From The Arbor Celebrating October
It’s hot and dry in Bodock Land. I wrote those same words for the July issue. This last week of September is not any different, breaking heat records and sucking the moisture out of every plant. Of course fall only fell this past Wednesday Sep 22, 2010. The gall of it all is Al Gore is somewhere smirking. Every cloud has a silver lining, which in this case is the clear dry harvest days. The corn, soybeans, cotton, and sorghum harvests have begun. The sweet tater crop is just over half harvested in the great central Mississippi prairie, and pumpkins will be ready by Halloween. October 15-16 is the Mississippi State Fall Flower and Garden show in Crystal Springs. The Sweet Potato Festival in Vardaman is November 6-13. Me and Mimi have been to both and highly recommend you go. In Vardaman you can eat everything imaginable made with sweet taters and some you can’t imagine. Also you don’t want to miss the fun at the Wise Family Farm Corn Maze and other activities in the Shady Grove community, and check out the scarecrow exhibit in Ballard Park in Tupelo and the pumpkins and related activities in the Tupelo Buffalo Park & Zoo the month of October. This is my first year to plant sweet taters on my own. My in-laws, Ralph and Opal Graham of the Hurricane community, could raise a passel of delicious orange sweet taters. I will harvest mine first week of October. I have both Beauregard and Porto Rico varieties. If the size of the vines is any indicator, I’m gonna have to borrow Cuzin Cornpone’s bob truck to tote ’em to the smoke house. Mimi thinks they may just be all vines. Some folks say they can make a pumpkin pie taste like a sweet tater pie. Why bother unless you have no sweet taters and a bunch of extra pumpkins. Mimi’s momma, Opal, used to keep small baked sweet taters on the stove that Mimi and her cousins could eat for a snack. She says Maw Hayse kept some in the banked ashes of the fireplace when Opal was small. Well, October looks to be a month of good weather, good eating, good reading, and several country events you don’t want to miss. We trust you will enjoy this month’s edition of the Bodock Post and you will enjoy the many articles from several contributors who have shared stories from their lives in the red clay hills of Bodock Land. Perhaps you will be inspired to send us one of your stories to share. ~ By Carl Wayne Hardeman, Editor
The Walnut Tree Patience Pays Big Dividends Every year about this time, just as the first hint of fall is sneaking around the corner, my memory takes me back to some long ago place. This time it’s a serene, quiet, sandy piece of ground in my sweet homeland of East Texas. Miles from anywhere, literally, I grew up not realizing we were probably among the most deprived folks around. Funny thing is, we didn’t know anyone who was any different than we were, so I suppose it is all about one’s perspective.
What I started out to say is that the other morning I was looking out my
dining room windows and noticed that the leaves on one of the trees had turned
to a reddish/pumpkin color. Now, whether the color seemed to appear
early because the leaves were begging for water, or it was just their time
for them to shed their old garments, I do not know. Regardless, for some
reason I got to thinking about the black walnut tree in our front yard back
in East Texas. It’s no longer there; I checked a few years ago,
but it remains in my memory to this day.
But back to the wave of nostalgia I had the other day. I got to thinking about that tree and how we would gather the walnuts when they began to fall to the ground. If you’re with me here, these walnuts had a heavy, brownish/black, rather tough, coat or covering around them. When you had successfully removed that protective layer, you had only just begun the journey to find the sweet meat inside! I will never forget how my mother would patiently crack those black walnuts with a heavy hammer, exposing the nut meat inside, and slowly pick out the few choice pieces of black walnuts! It seemed to take forever, but to her I’m sure she was only thinking about the black walnut cake that would soon be baked and enjoyed during the holidays. Another thing: she did not live in this age of instant gratification where no one wants to wait for anything. It’s now or never sometimes. I’m guilty. I love everything about semi-homemade, microwaves, instant potatoes, you name it. Sometimes, I think it’s good for us to have to wait for something once in a while. Don’t you appreciate the end results a lot more? I think so. Whether we’re waiting for the tomato plant to take hold in the soil, waiting on a loved one to arrive from who-knows-where, waiting on the hummingbirds to find the sweet nectar we’ve made them, or maybe we’re waiting on the postman to bring a special something we’ve ordered. (Bill has a story about waiting forever for his secret code ring to arrive in the mail after he had mailed in his Kellogg's cereal box tops, plus 50 cents!). It doesn’t really matter what our hopes are set on – it’s just good sometimes to wait. And be. And give thanks. So, there was mama cracking those black walnuts that were hard as concrete and then picking out the actual prize inside. She would use her tiniest crochet needle as her "weapon of choice" to extract the nutmeat, as I recall. Or, maybe she had one of those nut picker-outers that everyone seemed to have. You know the kind. The "cracker" tool stands up in the middle and the "pickers" fit in the drilled-out holes around the outer part, and the whole thing looks like a slice of wood from some tree. Y’all had one, too, right? Somehow we always had an abundance of pickers ... and I don't mean the people pickers! I think we all had one of those outfits gracing our hearths or side tables, but it beats me where ours is right now. (Organization is not a spiritual gift of mine!) For some reason, I still head to the store and buy those kinds of English walnuts that are easy to crack, or already