Bankhead Gallery Quality Crafts Abound
When a friend talked me into going deer hunting many years ago, I agreed because he asked me to bow hunt with him. I’m in the minority, I’m sure, but I’ve never considered it sporting to shoot a deer with a rifle, shotgun, or primitive firearm. Heck, most any nine-year-old can be taught to shoot a rifle and kill a deer, but few can do so with a long bow. And, archers have a greater challenge in that they have to be much closer to their target to use their weapon. I did harvest one small buck with a bow and arrow, my one claim to fame as a bow hunter. I shot the eight-pointer using a laminated re-curved bow, which looks a lot like a long bow but has the tips of the limbs curved away from the string to add more energy to the shot. And, though I later bought a compound bow with all sorts of pulleys on it, I didn’t take any deer with it, before giving up deer hunting. A few years ago, I heard that David Rowan of Pontotoc was making long bows in his wood shop and resolved to visit him to learn more. Long bows aren’t fancy mechanisms at all and can be made by cutting a five or six foot limb and attaching a string to each end of the limb. It would be primitive, but it would serve the purpose. In my teen years, I shaved a staff of hickory down with a wood rasp and a draw knife and fashioned a fairly decent long bow from it, but the lower limb split one day and ruined its effectiveness. Two years lapsed, then another year or two passed, and I never got around to visiting David Rowan. Then, at this year’s Bodock Festival, Barbara came home with a biscuit cutter made of bodock wood that David sold her at his booth. "He’s opened a business in New Albany," Barbara explained, adding, "in the downtown area." I made a mental note to check it out, but it took me two months to do so. On Friday before Halloween, I took off work, using a vacation day, and made the short trip to New Albany and easily found David’s business, Bankhead Gallery, right across ‘the tracks’ from Van Atkins Jewelry. Inside, I found not only all sorts of crafts and furniture made by David, but there were displays of at least fifteen other artisans, too. David confirmed he had made a few long bows and had three of them in his store, one of which he had decorated with rattlesnake skin on the upper and lower limbs (pictured at left). Yet, he explained his primary interest lay in creating one-of-a-kind pieces of furniture, bowls, and boxes. Yes, he makes rolling pins and biscuit cutters that are quite attractive, but his most unique pieces are the creative turnings he does on the wood lathe, which result in beautiful bowls. David managed to acquire much of the wood from what was, until recently, the largest bodock tree in the state, the one that was destroyed by the 2001 tornado and stood behind the historic home, Lochinvar. Any of the items he’s made from that historic tree are collector’s items, but in a larger sense, any of his pieces should be considered collector’s items. If one is looking for something unique, Bankhead Gallery is a good place to start. One will find stained glass artworks for interior and exterior use, framed art, and quality antique furniture, ceramics, metalwork, handmade soaps, even quilts by David’s wife, Jan. While I was there, I also met one of the artisans specializing in wood turnings. Charles Buster, who is a member of Craftsmen’s Guild of Mississippi, happened by to check on his displays. Charles makes high quality wooden peppermills that are as beautiful as they are functional. His wooden bracelets have to be seen to be believed, too.
