November 2011

Volume 39

Most folks around the country have their own definition and reflections of a typical Thanksgiving Day. The Norman Rockwell’s of the world paint beautiful scenes of winding country lanes with colorful leaves and plump pumpkins, rows of shocked corn, and stacks of hay along the way. Buggies and wagons, pulled by teams of well-fed horses traversed these winding lanes. All are filled with rosy cheeked people heading for grandma’s house for a day of reunion, celebration, and good food.

Somewhere among that little traveling band, a large box covered with a white cloth, might be depicted, and it would be filled with all kinds of delicious foods. As you got a glimpse of that box, though obscure it might be, your mind would conjure up the aroma of baked turkey, dressing, fried chicken, containers of home grown vegetables cooked to perfection, fried apple pies, chocolate cake, pumpkin pies, and all sorts of delicacies would invade your memory. Then your mind would explode with the memories of Thanksgivings Past.

Those were days when kids were carefree to run and play in the yard, scraped clean by grandpa’s eye hoe. Toys, who needed them? With cousins by the score ready to teach new games, or renew a game of kick the can, Annie over, or tag; toys were the least of the fun.

Artist over the world have tried to capture the feel of that Typical Thanksgiving Day, and most have done a good job. And, although the painted scene may not have been an actuality to many of us, we each experienced a wonderful, happy time in our own way, with our family. Whether the leaves were as red, the pumpkins as orange, the corn stalks just so, as painted by the artist; and the horse and buggy was off times an old truck or car; it was still a magic time of year.

As we enter this season let’s remember those good times we enjoyed as children and now as adults with our family and friends. Not forgetting to be thankful to our Lord who provided us with all these blessings. This year lets show our thankfulness to those around us; family, friends, church members, business acquaintances, all those who touch our lives each day; and try to build a lasting memory with them. Let us show compassion in a real tangible way to those who are less fortunate, possibly hungry, cold, and without a permanent living place, and to our military people who may be far from loved ones and home. Also, let’s show that extra amount of concern and care for those who may be aged, alone, without friends or family, and/or those that are ill. Let’s share our bounty with them all. Jesus once said, "If you have done it to one of the least of these my brothers, you have done it unto Me."

We here at the Bodock Post wish you, not only, that Typical "Norman Rockwell" Thanksgiving time, but a time of true Thanksgiving for all the blessing that have been showered upon us by our Lord.

"May God Bless You" during this wonderful season!

~ By Ralph R. Jones, Editor

It’s early of a Sunday morning. Nothing is moving, and the silence is almost heavy enough to cut with a knife. I woke up a little early, and am sitting on my back porch watching the dawning of a new day. It is so quiet out here I almost wanted to tip toe when I came out.

Judging from the puddles standing in the bare spots and the grass lying heavy with raindrops, I’d guess we recently had a light shower. Today is dawning foggy, however there's a hint of fall in the air. The squirrels are feeling a little friskier than usual and the birds are flitting around and feeding early. I'm not hearing much singing though, must be the fog dampening the sounds--the temperature is in the mid-60s, but it feels cooler, of course, that is probably just wishful thinking on my part.

Something about today reminds me of Sundays past. Sundays back in those days long gone by when I was just barely qualified to wear long britches and grown-up boots, scarcely more than a scamp of a child...

The streets in town were mostly deserted since most all the stores were closed on Sundays. The Humble Pharmacy closed Sundays, as the owner was a deacon in the Baptist Church and his wife sang in the choir, but Tooke’s drugstore was open. Mr. Tooke was nice about letting us read the magazines in his store, so some of the more adventurous of us would sneak out after Sunday School and go down to Tooke’s and read magazines instead of attending church. The only other stores open around town were the little ones on the corners, the ones where an old lady or old man sat behind the counter, what we’d call "convenience stores" today. Places like Otis Clark’s Grocery and Cammack’s Store.

Once I was old enough to drive and had my own car, I joined many of the other denizens of Humble and the surrounding area at one of the three cafes in town for Sunday breakfast. All three restaurants did a good business on Sundays, even though some people only stopped to drink a cup of coffee and to greet their neighbors. Since everyone in town knew each other, a chorus of good mornings always greeted you when you went inside for breakfast. Many single people and some families not only stopped by for breakfast before church, but also often returned after the service for lunch.

The three cafes were practically identical with both wood tables with traditional checkered table cloths and the more modern chrome with Formica tops. They all had stools at the counter and the back wall behind the counter was decorated with cardboard signs advertising daily specials, but no one needed to read them since the specials hadn't changed in years, and depending on which place you visited, everyone pretty much always had their own special order for breakfast.

I preferred the sausage, onion, green pepper and cheese omelets at the Humble Café, the "Roughneck Special" of three eggs and a chicken fried steak at the City Café and chili and eggs topped with chopped onions and shredded cheese out at Roy’s Crossroads Café.