cracked. They will never be as good as those black walnuts, though. I’m sorry; they just aren’t as sweet. Could it be that time has sweetened them in my memory? Perhaps. Sometimes, rather than wait and crack my own store-bought nuts, I just go for it, and buy the kind of walnuts or pecans that result from some machine that has done all the hard part. My idea of robotics! I’m not proud of cheating like this … I’m just sayin’: Guilty as charged. So, as you welcome the cool mornings and anticipate the arrival of autumn, of harvests, of preparing festive cakes and pies and all manner of delicacies, try to reflect on your heritage. I hope you had at least one walnut tree or apple tree or pear tree or fig tree in your past. I know I did. You know, I’m not saying it has to be a tree to be the object of your reflection – but I do encourage you to dig back and find that special thing or place or person, that upon reflection, still brings you pleasure when it comes to your mind. I promise: the cake is worth the wait. At least, mama’s was. "They that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint." – Isaiah 40:31 ~ By Velta Morris, Contributor
Biographical Sketch: Velta Gray Morris, and her five siblings grew up in East Texas in a farming family. Graduating from Henderson High School (TX), she then attended Tennessee Temple Bible School, Chattanooga, TN, and Southeastern Louisiana Univeristy, Hammond, LA. Velta, and her husband Bill now live in Lancaster, SC and have two sons and four grandchildren. After 32 years as a legal secretary retirement came in 2004. Her love for writing is only superseded by her love of music and that of being a wife, mother, and grandmother. Velta considers her natural ability for music and writing are gifts from God.
Doing The Right Thing Enjoyable For A Season As parents, most of us try to do the best we can for our children. Some give time, others money, while others just try to fit in there somewhere and be there when their youngsters need them. I remember one time in Mrs. Anderson’s fifth grade class a father, who did not have a very good reputation in the community, brought his daughter a hamburger for lunch, only thing was, it was in the middle of the afternoon. It seemed that the entire class thought even more poorly of him because of that. However, as I have grown much older now, the gesture on his part was commendable. He remembered that his daughter had not brought a lunch from home nor did she have the fifteen or twenty cents to purchase one in our lunch room. He did what he could, when he could. He purchased her a sandwich and brought it to her, though late and probably cold, it was a loving thing for him to do. Parents, even poor ones, occasionally do the most wonderful things; sometimes not. Sometimes, even with the best of intentions, things turn south on them.
However, as we saw those cute little ducks we could not resist getting some for our kids. My wife suggested we get only two, one for each child. But, being the "know-it-all farmer" that I am, I said that they would die like flies and that a half dozen would not be too many. "Half of them will be dead by morning no doubt," were my exact words. WRONG! She was delighted that I was so knowledgeable about animals and agreed to get six. Well, as things turned out, they did not die by the next morning or the next. The fact of the matter is, none of them died; they all grew up to be full grown ducks. The cute little fuzzy yellow critters grew up to be ornery white quackers that created a mess wherever they went. We lived out in the country and let the ducks run wild. They never got out of the yard and became some of the largest ducks you’d ever want to see. When it rained they would find a small puddle and stick their bill into it and churn it somehow until it became a big muddy mess. After a rain, there would be holes all around our yard where the ducks had been playing in the mud. The white feathers they had grown, now floated all around the yard, resembling a light snow. You dared not go where they roamed because of the poop they left behind. In so many words, they were a mess. They did have some redeeming qualities. They were friendly; our children had enjoyed them, and they were not aggressive. They were faithful to stay put; they did not try to run away, although we encouraged it later. The big plus, or so we thought, was that they laid a lot of eggs. Each morning we would find more eggs laying around in the yard, they did not make a nest as chickens do. When they first started laying, I would gather the eggs and we would cook with them and eat them like chicken eggs. However, they were about twice the size of a hen egg and had a stronger taste. There are just so many duck eggs that you can tolerate, we all got so sick of them the very thought of having another fried duck egg was repulsive. In trying to relocate the ducks to a small pond nearby, one of the ducks died in transit. Until this day, we have no idea why it died. I thought it would be a good learning experience for the kids to have a funeral service for the fallen duck. After digging a grave and finding a box large enough for a casket, we gathered around the open grave. Thinking we would say a few words of farewell to a loyal friend, I asked the children if they had any final remarks. Joey said he did not have anything to say, however, Jan said some most profound words, "I didn’t like them after they got all growded up!" After those choice words, all that was left was to close the grave and go on with the day’s chores. ~ By Ralph Jones, Managing Editor A Day Out West How I Spent My Birthday I failed to get a picture of the father/ daughter pair we had met Monday night at the Pizza Barn, in Elko, Nevada, but when I was beginning to load our car to leave our motel, I noticed a car with Massachusetts plates was in the parking lot and had a hunch it belonged to the Sheaffers. Sure enough, they were having breakfast in the motel and agreed to let me photograph them.
