Saturday Socials Fill My Day
Last Saturday was a non-typical springtime-Saturday for me. Weather permitting at this time of the year, I’m usually tied up with mowing two lawns and helping keep "the circle" groomed. But, it had been a fairly dry week, and the grass had not grown much from the previous week. I had both of my weekly breakfast treats on Saturday morning. Barbara fried a sausage patty and an egg (note singular usage in both instances), and I relished each bite. I eat breakfast every day, but some days it’s just coffee with toast and jam, so I look forward to the high protein, high cholesterol, meat and egg breakfast that is normally reserved for the weekend. During the month of May, I managed to get all the tall shrubs and decorative trees in our yard trimmed back and looking respectable. By tall, I’m referring to anything taller than six feet, except the large trees that include oak, maple, pecan, and cypress. But, as I stepped outside shortly after breakfast to decide what needed to be done, I noticed the maple in the front yard had several branches that were too low to allow enough sunlight to bathe the grass beneath some of its limbs. I grabbed a pole saw/pruner and began the task of pruning the maple. After about an hour, I’d had all the fun I wanted with the pruner and went back inside to cool off. I decided I might as well deliver a few newsletters, so I changed into a more presentable shirt and pants and decided on a route beginning first with Miss Virginia Dillard, then Durwood Young, and lastly Miss Cubell Young. A few months ago, Miss Virginia asked me to submit a weekly Bodock Beau newsletter to be used by the group of volunteers sending personal care items to deployed troops. I got in the habit of delivering her newsletter along with the Bodock Beau newsletter on Saturdays. Even though the volunteer group ran out of funding and no longer needs Beau’s humor, I have continued to hand-deliver RRN to Miss Virginia. Sometimes Barbara tags along, and sometimes she doesn’t. Sometimes I leave the newsletter in Miss Virginia’s "drop box" in her carport, and sometimes I ring her doorbell and ask if she’s up to receiving visitors. Often, the morning paper is still in her driveway, so I grab it on the way to her carport. Miss Virginia Last Saturday, I rang Miss Virginia’s doorbell and greeted her with me holding her paper and newsletter. "Good morning, your paper boy is here," I announced. "Come in," she stated. As I laid the papers on the kitchen table, she asked, "Would you drink a cup of coffee?" "It’s not been long since I had breakfast, but I believe I’ll take a cup of coffee," I replied. Miss Virginia opened a cabinet door and pulled down a coffee mug. "I don’t want much," I stated, "maybe, a third of a cup." I watched as she tilted the spout of the percolator toward the mug. "You drink yours black, don’t you?" she asked, while I pondered whether or not I had drunk enough coffee at her table for her to know how I like my coffee or whether she simply had a remarkable memory. "Yes, ma’am," I answered, noticing a large loaf of homemade bread nearby. "That’s a big loaf of bread," I remarked. "I bought it at Angel’s yesterday," she shared. "You know they’ve just reopened in a new location, don’t you? Usually, you have to place an order ahead of time for bread, but they had some when I was there. I just love their bread." I stood admiring the seven-inch high loaf, as she continued, "I was just about to fix a bite of breakfast. Would you like some?" "No, no thank you," I surely must have said politely. "Then, how about I toast you a slice of this bread? I’m going to fix me one. I just love it with cherry preserves." I had heard Miss Virginia explain her love of cherry preserves and her difficulty in finding them in nearby grocery stores and how she recently had Bruce McCoy order her an entire case and how right about the time she bought the case of cherry preserves, a friend brought her some for her birthday. Thus, it was with relative ease that I responded, "Okay, you talked me into it!" About then, I felt heat coming from the oven and asked it she knew it was on. "Yes, I’m going cook my bacon in it." "I keep saying, ‘I’m not going to buy any more bacon because it’s so expensive, but I love this brand," she stated, opening a package of Oscar Mayer bacon. "Don’t you want some, too?" "Oscar Mayer is a premium brand, but no thanks." Miss Virginia placed three strips of bacon in a foil-lined pan and shoved it into the oven. She sliced two thick slices of bread and lined a shallow baking pan with foil for the bread, before cracking an egg to be scrambled. "Butter or margarine?" she asked, concerning the bread. "Barbara’s not here to fuss