From The Arbor Spring Is Close By  The groundhog, Punxsutawney Phil, did not see his shadow on February
2, 2011. This gives hope to many of an early spring, which is good news to
those who can’t abide a big dose of cold weather or multiple snowfalls,
such as has fallen on Pontotoc this winter. However, it has been my considerable
experience that it’s far easier to put on enough clothes in winter to
keep warm than it is to remove enough clothes in summer to stay cool. My
wife, though, prefers to neither shiver nor sweat. I call her penchant for
fair weather, the Goldilocks’ Syndrome. She likes it just right, and
for her, the ideal year-round environment is 70 degrees.
The ancients marked the change of winter to spring by calculating the day of the year when nighttime and daytime hours are nearly balanced as 12 hours each. In our northern hemisphere, it is called the vernal equinox or the March equinox. We also call it the first day of spring, annually occurring around March 20 or March 21. While we herald the coming of spring based on the position of the sun relative to earth, farmers have long used the moon as a guide to planting crops. See Charles Wood’s article on Planting By The Signs in this issue. And, speaking of planting, Carl Wayne Hardeman is ecstatic with the successes of the Collierville Victory Garden, a volunteer maintained vegetable garden with all the bounty going to the needy. Additionally, others have been inspired by the success of the Collierville Victory garden and Carl Wayne is helping several victory gardens get off on the right foot, including one in New Albany, MS sponsored by the Union County MS Master Gardeners Association. Contact Carl Wayne if you need more information. Tim Burress of New Albany and also a master gardener is a regular contributor to our humble publication. Be sure to check Tim’s article, Rosey Thoughts, the first of a series. We at "The Post" have long admired the gift of gab of a fellow writer who makes his home in Humble, Texas. Newt Harlan sends a weekly email to a host of friends and admirers, and we take pleasure in sharing one of his recent articles. Look for Newt’s take on childhood obesity in his essay, Too Fat. In this issue, we are further blessed with another of M. G. Russell’s childhood remembrances of his days in Pontotoc County. Be careful reading his story about a couple of mules, as you may get a kick out of it. Clarene Evans no longer lives in Baldwyn, MS, but she continues to share memories in the Baldwyn weekly newspaper. Clarene is one of our favorite weekly writers. Her article on the Things We Keep should hit home to a number of us. A listing of writers that have articles published in The Bodock Post can be found on our website, . We encourage you to submit your own story or remembrance for our consideration. Please refer to our guidelines for submissions at www.rrnews.org/bp/submissions.htm. It may still be February, but spring is close by. It is this writer’s favorite season and a recurring reminder that just as our Creator has made it possible for the rebirth of the plant kingdom, He has made it possible for mankind to experience rebirth and eternal life. But, don’t just take my word for it; experience it for yourself by trusting Jesus for your salvation. ~ By Wayne L. Carter, Associate Editor & Publisher Picking Peas We Won't Starve As Long As We Have Peas How luscious lies the pea within the pod. ~Emily Dickinson We picked peas today. Here in Pontotoc county MS, that means purple hull peas. They grow large vines and long pods with plump peas even in this old red clay. The butter beans and butter peas will soon be ready, but it’s purple hull peas today. Papaw and Ma, Ralph and Opal Graham, were up before dawn. We had a skillet of Papaw’s homemade sausage and a pan of biscuits with gravy and molasses. He makes up his own sausage from ground pork from the butcher near Black Zion. He adds salt, black pepper, red pepper flakes, and sage until it’s just right. We like it hot. His sausage and gravy and her biscuits and molasses: Papaw says a man can work all day on such fixins. He told us to hurry up. We could miss a crop waiting till sunup, plus we need to get the picking done before the hot sun gets high in the sky. We can visit later while we are shelling peas. He said during the depression sometimes that pea patch was all that stood between them and starvation. Ma has on long sleeves and bonnet. Mimi says she will stay cooler in shorts and a tee shirt. I think she just don’t want to get caught wearing a bonnet. Pea picking goes fast. Stalks hold the pods in the air. You can snatch several at a time. We know from color and how fat they are which ones to pick and which to leave for another picking in a few days. We have six bushels in a little over a hour. That’s the easy part. Then we shell and blanch them and put them into bags. Ma laid newspaper on the front porch to spread the peas on so they don’t sweat and mold. We spent all the rest of the morning shelling peas by hand in the porch shade. Papaw put the shells in the row middles as mulch. Papaw says he’s going to buy a sheller from Mr. Red Dillard for $100. He made it from the wringer of an old washing machine. We hope he does. Bro. Dale Whitlock stopped by. Papaw offered him some shelled peas, but he said he could just pick and shell his own, so he picked himself a bushel. Sharing just comes naturally to these good country folk. Me and Papaw rested on the porch while Ma and Mimi work in the hot kitchen blanching and putting peas in quart freezer bags. We had leftover biscuits in cold buttermilk for dinner. Finally me and Mimi and the children headed home with sore fingernails, purple stained fingers, and enough peas for another year. We can go home and rest. Papaw and Ma get to do this all over again every few days, and when they pick beans, they have to bend or crawl to look under the vines. They’ll have lots more for us our next visit. And their neighbors and relatives and shut-ins will have plenty, too. ~ By Carl Wayne Hardeman, Editor
Summer Adventures What To Do With A Bottle Of Hootch After moving from "Happy Hollow" in the early 1950s, we settled in Pontotoc’s "West Town" for an interim stay. I don’t know if the area still carries that moniker or not; seems now days, much of Pontotoc has moved over there. Many of the downtown business have moved over around Wal-Mart. Howbeit, at this time, town was still huddled around the court square and we had moved to the "suburbs," as it were. "Bozy" Austin and I lived in close proximately to one another over on West Reynolds Street, not far from the Oil Mill. As teenagers, we enjoyed playing together and looked for new and fun things to do in those long lazy days of summer. There were not as many kids to play with here as was in Happy Hollow, but we found much to keep us busy.