Sometimes God puts persons in our lives to accomplish his will, and sometimes we entertain angels unaware. I met them on the night before my birthday, and I had a wonderful time talking to them and getting to know them. I think our encounter was more than happenstance. I think meeting them was perhaps a birthday "happy" sent from God. We left Elko, NV, driving toward Jackson, WY, by way of Twin Falls, Idaho. There may be regions in Nevada less desolate than those parts we saw, but neither of us ever wants to spend much time in the Nevada deserts. And, as we drove further east and north, the landscapes had more green about them, and we could appreciate the beauty more so than the arid look of the desert landscapes. The Snake River was one of the more beautiful of the unexpected sights we found on our trip. I forget the exact spot, but I believe we were in Utah when we drove across a great chasm with the Snake River flowing a few hundred feet below us. We would follow alongside this magnificent river many more times this August day and its beauty was striking whether in a gentle bend along a smooth plain or beside a rugged mountain. Nearing Jackson, Wyoming, we ran into a light rain, which made the mountain drive seem even more treacherous, and the "Slippery When Wet" road signs offered no comfort. But, we made it to our motel without incident. Of all the motels we stayed in during our two-week road trip, the Motel 6 in Jackson, WY was the most expensive and had the least amenities. Wireless Internet was an additional charge of $3.17 per day. We were unable to secure a downstairs room, and the motel offered no elevator service to the second floor. The room itself was recently remodeled, though somewhat cramped and had no bathtub, only a shower. The only personal provisions were soap, face cloths and towels, and did not include shampoo or conditioner. If there were facial tissues, we never found them, nor did we have a small refrigerator or a microwave or coffeemaker. Oh, we could have stayed in a nearby Comfort Inn for $211.00, but the Motel 6 and all it didn’t offer was half the price. In my career with SUPERVALU, I have stayed in some no-frills motels that offered no more than coffee and doughnuts for the "continental breakfast," but this one offered only coffee, in the lobby. After huffing and puffing up and down the stairs while unloading our luggage from the car and getting it to our room, I was ready for my birthday dinner. The first restaurant we decided to eat at had a waiting list of forty-five minutes to an hour, so we drove a short distance up the highway to The Gun Barrel Restaurant and Lounge. We were seated almost immediately, and they were packed with customers. Given a choice, I seldom order prime rib. I’ve eaten it lots of times at banquets, but I’m somewhat old-fashioned in that I like my rib eyes grilled not roasted. However, I didn’t want lamb or buffalo (other menu options) and the New York Strip was a much larger portion than I could consume, so I ordered the smallest cut of prime rib on the menu (8 oz. or 10 oz., unsure which it was). Barbara had pork medallions, and had I been able to see a plate of them before I ordered the prime rib, I might have chosen differently. However, both our dinners were delicious. My sixty-eighth birthday will be remembered not for the meal itself, though it was good, and not for one of the ones enjoyed alone with my wife, but for being the one celebrated the greatest distance from home. ~ By Wayne Carter, Associate Editor & Publisher Wts. & Measures Sizing Up The Situation Some of you may not be able to comprehend this. That's OK. Just put it down and go on back up I-55 until you recognize words you understand and where the weather is colder than a well digger's hind parts. Just as so called proper English is full of archaic and strange terms for weights and measurements like furlong, gill, liter, and gram, our Southernese is plum full of highly descriptive terms with rich connotative meanings separate and apart from highbrow terms like plethora and dearth. In other words, we have our own language which possibly only we understand. Have you ever given a Yankee directions and told him: "Hit's over yonder a fer piece."? Did he look at you funny and speed off back toward the north while you were grinning like a mule eating briars?
