From The Arbor Container Gardening On Patio
I hope you have your warm weather garden started, and I don’t want to hear any excuses. Your garden can be a full acre truck patch (my dream) or one or more containers on your patio (my reality). Mine are planted and growing vigorously. My patio is covered with containers of arugula, beets, carrots, cabbage, sweet peas (blooming in mid April), garlic, eggplants, zucchini, peppers, tomatoes, herbs and flowers. I have patriotic petunias blooming red, white, and blue. Again this year I promised Mimi I am cutting way back on tomatoes. I only have 1 Better Boy, 1 Better Bush, 2 Stupice, 2 Cherokee Purple, 2 Celebrity, 1 Rutgers, 1 Early Girl, and 2 Marglobes. I will buy and plant 1 Caspian Pink, 1 German Queen, and 1 BHN 640. I have several hot and sweet peppers including a few Ghost Peppers from Assam India, twicet as hot as Serrano habaneros. They make a paste and put on the fences to keep the elephants out of their gardens. It has worked for me so far with just the plants: I haven’t had a single elephant yet this year. We Bodock Post editors continue to be both thrilled and moved with the large number of subscribers and no telling how many readers. We are especially grateful for the expanding number of contributors, and love reading and sharing your stories. We Southerners are all story tellers, and just need an audience. The Bodock Post gives you just that. Please tell your friends about us and print copies to give to your friends, and neighbors, and a few people you don’t like. My sweet momma-in-law from near Hurricane MS remembers as a girl going with her parents to a place in Enterprise (now West Union) where you could buy the materials and make your own mattress. Anyone remember more details? Perhaps you can write a story about that. We trust you will enjoy this month’s issue with its eclectic mix of humor, nostalgia, history, and a little politics, and that it brings the old days to mind and plants a seed in you of days long gone that need remembering for you to share. ~ By Carl Wayne Hardeman, Editor 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.
First Grade Teacher's Kindness Remembered Having grown up in the country, in my early years I was never exposed much to other children. I happily whiled away the hours with my imaginary playmates, a litter of lavender-blue puppies that lived in the corncrib. My only other regular playmate was my little brother Billy, four years younger, and not very good company for a five-year old girl.
Recess was by far the worst part of every day for me. As my extroverted classmates ran, laughed, rode on the merry-go-round, pushed each other on the giant-strides, and seesawed with friends, I cowered behind the bushes on the playground with tears trickling down my face, hoping no one would see me. One day Mrs. Faulkner noticed my plight and came to my rescue. She asked if I would like to come out and play with the other children. When I told her I would not, she brought a darling little girl by the name of Rose over to meet me. We quickly became the best of friends. From that day on, I had someone to play with at recess, thanks to Mrs. Faulkner. I loved her for that! Mrs. Faulkner patiently taught our class to read, first teaching us the sight words we would need to know in order to learn about the daily activities of Dick, Jane, Sally, Spot, Puff, and Tim. I don’t remember learning any phonics in that early grade long ago in the fashion that is taught to young children today. We took turns sitting in groups of nine or ten in a reading circle around Mrs. Faulkner and the "big book," a replica of our student readers. I’ll never forget the day when, as I sat in the reading circle nervously awaiting my turn to read, I realized I had to go to the bathroom. Too shy to raise my hand and ask to go, I waited as long as I could. Soon a little yellow puddle began to form on the floor around the bottom of my squatty slatted chair. Ever conscious as to what was going on with her students, Mrs. Faulkner noticed and asked, "Janice, Honey, do you need to go to the bathroom?" Feeling all eyes upon me, I timidly answered, "No Ma’am, not any more." Mrs. Faulkner discreetly saw to it that I received clean clothes, acted as if it happened every day, and carried on as usual. I loved her for that! My mother never bought dresses for me when I was little. Being an excellent seamstress, she made all of my little frocks. They had fuller skirts and more fancy details than the store-bought ones. Etched in my memory is the day I went to school wearing a lavender dress with tiny pin tucks and lace down the front, complete with a matching fabric covered belt. Imagine my amazement when I got to school and saw that Mrs. Faulkner had on a dress exactly like mine in a pale blue hue. When I excitedly called her attention to the coincidence, she remarked, "Yes, we can be twins!" I loved her for that! Throughout my entire first grade year, Mrs. Faulkner continued to set an amazing example for her students with her soft voice, endless patience, and attention to the needs of the little ones in her charge. She turned what was at first an excruciating ordeal for me into a joyful experience. Because of Mrs. Faulkner, I learned to love school. Now, being a second grade teacher, I often ask myself what Mrs. Faulkner would do in difficult situations that I face from time to time. In this way, she continues to be an inspiration to me as I try to model my actions after her gracious ways. I love her for that! ~ By Janice Hattox Perkins, contributor
Biographical Sketch: Janice Hattox Perkins was born and raised in Pontotoc, Mississippi, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Wright Hattox. She received her bachelor’s degree in elementary education from Mississippi College with a minor in art and her master’s degree in curriculum and instruction from Southeastern University in Hammond, Louisiana. A National Board Certified teacher, Mrs. Perkins teaches second grade at Abita Springs Elementary School in Abita Springs, Louisiana. She lives with her husband, Don, in Covington, Louisiana and has two daughters and two grandchildren. She is active in the Covington Presbyterian Church, Junior League of Greater Covington, and a local Mardi Gras group. Janice’s hobbies are gardening, photography, and painting. After retiring from teaching, a dream of hers is to write and illustrate children’s books.
