April 05 '03
Volume 357
Milk And Bread
A Worshipful Experience
Sarah, my sister, is
good to drop by our house after getting off work at her second
job, sometimes just to visit and sometimes for a bite to eat. With respect
to the latter, if she spies a dessert, she is apt to pass over all other
foods and just have a dessert. With respect to the former, she usually makes
the most of the opportunity to unwind from the stresses of dealing with the
public and an occasional computer problem.
With Sarah, it's hard to know if she's really "unwinding" or not, as her
ability to talk incessantly was a prominent aspect of her personality long
before she took a second job to help fund her children's college education.
However, anytime I grow weary in being a good listener, I can pull her into
the living room and, at least for now, allow her to absorb a bit of the 24/7
(twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week) reporting on the war. Looking
beyond the war, perhaps I can get her interested in the Food Network or other
cable channel she doesn't receive at her house.
Late the other evening, after Sarah got off work at the hospital, I sat across
the kitchen table from her as she ate from our stock of after-dinner leftovers.
"Don't you want some cornbread?" I asked, pouring myself a cup of coffee
and noticing she was eating no bread.
"No, I don't want any cornbread," she responded.
"I don't see how you can eat field peas without cornbread," I persisted.
"I'm fine. You know, I never cared that much for cornbread, even as a child,"
she spouted.
"Actually, I remember more concerning how you manipulated Mom and Dad so
you didn't have to do any chores than what you ate or didn't eat as a child,"
I thought, but didn't share aloud.
I really don't understand all the hullabaloo over human cloning, because
if, with God's help, we can't produce two children from the same parents
that are alike, how can man clone an exact duplicate of himself? What the
public fails to understand is that there's more to a person than DNA, alone,
and just because the genetic code of two individuals is the same, it is no
guarantee the individual and the clone will be alike. In fact, it's impossible.
Among the descendants of Hayden Carter and Rebecca Calder, it's paramount
to heresy to find someone who doesn't care for cornbread. It has been spoken
similarly of bread, but for Southerners, "cornbread" is the staff of life.
Once upon a time in rural America, folks raised what they ate. Such was the
case involving my paternal grandparents. Corn was a supplement to the diet
of farm animals and a staple for the farmer, who ate corn in one or more
of the various forms, boiled on the cob, cut from the cob and fried, dried
and then made into hominy, grits, or cornmeal. When times were especially
hard, cornbread was even substituted for biscuits on the breakfast table.
There's never been a stuffing mix for the Thanksgiving turkey to compare
with cornbread dressing. What would fried catfish be without hushpuppies,
the key ingredient of which is cornmeal? Where would the snack industry be
without corn chips in all the various forms? Is there any such thing as a
good taco unless the shell is made of corn?
If Southerners were idol worshipers, we'd surely have a great idol made in
the image of an ear of corn on the grounds of our respective State Capitols.
We would have a marble corn statue near the courthouse of every County Seat,
and a golden corn statue in every church. Why, every household would have
a miniature version of the image in a prominent place, and every worshiper
would wear a jewelry-sized corn icon around his or her neck. Each day, at
least one meal would include an entrée or side dish made of corn or
from corn. Seeking the blessings of the corn god at each meal would be both
a ritual and a form of worship. In consuming the holy corn the eater would
become one with the corn
I could go on and on.
I don't know if the Indians introduced my Carter ancestors to corn, or if
that resulted from association with other settlers, but my earliest recollections
of cornbread come from the dinner table of my parents and during those times
we ate at my Carter grandparents in Thaxton, MS. My granddad and my dad both
loved to eat cornbread. Okay, I don't know that either loved cornbread, but
they certainly ate a lot of it.
In addition to family gatherings, I spent a few weeks of my childhood each
summer living on the farm with my grandparents. Among other things, I learned
that supper (the evening meal) consisted of whatever was leftover from dinner
(the noon meal). In the days prior to the electrification of rural areas,
I also learned I could drink milk that was not really cold. It wasn't all
that good, but I could drink it. At Thaxton, I remember my granddad eating
"milk and bread."
I've often heard my dad speak of times when all he had to eat for supper
was a glass of cornbread and milk. For any city slickers, not in the know,
the typical method of consumption is to crumble the cornbread into a glass,
fill the glass with milk, and eat the mixture with a spoon. One might just
as easily use a cereal bowl, but Southerners use a drinking glass. It doesn't
sound like much of a meal, but it's filling, especially when whole milk is
used.