We can get a ways off faster than a rotten plum through a goose, but it will take us a coon's age to get a fer piece, and we haven't been a mighty fer piece since heck was a pup, and he's dead of old age, and deader than a door nail at that. If you were to ask Uncle Aubrey of Laws Hill MS how he's doing, he might say he was fairin’ passably, and Auntie might say she's tolerable, though she's been nervous as a cat’s tail in a room full of rocking chairs. They are doing fair to middling as long as they are able to sit up and take a fair amount of nourishment and a swaller or two of cold buttermilk. They might even say that was right nice of you to ask or mighty nice of you to ask. He said Junior, his little brother, fell off the porch and knocked a big pone on his head, and was mad as an old wet hen. Uncle Aubrey told him not to get his dauber stuck in the mud, and put a dab of chaw on the pone to draw out the "pizen." Momma was a true Southern lady and thought it was impolite to ask anyone their age. If she were asked, she was quick to say: "I'm the same age as my gums and a little bit older than my teeth." Several more quantitative terms that come to mind are: scarce as hen's teeth, a covey of quail, a bevy of belles, a lick of sense, a sack full of taters, a mess of greens, a month of Sundays, a heap of mashed taters, oodles of love, a dash, a smidgen, and a pinch. We have a new Southern quantitative measurement. Belts come in X, XL, XXL, and XXXL, and now SCL. SCL means you are on the Stockyard Call List in case they get in a large bull and you need a new belt. Mimi put me on that list. Anyway you look at it, we know what we mean, and we get'er done. If I've left any out, let me know. I've got to go clean up my mess where I tump'ed over my glass of sweet tea. ~ By Carl Wayne Hardeman, Editor Sorghum Time A Family Affair Our children are middle-aged now, and even though they visited farms where their grandparents lived, they grew up in cities in Indiana, Florida, and Tennessee. They have travelled to many countries as well as to the most of our great nation. My wife and I grew up on farms in Mississippi, and Tennessee. We lived through the hard times of the 1940’s, and the early fifties. We have always attempted to relate to our children what life was like during that time. Once, when our children were in their early teens, we took them to a sorghum mill. Our thought was that we could re-capture the magic of the days and nights of our early years and the sorghum mill. It did not work. To them it was just a hot smelly place, but to us, it brought back the memories of childhood. 
These days children have carnivals, fairs, amusement parks, and many other
places to go for entertainment, but during the 1940’s, and 50’s
these things did not exist in the red hills of Pontotoc County, Mississippi.
At least they did not exist in our little corner of the county. There was
however, one festive occasion for us. That was when it was time to cook the
sorghum cane into molasses. That was one of the few times of the year when
the children were allowed to stay up late, and play.
The most of the time I write about was during, and just after World War II. Our little community was so isolated that other than going to school, we seldom saw anyone other than the people on the neighboring farms. Our transportation during that time was by mules and wagons. The few roads that we had were dirt, which turned into mud when it rained, and became impassable to any mode of motorized transportation once the winter rains set in. My family lived on a small combination cotton, and dairy farm in West Pontotoc County. We also grew corn, hay, and beans, for the cattle. That was all work. The one fun crop that we had was sorghum. Of course that was only fun during mill time. Preparing the sorghum cane for the mill was very hard work. The sorghum mill was owned and operated by my great uncle. Since the sorghum cane harvesting season is very short, it was necessary to operate the mill night and day. For the children, the nights were the fun time. Once the sorghum cane reached the peak of ripeness, you only had a few days to get it ready for milling before the juice dried up. For this reason it was necessary for Uncle to schedule your time to mill your sorghum cane. Once you were notified of your milling time, things really began to move fast. As my father always said about the situation during this time, "it took all hands and the cook." That meant that even the small children, and the women were pressed into duty. First came the stripping of the sorghum. This had to be accomplished while the cane was still standing in the field. Daddy would make "paddles" out of old pieces of lumber. He would hone down the wood until it had an edge much like an ax. The paddles were used to cut, or more so, to knock the limbs, or fodder off the cane. Everyone was involved in this. Next came the cutting down of the cane. The men usually did this. Once the cane was on the ground, it was time for the women and children to take over. It was their job to cut the seed heads from the top of the cane. You were not allowed to bring any cane to the mill unless it had been stripped of fodder, and the seed heads removed. Uncle said that if any leaves were left on the cane that it would cause the molasses to be dark and bitter. Uncle furnished the mill, and he did the cooking. But all labor other than that was furnished by the owner of the cane being milled and cooked. That meant that the day before it was your turn for milling, you hauled in the wood for the burner of the cooking pan. This was of course not just any kind of wood, but hot burning, and smokeless wood. The next thing to arrive was the cane itself. It was staged in a way that as soon as the person in front of you was finished, you were ready to move your wood and cane in to position with no loss of time. The mill itself was powered by a mule. He was hitched to a long pole, and he would walk round and round the mill that squeezed the juice from the cane. The day finally came when it was your turn at the mill. The entire family showed up to help. The men had to take care of the mule while it was powering the mill. He also had to haul off the mash. Mash was the cane after the juice was removed by the mill. The juice was mashed from the cane, and then it flowed from the mill down an old trough, and into the cooking pan. Uncle always kept a plug in the end of the pan. He would only release the required amount of juice into the pan. There was nothing to tell him how long to cook the juice. It was said to be all by skill, eyesight, feel, and smell. Now came the festive part of milling the sorghum. Due to the shortness of time, the mill operated from daylight until dark, and even long into the night. The after dark was the part that the children loved. The mill was located in a wooded area that faced an open field. There was a small pond just uphill from the mill and cooking pan, a copper pan of course. The pond was necessary in order for the animals to be watered. In order to reach the mill it was necessary to cross an old pole bridge, travel through a wooded area, and on out into the open field. The cooking pan was located under some trees at the edge of the field, which afforded shade during the entire day. We had no electricity during