Step And Fetch It Boyhood Adventures When I was about six years old, we lived by the creek in "Happy Hollow" just down the hill from the town of Pontotoc. Our street, Marion St. ran along the north side of Court Square, crossed Main Street then plunged into another valley to the railroad. Since we lived so close to town Mom would send me to the store for odds and ends. I was her "Step-and-Fetch-it-Guy." Although I was only in the first grade, the hill did not bother me, and it was a good getaway. On the north side of Marion St. just across from Court Square, was Williams Drug Store, Abernathy’s Optometrist, Dr. John Rayburn, M.D.’s office, Page’s grocery store, another store or two that I do not remember, Dr. Shannon’s Jewelry Store, and the Joy Theater. This was my main beat. Dad had set up an "account" at Mr. Vester Page’s Grocery Store so that we could charge groceries. That way Mom did not have to send money with me each time when we needed something. Whoever waited on me just put my purchases "on the book." This particular time Mom sent me to the grocery for a few items, and of course, I got the mail from our box at the Post Office. While in town and since it was Wednesday, I was to purchase a copy of the weekly Pontotoc Progress Newspaper. The Post Office was diagonally across the Square coming from our direction. There were large evergreen shrubs at each corner of the square, not too tall, but covered a wide circle. We kids found a niche in each of these shrubs (or made one) and could crawl inside the bush. We could not stand but it was a nice place to hide, keep cool, or just enjoy; our secret little place. So while crossing the Square, we would always go "through" our bush, then scurry to the "Col. Rebel" statue in the center of the square, climb its cool marble steps and walk around to the other side on the top step. Then it was off to the other corner and the "bush thing" was repeated. Checking for cars, a quick run was made across the hot asphalt street to the cool grass in front of the Post Office. The steps to the Post Office were light gray marble and never hot like the pavement. The huge oak doors were heavy and difficult to open for a small lad, but once inside the cool marble floors were so nice.
We shared a post office box with our next door neighbor, Mrs. A. D. Moreland, and I was to get her mail as well as ours. If I stood tall and straight, I could just turn the key in the lock of box number thirty-three and retrieve the mail. One day my youthful mind wondered if our key would open any of the other boxes. It fit the first lock, but would not turn, as it did on the next and the next. As I was juggling still another lock, a gruff voice came from somewhere within the bowels of the boxed wall. "Boy, what are you doing? Don’t you know it’s against the law to tamper with postal boxes?" I did not know what "tamper" meant, but the sound of the voice was enough to scare the bejeebles out of me. With fear in my heart and motivation in my legs I cleared the most of the steps out front in a single bound, crossing the street in about three hops, I was "setting sail" (as dad would have said). It’s a wonder I did not strew mail all across the square. Our favorite shrub was bypassed as was Col. Rebel and I burst into Mr. Page’s store just as fast as my first grade legs would take me. Safety lay inside since Mr. Page, Mr. Harris, and Mr. Warren were my friends, and they would save me from any Postal Monster should it venture that far. After "cooling it" for a while I produced a list that mother had given me and Mr. Warren helped me find all the things she needed. On the bottom of the note it said, "Give Ralph a small cup of ice cream and a nickel for a Progress newspaper." I got the ice cream and the nickel and Mr. Warren put all of it on "the book." Apprehensions about the Postal Monster, I went out the back door through the cow feed and farm supplies. Anyway, it was closer this way to get the paper. The alley-like place from the back door was adjacent to a dry cleaning store and spewed steam into the alley as they pressed clothes. It smelled nice and clean, though a bit humid. Mr. Grady Cook was editor of the newspaper, and that office had a distinct odor, not bad, just different. Probably the ink, paper, and chemicals used in printing the paper. There was some racket involved as Mr. Herschel George sat at a large contraption with a rather small keyboard and typed out the news. The machine was setting type in lead for the paper. I had seen them melting lead outside in a pot out back of the shop. It all intrigued and interested me but I did not feel threatened like at the post office. I bought my paper with the nickel from the grocery store and was then on my way home. With a bag of groceries, mail in my back pocket, a newspaper under my arm, and the most important thing, my box of ice cream with its wooden spoon, I was on my way home. A little shaken, a bit wiser, I was on my way to becoming a top notch "Step and Fetch It" little guy. ~ By Ralph Jones, Managing Editor