If we had money, we would stop by Mr. Henry’s store on the way to the lake and each of us would purchase a small bottle of Welch’s Grape Juice. It may have been concentrated, because to us it was strong, and we could not drink it like a Coke, but it was soooooo good. We’d drink a little along as we spent time together. We were much like Tom and Huck, from Mr. Twain’s account. One day while walking the mile or so to the lake on a different path, we passed a small dump site. As boys will do, we began to kick some of the cans deposited there to see how far they would go and how much of a dent we could make in them. As we kicked one of the larger cans, it tumbled, but not far. It rattled differently than the others, and much to our surprise, out fell two half-pint brown glass bottles that were tightly capped. Upon examination, we found them to be full of a liquid; could this be home-made whiskey? What do two young teenage boys do with homemade hooch? If you were raised proper, you took them home to your folks. At suppertime I told them our story and showed the bottle to Mom and Dad. Dad was amused and after smelling the concoction, confirmed that it was indeed liquor. Bozy did the same thing with about the same results. Only thing, his folks had him pour the contents down the drain and trash the bottle. My folks simply left the bottle sitting on the kitchen table for a few days. It provided a conversation piece for a while as we wondered how it came to be inside a rusty tin can at a dump. After a while Mom moved it inside our "Hoosier" type kitchen cabinet, sort-of in the back corner where no one would see. There it sat for years. We moved our home to a house out on the Thaxton Road, near Mr. Hardin’s place during that time, and somehow the bottle moved with us.
In 1981 Mom passed away, and Dad some ten years later. As we were clearing out the house, trying to decide what to do with everything, someone came across that very bottle in the same cupboard. There was no liquid, only a faint odor of liquor remaining in the bottle. The rest had long since evaporated. My grown children, who were helping with the operation, laughed as I retold the story of how two teenage boys found someone’s hidden stash of home-made spirits. Why had it been kept all those years? Mom probably thought she would let me dispose of it in my own good time. I did dispose of it, only it was forty or so years later and all that remained was the smell and the brown glass bottle, still tightly capped. ~ By Ralph Jones, Managing Editor Too Fat Whatever Happened To Red Rover The percentage of overweight children in the United States is growing at an alarming rate, with 1 out of 3 kids now considered overweight or obese.
Many kids are spending less time exercising and more time in front of the TV, computer, or video-game console. And today's busy families have fewer free moments to prepare nutritious, home-cooked meals. From fast food to electronics, quick and easy is the reality for many people nowadays. It seems like I read these kinds of articles daily and then on the very next page is a story about children somewhere being forbidden to play one game or another during school recess periods--could there be a correlation here? Are we headed down the road of raising a nation of overweight wusses? The first thing I recall being forbidden on school playgrounds was football, then dodge ball bit the dust, and kickball and tag. These were soon followed by just about everything else that involved running and playing and burning calories and being kids. Where do y’all reckon it’s all going to end, when our children "exercise" by manipulating joysticks and the keyboard on computer games?