At church time, all the church parking lots and the streets around them were filled with cars and pickups.. Folks always dressed in their Sunday best for church and this included hats for women and girls. Most of the men wore suits and their "marryin’ and buryin’" Stetsons, no matter the season, and the younger boys wore shirts and ties.

My parents weren’t big on going to church, so either they’d take us and drop us off or we’d hitch a ride with some neighbors. After we got home from church, the first thing we did was to change out of our "good" clothes into our play or work clothes. Back then we had three kinds of clothes: good clothes, school clothes and play or work clothes…for some reason they were always called play clothes around our house.

After we changed our clothes, my sisters and I often helped mama in the kitchen or read the Sunday paper while we waited for dinner to be ready. Sunday dinner was usually some special treat such as, roast beef, fresh pork roast, baked or fried chicken or some other "special" Sunday dish with all the trimming and vegetables, plus we often had desert on Sundays,

After we finished dinner we put away the food and cleaned the kitchen, then we lazed around reading the newspaper, doing homework or some chore such as shelling peas or churning that didn’t involve too much effort-- Sunday afternoons were pretty much laid back.

In the late afternoon we often had company call, family and old family friends. Around our house there were 2 or 3 people we could depend on dropping by almost every Sunday afternoon and several others that visited frequently. Late Sunday afternoons were reserved for visiting.

Toward the end of the afternoon, I’d withdraw to take care of feeding up and tending to the stock, after which I’d be excused to go visit my friends (girlfriends) until around 10:00, which was bedtime on school nights.

And that, my friends, is how I recall we passed Sundays around Humble, Texas in the 1950s.

Note: Newt Harlan writes Honest Lies and Other Misguided thoughts, weekly. If you wish to subscribe to his emailed only newsletter, contact us at editor@bodockpost.com

There’s been an ad on TV lately promoting the value of the Internet in linking together people along the lines of video conferencing. This particular ad demonstrated a project management tool for a small of group of people interested in a water well project in the African country, Kenya.

When I was in Kenya in October, I got to see a different sort of water project, one that did not need the Internet to help resolve.

I was one of eight individuals representing Pontotoc County Habitat for Humanity who were in Kenya to assist Kenya’s Habitat for Humanity in constructing houses for persons who had been forced from their homes during the violence that followed a national election four years ago. More than 650,000 people were affected and many of these found refuge in the Maai Maihu area. The country’s government purchased private land and supplied affected families with small tents, tents intended to serve as temporary shelter for up to six months.

The warranty on the tents has long expired and most are in tatters. Habitat for Humanity in Kenya, along with other organizations and individuals, has been working for the past few years to help the Internally Displaced People (IDP) into decent housing.

During the past few years living conditions for the IDPs have been deplorable, at least by American standards. In tents, there were no amenities such as electricity, running water or indoor plumbing.

There was no nearby lake or stream to serve as a water supply, so the government set huge tanks near the tents to serve the affected families. Neither is there a town nearby to and from which IDPs can obtain food supplies, and a few roadside stands along a major highway about a half-mile from the tent area is all that keeps the location of the IDPs from the classification, "living out in the middle of nowhere."

Almost no water there goes to waste. Families transport large containers of water from the storage tanks to their homes, with most doing so by hand. It’s largely women’s work, though children are often involved. Some of my grandparents told of having to transport all of their water by hand from a spring a goodly distance from their home. But, to my knowledge none of my relatives portaged water on their backs using a strap around their forehead.

Elias Lopez, one in our group of Pontotoc County Habitat for Humanity volunteers is actually a resident of Chicago and was born in Mexico. Like the other Chicagoans who joined our team, he truly has a heart for missions to help the underprivileged of society.

On our first day at the IDP camp, Elias, whom we called Eli, walked over to a set of water tanks to video the local people obtaining water. He observed a major problem associated with the spigot on the tank. It was too close to the ground to fit a container under it. Even though, someone had dug a hole below the spigot, it wasn’t deep enough to fill a large container without tilting the container under the faucet. This most always resulted in spillage so those filling a container got their feet wet in the process of obtaining water.

It didn’t take Eli long to propose a solution to one of the individuals charged with maintaining the water supply. Eli suggested the hole for the water containers be dug somewhat deeper and a step or two be carved out for the recipient to descend to reach the water faucet. Because even the water that spills into the hole is used for one purpose or another, there are few occasions in which water spillage might rise to the first step. Eli’s solution was brilliantly simple, but one that obviously had escaped those responsible for the use of the water system in place. Eli also solved another problem at the same tank, which had been installed with two spigots, but only one was working. He showed the water supervisor how to open the valve. Plans are in place to concrete the areas under the spigots, which will insure cleaner water can be obtained in the spillage area.