at me, so I’ll pick butter." "Good," she replied, "I’d rather have butter myself." "Sara Sue says there’s not enough difference in the fat content of butter and margarine to matter," I shared. "I don’t think there is either," Miss Virginia responded with a big grin. She removed the pan of bacon from the oven and flipped over the slices and put everything back into the oven. While the oven door was open, she put the buttered bread on the lower rack beneath the bacon. In about the time it takes to scramble an egg, the bacon was evenly browned, and the bread was, well…toast. She handed me a new jar of cherry preserves to open, as she plated the egg and bacon strips. We were soon seated at the table enjoying our food. I don’t know if the bread was great or if it was the Smucker’s preserves that made my toast so wonderful. In fact, it may have been the real butter, but it’s possible it was the combination of textures, smells, and tastes that made my second breakfast so good. Whatever the reason for the sensations, I’m sold on Smucker’s cherry preserves and Angel’s baked bread. It would have been easy to have spent the remainder of the morning sipping coffee with Miss Virginia and conversing on topics from obituaries to old books at bargain prices at the Salvation Army store, but there were still two newsletters in my car waiting to be delivered. Durwood Young My next stop was Young’s Appliances to see Durwood Young. Durwood interrupted his conversation with a blue collar worker long enough to greet me as I sidled up near the newest washer and dryer combination that Whirlpool offers for residential customers, a side by side pair of front-loading units that are energy efficient and environmentally friendly. "How are you, Mr. Carter?" he asked. "I’m fine, I reckon, unless you ask my wife. She might not agree," I responded. "I don’t need a thing. I just wanted to ask you to deliver this to your wife." As I laid Brenda’s newsletter on his desk, Durwood stated, "I’ll be glad to. She’ll be here this afternoon." I listened as Durwood finished the tale he was sharing about an uncle he refers to as "Easy Money." According to Durwood, "Easy Money" was dependable and would do whatever he committed to doing, unless he answered a request with, "I’ll try." "If he ever said, ‘I’ll try,’" Durwood explained, "you could just write it down that he didn’t intend to do it." Durwood used that illustration to lay the groundwork for another tale involving one of his hired hands who wasn’t too bright or too keen on attempting to learn something new. For purposes of this article, I’ll refer to the hired hand as Jim. "One day, it seemed that all Jim wanted to do was stand around and talk to Alford (another employee)," Durwood recalled. "He was just a yakking to Alford, and Alford was trying to repair a used appliance at the time. Well, I called Jim up front and asked him if he knew how to replace a motor on a washer. Jim said, ‘Naw suh, I don’ts reckon I knows how to do that.’ ‘Okay,’ I said. He walked off and the next thing I knew, he was back talking to Alford, again. I called him up front, again, and asked him if he knew how to put a belt on a dryer. ‘Naw suh, I don’ts reckon I knows how to do that, either,' he told me. It wasn’t long ‘till I saw him talking to Alford again, so I called him. ‘Jim,’ I ordered, ‘Go get that wheelbarrow around back and a shovel, and go over to the carwash and clean out the pits. You think you might know how to do that?’" A day or so later, Alford told Durwood, "You sure fixed Jim the other day." "How’s that?" Durwood asked. "He said you asked him to try something he didn’t know how to do and instead of you letting him off the hook, you gave him the hardest and nastiest job you could think of," Alford said. "He said the next time you wanted something done he was sure gonna try to do it." I’ve not checked, but I believe Durwood has an honorary degree in "Applied Psychology." If not, he deserves one. I dared glance once more at the new frontloading Whirlpool washer and dryer, trying to imagine how nice they would look in my laundry room. I can’t afford either of them at the moment, but I hope whenever our units play out, I’ll be able to replace them with the more energy efficient ones. "I’ll see you later," I stated, bidding goodbye to Durwood. "I’m off to check on your mom." Miss Cubell Young’s Laundry is right across the street from Young’s Appliances, which made for a short trip to see Miss Cubell Young. When I entered the laundry, she was resting, waiting on a load of clothes to finish a cycle. At Young’s Laundry, a lot of folks drop off their laundry and pay Miss Cubell to wash it, dry it, fold the flat goods, and hang the rest. I usually ask