I remember back when I was in elementary school, in the late 40s and early
50s, we played all kinds of games and did many things that would probably
cause heart attacks for today’s lawsuit-conscious school
administrators. The first thing that comes to mind is a game played with a football, mostly by boys, which we aptly called "Roughhouse." The game began when a player took the ball and began running with all of the rest of the players in pursuit, intent on tackling him and then when he was tackled everyone piled on and tried to get the ball so they could be the runner. We thought it was great fun and outside of a few busted lips and black eyes, I can recall no one getting injured. The girls weren’t immune, they played dodge ball, kick ball, and even hop scotch where they faced the danger of falls from hopping on one foot and stretching and jumping. Boys and girls together played games such as "Red Rover" where the players locked hands by grasping a teammate’s wrist and an opponent ran full tilt trying to break through the chain. And both boys and girls got the playground swings going as high as possible, then jumped out…the boys playing paratrooper and the girls doing it just because the boys did. Our learning experiences weren’t limited to school. We rode bikes without helmets; in fact, nobody in those days even knew what a bicycle helmet was. Riding in the back end of a pickup truck with the wind in your face was a treat for us -- sort of a poor folk’s convertible. We climbed trees and built tree houses. We’d pick out a 3" or 4" pine sapling and climb to the top and make it rock back and forth until we either catapulted out or rode it to the ground, whichever came first. Sometimes we’d catch a brittle one that would snap off and we’d fall 10 or 15 feet onto our back. Usually just knocked the wind out of us, but I recall one broken arm. We had fights with dirt clods and with the berries from Chinese tallow trees shot in sling shots and played "King of the Mountain" on any dirt pile we could find. Sliding down the barn roof from the ridge to the ground on a piece of cardboard, pretending to be ski jumpers was great fun until our daddy caught us and blistered our butts. All the boys and many of the girls in elementary school went barefoot from April until October, in fact many continued the habit right on through junior high. Nobody thought anything of it when mammas left their children in the car in summer’s heat with just the windows down for ventilation, while she did the week’s shopping -- kids were used to the heat. We always looked forward to popping firecrackers on the 4th of July and had a big time placing firecrackers under tin cans to see how high they’d go when the firecracker popped.--the bigger the cracker, the higher the flight. Of course we didn’t tell anybody about the M-80 shredding the can. Yes, we did all these things and many, many more, but I wouldn’t trade my childhood for anything. It was rough and tumbles, but so much fun. I learned to move fast enough to miss the dodge ball and to give and take licks in roughhouse football. I think I also learned to be a better person, to never purposely hurt anyone, and to let the one, who always lost, win now and then just to give them a little self-esteem-- not because adults made us do it, but because it was just the thing to do. Besides we wanted to be sure they’d be around to play with us the next time. First, they took the discipline out of the schools. Now, they’re taking away any physical contact between the kids. All they’re accomplishing by trying to be "politically correct" is turning the kids into a bunch of fat little "softies." --And we wonder why they’re too fat. We cannot raise our kids in bubble wrap, eventually they must get out into the real world and the longer we delay it, the harder it is going to be for the kids.
Biographical Sketch: Newt Harlan was born, raised and educated in Texas. With the exception of the 4 years during the Vietnam Era spent as an aircrew member in the USAF, he’s lived within spittin’ distance of the place where he grew up. He is a graduate of Sam Houston State University in Huntsville, Texas. Married for around 40 years to wife Edie, they have 5 kids, 9 grandkids and beaucoup great grandkids. He is now retired after 40 years traveling Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama selling steel products. Newt’s hobbies include writing, great grandkids, hunting, fishing and visiting the local watering hole to swap honest lies and research material for stories. Planting By The Signs A Bit Of American Folklore To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven: …a time to plant, and a time to pluck what is planted; Ecclesiastes 3:1-2 Long before modern technology relating to the growing of plants, and the educational study of agriculture, the colonial American, along with his forefathers from the European nations, relied on his study of nature and weather signs. Most households, if they could read, had only one, or maybe two books in their household, the Holy Bible and the Almanac. The Bible for his spiritual nourishment and guide, and the Almanac for his physical nourishment and guide. The Almanac was developed as a result of astrology study, which related to the effect of the various celestial bodies on human affairs, back in the late 1600’s in England by men like John Partridge , who studied with John Gadbury. From this study, the theories of astronomy were developed, which related the effect of the moon and celestial bodies to determine the seasons, an important factor in knowing when to plant crops, as well as in understanding the length of the year. These studies led to the development of the Almanac under Partridges name by his colleagues. In the United States, the first Almanack was developed and published in 1750 by Benjamin Franklin under the name Poor Richard’s Almanack. MOON The theory of the moon’s effect on the nurturing of plant growth lies in the scientific fact that the gravitational forces of the moon have on other earthly bodies. We know that the moon and sun’s gravitational pull and the earth rotation causes the movement of the ocean tides twice in each 24 hour period. The exact times of these movements are determined by the position of these planets in relation to each other. This gravity of the moon is also thought to have an effect on the level of the moisture in the soil, which is one of the three major elements required for the germination of plant seeds, along with temperature and light. The closer the moisture is to the surface of the soil, the more readily it is available for seed germination. As the moon is in its waxing stage, from new to full moon, the moisture is drawn closer to the surface of the soil, thus providing the most favorable germinating conditions, along with the temperature and light requirements. It is believed that plants that produce their seed above ground are best planted in this first 14 day period of the moons cycle. The first quarter, being favorable for those plants with external seeds, (various greens), the second quarter for those with internal seeds,(peas, okra, squash). When the moon is in its waning stage, moving from full to new moon, the pull of the moons gravity decreases, thus allowing the moisture level to go deeper into the ground. This first seven days of waning is believed to be the best time to plant root crops, those producing their fruit underground. The last seven days of this period are considered best for cultivation, weeding, and harvesting. This is also considered the best time for various farming activities such as cutting wood, setting posts, and the slaughtering of farm animals. SIGNS Planting As the moon progresses through its 28 day cycle, it moves through the signs of the Zodiac in the heavens every two to three days. Different signs are associated with one of the four element of water, earth, air, and fire. When the moon is in a Water sign, it is the most favorable time for planting. Different types of plants have favorite signs too, such as leafy plants prefer the water signs. The most fertile water signs are Cancer, Pisces, and Scorpio, and are best for planting above ground, leafy annuals and plants producing "pods" during the first two quarters of the moon.