Each of our team has expressed how he or she has felt used by God in their work in Kenya. We have participated in pouring concrete slabs and raising the stone and mortar walls of two homes that will soon be completed. Our experiences are sure to remain vivid memories of what most of us see as a once in a lifetime opportunity. We are proud of our accomplishments to help improve the lives of others, but we have been humbled and reminded of how fortunate we are to live in America.

The houses our team helped construct are permanent fixtures on the Kenyan landscape and will serve two families well into the future. For Elias Lopez, his Kenyan Water Project is sure to be appreciated by the dozens of families that must daily resupply their water needs. We all thank you, Eli. Yours is an especially sweet offering unto our Lord.

November is here and while we still have a few blooms hanging on, it is time to get ready for winter.

Please continue to give your roses at least an inch of water per week if it is not raining.

If you still have any black spot hanging on, spray your roses with Daconil. Daconil is a great cool weather fungicide. You will also need to clean the diseased leaves off of your roses along with the old mulch, if you have not done so already. Be sure and remove disease trash from the beds and bag and remove from your property altogether.

If you have not fertilized with 0-20-20, do so now. If you have another dose will not hurt. Use one cup for large bushes and one half cup for smaller bushes. If you have not taken a soil sample this year, now would be an excellent time to do so. Your local Extension Office has the sample boxes and instructions free of charge. Once you have taken the samples, return them to the Extension Office along with six dollars per sample and they will forward them to Mississippi State University’s Soil Testing Lab for you. Free shipping, you can’t beat that. In about two weeks, your results will come to your home address and the great part is they will be in English, not some crazy, jargon that only a chemist can understand. If you are uncertain about your results, send me an email at colorsbytim@hotmail.com and I will call you and help you out.

I would say about the middle of the month would be a good time to wind prune your taller roses. Cut them back to chest high or about four feet for you taller folks. I would also recommend pruning the lower twiggy growth from your hybrid tea roses.

Now it is time to finish up with maintenance for the winter by spreading a layer of your favorite mulch. I like to put roughly four inches and for hybrid tea roses put an extra dose mounded up around the graft union. This is a vulnerable point during extreme cold weather. I recommend about eight to ten inches of mulch to be mounded up around the graft.

The roses have been beautiful this year and have brought much joy and color to our landscape. They have also made many gorgeous bouquets in our home.

Tune in next January for some good tips to a beautiful rose garden. If you have any questions or comments send me an email.

Happy gardening and keep digging in the dirt.

A recent e-mail has sent my mind scurrying to determine just what I believe about much of the television we Americans watch. My family purchased our first set when I was a senior in high school, 1955. Since that time it has been wonderment to me how that picture and sound travels over the vast space from its origin to my set. Many things have changed in the technology of this media over the years and so has the content it produces.

The early news reporters did little more than sit behind a desk and read the local and world news. Now, bigger than life film clips of tragedies, disturbances, political situations, the misbehaving of our national and local leaders, or whatever; appear before our eyes, often as they actually happen and come in living color from all around the world.

Since I can do nothing to help or change these situations, the news is way down on my lists of things to watch. If some big leader gets whacked over in Ethiopia, they are just going to have to deal with that themselves. If a plane crashes on a Brazilian mountain, that is a problem and concern of Brazil. I am sorry that people may be hurt or killed, but to watch it displayed time and time again from every possible angle, is not my idea of entertainment.

The part that bothers me is that many of our modern programs are trying to convince me of their agenda, beliefs, or persuasions. It seems that more and more of the programming is geared to indoctrinate us with some liberal, lop-sided kind of thinking. It all is probably linked with the "Political Correctness Movement." Don’t step on anyone’s toes, don’t call a duck a duck even if it waddles and quacks a lot, and for pity sakes don’t use any term that might be offensive to anyone anywhere. Give me a break!!!!

Other forms of indoctrination are quite rampant. Some well-known scientific and historical channels show programs that would appear to be true and factual. Much of the information is true, the pictures beautiful, and much of it is very interesting, however, they throw in statements about evolution as a given fact, when in reality it is only a myth and not the truth. They tell how many millions and millions of years ago this happened, when in fact; the earth is probably only about ten thousand years old as many of us believe. Children who watch this cannot discern the truth from the fiction of these subtle accusations and take it in as truth. These programs seem to try and draw their audience away from any reference to God and away from anything they consider religious, moral, or even socially acceptable in some cases.

It would appear that television has become a vast wasteland of "entertainment" for the populous of our country. Television is bending the truth to the breaking point in many cases. Some networks are even allowing shady companies to promote their scams to the public.