Craftsmen like to talk about their work, and Charles asked me if David had shown me a particular wooden box. "I gave him this piece of wood on top," Charles noted, pointing to a section of chocolate colored wood. "I found out I’m allergic to the sawdust from that wood." "What kind of wood is it?" I asked. "Cocobola," he responded. "Man, that stuff broke me out just like poison ivy, everywhere it got on my skin, my arms, hands, my face, and anywhere else I touched myself." I glanced at David for confirmation, and he nodded knowingly, "Yeah, there are a lot of woods that are poisonous and cause dermatological problems for craftsmen." "We have about twenty-five different types of wood used in our various crafts," David shared. Words like curly mytlewood, Jatoba, spalted maple, African bloodwood, purpleheart rolled off his tongue as easily as butter off a hot knife blade and blended well with others like black walnut, ebony, box elder, pear and pine. When I asked David which of his pieces were his best sellers, he told me, "Boxes and bowls." My guess is the reason would be they’re more affordable than larger items such as benches, tables, butcher blocks, and hutches. I’m certain anything for sale in Bankhead Gallery, New Albany, MS is less expensive than the same item in a large metropolitan area, so if one needs a bargain, check the items at David’s business. Tell them Wayne sent you! You won’t get a better deal, and I won’t get a slice of the pie, but David will enjoy hearing it. ~ By Wayne L. Carter, Associate Editor & Publisher
Winter Of My Life Heavenly Spring Awaits Look! It’s snowing! See the delicate little flakes drifting down. The first ones seem to disappear, but soon, there is a soft covering of white on dried grass, empty tree branches, and neighbors’ roof tops. By morning, our world will be covered in a clean, fresh blanket of white. Winter is a time of rest and renewal, a time of short days and long nights when Nature rests from the efforts of spring, summer and the harvest of fall. It is renewing itself for a new life in the coming year. Without this time of death, of rest, there could be no new birth in the spring. What is true of the plant world is also true of human beings. Without the death of Christ, there would be no new beginning for us. And, without this winter of our lives, we would not awaken to a new life.
I loved the springtime of my life. It was spent in a rural community in the
hills of Arkansas. Seeds were planted that would grow during my life’s
summer. When I left home, I already had a direction for my life, although I still had a lot to learn. During my summer, I was nourished and cared for by God through a number of Christian people who helped me to grow, and mature. Perhaps the time I enjoyed the most was autumn when I was able to produce a small harvest. It was a time of great satisfaction and happiness. But, now I have arrived at the winter of my life. My ability to move about, do daily chores, think for myself, and accomplish worthwhile things is slowly diminishing as my body begins its decline. It is a time to rest, take things easy, do some things I enjoy doing. I know I will soon reach the end. In God’s time, I will lay down my body and my burdens, and death will come. It is natural. It is essential. I must die to this life so that I may enter the spring of my Heavenly Life. In the meantime, I pray that I will live my remaining days in a way that honors my Heavenly Father, thanking Him for His guidance, care and provision during all the seasons of my life. ~ By Melba Conaway, Guest Contributor Biographical Sketch: Melba Conaway, widow of the late Earl Conaway, lives at Cowhorn Creek Estates in Texarkana, Texas. She grew up near Mansfield, Arkansas, lived there for 63 years, and reared three children prior to moving to Texas. She served as Secretary to the Superintendent of the Public School System for many years and subsequently worked for the local bank as a vice-president until retirement. During this time she was very active in her church and taught a young married couples' class for more than 50 years. Even though she is now hearing and eye-sight impaired, she enjoys reading and free-lance writing.
Is There A God A Friend's Question The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handiwork. Psalm 19:1 Holy Bible KJV There is no more important question to ask ourselves than: "Is there a God?" For me the answer is obvious and emphatically "Yes", but only after a lifetime of reflection and knowledge of a living God. Science is generally taught as the only truth. Everything else is faith, but science is faith, too, with respect to the theory of evolution. A quick scan of the literature shows little evidence exists, and much of the touted evidence is only variation within species, not the creation of new species. I agree there is no physical hard evidence of creationism, which makes it a faith system, but the same is true for the theory of evolution. While there is no hard physical evidence for a God, there are wonderful logical arguments. We have the Bible, the only complete end-to-end story of life. It describes our beginning, our end, the hereafter, and why we are here. We have His creation and see His handiwork. We have the argument from complexity and design. There is the convincing Flatland extra-dimensional argument (see Wikipedia). We cannot imagine intelligence arising from rocks. And we can see a giant oak rising from an acorn, and the miracle of birth where the baby’s system has to switch from its Mother’s to its own autonomous system – instantly at birth.