When the moon is in an Earth sign, it is the most favorable time for planting
root crops, and transplanting to encourage root development. These signs
are Taurus, Virgo, and Capricorn, and are most favorably planted in the third
quarter of the
moon. The Air signs, Libra, Aquarius, and Gemini are considered barren signs, and are considered best for harvesting rather than planting. The Fire signs, Aires , Leo, and Sagittarius are very barren and dry. Leo is a good sign for weeding, cultivating, and harvesting in the fourth quarter of the moon. Relation to Man Ancient astrologers believed that each astrological sign influenced a specific part of the body, beginning with the first sign Aires being attributed to the head, with the rest of the signs moving down the body, ending with Pisces at the feet. Some of the signs like Virgo, (the belly) are considered unfavorable signs for above ground crops, especially legume plants, producing beautiful plants, but losing their blooms and not holding fruit. I have personally experienced this problem. Also, others have shared that these legume plants should be planted in Gemini, a normally barren sign. I have experimented with this belief, and it has proved to be productive for me. Other somewhat barren signs are considered good for some specific plants. Aquarius, and Sagittarius are considered good signs for planting onion sets, Melons do well planted in Gemini, and Libra for planting beautiful and fragrant flowers, vines and herbs. CONCLUSION Modern agriculturalists tend to scoff at the premise that the moon and signs have any effect on plant growth, farming activities, and other chores common in the rural environment. Many people of the Depression generation got away from the family sharing of the principles of moon and signs planting. My father specifically said there was no truth to the claims. He stated that the moon had no effect at all on the growth of plants, and shared with me stories of his early adulthood when others tried to influence his beliefs, and how his methods were more successful. In his later years, I asked him "when did people of his generation determine was a good time to be ready to plant in the spring?" His first reply was "when we got the ground ready and it was warming up." I finally quizzed him until I got him to agree that Good Friday had long been considered a desirable time to be ready to plant. I then asked him if he knew what determined when Good Friday fell on our calendar each year, and he said he did not know. When I shared with him that Good Friday fell on the first Friday after the first full moon, after the Spring equinox, and told him that he had been planning his gardening by the moon’s cycle, he was not very pleased with me! Have some fun The current Farmers Almanac has been published in the United States since the early 1800’s by Robert B. Thomas, the founder. The "Old" was added in 1832 to the publication’s name. Today’s versions contain conveniently summarized harts for best days for various farm activities, the monthly moon phases, the moons astrological place each day of each month, and a planting guide for the more common vegetable crops. Through the study and use of these various charts, you can determine for yourself if there is a value to be derived from the use of this method for gardening. Most gardeners want to produce the first, the best, and the most volume of the fruits and vegetables they grow for their own use and for sharing with others. To use an old advertising slogan, "Try it, you’ll like it! ~ By Charles Wood, Contributor
Biographical Sketch: Charles Wood, a native of north Mississippi, is a retired accountant. He loves traveling out West, photography, rose gardening and most of all vegetable gardening. Charles is interested in all areas of gardening, especially experimenting with the old folklore of seasons and signs. Rosey Thoughts Roses ~ Care And Maintenance Roses can be high maintenance or they can be low maintenance. It just depends on what kind of roses you have and how many. Late February and early March is when serious pruning is done. The general rule of thumb is about the time that Forsythia starts to bloom or Presidents Day. I prune my hybrid teas back to about two feet high and make my cut just about an inch above an outward facing bud eye. I cut at an angle away from the bud eye so that water will run away from the bud eye instead of over it. Cut all dead canes back to the base of the bush. All canes that are smaller than a pencil in diameter should be removed from the center of the bush for better air circulation. This will help with control of black spot. Climbing, running, and old garden roses should only have the dead wood cut out at this time. These roses bloom on last year’s growth, so any pruning to these bushes should be done within a two week period after they finish blooming. Even then I don’t recommend heavy pruning unless it is to contain a bush that has overgrown its spot.