Aging Matters The Signs Are Numerous I’m beginning to notice some of the little things that reflect aging, specifically my aging. It’s not something that’s come upon me all of a sudden, either. Why, I had to get bifocals twenty years ago and have upgraded to stronger prescriptions several times. Furthermore, the wrinkles on my face are more pronounced than a few years ago. They’re not just run-of-the-mill wrinkles; they are "grin things," which are what my first grandchild, Anna, noted of her great grandmother’s face.
"But, you’re old," she remarked, pointing to her Barbara’s mother, Lillie Paseur. "Why do you say that, Anna?" Lillie Belle responded. "’Cause you’ve got those grin things," Anna replied. For sure, grin things are better than frown things, and if I must have wrinkles, the ones caused by grins are my choice. Oh, and my hair is graying rapidly, but it’s not my hair or the lack of it that most concerns me. It’s my skin. My complexion is shot. Years of going bareheaded in summers without sun-blocking creams haven’t helped, and now dermatologists have been burning off pre-cancerous lesions on my face, forehead, and ears for about fifteen years. The resultant scars are noticeably whiter than my normal skin tone. Given a few more trips to the dermatologist and I may have a polka dotted face. Dry skin was never a problem in my younger days, but now the insides of my earlobes have succumbed to dryness. You’d think all that ear hair (that didn’t use to be there) would offer some protection from dryness, but it doesn’t. Furthermore, my forehead gets as dry and flaky as my ears, unless I keep it bathed in a cortisone based cream. And, just in case you’re wondering, some folks have considered me a little flaky for a long time, so maybe my skin condition is just a manifestation of in internal problem. All of the above may very well point to the aging process, but it’s the back of my hands that grieve me most. They are wrinkling rapidly and are more prone to bruising than ever. I can just bump the back of one of my hands and a purple streak shows up almost immediately. The same goes for a mild scrape, which quickly produces a bruise. And, there’s a fine line between a mild scrape and a scratch or tear. Though I wear leather work gloves to protect my hands, the backs of my hands even get bruised when I’m using my gas-powered hedge trimmers. Recently, I was cleaning debris out of our homes’ rain gutters with my bare hands. It wasn’t long until I’d scraped the back of my left hand on the shingles that overhang the gutters and was bruised and bleeding. Sometimes, when I’m working outdoors I’ll discover blood on my clothes and find the source to be a tear or scrape on the back of a hand or forearm. After years of thick-headedness and a thick-skin, which I’ve developed to blunt the arrows of criticism, it’s somewhat disheartening to observe cracks in my armor, cracks that show up in the way of thinning skin. Obviously, there’s more to becoming a grumpy old man than I realized. ~ By Wayne L. Carter, Associate Editor & Publisher
Soul Of Dixie What's Not To Like Alabama may be the "Heart of Dixie", but the grand old state of Mississippi is the "Soul of Dixie". One of most favoritest (that's perfectly good Southrenese) online sites is http://www.usadeepsouth.com/. I am fortunate enough to be honored by having one of my stories included in each of the last several editions. It's about as close as a body can get to being steeped in pure Southerniana, if I may coin a word. A recent challenge in their Message Board was to describe one Southern state which epitomizes the South. Now before you get your dauber in the mud, everyone has the same fair chance of making his or her case. I want to make the case for the Magnolia State of Mississippi, the Southern Belle of the Southern states. My birth state is Tennessee. I have also lived in Alabama, Texas, Georgia, and Louisiana. My love for Mississippi grew out of my love for Mimi, the love of my life, a true daughter of that state. She comes from a Scots heritage of farmers and laborers with fierce family pride, deep love for children, a strong work ethic, and a unquestioned love for the Good Lord. Spending weekends with her parents on their small farm and living some of that life, has only strengthened my appreciation and love for them and their Mississippi heritage and culture. Mississippi is a microcosm of not just the South, but the nation as a whole. Her topology covers the gamut of terrain found across the South from the wooded hills and rich farmland in the "bottoms" of the northeast to the prairies of central Mississippi to the pine forests and cattle ranches of its southeast section, then south to the warm Gulf of Mexico waters lapping her white sand beaches. Then one heads west