Millions of dollars are being spent by SETI (Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence) scanning the universe’s radio waves looking for patterns from which they say they will find intelligence. These same people cannot see intelligence in the design of an eye, an ear, a knee, or the many parts of a woodpecker which must be there at the same time to have a functioning woodpecker. But, these arguments mean less to me than simple human compassion. What brought this column about is a friend who recently questioned if there is a God in a moment of grief and despair. In my opinion, his question arose not so much from questioning God as from seeing his adopted crack baby son suffering so much, and wondering how God could let that happen. For me the best answer for that friend is the world is cold and cruel and mean, and short when compared to eternity, but God takes care of His own and sent my friend and his wife as angels to love and care for that child. That’s where I see God. ~ By Carl Wayne Hardeman, Editor
Dental Anxiety An Ounce Of Prevention... What chills men down to their toenails? Whether they are the rugged outdoorsmen or the more meek and mild type, warriors or cooks, leaders or followers, it’s a phenomenon that plagues all men. It’s not wild beasts or other creatures, enemies, heights, or the unknown. Things that go bump in the dead of night do not shake our timbers to a great degree. However, there is usually something that rattles our cages. Hospitals and doctors do not necessarily cause cold chills to run up a guy’s back, but there is one medical professional that affects most men. It is the Dentist! Yes it’s dentists that cause the cold sweat to pop out on the foreheads of men of all shapes, sizes and national origin. They don’t dislike dentists; it’s just that they scare the bajeebers out of most of us. When the day comes that the man of the house has to go to see his dentist it’s an awesome sight for wife and kids. He shakes, his skin is pale and clammy, he fakes being sick, he can’t find his shoes, the car refuses to start, anything to keep him from going to the DENTIST OFFICE ! Recently this "pleasure" was afforded to me. Oh, I see my dentist and his lovely wife at church every Sunday and we speak and smile, but I steer clear of his office. A year ago, half of a tooth broke off. Peanuts will do that sometimes. Then a month ago another tooth broke; peanuts again. Now you’d a thought any rational thinking man would have had these teeth seen-to way before this, but my theory is, if it don’t hurt, don’t bother it. The situation had gotten embarrassing. It seemed that each time I smiled, and I love to smile, everyone was looking at the two big gaps in my teeth. Not that they ever gave me any serious trouble, but it was a tad inconvenient and soup had become my steady diet. Finally I forced myself to call Jim, my dentist friend, and set up an appointment. I knew it was not going to be pretty, going to him after all these years. He wanted to know how long it had been since my last dental visit. I told him that it was at his former location just south of town. He said he had moved from that office over twenty years ago. Imagine that! After he looked at my situation, his prognostication was that those two broke teeth have to go, another one he could save and then he would make a bridge to fill up the spaces. I had no idea he was talking about a bridge that spans the Mississippi River. He and his nurse got to figuring out how much it would cost, and I knew I was in deep trouble when they had to get two calculators. If he’d a waited until the day of the extractions to tell me the total cost, he would not have had to use any Novocain to deaden the area, because I would have passed out, dead away.
Reckon why dentists start asking you questions just as they cram both hands inside your mouth. At one time I counted twenty fingers, a couple of mirrors, and eight different tools in my mouth. For all I know, they may have been holding a dental convention there. I tried to ask him to remove some of that stuff, but about all I could say was "Uggha goooooda ouuuuuda moooooowf." He just smiled and said, "Give him more gas." After he had stuck holes all in my mouth with that horse needle, he said that the worst part was over. Wrong! Just in a second my jowls began to sag. Now, I’ve got big jowls anyhow, and they sag already, but when they are relaxed they remind you of a bloodhounds ears dragging on the ground. My upper lip lapped down over my chin, but I just slung it over my shoulder