In my youth, Dad used a large goblet when eating cornbread and milk. I inherited
it after his passing, and I occasionally use it for the same purpose, though
I should probably set it aside for posterity. However, posterity may wonder
why anyone would want to eat cornbread and milk and consider the heirloom
worthless.
I can't speak for my children, my siblings, my parents or my grandparents,
but I love cornbread and milk more for the taste of it than any nostalgia
it brings to mind. Some family members who have gone before me enjoyed eating
their cornbread with buttermilk, but I don't. My dad liked to occasionally
spoon diced onion into his cornbread and milk, but that practice did not
catch on with me. Call me a purist, but I like mine plain, just milk and
bread.
The other evening, the one where Sarah passed on eating cornbread with her
peas, well, that left me with extra cornbread on hand. About an hour before
bedtime, I heard the cornbread calling my name, much as the vanilla ice cream
from the freezer often does, and I couldn't persuade myself that I didn't
need the extra food. I found a good-sized glass in the cupboard, and carefully,
almost worshipfully, crumbled a large piece of cornbread into the glass,
then filled the remaining space with milk. Removing a soupspoon from the
cutlery drawer, I took my offering to the living room and sat down on the
love seat to comfortably consume the food, thoughtlessly skipping over the
blessing portion of the ritual.
As I ate, each mouthful seemed perfect. The cornbread had cooled to room
temperature, thus, its presence in the cold milk did not greatly warm the
milk. The salty flavor of the bread enhanced the sweetness of the milk even
as the sweetness accentuated the saltiness. Slowly, I became one with the
corn.
Upon finishing my bedtime snack, I turned to my wife to exclaim, "That was
the best glass of cornbread and milk I've ever eaten," and I meant it.
The phrase, "good to the last drop," may originally have applied to Maxwell
House coffee, but it aptly fit my milk and bread. I slept peaceably that
night, knowing if I should die in my sleep my soul would be reborn in a cornfield
in North Mississippi and my goodness might one-day assist another worshiper
in attaining godliness.
The Throw Out
Of Africa
Among the gifts Barbara and I received this past Christmas was one crafted
by our daughter, Rayanne Adams. Rayanne works for a furniture manufacturing
company in Belmont, MS, and often comes home with fabric remnants that were
formerly destined for the trash bin or else some she was able to purchase
at a reduced rate.
She and her mother have sought to create an African theme in our master bedroom.
Hows that for a misnomer, "master" bedroom? Naturally, youd think
the name, honoring the male head of household, refers to the master of the
house, but it may well reflect the winner of the bedroom-decorating war.
Actually, I havent put up much of a fight opposing the African theme
except to overrule the use of a different color of wall paint.
I was often lulled to sleep by the sounds of jungle music when we occupied
a house in Greenville, MS, but those sounds and all that is reminiscent of
Africa emanated without the walls of our humble dwelling, not within. Where
once I worried of break-ins or drive-by shootings, I now need only worry
that the pictures, animal-print fabrics, and statues of African animals in
my bedroom will keep a respectable distance as I sleep and also stay out
of my dreams.
In our first year of residency at Dogwood Circle, Rayanne brought in a couple
of Captains chairs with padded seats having an African print consisting
of zebras, lions, fronds, and geometric designs. It was decided, by the powers
that be, the chairs belonged in the bedroom but could be relocated to the
dining room table to seat extra guests when needed.
Rayanne was in a Martha Stewart mindset at Christmastime and felt the urge
to craft Christmas presents for her parents and her in-laws. She chose to
construct/ sew what she and her mother refer to as "a throw." Personally,
Id call it a blanket or quilt that by design doesnt fit the bed,
but then Im a guy.
The throw that Rayanne gave us is double sided. One side (top) has the same
type of fabric and print used on the Captains chairs. The other side
is also made of furniture fabric, and it coordinates well with the color
of the topside. However, the throw looks nice with either side up. Additionally,
the throw is fringed along the length of one seam with a heavy cord thats
a half-inch or more in diameter. Ive not measured the throw, but it
is roughly sixty inches long and perhaps forty inches wide. Ones not
likely to throw out his or her back lifting the throw, but its a heavy
article. Using my bathroom scales, I have established the weight of the throw
at just under six pounds.