to her lazy bayous and moss draped lowlands before heading north to the nation's thread basket and breadbasket in that great alluvial plain we call the Delta. That alluvial plane extends south from Cairo IL with the Pontotoc Ridge near Tupelo as its northeast boundary and Crowley's Ridge AR as the western boundary. All the land south of Cairo was once the Gulf of Mexico and has been filled in by the meandering Mississippi River with the rich alluvial material from the outflow of the melting glaciers of the last Ice Age, and rich loess, or windblown glacial till. You can see chalky limestone deposits in the road cuts around Tupelo. One need only drive any of the old "banana highways" the length of the state for a microcosm of what Irving Berlin wrote in "God Bless America". "From the mountains" takes a little imagination, but one can visit Woodall Mountain. It's not much of a mountain at 806 feet above sea level, but a mountain nonetheless near Iuka, and the USGS marker makes it so. Going south from Woodall Mountain past Tupelo where the Pontotoc Ridge trends eastward into Alabama, you'll come "to the prairies" of central Mississippi, the home of delicious sweet 'taters in Vardaman, and a flat landscape dotted with catfish ponds and cattle ranches. Continuing south one drives thru vast pine tree farms and more cattle ranches before reaching the "oceans, white with foam," at least during a hurricane. Thus we have a grand state which represents the South and America itself in all its topographical glory, and glory is a word we don't take lightly around here. Mississippi has a wealth of culture from "birthin" the Blues in the Delta to the King of Rock and Roll's birthplace in Tupelo. We just call him Elvis. Our literature is world known from William Faulkner's epics and history to Eudora Welty's depiction of our proud Southern ways to John Grisham's modern mysteries. Casey Jones met his fate as a hero in Vaughan MS, and Jimmy Rodgers, the Singing Brakeman, is the Father of Country Music. Norman Winter, Felder Rushing, and Dr Dirt, are just as famous in their own right. One culture I urge you to enjoy before it dies out is the Sacred Harp a capella singing in Pontotoc County. Mississippi's impact on technology is exemplified by the Redstone Rocket testing facilities to the Stennis Space Center and Lockheed Martin Mississippi Space and Technology Center. Native son Jim Barksdale is a giant in modern information technology and just as well known for his family's generous gifts to the children of his beloved home state.
I-55 and the coming I-69 are major north south economic corridors for the whole nation as is the railroad system made famous by the City of New Orleans passenger train. The Memphis FedEx hub is the busiest cargo airport in the world, and connects worldwide overnight by air, and sits less than three miles from Mississippi's major light manufacturing and distribution centers of Olive Branch and Southaven. As with most of the nation, Mississippi had indigenous native Indians, principally Chickasaw and Choctaw, who were forced to sell their land in the Treaty of Dancing Rabbit Creek and walk the Trail of Tears. Many site names retain the English pronunciation of original Indian names. Most flow easily off ones tongue like Shuba, Shubuta, Hiwassee, Tupelo, Buckatunna, Tallahatchie, Tishomingo, Toccopola, Pontotoc, and Tangipahoa, while some require lingual acrobatics like Ishtehotopah, Noxapater, Shuqualak, Wahalak, and Pascagoula. The next wave of peoples were the Spanish and French settlers, who too, left their mark from Mardi Gras to the rich Creole cuisine to place names like D'Iberville and Gautier from the French and Spanish names like Desoto and Hernando from the rediscoverer of the "Father of Waters" somewhere near Tunica, itself one of the largest gambling meccas in the nation. The next wave of settlers were the white farmers and the blacks on whose backs the cotton industry was built and thrived. And let us not forget the Chinese merchants of the Delta, and the modern day Vietnamese fishermen of the Gulf coast. Mississippi saw her share of Civil War battles (or The War of Northern Aggression, if you prefer) from the skirmishes of the leadup to Shiloh to the Battle of Vicksburg, which sealed the Mississippi River and irrevocably cut Southern supply lines from New Orleans and ensured the end of the war in the deep south, just as surely as Sherman's March to the Sea did in Georgia. Sons and grandsons of those brave soldiers have volunteered and served as loyal patriots in all subsequent wars. The great diversity of terrain, culture, and ethnic heritage, has produced a highly diverse cuisine. One can enjoy fresh Mississippi farm raised catfish and hushpuppies to die for made with bits of jalapeno peppers and cream style corn for the liquid. Tamales are another specialty in both the Delta and in Corinth, where slugburgers were born and