to get it out of the way. My friend said, "Now you will feel a little pressure over here, then a little over there, and then a …; oh, quit crying, I haven’t even started yet!" Well it felt like he had, but he was just standing on my jowl that had fallen to the floor. Tools were flying around everywhere, no faster than the nurse laid them out than he had them in my mouth. I think there was a Pouland Chain Saw in there somewhere, sure sounded like it. After an eternity or two, he was through. He was packing my mouth full of cotton and poking my jowls in my front shirt pockets. As if that were not enough "excitement" for the day, one has to stop by the front desk and pay the bill. Again, picking myself up to a kneeling position, I made my mark on the bottom of a blank check and let her fill in all the numbers. Then I staggered to my car. Thank goodness, all that’s behind me now. I have some new teeth, I can chew food again, even peanuts. However, the bridges sure do seem large, fact is, they take up a lot more room than the teeth ever did. You know, I think he may have used one of the river bridges! I sure hope he washed it off good; a lot of pigeons have lived there over the years. ~ By Ralph R. Jones, Managing Editor
Home Place For A Town Dweller Because my dad worked for Kroger during the years of my childhood, and because Kroger had begun to close its small-town stores, we moved a lot. Thus, there’s not a home place for me in the sense of a physical place where I grew up. And, without Mom, who died in ’89, to show me where we lived in Corinth, MS, there’s little likelihood, I’d be able to find the house we rented. However, I can show my children where I lived in Iuka, MS, and the land, where there once was a small house we rented in Starkville, MS. Also, I can show them one of the two houses where we lived, while in Okolona, MS, but the other one was replaced with a metal building years ago. Once we moved back to the place of my birth, Pontotoc, we lived in rental properties on Montgomery St. and N. Columbia St. prior to moving into the largest house I’d ever lived in, which is on Woodland Street. In 1956, my Uncle Lamar, Dad’s brother, bought the house and eight acres with the understanding that my grandparents might live out their days with us. Lamar remembers that my mother was accepting of the arrangement, which would basically assure my grandparents final years would be ones cared for by family members. My grandparents occupied four rooms on the north side, and we lived in the rest of the eleven-room house. It is the house on Woodland Street, the one we knew as "The Old Owen Place," named after its original owners in the early 1900s that I think of as my "home place." It was the house of my high school and college years. Of the Owen family’s children, a couple of them lived nearby. Keith Owen and wife Willene were on an adjoining block as were Martha Owen Rutledge and husband Felix. Siblings, James and Rosemary, were no longer residents of Pontotoc, but I got to know them by my friendship with Frank Owen, Keith’s son. In the fifties, it was not uncommon for town folks to have a farm animal or two. We had a milk cow when we lived on Montgomery St., and after moving into the Old Owen Place, we had mules for farming and hogs, which we fed and slaughtered for their meat. I was spared the obligation to help with the butchering of the hogs, but I remember something of it. I don’t remember why I wasn’t required to help scald and scrape the hides of the hogs, unless it was because Dad wanted me kept good and fresh for helping rub seasoning into the shoulders, hams, and bellies. One year, Keith Owen was on hand to help and had given Dad a recipe of seasonings to be used for curing the pork pieces destined for our "smokehouse." There was no smoke used in the curing process, but the outbuilding where the meat was hung and stored was called the smokehouse. I don’t know for a fact that Dutch Alexander, a Black man, was on hand for the hog killing, but he’d have been a good one, and I do seem to remember a Black man helping with that part of the operation. Somebody got the liver and off alls, because Mama wouldn’t cook those parts. Prior to obtaining the Owen’s recipe for sugar-curing the pork, my folks had always "salted down" everything that couldn’t be consumed in a few days or ground into sausage. Our smokehouse had an old saltbox. After rubbing the meat generously with the seasoning mixture, the pieces were wrapped in brown paper, then sacked and hung to cure slowly in our smokeless smokehouse.