that time so light was by coal oil lanterns. The complete area looked almost like a Japanese Garden. . All of the other people in the community worked their own farms during the day. But come nightfall, many of them would begin showing up to watch, and visit. That’s when the children would begin chasing lightening bugs, playing hide and seek, and just being children. There were even times that uncle would call for all of the children to come to the cook pan. He would cut pieces of the cane, and dip it into the fresh cooked hot molasses, and pass it around to each child. We would run and play until the mill closed, and we were so tired that we slept in the back of the wagon all the way home. The molasses were a big part of our livelihood. There was no sugar to be had during that time so molasses was the only means we had to sweeten anything. My mother always said that she was ashamed to tell people that we always kept forty gallons of molasses to get us through the winter. ~ By M.G. Russell, Contributor Lock Issues Locked Out, Locked Up, Locked Down After leaving our Southaven office the other afternoon, I got an urgent call. Howard who shares an office with us there was calling and his voice told me something was amiss. "Where are you?" "I’m here in Olive Branch at Highway 78 almost to Peggy’s mother’s house. What’s the matter?" "I’m here at Sam’s Wholesale and have locked myself out of my truck, and the engine is still running." You could almost hear the panic in his voice. I asked if he wanted me to come back and he assured me that he did. Immediately I began to look for a turning place. Knowing there was a pole ax in my vehicle I said, "I’m not sure what I can do to help except break out the window, but I’ll be there in just a few minutes." Our cell phones grew silent for a moment and he said, "What was I thinking, you don’t have a key to my truck, I can break out the window by myself if I have to. One window is down just a little and the store manager here may have a coat hanger or something I can use to get it unlocked." He called again a little while later, calm, cool and collected. He said that the coat hanger had done the trick and we would not have to break the window. Situations like this really frustrate us. You feel so alone and helpless, so vulnerable, even stupid at times. Like a few years ago our daughter, Sharon, had dropped off Morgan, our granddaughter, at our house, as was her custom, and had headed off to work. We were enjoying our grand darling and she was telling us all sorts of interesting things when we noticed Sharon walking/running up the driveway. By the very way she moved we knew something was wrong. When she entered the house she was almost beside herself, talking fast, and almost incoherent. It seemed someone had bumped her car from behind at the stop light not far from our home. When she got out to assess the damage her car door slammed shut. The door locked tight and the engine was still running. I assured her that the world had not come to an end and that I would go with her and help. Arriving at the car, it was in fact sitting there locked tighter than a jug and purring like a kitten. The Lord probably looked down and chuckled at us standing there bewildered. He must have sent the police car by just at that time. We flagged him down, and with a special tool, he unlocked the door. Although it was a little comical to him, to us it was dead serious. Do I ever lock myself out of my truck? Naaah! Well almost never! More like, sometimes; well, to be honest, the older I get the more often it happens. I stand there dancing that little jig we do when the keys are still in the ignition and all the doors are locked. The motor may be running or not, the dance is still the same. Grace Lyon tried to teach me to "Bop" there in the Community House years ago, to no avail; she might be happy to know I have learned a few choice steps at times like these.
Years ago people often inserted a key into the ignition of their car then intentionally broke it off in the lock so they would not be bothered keeping up with it. Not much thought of someone actually stealing the car. Most folks never locked their house unless going away for an extended stay, and even then the key was usually in the flower pot nearby, under the door mat, or on top of the door trim. The house we moved too out on the Thaxton Road had a big lock on the front door that always locked when the door closed. Everyone got tired of having to walk around the house to get in, so a nail was placed in the door jamb on the outside and there we hung the key. In all the years we lived there, I don’t think the house was ever locked, and to my knowledge nothing was ever stolen. Family and friends would often arrive at our house when we were not home, come in the house and make themselves comfortable. Some even put on coffee or started something for dinner. The out-buildings around a home place usually had no locks at all. A short length of chain was hooked over a nail to hold the door closed, no thought of locking the silly thing. Times have certainly changed. Recently at our office we had a large air conditioning compressor stolen. Two weeks after the new unit had been installed; evidently the same burglars returned and took the new unit. Although there were several other compressors sitting alongside, they decided the new one was the one they needed. Go figure! The shrubs that had been planted to screen the units from view, now worked to hide the crooks. Hoping to prevent further theft, we removed much of the foliage, installed a security light for illumination and as a last resort had heavy iron cages with locks built around the units. Realizing that if the thieves want in badly enough, they will take it regardless, but hopefully this will deter them somewhat. As good as locks are, and as commonplace as they have become, they have created a love-hate relationship. We love them for keeping the burglars out, but hating them when we find ourselves locked out. In my case, I’ll probably lose the keys to the gates on our air conditioners and have to hire a bulldozer to rip them open. Oh well… ~ By Ralph Jones, Managing Editor Mystery Caller Reynolds Konaugus As the days get shorter and the nights in late September grow cooler, many of us not only sense summer is on the wane, we also wax nostalgic. We recall those long-ago years of beginning another new school year, of the startup of football season, of cruising the streets on Saturday night, and some of us remember trying to get the last of the cotton crop harvested. In my case, cooler weather signals it’s time to start a few pre-holiday celebrations. My mother, an excellent cook, started a tradition that my family continues to this day. She celebrated her late October birthday by preparing a holiday meal of chicken and cornbread dressing for her family on the Sunday closest to her birthday. Since Mom’s death in 1989, my wife has assumed the responsibility of keeping alive Mom’s tradition, thus for me, it’s anticipation of good food that trumps all other memories triggered by cooler weather. And, because Mom’s birthday tradition is still a month away, I’m not going to detail one of those celebrations. Instead, I choose to share an event that occurred at the dinner table several years before Dad’s death in 1978.