are the reason for the Slugburger Festival each year. Hands down, the best steak this side of the Andromeda Galaxy is cooked at Doe's Eat Place in Oxford and Greenville. Mix in the Creole and Cajun cuisine of south Mississippi and Chinese cuisine in the Delta and you have a cuisine diversity as good or better than any other Southern state. My favorite Mississippi food is a plate load of home grown, vine ripe, fresh picked, hand shelled, purple hull peas, butterbeans, boiled 'taters, fried okra, sliced 'maters, and sliced muskmelon accompanied with fresh hot buttered cornbread and biscuits, with a giant moist delicate coconut cake for dessert. Drinks can be either sweet tea with lemon or ice cold buttermilk. That's in the summer. In the fall I love a mess of collard greens and baked sweet 'taters with fried whole crappie or catfish, or a big steamy pot of chicken and dumplins, and a pan of cornbread dressing redolent with black pepper, onion, celery, and sage so strong that the next day your Auntie will be sniffin and askin you what you had for supper the night before. Of course we eat supper in the evening and dinner at noon. On hot days we might just bust open a sweet juicy rattlesnake watermelon and eat the heart or hand crank sweet 'niller ice cream while cooling off on the front porch. It can't get no better than that. While each of her sister Southern states has its own unique attractions, Mississippi is both Belle and Grand Dame of the South and exemplifies all the South has to offer. Alabama may be the Heart of Dixie, but Mississippi is the Soul of Dixie. ~ By Carl Wayne Hardeman, Editor
Heated Subject The Night The Gym Burned The old gym, or as people know it now, "The Community Center," in Thaxton, is not really the old gym. The one that I remember as the old gym burned down when I was in grade school. I don’t remember the exact year, but it must have been somewhere around 1949 or 1950. That was some fire. The glare of the flames could be seen from our farm, which was over six miles away. The fire made quite a story. Why such a story? For one reason, it was indeed a big fire, but the main reason for the talk of burning was because it happened on a very cold night, and followed a much awaited ball game. During those times there were many schools in the area. Now, there are probably only three or four schools, but during that time period there was a school in every little community. The high school basketball games were something to behold. There was of course our school, Thaxton, and there were many others, such as Hurricane, Pinedale, Algoma, Randolph, and others that have slipped my memory. Of course there was Pontotoc, who always seemed to have a good team.
I remember some really good teams during that time, and some real battles, but it seems that some of our major battles were with Hurricane, and Algoma. As I look back on those times and the small schools, I often wonder just how good the ball teams were. After all, there were not that many students to pick from. If I remember correctly there were only about fifteen students in my graduating class, and the tallest player on our team, the center of course, was only about six feet. My uncle, who was about five years older than me was the center on his team, and he stood about 6’ 2", and was feared so much that someway they found a way to disqualify him in his senior year. Now as I look at the teams, someone that is only six feet would have a difficult time even making a guard position, much less center. During that time Thaxton had some really good teams. By the time I reached high school, we did not win many games, but during the late forties, and very early fifties, Thaxton had some teams that were feared by almost every other team in the county. The Thaxton Girl’s Team even won the state championship during that time. Apparently the year the gym burned, Thaxton and Algoma were the two top teams. The gym burned the night just after the Thaxton boys beat Algoma in a very tight and heated ball game. There were some eyebrows raised as to why the gym burned on that particular night, but even though I was only in grade school, I was at that game. The one thing that I remember was that it was a very cold night. The gym was heated by large pot bellied type iron stoves which burned coal. I distinctly remember the night and the cold weather, and the fact that so much coal was kept in those stoves that they were bright red. Not just the top of the stove, but the entire stove. As I remember it, the stoves were still red when we left the gym that night. That was another time and another generation. You will just have to form your own opinion as to why the gym burned, but if you were to talk to the folks of my generation, you would probably get some interesting opinions! ~ By M.G. "Russ" Russell, Contributor Note: Gym photo courtesy Sammie Jaggers. Also note aerial distance to Oxford on gym roof.