Shrub, miniature, and carpet roses can be pruned at this time also. I like to cut the shrub back to about waist high or in the three foot range. Miniature and carpet roses usually get pruned no more than one third. You will need to gather all dead, diseased foliage and canes from your garden area and dispose of it to help get rid of as much of the black spot fungi as possible. This is a good time to spray with lime sulfur to help control fungi that are hiding in the old mulch and top layer of soil. Be sure and spray all parts of the rose plant as well as the surrounding area. Do not put the pruned canes or the foliage from the roses in your compost pile. The fungi will infect your compost pile and render it useless to put back around your roses. I spray my hybrid teas once a week with a good fungicide and all the others every two weeks with exception of the Knockout variety. Knockout roses for the most part do not need to be sprayed at all. I spray them about once a month just for good measure. The fungicides that I use are Daconil, Mancozeb, and Banner Maxx. I also like to rotate these chemicals to keep fungi from building up an immunity to them. If you only have a few roses that are susceptible to disease, you can use a product named "Once and Done" by Bayer. You mix it up and pour it around the base of the bush and you are done for about 45 to 60 days. If you have a lot of roses you need to break out the spray rig and get busy. I like to give all my rose bushes a good dose of organic fertilizer this time of year. I use composted leaves, alfalfa meal, bone meal, cottonseed meal, fish emulsion, blood meal, and my favorite, worm castings. The organics are slow release and will better condition the soil for uptake by the plant. This should get you through till April, when I plan to give you your next installment in rose care. Happy Gardening and keep digging in the dirt. Worth Every Dime Ten Cent Mule For Sale Some sixteen years ago my old car was wore out and on the fritz to boot. I decided it was time to change. I settled on a new 1994 Ford Explorer Sport. It had a short turning radius, was relatively high off the ground, the spare tire did not take up cargo room, and had a standard transmission; just what I needed as I scouted the back roads of Northwest Arkansas in search of the perfect wilderness picture. The back hatch opened for easy access to my photograph paraphernalia, on these trips. Our granddaughter, Morgan, was a year old when I bought the truck and as she grew to two and three, she decided that I bought the truck just for her. Since she and I were thick as thieves, wherever one was, the other was not far away. Peggy and I kept her every week day while her mother and dad worked. This was the last model truck before they started adding air bags, therefore, she could ride in the front seat with me wherever I went. She loved to ride where she could see out. Of course she was securely buckled in her car seat.
She loved to play in the Mule, even with it sitting in the driveway. With the seats folded down in back there was an expanse where a little girl could have some fun. That was just fine with me, since that meant we were together without anyone to hamper our shenanigans. We kept a large beach type towel in the truck and she liked to get down in the front floor board and I would make a "tent" of sorts for her. Occasionally she poked her little head out to make sure I was still there. One day she asked me the truck’s name. I had thought about it some, so I asked her how "The Mule" sounded to her. She liked the name and from then on it was "The Mule." It was short, quick, and could turn on a dime. Speaking of dimes, one day she was loading and unloading the coins out of the little holder in the center console. She’d give me some, keep some and replace the remainder, and so the game went.
One day she was playing with the coins and began stuffing them down in the seat buckling device. She filled the thing up with different coins until no more would fit. My first reaction was to fuss, but she did not know any better and if they did not come out, then they just didn’t come out, the deed was already done. Before she came back the next day I finally got the end of the buckling device pointed down and shook it hard. Most of the coins came out, fact is, I thought they had all come out. Putting them all back in the change receptacle, I left them for her to play with another day. The next day something started rattling in or around the front seat but I could not find the noise. Upon returning home I got a flashlight and began searching. Remembering that she had played with that seat belt buckle I shined the light down in the slot. There in the very bottom was a shiny dime. Turning the buckle over I shook and shook, to no avail. I tried to fish it out with a long flat piece of metal, nothing worked. The next day the same rattle or buzz sounded. What could be done? Over the next week or so I did everything possible to get the rattle stopped. Telling a close friend about the situation and expecting some words of wisdom as to how to extract the noisy coin, he instead, made a joke out of my dilemma. "Well you know your truck will always be worth something; a dime at least." He has never forgotten it and asks me most every time he sees me if I still have that "valuable" truck. If he weren’t such a good friend, I might have smacked him upside the head. Just the other day, sixteen years and two hundred thousand miles later, I heard that familiar rattle again. You know how it is; you get used to something and do not hear it after a while. Possibly other rattles took its place and it got lost in all the commotion. I have learned to reach over and grasp the latching device and hold it for a while and the buzzing will quit. But I did not do that right away, I tried to let my mind wander back to that day a sweet little girl very meticulously placed the coins in the slot. She was having a grand time as she played with the handful of coins. I tried to recall how precious she was sitting there in the seat next to me, and how much laughter she brought to this old man. As she started to school I took her to the nearby school each morning and my how we laughed and played silly games on the way. One day when she was in the sixth grade I casually remarked that the "Mule" was getting old and that one of these days we needed to turn her out to pasture. She looked at me rather sadly and patted the dash and asked if we could just get her fixed and keep driving her to school. How could I refuse a request like that? Now she is a senior in high school, very smart, very pretty, very much a lady. She probably does not remember about the ten cent rattle. I will tell her before the Mule gets gone, but that dime is going to cost someone a premium. Some items have value that cannot be measured in dollars and cents. I heard of an old lady who was asked what her old dog was worth, "He ain’t worth nuthin’, but I won’t take anything fer him." This is a case where a dime is worth more than a "pretty penny." ~ By Ralph Jones, Managing Editor Ole Top Wouldn't Put Up With Foolishness He was a good old mule and was my model, or maybe my inspiration for an animal character in one of my western fiction novels. His name was Old Top, though the way we pronounced it, it sounded like "Ole Top." He was a big black mule, very sturdy, and had a white nose. I still don’t know why, but some people called him a "blue nosed mule". We had no tractor during those days, which were in the 1940’s and 1950’s, so all of our farm implements, as well as our wagon were pulled by our team of mules. Mules were the very essence of our way of life during that time. Almost everything that we did revolved around our team of mules, even our transportation. You see, those were the years during and just after World War II, and there was simply no motorized transportation in our little part of the world. Ole Top was teamed with a red mule named "Dick." I often wondered how my father came up with the team that we called "Top and Dick." Old Top was a big black no nonsense mule, but Old Dick was a slim long muscled red mule. Old Top was as steady as the day was long, but Old Dick was always in a hurry. He was in a hurry to get to the watering hole, to the stable, or about anywhere else, but Old Top just plodded along at the same pace hour after hour, day after day. The one thing that we learned very early on was that you did not play around with Old Top. He would do his work and appeared to have no complaints, but he put up with absolutely no foolishness. Everyone said that he was a mean mule, but I never thought so. He simply had his own pace, and seemed to live in his own little world. Nothing seemed to upset him except if you accidently allowed the plow line to get under his tail, or walked too close behind him. He just did not like for anyone to walk behind him. My father always said, "Don’t walk behind Old Top, because he will kick you." And for sure, no one was allowed to attempt to ride him because with his disposition it was assumed that the person would be in great danger, though one of my uncles did ride him one time, but as my mother would have said, "That’s another whole story."