Have you ever seen so many companies advertising products for $19.99? They also tell you that if you order within the next few minutes they will double your order, sending you one absolutely free. The fine print of that is, you must pay shipping and handling on the second one also. It sounds too good to be true; and it is! The shipping/handling is probably about what the product is actually worth, if that much. So what you have done is bought an overpriced product, paid an exorbitant S&H on it and then paid another S&H for the second one. Your total price will not be the $19.99 as they brag so much about, but closer to $40.00 in reality.

Many of you in the Pontotoc County area will probably know Jim "Jimmy" Arnold. He grew up in the Troy community and graduated from Pontotoc High School in the mid-1950s. He is an upstanding citizen, a Marine, and an all-around fine person. He sent me a video of the problem he is having with a product he ordered from a TV commercial. The product he ordered, is a water-proofing sealer, that when sprayed on most any surface, even a screen door, forms a water-proof seal. One spray can for, you guessed it, $19.99; but, since he ordered "now," two cans were to be sent, etc., etc., etc. However, when the order came there were six cans of the product along with a bill in excess of $160.00. Try as he might the company would not give him satisfaction. He has even gone to the point of getting the news media to air his complaint. It seems that the company is doing all its customers in a similar fashion, and has no regards to any customer’s complaint.

I hope Jim receives his money back and is also compensated for his efforts as well. The sad part is that television will allow this company, and others like it, to continue to advertise and deceive the public. Hopefully, Jim will stir up enough dust that they will straighten up their act or be forced out of business.

Wouldn’t it be great if television would police their own? Sad to say, they seem only interested in the dollars they bring in, not in the honesty or integrity of the people who advertise on the air.

Television, the onetime great entertainment and information device has become polluted. We all have these instruments sitting in our homes and if we do not monitor them very closely, and choose programs carefully, the pollution, bad information, and filth will spill right out of the set and into our lives and the lives of our children and grandchildren.

Today’s book bags that carry such name brands as JanSport, The North Face, Dakine, High Sierra, and Ogio have nothing on the old fashioned book satchels we carried to school back in the good old days.

You know the days I’m talking about, the days when Mama didn’t have to put out a week’s paycheck just so we could have a name on the outside of the bags that we would "not be ashamed to be seen carrying" or throwing down on the floor under our desk at school or on the floor in our bedroom at home.

My old brown leather book satchel that Mama gave me when I entered first grade was the same old book satchel I carried every day for school for the next four years. All of my little friends got new book satchels each new school year; but not me. The leather one just would not wear out….it held on like iron just like the brown and white saddle oxfords Mama had ordered from Sears and Roebuck. She bought them big enough to get two years of growth out of them. I hated them with a passion but for some reason I didn’t hate the book satchel; it was special.

By the time I entered the fifth grade, it was no longer cool to carry your books in a "satchel" and it was probably a good thing because by then mine was on its last leg. I’m sure an adult could have carried it for many more years but kids are just harder on things than adults. Mama had carried it to Mr. Rob Finger’s Shoe Repair Shop that was just under the Farmer’s and Merchants Bank (where the Baldwyn News is today) and had it sewn back together more times than she cared to count.

My fifth grade teacher was Miss Olga Corbett and her class was held over in the high school building. I suppose I thought that since I had graduated to the ‘big building’ I was now too big to carry a book satchel to school. I didn’t do away with it permanently however, it now became the vessel that kept up with all my short stories that I’d begun to write and believe you me there were plenty of those. (I still have them by the way and they’re all handwritten in longhand.) To the best of my recollection we had a place at the back of the classroom where we kept our schoolbooks that were not needed overnight. Of course we usually had homework in all of our subjects so if we didn’t get it done during our free time at school we had to carry them home at night and a book bag would have been very useful but I was a big girl then, don’t you know. Yeah, big and dumb! I’d already fallen into that," I care what other people think of me and I’m not carrying a little girl’s book satchel", stage. Stupid me, a satchel would have helped tremendously.

Book satchels aka book bags or backpacks to little 6 year olds were status symbols back in the day and I suppose they still are. We had arrived. We were ready to enter the big world. There was no kindergarten back then but if you showed up on the first day of school carrying a red plaid book satchel, you were ready for school. You were PREPARED! I showed up however with my brown leather bag. Why? Because that was what my Mama had at home already. It was her personal filing cabinet. It was where she’d kept her personal papers for as long as I could remember up until the day before. Now all her ‘important’ papers were in a shoe box on a shelf in her closet and I had a new book satchel. I thought that was pretty cool.

I would enter Miss Hallie’s room looking like a New York lawyer or at least that’s what my granddaddy Gookie said. My grandmother Den wanted to get me the red plaid one like all the other kids in my class would have but Mama said this one would do me just fine. I suppose even back then she always knew I would be different. I remember them having this discussion like it was yesterday. I wanted Mama’s lawyer bag because it had meant so much to her over the years. She’d always made such a big deal about me and my little brother never bothering anything in it and in fact we were never even to touch anything in it before. I thought I must be pretty special to her for her to give it up for me now. Who knew that that’s what Mama’s do for their children? Not me!