Griffin Hill Testing A Car's Goodness
Dad had always been partial to Plymouth vehicles, and we had owned several over the years. Most were "used" and some more used than others. Because of his love for them, it must have rubbed off on me, as my first car was a 1937 Plymouth named "Agnes" (that’s another story). It was very used, but for a teenager as a starter car, it was just fine, and we had many happy trips. I was in my first year of college and as I returned home for the Thanksgiving Holiday, there the new car sat in the driveway. Dad had traded our old ’49 Dodge sedan and bought this one, his first brand new car ever. If you knew my Dad, you know he was very frugal, and although this was a new vehicle it did not have many "gadgets." If the truth be known, none to speak of. It had a six cylinder engine, standard transmission, heater, radio and that’s all; well, it did have white sidewall tires. He and Mom were so proud of it, and I was also, almost as if it were my very own. While there over that holiday and then at the Christmas Holiday, I put many miles on it, dating my girlfriend and showing it off to all the boys around town. Before going back to school after the holidays, one of my friends asked if it was a "good car." Of course I answered yes. He then said, "Will it climb the hill?" I knew which hill he was speaking of and knew that it was a big challenge for any car, new or old. Having been up the hill several times in the car I knew that it was not any problem ordinarily. However, our test of a car was different than just driving up the hill. You must realize there were very few automatic transmissions at this time in our small town and this test could not be done except with a standard transmission. The test began with four people in the car, stop at the bottom of the hill, place the shift lever in "high" gear, take off from that dead stop in that highest speed gear and then "climb the hill." Billy Carl Austin, Tommy Douglas, Kenneth Hodges and I drove over to the area. Mr. and Mrs. M.K. Griffin lived there on top of the hill along with some of their grown children who had homes nearby. Many of us guys just called it "Griffin Hill" for short. It was located just west of the railroad depot. We stopped at the bottom of the hill, I slipped it down into high gear and started it rolling at the very bottom and then turned the nose up the hill that looked like a mountain. The engine was at low RPMs and the hill was very steep, and before we got to the top it seemed like the engine would conk out. We were all talking to the engine and trying to give it every advantage like lifting up off the seats to lessen the weight. As we began to reach the top, I was pushing the accelerator against the floorboard so hard that I thought my foot would push through into the engine compartment. Just as we thought it would die, it just kept on, and kept on, and kept on. Finally it crested the top of the hill and as the road leveled off we went sailing up toward Billy Carl’s house. It had made it; it would forever be considered a "good car" by all my friends. Not only was it considered a good car by my friends, but Mom and Dad kept it for many years and always considered it a very good investment. When it was traded in for the next car, that next new car was another Plymouth. Many of us were saddened the day Chrysler Motor Company decided, for whatever the reason, to eliminate the Plymouth Line from its fleet of "good cars." ~ By Ralph Jones, Managing Editor
Moral Melee Moral Compass Gone Awry Principle — particularly moral principle — can never be a weathervane, spinning around this way and that with the shifting winds of expediency. Moral principle is a compass forever fixed and forever true. ~ Edward R. Lyman
Yes, I believe in God, and I believe God is in control and will somehow effect his will for this nation, regardless what we mortals do or don’t do. But, I’m concerned with our nation’s shrinking sense of morality. And, I’m concerned that too many of us are shirking our responsibility to teach morality to our children and to influence others to live a moral life. Our public schools don’t seem to want the job of teaching morals. Our churches once spent a great deal of time on this subject, but it’s been a while since I heard a sermon on morals and the need for morals in modern society. Every time some athlete is caught lying about the use performance enhancing drugs or his or her affairs, apologists quickly remind us that which individuals do in their private lives is none of our business. That’s about as dumb as saying alcoholism only hurts the individual who consumes it. One doesn’t have to look very far back in time to see that politicians, pastors, and persons renowned by their respective communities have disappointed their supporters or followers by losing their moral compass and indulging in acts such as adultery, accepting bribes, etc. Now, our morals are being challenged by the Gay-Lesbian-Bisexual-Transgender agenda that wants to redefine that which the Bible