It began as
The telephone rang during the morning hours, and my mother, the late Frances Crausby Carter, lifted the receiver and greeted the caller with, "Hello." I do not remember if the caller was male or female. Male is probably correct, because Mom would have had much more to say about the call had there been a female voice that asked, "May I speak to Henry Carter?" As I recall, Mom explained that Dad was working. But, perhaps it was a day during one of the periods in which Dad spent an inordinate amount of his retirement time playing Dominoes at the pool hall on Court Square. Mom offered to be of assistance, but the caller simply wished to speak to Dad. The caller gave only the phone number where he might be reached, asking if Mr. Carter might please return the call. "Why would someone be calling Henry, and why wouldn’t he leave his name? I’m Henry’s wife. What’s so important that he would not even tell me what he wanted," wondered Mom. Curiosity is said to have killed the cat, but in Mom’s case it simply got the best of her. Armed only with a phone directory and a local phone number, Mom sat at the kitchen table and began a systematic search of the listings. It should be noted that the phone directories of the Seventies did not have a numerical cross reference to simplify the process of linking a number to a name. "Mmm, mmm, mmm! Who in the world is Reynolds Konaugus?" Mom asked herself upon finding the listing. Her diligence did not pay the dividend she expected, for having found the name of the individual, she was yet as far from having any clue to the "business" the caller had with Dad, as when she had only a phone number. You must understand that in the Seventies, the population of Pontotoc was around 5,000. In a small town, it is not hard for a person to know everyone else in the community, and with a name like Konaugus, who, having once heard the odd name would ever forget it. "Why, with a name like that, he is some foreigner," Mom must surely have thought. Until that day, Mom never had to deal with a local’s name more complex than that of newcomer, Carol Koutroulis. Pontotoc’s phone listings were filled with hundreds of English sounding names like Johnson, Brown, Bailey, Williams, Smith, Dillard, Davis, Hill, and Patterson. There was only one Konaugus. Barbara and I both worked in Pontotoc and often ate at Mom’s house for lunch, only then we called lunch, dinner. We did not do this to confuse anyone. We just were taught during our formative years that our meals were served at breakfast, dinner, and supper and were each separated, in time, by approximately 6 hours. When we arrived for lunch, Mom was in, what she would have described as, a dither. "Henry...Reynolds Konaugus called you," Mom announced, as she began putting dinner on the table. Puzzled, Dad stated that he did not know anyone by that name. Sarah Sue and James were also at lunch, and along with Dad, we mutually agreed on having never heard the Konaugus name. Sarah left the room and returned with the phone directory. To our amazement, Mom turned to the alphabetized listing of names beginning with the letter C. She pointed to the name while she assumed an "I told you so" air. It only took us a moment to see Mom’s mistake. In her furor, she had completely misinterpreted the listing. The listing appeared somewhat like the following:
Conlee Slay Hugh Hurricane Spur............489-1237 Mom had mistaken the name of a business for a surname. She never associated the combining of Conoco and gas to form a corporate name for the propane distributor, Conogas. Instead, she completely mispronounced the name by breaking it phonetically along the lines of Kon-naw’gus. She never made the connection with the business site on Reynolds Street, until we were able to explain after our spell of rolling on the floor with laughter. Certainly, Mom could laugh at herself. Each of us claims the ability to laugh at our self, and most of us can recall a really embarrassing moment that we wish everyone would forget. In my Mom’s case, this moment is probably the most oft remembered one for our family. The sheer simplicity of this remarkable event transcends the Mom-snake-and-pea-vines incident (Dad’s personal favorite), or the Mom-trying-to-drive incident in which Fred and I laughed at her to end her quest to learn to drive. Mom, however, would gather up what the sport’s world calls a game face, whenever one of us brought up the Konaugus story. Her nose would suddenly appear skinny and the lips of her mouth would tighten into thin, fine lines. Her countenance was intimidating enough to suppress boisterous laughter, but a small wave of chuckles would always erupt when the events of that day were recounted. Thanks Mom, for the memory that joyfully fills our hearts even to this day. ~ By Wayne L. Carter, Associate Editor & Publisher Country Stores Crackers And Rag