All I knew for sure was that I was about to lay my best stick horse aside and I was going to school to learn to read and write. Finally I could read the funnies for myself. Gookie wouldn’t have to read them to me anymore. (I didn’t know he was just making up the stories by looking at the pictures then but I would soon find out. At this time I still didn’t know he could not read or write.)

How did I know that the brown leather book satchel would change my young life as I knew it forever?

There they go, zoom, zoom, zoom. The sound they make when they fly by reminds me of the sound that George Jetson’s car made when it flew. Have you guessed what they are? Yep, you’re right, they’re hummingbirds.

For the last few years, Ms. Janet and I have been watching the hummingbird population grow at our home. They start showing up in early March, and they stay until late October. We usually still have a few stragglers passing by in November. We put our feeders out in late February and leave them out until late November. We don’t want to miss any of them.

We are up to about thirty on a slow day to roughly fifty on a busy day. They are a joy to watch as they buzz about feverishly, visiting the flowers. If you want to attract lots of hummingbirds, plant lots of brightly colored flowers in different spots around your yard as these little birds are extremely territorial. They also hang out pretty close to the feeders.

We have four feeders and it takes an average of ten pounds of sugar a week to keep sugar water made for all of them. When they are hanging all over the feeders is the most enjoyable time to watch them as they play their little games of tag and perform all the aerial maneuvers that they are capable of.

They can fly forward, backward, side to side, and up and down. These little birds wings beat up to 200 times per second and can reach speeds of 60 miles per hour.

They range in size from 2 ¼ inches long to 8 ½ inches long. Their weight ranges from 1/5 of an ounce to 3/5 of an ounce. Their heart beats at an amazing 500 beats per minute when they are resting to almost double that when they are excited.

The average hummingbird will consume half its weight in sugar daily along with the pollen from all the flowers they visit, as well as eating small flying insects along with small spiders. They also like to eat mosquitoes. They are healthy eaters and burn it up mighty quickly as they never stop moving or it seems that way.

They actually spend roughly four-fifths of the day perched in trees and shrubs. We have three trees close to their feeders for them to hide in.

Hummingbirds also need a lot of water each day. They take in approximately eight times their body weight in water per day. They also like to play in the water when you have a sprinkler going. This gives them a chance to cool off as they fly through the misting water. They do not like most bird baths as they are usually too deep. If you do not have any other water sources for them, place a small pile of stones in the bird bath for them to land on.

In time they will actually get pretty accustomed to you and will land on the feeder if you will stand still and hold the feeder out at arm’s length. Last year at the end of the season on a fairly cold day, we had one get so cold that he passed out. Ms. Janet got so upset that she fixed him a box, wrapped him with a towel to help get him warm and had me hold him and try to force feed him with one of the feeders. During the day he disappeared so we assumed he got ok and went on his merry way.

Next March I hope everyone will get their own feeder and begin to enjoy them as much as we do. Remember, almost all the flowers that attract hummingbirds, also attract butterflies, but that’s another story. These guys are a great addition to any garden. They are like brightly colored flowers that can move all over the yard at a high rate of speed. So you see, not everything beautiful that is in the garden is grown in the ground.

Happy Gardening, have a great day and enjoy all the beauty that the Lord our God has scattered about for us.

Many were the days I spent as a child at Ole Miss. To the unschooled in Southeastern Conference colloquialism, Ole Miss would translate to "The University of Mississippi." Growing up in Pontotoc, (just a short drive from Oxford, where Ole Miss is nestled) as a pre-schooler I had the very good fortune to be sent off to Ole Miss and into the caring arms of my great-aunt. For those unknowledgeable in the world of family trees beyond the branch that holds cousins, that would be my grandmother’s sister. Her name was Ludye, but we all called her Aunt Bill.

The way it was told to me (by Aunt Bill, herself) when I was a teen, was that there was a radio program back in her youth called, "…somethin’ and Bill." My grandmother, Mattie Eudelle was dubbed the "…somethin’…" part, which no one ever remembered, and my great aunt Ludye Ethel got the name "Bill." Hers stuck and Mammaw’s didn’t, and so it was that for the rest of my life I would reference my "Aunt Bill."

In her nearly fifty years working in North Mississippi, Aunt Bill was a headmistress for years on the floor of Irwin B. Schwabe, Company in Ecru, Mississippi. That made her the floor manager in that facility affectionately known by the community as, "the shirt factory." They assembled fine Van Heusen, and Arrow shirts. After many years in the heat of the factory, opportunity arose to work at Ole Miss.