I wouldnt go so far as to say it was my favorite Christmas present,
but it has proven to be a highly useful present. In fact, I think it saved
my life one cold winters night.
Barbaras internal thermostat and mine are almost never in sync. Shes
likely to burn up under a sheet and comforter in the wintertime, and I'm
likely to freeze. It didnt take me long to discover that the throw
made an excellent blanket for one person, me, and while its not insulated,
it does a good job of holding the covers down on top of me when Barbaras
tossing them off her.
We have gas logs in our living room and use them for supplemental heat only,
since we rely upon our central heating system to heat the house. However,
the night I most appreciated the throw was a night Rayanne and her family
spent the night with us. Well, as in "long" before bedtime, Rayanne asked
me to light the gas logs. Whenever the gas logs are burning, the living room
stays warmer than the bedrooms because the thermostat for the central unit
is in the hallway. As the warm air from the living room filters toward the
back of the house it reaches the thermostat before making it to the bedrooms,
thus the thermostat doesnt "kick on" as often.
Barbara and I also sleep with our bedroom door closed, mainly because it
blocks out TV noise from the living room if anyone is watching TV, and since
Jason often comes out in the middle of night for a snack, any racket he makes
in the kitchen is less likely to disturb us from our slumber.
Due to our central heating system, our room normally is fine even with the
door to the hallway closed. However, two factors contributed to my "freezing"
that night. One was the situation with the thermostat and the gas logs preventing
the central unit from being as active as normal. The other was a strong North
wind that seemed to penetrate the double paned window behind my head and
swirl about my bare head.
I solved the bare head problem by slipping a wool sweater on top of my head,
and the heavy throw helped hold my body heat inside the bedcovers. I might
have frozen had it not been for the throw. I would later describe my experiences
with family members and relate my freezing with two other times in my life
when I had perhaps spent a colder night.
On January 8th 1956, my mother was trying to have a baby at the
Pontotoc Hospital and I was spending the night with Aunt Jo. I slept in what
I remember as an unheated room. Aunt Jo claims I didnt turn back all
the covers, but after digging down through a dozen or so layers, I figured
Id gone far enough. Obviously, I lived through the night, but that
was my coldest ever night of sleep.
Until this past winter, the only other time Ive been close to being
as miserable as the night my younger brother arrived was during the 1994
ice storm in Greenville, MS, when we had no heat in the house. I slept fully
clothed that night with a toboggan on my head and didnt get warm until
I got to work the next day. Luckily we were able to get to Pontotoc the next
night where we had both gas and electricity.
When my dad reached his sixties, the winters had become hard on him and he
didnt care to venture far from a gas heater. My older brother is already
just like Dad. Im getting there, quickly. If Rayanne and her family
spend a cold winters night at our house again, Ill either sleep
in the living room as she did or else Ill bury beneath my throw and
keep the bedroom door open.
Bodock Beau
Submission And Aging
The following selection was submitted by Dena Kimbrell. I trust it doesn't
fit the situation of anyone we know, but for tongue-in-cheek humor, it's
pretty good.
AGING WIVES
It is important for men to remember that as women grow older it becomes harder
for them to maintain the same quality of housekeeping they did when they
were younger. When men notice this, they should try not to become upset or
yell at them. Expressing patience is clearly the superior option. Let me
relate how I handle the situation.
When I chucked my job and took early retirement a year ago, it became necessary
for Nancy to get a full-time job both for extra income and for the health
insurance benefits that we need. She was a trained lab tech when we met thirty
some years ago and was fortunate to land a job at the local medical center.
It was shortly after she started working at this job that I noticed that
she was beginning to show her age.
I usually get home from fishing or hunting about the same time she gets home
from work. Although she knows how hungry I am, she almost always says that
she has to rest for half an hour or so before she starts supper. I try not
to yell at her when this happens. Instead, I tell her to take her time. I
understand that she is not as young as she used to be. I just tell her to
wake me when she finally does get supper on the table.
She used to wash and dry the dishes as soon as we finished eating. It is
now not unusual for them to sit on the table for several hours after supper.