declares to be sin. Theirs is not an unproven tactic, as we’ve witnessed how the abortion industry has thrived once it convinced enough folks to believe the lie that an unborn human is not human and the Supreme Court ruled favorably for a woman’s right to choose to destroy the child in her womb. Richard Nixon lost his moral compass and the Watergate scandal cost him the presidency. Bill Clinton lost his moral compass, and Monica Lewinsky became a household name. Bill Clinton was impeached but remained in office and whatever legacy he hoped to leave is now tainted by his sexual lusts. Pastor, teacher, singer, pianist, and televangelist, Jimmy Swaggart, succumbed to the temptations of the flesh and thereby lost his moral compass. By now, practically everyone in these United States knows about PGA golfer, Tiger Woods’ marital infidelity. In fact, we know more than most of us want to know or need to know. Now that he’s returned to the sport of golf, all too many people choose to gloss over his indiscretions and return to worshiping his golf swing and golf putts. But, should they? As of this writing, his wife has not joined the galleries of Tiger fans. For convenience, we’ve separated Tiger Woods the golfer from Tiger Woods the husband and father. Doing so makes it easier for us to return to our love affair with his golf game, while discounting his personal life. When we do this, we make Tiger a god and ignore our personal knowledge of right and wrong. Charlie Daniels is an entertainer. He sings and plays a fiddle tune about the Devil issuing a challenge to another fiddler, a duel if you please, the outcome of which determines the eternal fate of the one being challenged. In the end the Devil is out-played, and the challenger supposedly receives a golden fiddle, a small reward compared to the soul he might have lost. Country music fans love the song and the sounds of the fiddles, but suppose for a moment the Devil had won the contest. Would we acclaim the Devil’s fiddling abilities, mob him with adoration, all the while knowing he is evil and representative of all things unholy? Would we give him a pass on amorality in order to hear his fiddle tunes? Aren’t we doing the same thing when we excuse Tiger Woods and others like him whose moral compasses have gone awry? ~ By Wayne L. Carter, Associate Editor & Publisher
November Elections Something Worth Considering
Many voters either do not pay income tax or will not be affected much by Obamacare by this November's elections, thus sound bites and taking pot shots will be the politicking rather than sound logic. Let us not fall into that quagmire and go down with the liberals and socialists with business as usual: posturing, distortions, and no real change or improvement. Unless we take a strong, simple, easy-to-understand position, we will simply be wallowing in the mire: quibbling with each side shooting down the other side's arguments, which satisfy most voters, or making deep dissertations, which most voters don't understand or bother to understand. Thus the need to adopt something that is not arguable, is easy to understand, and resonates with a voting majority. Our credo: LET US THROW OUT ALL CONGRESSMEN WHO DO NOT SUPPORT THIS CREDO BECAUSE WE ARE DISGUSTED WITH:
Start with a vote on a Jan 01, 2012 current tax code drop dead replaced by a simple formula of percent of total income on all income. Then this fall we ONLY argue this credo and eschew sound bite rhetoric as just that. We must take the position that the current federal government is rotten to the core and demands replacement by a concerned citizenry who wishes to take back control. But we must avoid a third party strategy since so many people vote party lines. Candidates in each party can choose to either support the credo or not. I would argue the gaps in medical coverage and other issues should have been fixed years ago regardless of party in power in charge, but they did not or could not, demonstrating the ineffectiveness of current elected politicians of both parties. I would vote only for candidates who sign a sworn support statement for this credo. Popular congressmen will get re-elected regardless. A set of Congressmen which supports our credo has a chance, and a mandate, to make the much needed real change back to a government which is of the people, by the people, and for the people. ~ By Carl Wayne Hardeman, Editor
Chicken n’ Dressing A Shot To Remember The time was late 1940’s or early 1950’s. We were living on hwy 6 west of Pontotoc, as a matter of fact the power lines ended at our house. The day was Sunday, and we were having company for dinner. My mother told my father that if he would kill the old rooster that she would make chicken and dressing. I remember as he went to the big black trunk that stored many things. I was not allowed to look in the trunk unless an adult was nearby. He retrieved his pistol and started out into the yard with me in close pursuit. Mama said, "Don’t shoot the chicken with that, there won’t be enough left to make soup."