Up until that time I always had to remain with my mother and sisters, and do the hoeing. I always wanted to be like a grown up, and plow the mules, but up until that hot day in July I had not been allowed to plow by myself. When I was small my father would sometimes allow me to walk in front of him and hold onto the round of the plow so that I would think that I was plowing. Then came the day when my father said, "OK son, today you are going to get to plow all by yourself." I could not wait until we could get to the corn field. The time was called, "the laying by time." That was the time of the year when the plowing was almost done, but the middles of the rows needed that final plowing. This was done with what we called a "Straight Stock." It was just a single plow and was pulled by one mule. Of course Daddy would not allow me to plow Old Top. He felt that a small boy, for I was only about nine years old at the time, could not handle Old Top. So he plowed Old Top, and let me plow Old Dick. We had been plowing for an hour or so, and I was already finding out that plowing was not near as much fun as I thought it would be when I plowed near an old burned tree stump. That was all that Old Dick needed. He decided that he was scared of the stump and took off running, dragging the plow and me with him. The voice seemed very far away, but I could hear my father yelling, "Turn him loose son, turn him loose." As soon as I dropped the plow lines the old mule stopped. Daddy came down, and as soon as he saw that I was none the worse for the wear, he walked out and got the mule and the plow and brought them back. He set the plow upright and handed the plow lines to me and said, "OK son, back to work." I said, "Daddy, I don’t want to plow any more." That did not work with my father. He said, "You have been worrying me for years about plowing, now let’s get back to work and get this field plowed." As time passed my father purchased a tractor, and began using the mules less and less. I loved those old mules and told my father that they had worked so hard for so many years that I would like for us to just retire them, and let them just roam the pasture and rest. I could remember all of those days when they had pulled a heavy plow all day in the hot Mississippi sun and they would be almost white at the end of the day from the salt they had sweated. I think that my father felt the same way about them, and indeed did semi-retire them. I don’t remember exactly how long we kept the mules after we bought the tractor. My father would use them just to work the garden, or run out the middles of the cotton and corn rows, but for the most part he just let them roam free. That’s probably what caused their undoing. With not much to do they began getting in trouble. Our fences were actually designed to keep the cows in the pasture, but were not high enough to keep the mules from jumping them. After they jumped the fences and got into the neighbor’s crops several times, my father finally gave up and sold them. That was a sad day when they loaded Old Top and Dick onto the truck to be hauled away. They had been such a part of our life that I felt as if we were losing a part of the family. It has been over sixty years now since that day that my daddy and I plowed that corn field, but I can still hear that far away voice yelling, "Turn him loose son, turn him loose"! ~ By M. G. "Russ" Russell, Contributor Things We Keep Gifts Not Wasted By Inexperience Each spring I go through my closets and kitchen cabinets and box up the things I have not worn or used for over a year for my annual garage sale. Each year, the night before the sale, I unpack that one special box that came from my kitchen and put the things carefully back in place in my cabinets. Over the years I have come to realize that these are the special things I cannot do without no matter how dated they become. Mama used to remind me each time I insisted that she throw things away that one man’s junk is another man’s treasure and Mama was right. I remember the last Christmas I spent at Mama’s before I started out on the long, long journey that eventually became my life. She gave me several useful items for my own kitchen. The first package I opened was a black iron skillet that she said had to be "seasoned" whatever the heck that meant, the second contained a set of stainless steel mixing bowls, the third held a steam iron and the fourth was a Sunbeam Mixmaster hand held mixer. I understood her thinking for the iron skillet and the steam iron but the mixing bowls and mixer was, in my estimation, money wasted on a gift that would never be used. An electric can opener would have been a much more useful item for sure. I would certainly be opening cans because I didn’t know how to cook, but mixing something in bowls that required the help of an electric mixer……naw, not happening. I didn’t do cakes and I didn’t bake. My grandmother Den would always be around to do that kind of stuff for me. I’d never use a mixer! I didn’t even bother to take it out of the box for at least three years and then one day my oldest son was about to have his first birthday and I decided to bake him a birthday cake. Where was my head? I’m not going to even try to tell you how bad that cake was or the three or four after it, but I can tell ‘ya that the mixer was thoroughly cleaned and put back in its box each time with the determination of "maybe next time!" Over the years the mixer became a source of contention in my little world and each time I decided to have a yard sale it was the first thing to go into the box of "sale items" and of course the first thing to be pulled back out again. I kept thinking that someday I would learn to bake and when I did, the mixer would be handy to have.