The University hired Aunt Bill to be the head resident at a female dorm called Barnard-Isom-Somerville. She did so with great perseverance for several years and was rewarded with the honor of moving up to the first air-conditioned dorm on campus…Brown Hall. It was a "state of the art facility" that had coin-operated laundry and a snack bar with machines that dispensed sandwiches! It is from here that some great memories of Aunt Bill were born. I would hop a bus to Oxford from Pontotoc! .

It was a grand adventure in those days…to be 3 or 4 years old and get a seat on a mighty Continental Trailways Silver Eagle (or Gold Eagle, if you were really lucky) and head off to your destination. I cannot recall what exactly was supposed to be the grand difference between the Silver and Gold Eagle. Maybe the gold one had a restroom. At any rate, it made all the more fun a 40-minute trip to God’s Country…Lafayette County, Mississippi. .

Weeklong stays with my Aunt Bill were fun and I learned from the visits. I learned how easy it is to be a decision-maker. I learned that neither does the world come crashing down around you, nor does the "boogie man" slip up on you if you live alone. I never realized I was learning from her until I was independent myself. .

Once, I fell asleep on the bus. I groggily looked out the window and saw a troubled-looking Aunt Bill waiting for me to step off the bus. The driver came looking, woke me, and directed me to my aunt at the curb. .

We drove off in her Chrysler Newport. It had huge tail-fins and was a lovely two-tone, white and aqua. The tires had wide white-walls. It was very sporty for a four-door sedan. Of course, everything about my Aunt Bill was sporty. .

Going to stay with Bill in the dorm was an adventure in itself. She had her own apartment in the front…all the easier to see the boys entering to meet their dates…and make sure they didn’t overstay their welcome!

The dormitory front desk is a place that employs students. They would call up to rooms like a switchboard in the old days to get girls down to the lobby for their study dates or movie dates or dinner dates or whatever. Boys in the 1960’s could not venture past the double-doors into the living quarters. I would often go out to the desk to sit and "help" the girls work the desk. It was terrible, being lavished with all that feminine attention. .

"Oh, aren’t you the sweetest thing!" .

"Are you going to go to Ole Miss when you grow up?" .

"What fraternity are YOU in, young man?" .

Tough life, huh? .

Bill retired at the end of the 67-68 school year. She had rolled enough time into her working life and thought she might rest some. The University had other ideas. .

It was about the middle of June when the Dean of Women called Bill. She said that Ole Miss had a problem. The girls’ dorms at the top of the hill from Brown were razed to make room for the new Student Union. .

Construction was behind & the new women’s dorm was not yet complete. According to the Dean of Women, they were moving the boys out of Kincannon Hall and into some old, unoccupied dorms near Kinard Hall. The girls would live in Kincannon for a year or two. She asked if Bill was interested in taking the job as head resident. She was not sure. She had never had so many girls at one time. She was never one to turn away a challenge, so she went back to work. . .

She would later tell me that her time at Kincannon was not miserable, but certainly was not as pleasant as before, because of the, "…new, uppity women’s movement and the awful way girls treated their elders!"

In May 1970, Bill tried retirement a second time.

Later that summer, her phone rang again. This time it was the Dean of Students and they had a need for an interim House Mother at a new fraternity that was re-colonizing Ole Miss after a 110-year hiatus. She said that she had never taken care of boys, but if they needed her, she would be glad to try. Fortunately, her boxes were not emptied, so she loaded up and went to the Chi Psi Lodge on Fraternity Row. .

At the end of that school year, the Dean of Students called and asked how it went. She told him, "Well, if they haven’t hired anybody and they like me okay, I believe I’ll stay." She stayed 17 years. .

I would be the only boy in our family that would join Chi Psi. I suppose it was our destiny to be together at Ole Miss, me with my sweet Aunt Bill. .

When she died in June 2005, you never would have known she was nearly 99 years old. She spent more than half of her life around teens and twenty-something’s, and it rubbed off on her.

I miss trains. Not these diesel powered things with no cabooses that run on train tracks nowadays, but real trains pulled by steam engines with whistles that sounded like the songs of long ago, instead of the air horns of today. I miss the depot and the railway express agency that stood across from each other next to the tracks, at what was then the end of Main Street. I miss the passenger train that stopped twice a day at the depot, headed north in the morning and south in the afternoon. I miss hearing the conductor shout, "Booaard," as the train began to hiss and chug its way out of the station, waiting to collect the pennies I’d placed on the track to get smushed.

I miss the siren on the water tower which was sounded to summon the volunteer firemen whenever their services were needed. It was also a signal to all the other citizens in town to be alert, since the firemen would be rushing to the station to man the fire truck and then on to the fire. The siren was also occasionally used to alert the citizens when there were some other emergency imminent, such as tornadoes or other kinds of bad weather. Probably the most important function for the siren, to those who weren’t firemen was to announce there was some excitement brewing and soon the telephone party lines would be buzzing.