for change for a dollar bill or two, in quarters, to wash my car, but I didn’t ask for any, because I thought my car could get by another week. "Have a seat," she suggested, pointing to the row of antique auditorium-style wooden seats that line the front window area of the laundry. "How are you doing?" She placed her newsletter in her lap to be read as soon as I left. I settled into a seat, leaving one vacant seat between us. I probably do more listening than talking whenever I’m visiting Miss Cubell. I’m not complaining, for I enjoy hearing her talk about her family, past and present. She should really get someone to record all the stories she tells about the Roye and Young families. It would be quite a collection. When the U.S. Mint starting issuing the series of state quarters, Miss Cubell began saving the new quarters for her grandchildren. So, whenever, I get a new state quarter, I try to save it until I find out if Miss Cubell needs it for one of her "grands." "Do you need another California quarter," I asked, reaching into my pocket. "Only, if you’ll let me swap one in my apron with yours," she reserved. I knew she was referring to a "give and go" scenario I pulled off a couple of weeks ago. I simply gave her a quarter and quickly backed away as she tried vainly to give me a replacement quarter. "Okay, but you drive a hard bargain," I relented. Since Mr. Cordis’s recent passing, Miss Cubell has made several weekend trips with Durwood to see her grandchildren in Florence, which is near Jackson, MS. However, since that group of folks was coming to Pontotoc, Saturday evening, Miss Cubell was a shade or two shy of being giddy with anticipation. So, I patiently listened to grandchildren stories and food menus in their planning stages. When I finally thought to check my watch, noon was nigh. "I gotta’ be going," I blurted, as I stood erect. "What’s your hurry?" she asked. It was a question she often asks. It may be something she asks all of her visitors; I don’t really know. But, I know that question is how I got "hooked on" visiting with Miss Cubell and Mr. Cordis a few years ago. I had gone inside the laundry one day to ask for quarters to use in the carwash, and Miss Cubell told me I should sit down and visit for a while. "Folks are always in too much of a hurry," she said. The next week, when I needed more quarters, I sat down and visited. My only regret is I didn’t take the time to get to know her and Mr. Cordis better even sooner than I did. The friendship we share has enriched my life. My hurry, as I explained, was to get home for lunch before Barbara sent out a search party. I didn’t have my cell phone with me, and I figured I’d best be checking in with the woman that "stays with me." My social calendar for Saturday was incomplete at lunch, but I didn’t realize it until someone at the dinner table mentioned Tressie Prewett’s wedding. I had forgotten all about it. Talk about signs of getting old, that’s one, forgetting the wedding of a daughter of a best friend. Next week – The Wedding
Bodock Beau The Parrot & The Magician In shows such as "America’s Funniest Videos" the winners always seem to involve animals or children. Maybe, it’s the animal in the following joke that makes the situation funny. You decide! Parrot and Magician A magician on a cruise liner had a parrot, who'd seen all the magician's tricks a jillion times, long ago having figured out the magic behind the magician's disappearing acts. The parrot got bored, his owner growing stale and not developing any new tricks that the parrot couldn't figure out. One night in the middle of the magician's performance, the ship hit an iceberg and sank. Everyone drowned except the magician and the parrot. The magician managed to swim to a piece of wreckage and climb aboard, immediately collapsing from exhaustion. Soon afterward, the parrot flew to the magician, perched on the edge of the makeshift raft and stared at the magician. And stared. And stared. For a whole day the magician was unconscious, and all this time the parrot didn't take his eyes off him. Eventually the magician started to stir. Looking up, he saw the parrot, still eyeing him intently, not even blinking. Another hour goes by, and finally the parrot squawks, "Awright, I give up. What did you do with the ship?"
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Why is it that whenever my wife thinks I’m "overdoing it," she’s
referring to the physical activities associated with yard work, and not my
packing a day with social engagements? Could it be that from a woman’s
perspective, social engagements can’t be overdone? Oh well, I suppose
if God had intended for men to understand women, I wouldn’t be asking
these questions.