Bologna "It’s a country store, not a convenience store." ~Jerry Allen Most of us know what that quote means. A country store used to be what people might call a community center nowadays, where folks of all political and religious persuasions and economic conditions met on level playing ground. Most everyone gardened and many farmed, so the weather was a big topic, especially for those whose livelihoods depended on it. Folks sat in straightback chairs outside when weather allowed and inside around a potbellied stove when the weather did not allow. Some played checkers, some whittled, some swapped knives, some traded dogs, some sold livestock, and all told stories about the old days. You could buy gasoline from an above ground tank and kerosene you hand pumped for your lamps. Some had a hand operated machine to break down a tire and rebuild it after burning on the patch you bought in the store for the inner tube. I hope I never forget the smells of gasoline, kerosene, and burning patches. The olden days are gone when I could go to the country store for sardines and ketchup on crackers, hoop cheese on crackers, rag baloney or garlic baloney on crackers, a Stage Plank and RC cola for fifteen cents, some Red Bird imitation vieenies, or a thick slab of hand cut baloney on light bread (not lite bread) covered with salted red ripe juicy maters and slathered with mayonnaise. Some of us younger folk poured salted peanuts in an RC or Mr Cola since it was the biggest cola you could buy. We sometimes poured in M&M’s for the chocolate taste. There was a wide variety of tobacco products at the country store. Levi Garret and Rooster snuff were available in glasses you could add to your cupboard collection. Many bought loose tobacco in drawstring pouches and cigarette papers so as to roll their own. Some had it down to an art form; some did not. Some bought chewing tobacco and cut off a chaw with a sharp pocket knife. Country stores nowadays are little more than convenience stores, and certainly are convenient. You can buy gasoline for your truck and fried chicken or burgers or pizza-by-the-slice for your tummy. But pretty much the social benefits have disappeared as people are too busy to hang out at a country store. I miss that. In my opinion the best sausage or ham biscuits in Pontotoc County are Bullard’s store in Hurricane. They sell out quickly to busy folks on their way to Ashley’s, Cooper’s, Action, now Toyota, and the other economic engines of the area. I suspect for many of us aging Baby Boomers, there is a dream and hope for turning back the years to some of the old ways. A nearby old time country store would be nice. ~ By Carl Wayne Hardeman, Editor Coke For A Nickel Baldwyn Mississippi Memory Fifty Million Times a Day at home at work or on the way there’s nothing like a Coca Cola, nothing like a Coke was at one time the slogan for Coca Cola. When I was a girl, most of us got to school before 8:00 and patiently waited for the opportunity to drop our nickel in the coin slot of the Coke machine at 9:30 during recess. The lines would be long, but we didn’t mind waiting for the little six oz. green bottle filled with the elixir that would sustain us until lunch. Caffeine! We needed that caffeine to wipe the cobwebs from our brains so that they would be open for whatever was surely coming to ‘smarten’ us up. For 5¢ you could buy a Coke in any Coke machine in town. During recess the benches under the awning at the gymnasium would be overflowing with students all laughing and talking and drinking Coca Cola. Now, I am sure there were other brands of soft drinks available but the 6 oz. Cokes are the ones I remember. Over the years the slogans changed to such things as: It’s the real thing, The pause that refreshes, There’s nothing like a Coke, I’d like to buy the world a Coke and the list goes on and on, but no matter how you say it, if you’re a Coke fan you don’t drink anything but a Coke; the same holds true for a Pepsi fan as well. No matter what anyone tells you, a Pepsi is a Pepsi and a Coca Cola is a Coke and most folks DO know the difference. Now mind ‘ya, a Nugrape and a Big Orange can also be called a Coke but they are not a Coca Cola. A 7-UP and a Dr. Pepper are completely different however in that neither one of them is ever referred to as a Coke; they are just simply called what they are. To the best of my recollection, and according to an old school yearbook the school eventually got a Dr. Pepper machine, a 7-Up machine and a Pepsi machine. We were in high cotton! Nearly every day at recess someone would make a bet that they had the coke bottled in a plant the greatest distance from Baldwyn. The names of the cities were embossed in the glass on the bottom of the bottle. There was always an argument over who had it and a map in the school library was often consulted. Coca Cola was a part of our daily lives.