According to the Owen recipe, the shoulders and hams were to be hung "like
it grows on the hog (shank
down)." I helped stuff sausage into tubular cloth bags capable of holding perhaps two or three pounds of sausage. The filled bags were tied off with a string, floured and hung to dry and cure in the smokehouse. Mama always said the old folks claimed, "Sausage doesn’t get good until the buzzards start flying over the smokehouse." I must say, I found that to be the case that year. Not the buzzard part…I never actually saw that happen, but as the sausage aged, it acquired a different taste than that of freshly ground sausage, and in the minds of many of us, it was a better taste. And, I might add, the sausage we bagged and hung was the best I’ve ever eaten, and I’ve eaten a lot of sausage over the years including Southern Belle (also in cloth bags) made by the once thriving Mid-South Packers of Tupelo, MS, a brand so good that Tennessee Ernie Ford had regular shipments sent to himself. The home place of my youth has lots of fond memories, and it’s still there, occupied and maintained by my younger brother, James, and his family. If you drive by, there may be a cat or two hanging around, but don’t expect to find any farm animals. ~ By Wayne L. Carter, Associate Editor & Publisher Editor’s note: Special thanks to Kansan, Anna Surface, for permission to use the buzzard picture. Anna’s photographs along with those of her husband Preston, may be viewed at http://surfaceandsurfacephotography.com
High Cotton Earning Money For Senior Trip Most of the cotton grown in Pontotoc County, Mississippi in the 1940’s and 1950’s was hill country cotton. It grew very low to the ground, and did not produce very much cotton. But, if you owned an especially rich bit of planting ground, then the cotton grew much taller, and produced much more. Therefore, if someone said, "They are picking in high cotton", it usually just meant that they were really doing well in whatever project they were doing. A big thing to look forward to was the Junior/Senior trip. My sisters, who were older than me only got to go on a same-day trip to Memphis, but the later trips were to Biloxi. So those of us that got to go to Biloxi were said to be really picking in high cotton. The big year finally arrived for my class, and we began planning our trip. The only problem was that before the school would allow us to take the trip we had to earn the money to pay for the bus, and the cabins where we would stay. That usually involved the two classes sponsoring a cake walk, or a raffle, or something of that nature. We did those things, but were nowhere near to having enough money to take our trip. We had a serious meeting to discuss the possibilities for raising more money. Someone suggested that we try to get a musical band, or singer, to come to our school and put on a show. The person said that he had heard of other schools that had done this. He said that the entertainers would put on a show and it would not cost us anything. They would simply take a portion of the money taken in for their pay. This really sounded like a good idea to us. Two of the girls in the class were selected to find the entertainers. Someone said there was a country band in Memphis that had a TV show, and they would come. Someone else said that they had heard of a new young singer in Memphis that would come to small towns and put on a show. The girls decided to contact these two. A couple of weeks later another meeting was called. The girls presented two options. One was the country band, and the other was the young singer. The young singer’s manager, a disc jockey in Memphis, said they would come for half of the money taken in for the show. The country band wanted much less. A vote was taken, and we chose the country band. We just did not feel that anyone was worth half of our money. After all, we felt that we would probably take in upwards of seventy five dollars. The show went on, and we made a little money, but still not near enough for the trip, so it was back to the drawing board. Now, there are fast food restaurants and other places where teenagers can earn some extra money, but those places did not exist during that time period. There was one way to earn a little money. That was during the fall of the year when there was cotton to pick.
The most of the hill country cotton was picked before school began in the
fall, but our cotton in the bottomland was always late opening, and it was
indeed, high cotton. The soil was wetter, and you simply could not get into
the field as early in the spring, which caused the harvest to be later in
the fall. Many years I missed the first week or so of school to help get
our cotton out. I know that sounds unreasonable now, but it was not that
unusual back then. The teachers did not like the idea, but they helped as
much as possible. They would keep our assignments and allow us to catch up
with the others in the
class. I remember the morning well. My father and I had just finished milking the sixteen cows, and had just gotten to the cotton field. That field was twelve acres, and it really looked big for just two people to pick. My father did not like to hire any of the cotton picked. But, since both of my older sisters had left home to pursue their careers, and my brother and younger sister were still too small to help, there was just my father and me to handle all of the chores, as well as picking all of the cotton. He decided that since I had already missed the two weeks of school that he would try to find someone to help. Apparently the coach heard about this, and decided this might be a good opportunity for the class to make some money for the trip. I was really feeling down that day. I felt that we would never get all of that cotton picked. Then we heard a motorized vehicle coming down the gravel road by our cotton patch. We could hear laughing and shouting. We could not imagine who it could be. We usually saw only two vehicles a day. Those were the milk truck, and the mailman. The milkman had already been by, and it was not time for the mailman. Lo and behold, a big yellow school bus came around the curve, and it was loaded with my entire class, boys and girls alike. It seems that the coach told them the day before that if they wanted to make money for the trip that they should bring their pick sacks to school with them. That day turned into some escapade. The girls experienced their first taste of chewing tobacco, and the most of them got sick. But, at the end of the day we had picked almost all of the cotton, and there was enough money for the trip. The trip was enjoyed by one and all. Oh, that young singer that we passed over because his manager wanted half of what we took in for putting on a show. His name was Elvis Presley! ~ By M. G. "Russ" Russell, Contributor
Bubba Bodock Start The New Year With Humor If the fools in the Senate manage to push through Obamacare, we’re going to need plenty of humor in 2010 to help us forget our woes. A Tennessee couple, Dave and Rebecca Kosmitis, both bona fide rednecks, had nine children. They went to a doctor to see about getting Dave "fixed." The Doctor gladly started the required procedure and asked them what finally made them make the decision. "Why after nine children, do you want to do this?" Dave replied that they had read a recent article that 1 out of ever ten children born in the United States was Mexican, and they didn’t want to take a chance on having a Mexican baby, because neither one of them could speak Spanish. A Few Puns
Two antennas met on a roof, fell in love and got married. The ceremony wasn't
much, but the reception was excellent.