She said, "If your shoot that chicken in the head, I will eat it feathers and all." There was no way that he was going to leave me in the house because I was stuck like glue. We walked into the yard.(these were yard birds in the truest sense as they roamed free and were fair game for chicken hawks) He cautioned me several times about scaring the chickens. He picked the intended main course; the chicken was about 25 yards away. (Looked like a mile to kid.) He whistled and it sounded enough like a hawk to cause the chickens some concern. The little chicks ran to the hens and the hens covered them with their wings but the rooster stuck his head up and gave a loud squawk. At that instant my father shot his head smooth off. I had been to many 10-cent Westerns and seen my hero do many things like shoot a six-shooter 25 times with out reloading. But, I had never seen in real life anything what I had just witnessed. (By the way that was good shooting any where or any time.) Now for the rest of the story, as soon as the chicken expired( as you may or may not know a chicken with no head does some jumping and tries to run, but he can’t see where he is going) I picked him up by the feet and ran to the back porch and called my mother to the door. Then I said to that wanted to see her eat the chicken feathers and all. My father was probably the only reason that she did not give me some "hickory tea." She did however make me skin and gut the chicken and made sure that I removed the liver and gizzard. I reminded her about the incident many times, and my father always thought it was funny. ~ By Terry Stewart, Contributor
Bubba Bodock Visiting The Doctor We strive to find something humorous each month to fill this section of our newsletter. We appreciate receiving family-appropriate submissions.
After his exam the doctor said to the elderly man: "You appear to be in good
health. Do you have any medical concerns you would like to ask me about?'" -------------------------------------
Over five thousand years ago, Moses said to the children of Israel, "Pick
up your shovel, mount your asses and camels, and I will lead you to the Promised
Land". I got so depressed last night thinking about Health Care, the economy, the wars, lost jobs, my savings, Social Security, retirement funds, etc...I called the suicide hotline, and got a call center in Pakistan. I told them I was suicidal. They got all excited and asked if I could drive a truck!
Cuzin' Cornpone 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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We
gardeners love the month of May. The threat of a killing frost is past. The
ground is warm enough and rain dependable enough for the most stubborn seeds
to sprout.
Imagine my apprehension, in September
at the end of my fifth year, at the prospect of being thrown into a classroom
full of tiny strangers with whom I would be spending almost all of my waking
hours five days a week for nine months! My first day of first grade at Pontotoc
Elementary School was easily one of the most agonizing days of my childhood
existence. The only redeeming feature of that first day was my teacher, Mrs.
Stanley Faulkner. I thought she was the most beautiful, sweetest lady I had
ever laid eyes on, next to my mother.
The interior was intimidating for a youngster.
High ceilings, tall tables, people glaring out from barred windows, gave
a crisp, no-nonsense atmosphere, almost hospital like. There on the south
wall of the tall ceilinged lobby was a mural of early Americans feasting
with Native Americans. Below this large painting was an ominous door that
said "Postmaster," that I never saw open, nor knew what was inside until
sixty or more years later. For all I knew it could have been a mean old man
who ate young boys. Intimidating? Yes!
"Nana, you’re not old," my granddaughter told
my wife one day in a café when she was five years old.
Mississippi's
long and diverse history parallels that of the nation as a whole, too.
Prehistoric trails like the Chickasaw Trail and the Natchez Trace were major
economic pathways long before US45 and US51 were built to bring bananas from
Gulf ports to Fulton KY for distribution across the northern USA. The oldest,
The Mississippi River, and newest, The Tombigbee Waterway, commercial waterways
are along her borders.
Over the years in my writing I have
attempted to relate to my children, who are now middle-aged, what life was
like during that time. I have finally realized that is impossible. Times
were hard, and the world really did not exist to us outside our little
communities. That made the basketball games something very special. The star
players were treated as someone very special, much like the stars in the
movie, The Hoosiers.
It
was a fine new car, and I thought it was just about the best, a four-door,
light green, 1956 Plymouth sedan with those huge rear fins. The fins and
its general shape conjured up an images/Image of movement, even while sitting
perfectly still. To say it was sleek was an understatement, to my way of
thinking.
I’ve
not personally witnessed a compass spinning out of control as described by
persons and/or researchers of a phenomena sometimes associated with the Bermuda
Triangle, but I’ve seen our nation’s moral compass go awry in the
relatively short span of my life. And to me, it seems our moral compass is
spinning out of control.
He went on his way replying that he was just going
to shoot the head off the chicken. Mama’s next remark would haunt her
for some time.