One reason the nickel coke had remained so popular for so long, despite the rising cost of ingredients, was that it would cost Coca Cola too much to retool their millions of Coke machines that accepted only nickels—and the fact that the alternative of 2 nickels, represented a 100 percent price hike was not an option. According to one article I read, the boss of Coca-Cola wrote to his friend, President Eisenhower in 1953 to suggest, in all seriousness, a 7-and-a-half-cent coin. I don’t have to tell you how that request was answered. Over the years our soft drinks evolved from glass bottles to aluminum cans and our world was changed forever. Now we could finish off our Coke and then crush the can in our bare hands before tossing it into the trash. Even that macho feeling was no match for the euphoria you felt trying to slug down that last swallow of Coke as the bell rang and hearing the ‘thud’ the bottle made as you dropped it into the wooden flat. There will always be a special place in my heart for the little 6 oz. green glass bottle of Coke that only cost me a nickel. Today, I bought a can of Coke from a vending machine, and it cost me $1.00. What’s up with that, y’all? Progress you say? Well, please, please say it ain’t so.
~ By Clarene Evans, Contributor
Bubba Bodock Along Came A Spider A father watched his young daughter playing in the garden. He smiled as he reflected on how sweet and pure his little girl was. Tears formed in his eyes as he thought about her seeing the wonders of nature through such innocent eyes. Suddenly, she just stopped and stared at the ground. He went over to her to see what work of God had captured her attention. He noticed she was looking at two spiders mating. 'Daddy, what are those two spiders doing?' she asked. 'They're mating,' her father replied. 'What do you call the spider on top?' she asked. "A Daddy Longlegs,' her father answered. 'So, the other one is a Mommy Longlegs?' the little girl asked. As his heart soared with the joy of such a cute and innocent question he replied, 'No dear. Both of them are Daddy Longlegs.' 'The little girl, looking a little puzzled, thought for a moment, then lifted her foot and stomped them flat. "Well", she said, "that may be OK in California, but we're not having any of that in Mississippi." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ How bad is the economy? It’s so bad that:
And, finally... Late Night Political Humor President Obama's aide had to step in and pay more money after Obama only gave a fruit vendor a dollar for four apples in Philadelphia on Monday. The aide said it was awkward having to pay Obama's bill. Then China was like, "You'll get used to it." Jimmy Fallon Delaware senate candidate Christine O'Donnell said she has "dabbled in witchcraft" and her opponent, Chris Coons, said he had no comment. He wanted to comment but he lost his voice, went blind, and came down with boils. - Jay Leno
Cuzin' Cornpone A Bodock Post Exclusive Cuzin' Cornpone, our loveable, often laughable, friend appears only here in The Bodock Post.
Our Mission Purpose - The Bodock Post It is our desire to provide a monthly newsletter about rural living with photographs of yesterday and today, including timely articles about conservative politics, religion, food, restaurant reviews, gardening, humor, history, and non-fiction columns by folks steeped in our Southern lifestyle.
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"Vegetables are a must on a diet. I suggest carrot
cake, zucchini bread and pumpkin pie." ~Jim Davis
To wit: When our children were small, about four and six, my wife
and I were passing through a store and saw that they had some baby chickens,
ducks, and small turtles for sale. This was not unusual at this Easter Season,
as many stores sold baby animals of some sort. The chicken’s feathers
were sometimes dyed a bright color, the turtles had something colorful painted
on their shells, and the ducks were always cute in their natural yellow feathers.
Why they did some of these things I do not know. It was probably to catch
your eye and get you to purchase them. I’m glad the practice is not
still in vogue now days as it was then. I’m afraid some of the animals
were not cared for well and some were even abused.
Though I gave them my email address and website, I’ve not
heard from either of them, and perhaps I never shall. In fact, I don’t
know if they are real people or not.
A Yankee has no clue where
yonder is, but I confess, I have no idea what that Yankee was talking about.
We know yonder is not here. It's a ways off, perhaps as much as a fer piece,
but not as much as a country mile, which is not as fer as a mighty fer piece.
Locks are a wonderful thing in
our modern society; it helps keep our possessions safer. It makes us sleep
better with doors, cars, sheds, etc. under lock and key. But, you and I can
remember a simpler time, long ago that keys and locks were not needed as
much.
ordinary
as any day might have begun in the mid-Seventies. Our family records do not
indicate whether any famous person died, or if there was an event of historic
proportions, and but for a single phone call, this particular day would have
been entirely insignificant in the Annals of Carter History.
The price of a Coke remained the same
5¢ from 1886 to 1959 but soon after that it went to 6¢ and we all
thought…..well, to quote Jessica Tandy from the hit movie Driving
Miss Daisy, it was no more than "highway
robbery!"