I do what I can by reminding her several times each evening that the dishes
aren't cleaning themselves. I know she appreciates this, as it does seem
to help her get them done before she goes to bed.
Our washer and dryer are in the basement. When she was younger, Nancy used
to be able to go up and down the stairs all day and not get tired. Now that
she is older she seems to get tired so much more quickly. Sometimes she says
she just can't make another trip down those steps. I don't make a big issue
of this. As long as she finishes up the laundry the next evening I am willing
to overlook it. Not only that, but unless I need something ironed to wear
to the Monday's lodge meeting or to Wednesday's or Saturday's poker club
or to Tuesday's or Thursday's bowling or something like that, I will tell
her to wait until the next evening to do the ironing. This gives her a little
more time to do some of those odds and ends things like shampooing the dog,
vacuuming, or dusting.
Also, if I have had a really good day fishing, this allows her to gut and
scale the fish at a more leisurely pace. Nancy is starting to complain a
little occasionally. Not often, mind you, but just enough for me to notice.
For example, she will say that it is difficult for her to find time to pay
the monthly bills during her lunch hour.
In spite of her complaining, I continue to try to offer encouragement, and
tell her to stretch it out over two or even three days. That way she won't
have to rush so much. I also remind her that missing lunch completely now
and then wouldn't hurt her any, if you know what I mean.
When doing simple jobs she seems to think she needs more rest periods than
she used to have to take. A couple of weeks ago she said she had to take
a break when she was only half finished mowing the yard. I overlook comments
like these because I realize it's just age talking. In fact, I try to not
embarrass her when she needs these little extra rest breaks. I tell her to
fix herself a nice, big, cold glass of freshly squeezed lemonade and just
sit for a while. I tell her that as long as she is making one for herself,
she may as well make one for me and take her break by the hammock so she
can talk with me until I fall asleep. I could go on and on, but I think you
know where I'm coming from.
I know that I probably look like a saint in the way I support Nancy on a
daily basis. I'm not saying that the ability to show this much consideration
is easy. Many men will find it difficult. Some will find it impossible. No
one knows better than I do how frustrating women can become as they get older.
My purpose in writing this is simply to suggest that you make the effort.
I realize that achieving the exemplary level of showing consideration I have
attained is out of reach for the average man. However guys, even if you just
yell at your wife a little less often because of this article, I will consider
that writing it was worthwhile.
Note: This article was found next to the author's body. The cause
of death is still under investigation.
------------------------------------------------------
If you're a red-blooded American and into French bashing, here's some good
ammunition:
Q: How many gears does a French tank have?
A: 4 reverse and 1 forward, in case the enemy attacks from the rear.
Q: How can you identify a French Infantryman?
A: Sunburned armpits.
Q: What do you call a Frenchman advancing on Baghdad?
A: A salesman.
Q: What do you call 20 French politicians face down in the Channel?
A: A start.
Q: Why do the French call their fighter the Mirage?
A: Because it doesn't really exist.
Q: Where can you find 90,000,000 French jokes?
A: In France
A man asks his companion, "What's the most common French expression"?
His friend scratches his head, shrugs his shoulders and replies, "I give
up!"
Q: Why did the French celebrate their World Cup Championship in 2000 so
wildly?
A: It was the first time they had won anything without the help of the U.S
Q: What's the difference between 1943 and 2003?
A. This time around, the Vichy government is telling the German puppets what
to do
Q: What is the first thing the French Army teaches at basic training?
A: How to surrender in at least 10 languages
Q: What is the most useful thing in the French Army?
A: A rearview mirror, so they can see the war
Q: Why does Nike like the French Army?
A: Because, in wartime, they are the biggest buyers of running shoes
Q. How many French soldiers does it take to defend Paris?
A. Don't know, it's never been tried.
Q. What's the difference between a French woman and a werewolf? A. The French
woman is not quite as hairy but the werewolf smells better.
Q. How do you introduce yourself in French?
A. "Don't shoot, I give up!"
Q. What do you call 100,000 Frenchmen with their hands up?
A. Their army.
Q. Why are French streets tree-lined?
A. So the Germans could march in the shade.
Q: Why don't they have fireworks at Euro Disney?
A: Because every time they shoot them off, the French try to surrender.
Submitted by Ed Dandridge
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