I miss the smell of burning leaves on crisp fall evenings...We’d spend a Saturday afternoon raking the fallen leaves all around the house and hauling them to the burn pit, where we’d pile them into an immense pile, sometime as high as six or eight feet. We’d have a great time wrestling and diving into the huge, soft, crisp pile of leaves. Then right at dusk, we’d rake all the scattered leaves back into the pile and set it burning.

I miss the soda fountain down at the Humble Pharmacy. You could order about any kind of soda imaginable, and watch them mix it up in a paper cone cup in a silver holder, complete with the fizzy carbonated water, right there in front of you. Everyone remembers the classic "one drink with two straws" thing you did with that special boyfriend or girlfriend. The straws were always red and white striped and wrapped in paper and kept in this special dispenser jar where, when you lifted the cover, the straws would fan out for selection.

I miss the tradesmen rolling through town and down the country roads in their horse-drawn, rubber-tired wagons or vintage pickups. There was the produce man who peddled tomatoes, apples, oranges, bananas, pineapples and all kinds of greens. Mama always looked for the ragman, who came around about twice a year collecting old clothes. The knife sharpener ground new edges on women’s knives and scissors on a big stone wheel mounted on his wagon. Daddy always forbade mama to use him, because daddy said the sharpening man ruined the knives, and besides, daddy was the sharpening man around our house. There were several garbage men who went around to the cafes and grocery stores, gathering up refuse to feed to their hogs…we called them the "slop men." The city also had a local garbage man named Dennis, who drove around Humble, using his horse-drawn wagon to pick up household garbage.

I miss the town’s night watchman making his way up and down Main Street, rattling the front door on each business and shining his flashlight behind the buildings and into the alleys to make sure all were secure. It was customary on frosty winter nights for the rowdies about town to lace the watchman’s coffee with a bit of whiskey or brandy to keep him warm as he made his rounds--as you might imagine, by the end of his shift on those cold nights there was very little watching being done.

I miss the Jewel Theater…the picture show. It was the baby-sitter on Saturday afternoons, the date spot on Saturday night and one of the town’s social hubs all the rest of the time. Everyone who grew up in the 40s and 50s remembers the "double feature, serial, two cartoons and a newsreel for nine cents for children and 25 cents for adults", Saturday matinees. All that remains of the Jewel now is the shell, the interior having been converted to office space years ago, however the old building holds many memories. I’ve done one article on it and I think I’ll do another real soon…there are too many stories in that place.

I miss high school football games on Friday nights. Of course, they still play football on Friday nights (as well as Thursdays and Saturdays), but it isn’t the same. I miss the time when every town in the area packed into their high school’s stadium to cheer for their team. I miss the whole town shutting down to go to the out of town games and those who had to remain behind, waiting breathlessly for news of the score.

Back then everyone went to see the football game and watch the band at halftime. The cheerleaders were pretty girls, whose job was to lead cheers for the football team when play was stopped. Nowadays, the cheerleaders seem to ignore the football game, and concentrate on some kind of trumped up cheerleading competition…it just ain’t the same.

I miss stopping by the barbershops on Saturday mornings. You could get a shave, haircut, and a shine on your boots for less than a $5 bill at either one. Plus you could catch up on all the latest hunting and fishing tales, talk about the high school sports teams, and hear about the other local goings on. Of course, if you played in the football game on the Friday night before, there was an unwritten law that you HAD to stop by the barbershops to receive your kudos. Lots of folks stopped by the barbershops on Saturday; even when they didn’t need a haircut, just to catch up on all the local happenings.

Truthfully, I really don’t think I’d want to live in the fifties again. I'm fairly content living in the world of today, but I sure do miss the feel of a small town, and Imiss all those people, things and events that made up my life and have now disappeared. I recall life as more exciting back then, and a whole bunch more colorful.

Note: Newt Harlan writes Honest Lies and Other Misguided thoughts, weekly. If you wish to subscribe to his emailed only newsletter, contact us at editor@bodockpost.com.

In the month of November our minds usually turn to the Thanksgiving Day events that have, or will, take place. To some it will be a Macy’s Day Parade on TV or Ole Miss playing in a football game. To others it will be a day of rest and relaxation while to others it may be just another day of daily chores or work.

To me, however, it brings up fond memories of our Thanksgiving Days in Pontotoc. It was a day of much hard work, but one with lots of enjoyment. It was a day of family reunion; a day when we socialized and feasted together, a day of thankfulness for our countless blessings.

As you enter the downtown post office in Pontotoc you can hardly miss the large mural on the south wall of the main lobby. It depicts early settlers and Native Americans sharing a harvest meal together. Such a serene scene is captured by the depression era artist who did this wonderful piece of art. It appears to me that there had been a bountiful harvest and that both groups, though with vastly different backgrounds, were enjoying fellowship and being thankful for the goodness bestowed upon them by their Creator.