Two peanuts walk into a bar, and one was a salted. Deja Moo: The feeling that you've heard this bull before.
I went to buy some camouflage trousers the other day, but I couldn't find
any. A dwarf, who was a mystic, escaped from jail. The call went out that there was a small medium at large. Idiots Live Among Us Call Center Conversations: Customer: 'I've been calling 700-1000 for two days and can't get through; can you help?' Operator: 'Where did you get that number, sir?' Customer: 'It's on the door of your business.' Operator: 'Sir, those are the hours that we are open.' Then there was the caller who asked for a knitwear company in Woven. Operator: 'Woven? Are you sure?' Caller: 'Yes.. That's what it says on the label -- Woven in Scotland ...'
On another occasion, a man making heavy breathing sounds from a phone booth
told a Directory Enquiries: Caller: I'd like the number of the Argo Fish Bar, please' Operator: 'I'm sorry, there's no listing. Are you sure that the spelling is correct?' Caller: 'Well, it used to be called the Bargo Fish Bar but the 'B' fell off.'
Cuzin' Cornpone Exclusively For The Bodock Post
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Finally, we’re out of the ‘aughts.’ The aughts
were the first years of this century: aught one, aught two, aught
three…aught nine. Maybe you didn’t use the old folks’ terminology
that I’ve used here, but I sometimes like to say aught rather than zero
or o, as in the fifteenth letter of the alphabet.
My grandmother made quilts, lots of quilts. They were, and are
still, beautiful examples of talent and artistry from her generation, born
of a need, as well as, an expression of creativity. In my mind I can picture
her sitting by the fire on a cold winter night stitching together those small
pieces of fabric which wove a tapestry of every leftover scrap from a homemade
or worn out garment.
The last time I visited with my uncle, Lamar Carter, in New York
City he asked how he might go about getting some of her quilts repaired as
he routinely uses them when he has guests. The edges were getting frayed
and needed rebinding. I felt this was within the bounds of my sewing skills,
so I volunteered for the job. While I was in the process of repairs my
granddaughter, Hannah, watching me sew was quite taken with the fact that
my grandmother made her own "blankets".
While a few flower blooms linger late, and the winter Daphnes
are gravid with buds, we are not without delight. Mimi saw a sharp shinned
hawk chasing our home sparrow flock through our burning bush shrubs last
week. It was an awesome bird about the size of a robin. It did not catch
one while she was watching, and stayed out of range of Mimi’s broom.
Even Mimi marveled. I reminded her that the Good Book says: "Marvel not!"
She said she might marvel at me making my own supper.
My fascination with bows and arrows goes back to my preteen years
when Tony Austin and I challenged one another to shooting contests and sought
to learn all we could about archery. I no longer have any of the bows and
arrows I once had, but I’ve not lost my interest in archery.
One last argument for a God is He has created everything we need
and makes our food. Plants are the basis for all our food and use photosynthesis
to make food directly from sunshine.
I don’t know why they spend money on them fancy chairs that
move in all directions. Once you get there on "the day" and he stretches
you out, your ole bod just naturally stiffens up, like a log. He could have
used two sawhorses, just propped my head on one and my feet on the other
and as stiff as I was, the middle would never have drooped.