I used to get so tickled at my children when they were small and we were all in the kitchen cooking together. If we were making pancakes, then the big stainless steel bowl was set out. They thought that no other bowl could be used for pancake mix but that one particular bowl. If we were breaking eggs for scrambling, then the middle bowl was set out and used. According to my daughter, it was the "egg bowl" and she was adamant about using that one and no other. The smallest bowl in the set was only remembered for one particular thing and that is another story that I will briefly share. Our barn caught on fire one winter, thanks to my three sons lighting fireworks in the hayloft, and Eric, my second son, who was six at the time, went running up to the house and filled the smallest stainless steel bowl with water and brought it back down to me in the barn to put the fire out. When he got there it was still full because he had never spilled one drop. That little one cup sized bowl became known to us as "the fire water bowl". Whether it was pancake batter, scrambled eggs or water for a fire, the set of nesting mixing bowls held their own stories and became another of those items I could never part with no matter how long it had been since they had been used. Sure, things are just things, but when you are raising children and things are used as ours were, then they become the things of value that you keep. One day this past week I pulled out the little mixer that is still working by the way, and mixed up a lazy man’s coconut cake and remembered how silly I thought it was when I opened the package at Mama’s house all those many years ago. I looked it up on eBay today right before I started writing this story and found out that I could buy another one just like it for $9.00 plus shipping and that made me wonder just how much Mama could have paid for mine when she bought it back in 1965. However much it was, it was well worth it. Now I can only wonder which one of my children will want the mixer or the set of stainless steel bowls. What am I thinking? They’ll probably have those old things put in a box for sale before the dirt gets set on my grave. Hopefully they will read these stories and remember the good times we had learning to use these items together and they will want to make memories with simple things like these with their children. There are some things we just cannot throw away like mixers and bowls and memories…. ~ By Clarene Evans, Contributor Holy Ground Willene's Hardwood Floors While serving as Interim Pastor at FBC, Pontotoc in 1999, Charles Stubblefield, proclaimed, "The angel of the Lord spoke to Moses, 'Take off your shoes, you're standing on holy ground.'"
The word translated "holy" in many portions of scripture means "set apart." In his elaboration of the scripture passage, Bro. Stubblefield stated that in countries of the Middle East, persons still remove their shoes or sandals prior to entering a house. I believe the practice is also common to peoples of the Orient, though it is not something we see much of in our country. Growing up, I learned at an early age to remove muddy shoes before walking across Mom's kitchen or living room floor, but dirty footwear could be left just inside the backdoor. Mom always kept a clean house, but it was not spotless. Of the neighborhood kids I played with in Pontotoc, only one had a mom whose rule for kids was "no shoes in the house." My friend's name was Frankie Owen, and his mother Willene, was the wife of Keith Owen, a department store merchant at the time. Frankie's Dad had spent part of his life living in the house my family then owned and occupied. Our house on Woodland Street was known as the "old Owen place." Frankie and his family lived a block away from us in a new single story house on the corner of Hunt St. and Poyner St. Frankie's Mom was quite proud of her new house, especially the polished hardwood floors. Though she dearly loved for Frankie and me to play together, she made it clear to all that no shoes were to be worn indoors. Willene’s hardwood floors were "set apart" for bare feet or socks. I must have been about fifteen at the time, and could understand her reasoning with respect to teens, but Willene applied the same rule to all family members including her good natured, jovial husband. "Yes, Sir!" Mr. Keith would state, grinning from ear to ear, "I take off my shoes before I go in the door. It's best to do what the Missus asks." I did what the lady of the house asked, too, because she was not someone you would want to cross. Like her husband, she possessed a winning smile, but there was a hint of fire in her eyes which I had just as soon not see kindled, let alone be the person who lit the match. She was a large framed woman, not fat, but as tall as an average man and appeared capable of holding her own in a fight with one. Back then, I figure I weighed in at about 135 lbs. and still believe Willene could've body slammed me with one hand. If she wanted sock feet on her hardwood floors, then I did too. I have often thought of the good times spent with the Owen family, but never associated those hardwood floors with holy ground until today. Maybe it was the way Bro. Stubblefield enunciated the words that triggered my memory to respond. Maybe it was his mentioning of how the practice of removing shoes before entering a home continues to be practiced in certain areas of the world. I really don't know what did the trick, but Willene's hardwood floors were surely to be treated as "holy ground." ~ By Wayne L. Carter, Associate Editor & Publisher