While looking at this scene, I can only think of my family’s meeting as I grew up. Yes, it was a day of hard work, but it was one time no one would forego, or soon forget. We butchered hogs on that day for many years. Those of you that have field dressed many large hogs know of the work involved.

My first cousin, Leon Tallant and his wife Lou Jean, always raised three or four large hogs, three hundred or more pounds each, and had them ready to butcher on Thanksgiving Day. The family and friends showed up to help with the work and to participate in a hearty family type noon meal.

Leon and Frank, his dad, formed a team; my dad, Anderson, and I formed another team; and Leon’s brothers-in-law, Clinton and Knox Tutor, formed a third team. We had all done this enough to know what to do and when. Each team had their work more or less defined and carried it out with precision.

Clinton and Knox kept two, sometimes three, large black wash pots full of boiling water going most of the time. Leon and his dad killed the animal and scalded and scraped the carcass. Dad and I hung the carcass, removed the entrails and quartered it into manageable pieces; shoulders, hams, middling’s, and such. Anytime a team was not doing their own particular thing, they assisted the others by trimming shoulders and hams, cutting up meat to be ground into sausage or to be cooked into lard.

Once the first hog was hung and dad and I had him cleaned out, Lou Jean would be standing there with both hands out, waiting for us to remove the fish-like tenderloin strips. This is the "filet mignon" of the hog. To those of you who purchase meat at the store, it is the "pork chop" meat. She would take it inside, cut it into large wafer size pieces, and fry it for lunch. That, along with her hot biscuits and gravy, made a wonderful meal. Of course the other ladies helped cook and all had brought their "specialty" to the clan meeting. As the essential chores were completed we all stopped and had lunch together.

Although tired, sometimes dirty and always greasy, we offered thanks to the Lord for the blessing of the day and the bounty we enjoy. After a good hearty meal and reflecting on our blessings we would return to the wash pots to begin the lard cooking process.

The small pieces of fat meat that had been trimmed away from the better cuts would be dumped into a clean dry pot and the pot set on the fire.

Mrs. Elizabeth "Lizzy" Bray, Lou Jean’s mother, would clean all the fat off the entrails to be cooked down into lard. Clinton would usually start the rendering and stirring the mixture as the oil cooked out of the meat. Different ones would take turns stirring as it was a hot and tiring job. Leon would periodically check to see when it was "done."

While the lard was being cooked out, Frank and I would start grinding the sausage. Often an entire shoulder or ham would be added into the mixture to make the sausage leaner. Different ones would help rub the salt or sugar cure into the hams and shoulders that were to be hung in the smoke house to cure.

When Leon had tasted some of the crackling’s, and determined that the oil had been cooked out, the pot would be removed from the fire and the contents strained into new five gallon buckets. The air tight lids would be installed and the cans set aside to cool.

By middle of the afternoon it was all finished and the knives had been boiled clean, cutting tables scrubbed and scalded, wash tubs full of entrails set aside for whoever in the community would have them, hams and shoulders hung in their assigned places, sausage wrapped or packed, lard cans stored in a safe place, liver and lights hung in the pump house, pots scalded clean and turned over to drain, the scalding barrel removed and as much yuck cleaned from the ground as possible.

Each family that helped received a "mess" of fresh meat. "Hardly worth the effort," you say, but no one came expecting to be paid for their labor. If the truth be known, if payment for their time was ever offered, it would be considered an insult. There was a sense of togetherness, of family camaraderie, of fellowship, a time of reunion, a day of being thankful for what we had received.

When I reminisce of Thanksgiving Day this is what I think of, not of parades, or football, or loafing, or any other thing. It was a hard, tedious, nasty job; but an experience that will linger on my list of "Most Wonderful Days" forever.

Two wives of Baptist pastors were shopping at a 7-11 store.

As they passed by the beer cooler, one wife said to the other, "Wouldn’t a nice cool beer or two taste wonderful on a hot summer evening?"

The second answered, "Indeed it would, but I would not feel comfortable buying beer, since I am certain it would cause a scene at the checkout stand."

"I can handle that without a problem," the other wife replied, and she picked up a six-pack and headed for the check-out.

The cashier had a surprised look on his face when the two women arrived with a six-pack of beer.

"We use beer for washing our hair," the minister’s wife said, "in our church, we call it Baptist Shampoo."

Without blinking an eye, the cashier reached under the counter, pulled out a package of pretzel sticks, and placed them in the bag with the beer.

He then looked the minister’s wife straight in the eye, smiled, and said, "The curlers are on the house."

Our loveable friend, Cuzin' Cornpone, appears only in The Bodock Post.

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