Bodock Beau The Unlikely Salesman A pastor concluded that his church was getting into very serious financial troubles. While checking the church storeroom, he discovered several cartons of new Bibles that had never been opened and distributed. So at his Sunday sermon, he asked for three volunteers from the congregation who would be willing to sell the Bibles door-to-door for $10 each to raise the desperately needed money for the church. Jack, Paul and Louie all raised their hands to volunteer for the task. The minister knew that Jack and Paul earned their living as salesmen and were likely capable of selling some Bibles. But he had serious doubts about Louie who was a local farmer, who had always kept to himself because he was embarrassed by his speech impediment. Poor Louie stuttered badly. But, NOT WANTING TO discourage Louie, the minister decided to let him try anyway. He sent the three of them away with the back seat of their cars stacked with Bibles. He asked them to meet with him and report the results of their door-to-door selling efforts the following Sunday. Anxious to find out how successful they were, the minister immediately asked Jack, "Well, Jack, how did you make out selling our Bibles last week?" Proudly handing the reverend an envelope, Jack replied, "Using my sales prowess, I was able to sell 20 Bibles, and here's the $200 I collected on behalf of the church." "Fine job, Jack!" The minister said, vigorously shaking his hand..."You are indeed a fine salesman and the church is indebted to you." Turning to Paul, "And Paul, how many Bibles did you sell for the church last week?" Paul, smiling and sticking out his chest, confidently replied, 'I am a professional salesman. I sold 28 Bibles on behalf of the church, and here's $280 I collected. The minister responded, "That's absolutely splendid, Paul. You are truly a professional salesman and the church is indebted to you." Apprehensively, the minister turned to Louie and said, "And Louie, did you manage to sell any Bibles last week?" Louie silently offered the minister a large envelope. The minister opened it and counted the contents. "What is this?" the minister exclaimed. "Louie, there's $3200 in here! Are you suggesting that you sold 320 Bibles for the church, door to door, in just one week?" Louie just nodded. "That's impossible!" both Jack and Paul said in unison. "We are professional salesmen, yet you claim to have sold 10 times as many Bibles as we could." "Yes, this does seem unlikely," the minister agreed. "I think you'd better explain how you managed to accomplish this, Louie." Louie shrugged.. "I-I-I re-re-really do-do-don't kn-kn-know f-f-f-for sh-sh-sh-sure," he stammered.
Impatiently, Paul interrupted. "For crying out loud, Louie, just tell us
what you said to them when they answered the door!" "A-a-a-all I-I-I s-s-said wa-wa-was," Louis replied, "W-w-w-w-would y-y-y-you l-l-l-l-l-like t-t-to b-b-b-buy th-th-th-this B-B-B-B-Bible f-f-for t-t-ten b-b-b-bucks---o-o-o-or--- wo-wo-would yo-you j-j-j-just l-like m-m-me t-t-to st-st-stand h-h-here and r-r-r-r-r-read it t-to y-y-you?".
Some Thoughts On Aging.
One of the many things no one tells you about aging is that it is such a nice change from being young.
Some people try to turn back their odometers. Not me, I want people to know "why" I look this way. I’ve traveled a long way and some of the roads weren’t paved.
The older we get, the fewer things seem worth waiting in line for.
Aging: Eventually you will reach a point when you stop lying about your age and start bragging about it. The secret of staying young is to live honestly, eat slowly, and lie about your age. (Lucille Ball) At my age, flowers scare me. (George Burns)
Note: Quotes attributed to celebrities have not been verified by our staff. **************** Last night, my kids and I were sitting in the living room. I said to them, "I never want to live in a vegetative state, dependent on some machine and fluids from a bottle. If that ever happens, just pull the plug." They got up, unplugged the Computer, and threw out my wine. Quips by Jimmy Fallon A year ago Michelle Obama started her campaign to end childhood obesity called "Let's Move." . I think Americans have been very clear in their answer, "No." A survey found that 11 percent of Americans think they are overweight. The other 89 percent couldn't respond because they had food in their mouths.
Cuzin Cornpone A Bodock Post Exclusive Our loveable friend, Cuzin Cornpone, appears only 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 © 2011 ~ The Bodock Post. Return to home page. Open This Issue with MS Word
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Not far from our homes was a good sized pond known as Austin Lake. Bozy and
I explored all about the area and the lake was particularly inviting. There
was a homemade boat tied up there and we thought possibly someone had meant
it for our enjoyment. However, I think they used it when the "Coon on the
Log Contest" was held each year, and possibly other events. It had no paddles,
but seemed to be in sea-worthy condition. Well, possibly not "sea-worthy,"
but "pond-worthy" non-the-less. Securing a makeshift paddle, we traversed
the lake time and time again. Finally as part of our entertainment we crafted
some paddles of our own, now we were in tall cotton. Most of the summer we
spent on that lake and there was not a niche or cove that we did not explore;
a great way to spend a pleasant day.
When
I think of the mules I always think of the day when my father first allowed
me to plow. It probably seems a little foolish now, but back then it was
sort of like you had grown up when you were allowed to plow.
The
mixing bowls were used constantly as was the iron and the black iron skillet,
once it finally got seasoned. It didn’t take nearly as long to season
the skillet as you might imagine as I was cooking cornbread nearly every
night for my little family of six.
Bro.
Stubblefield was explaining the text dealing with God's call to Moses from
the midst of a burning bush. The bush burned but was not consumed; therefore,
Baptists and others believe the fire symbolized the presence of God.
