September 10 '05

                                                    

Volume 484

                   


Bodock 2005 The Last Saturday In August

Wouldn’t you know it; we have possibly the coolest Saturday temperatures in the history of the Bodock Festival and Sarah had to work? Not that she would have gone of her own free will, otherwise, but I like to think I might have been able to persuade her. I don’t know why Sarah dislikes festivals, but she claims they are among her least favorite events.

As a general rule, I’m not all that fond of festivals either, though I have been known to attend an occasional craft show in Tupelo and even bought a hand-painted, personalized mailbox, once. Yet, if other folks didn’t spend anymore at a festival than I do, then there probably wouldn’t be a profit motive for having a festival.

For several years, Gail Sappington and her brother, Don Howell, both of whom now live in Hattiesburg, MS, have exhibited their crafts and artwork at Pontotoc’s annual Bodock Festival. This year, they did not. At first, I thought I had merely overlooked their booth, which has been near the center of the Court Square Park in recent years, but Miss Callie Young informed me Saturday morning that she had received a note from Gail stating she and Don would not be at this year’s event.

I was disappointed upon hearing neither would be here, as I’ve come to look forward to visiting Gail and Don each August, catching up on Howell Family news, and usually finding something to purchase at their booth. Don’s woodcarvings and Gail’s inspirational artwork are unique collectables, but more than that for me, their crafts contain enough of their respective "blood, sweat, and tears" to elicit a memory each time I reach for one of Don’s wooden spoons or pick up one of Gail’s inspirational cards.

In retrospect, I might not have had enough time to visit with Gail and Don as I would have liked, for Miss Virginia Dillard "enlisted" my help in greeting visitors at the Downtown Post Office and Museum, operated by the Pontotoc County Historical Society.

"We need someone at the front door for a couple of hours to greet visitors," she said, "and to open the door for the musicians."

She had already told me the Historical Society was sponsoring a series of programs focused on Pontotoc County’s musical heritage.

"I can handle that," I spoke, all too quickly and confidently.

"You need to be there by eleven o’clock," Miss Virginia stated. "That’s when the dulcimer demonstration starts."

I arrived at the museum around ten-thirty to find it a beehive of activity. Members of the Historical Society were setting up chairs and tables in the lobby. Seeing Mae Rutherford behind the service window of the Post Office, I spoke to her.

"Well Mae, it looks like you would have fixed yourself up for today," I teased.

"I put on this starched shirt," she responded, "but I suppose you’re talking about my hair."

Mae generally takes my teasing good-naturedly.

"Oh, you know I’m kidding you!" I replied.

She smiled, knowingly.

In the next moments, I was beset by first one Historical Society member pulling me off one task and on to another task, until I felt like a rubber band nearing its breaking point. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to help as needed; it was that I couldn’t do everything I was being asked to do, simultaneously. I decided the best thing for me was to station myself at the front door and concentrate on the job I had first agreed to do for Miss Virginia. That didn’t insulate me entirely from others, but they had more trouble finding me.

Around one o’clock, I slipped away from the museum long enough to grab a sandwich at home.

I returned to the museum to find a Singing School demonstration in effect. Stanley Wise Jr. was leading listeners through a quick-paced course of the basics of reading musical staffs using shaped notes. Singing schools are less popular than they were fifty to seventy-five years ago, but they are still around – so too are song books with shaped notes, but they’re somewhat rare.

Singing schools have long provided a valuable service for aspiring choir members as well as helping those who simply want to carry a better tune in the congregation. However, as Baptists rush headlong into the boring pit of unison singing brought on by "words only" worship choruses displayed on jumbo screens, I don’t see much of a future for singing schools among Baptist congregations.

I volunteered to take Miss Callie home in the mid-afternoon, and by the time I returned to the museum, various groups of singers were performing church hymns, sometimes encouraging their audience to participate. Though I enjoyed the music, I decided to spend some of the afternoon with my cousin, Shannon Carter, who was in the basement of the museum inspecting items he had donated to the museum to populate the General Store or be displayed as the Historical Society deemed appropriate.

Shannon was accompanied by his younger daughter and her daughter. I noted that Shannon’s mental faculties have deteriorated significantly in recent years and observed it is now difficult to carry on a normal conversation with him. Still, I was grateful for the opportunity to discuss various collectables with him, knowing that this might well be my last chance to do so.

I also spent several minutes at the Habitat For Humanity booth adjacent to the museum. Jason and I had set up one of my cookout canopies Thursday night to provide shelter for Barbara and others manning the Habitat booth. Rayanne and her Belmont family were on hand to hear Anna sing at four o’clock on the Courthouse steps where live entertainment had begun before I arrived that morning. Barbara and I joined them in the park to cheer for Anna.

Returning to the museum for my final trip, I was surprised to hear singing inside. A small group of listeners were seated in metal folding chairs. They were listening to four singers, also seated, who had squared off facing each other. The only member of the group that I recognized was Chuck Howell, director of the local power association.

The group was singing Sacred Harp music, which makes use of shaped-note hymnals. According to Dr. Warren Steel of the University of Mississippi, "Sacred Harp singers use all (seven) notes of the musical scale, but call them by only four names. The major scale goes Fa sol la fa sol la mi fa, instead of Do re mi fa sol la ti do. "Mi" is the seventh note of the major scale."

Sacred Harp singing has a unique beauty that not everyone can appreciate, but it’s a beauty that is appreciated by many. I continued to listen to the singers until they called it a day and left.

Afterwards, I stayed at the Habitat booth until Barbara was ready to leave, which was shortly after five o’clock. It had been a long day, and while I was tired, I was also energized by the music, songs, programs, demonstrations, and visits with family and friends throughout the day. For some folks, the Bodock Festival is all about crafts, athletic events, parades, and food. For me, it’s more a social event in which there’s a chance to visit with friends and enjoy the program offerings by the Pontotoc County Historical Society.


The Culture Of Blame By Rich Galen

On assigning blame for Hurricane Katrina: "Let me make this clear: Everything which has happened as the result of Hurricane Katrina is my fault. Mine. Alone. No one else's. Stop wasting energy pointing fingers and put your hands to work helping out. It was me. Got it?

I was a United States Senator from Louisiana in 2001 when the levee at Lake Pontchartrain was declared unsafe and I didn't have enough clout with my Senatorial brethren to get sufficient money appropriated to fix it. It was my fault.

Oh. I almost forgot. I was the Commander-in-Chief of all United States Armed Forces in the 1960s which includes the Corps of Engineers. The cost-benefit analysis? My fault.

It is my fault that, as the Governor of Louisiana, I didn't foresee the need to have enough Louisiana National Guard troops—the vast majority of whom are NOT currently in Iraq, or Afghanistan or, for that matter, Indiana—pre-positioned and ready to preserve order. I, frankly, forgot that there is a portion of the population which will steal anything from anyone given any opportunity and then will blame it on me because I didn't—in spite of ample warnings by sociologists from large Eastern Universities—foresee the need to have 27" flat-screen television sets available to every family in the New Orleans city limits as soon as the electricity went out. That one WAS my bad.

It is my fault that, as Mayor of New Orleans, I was boogying down Bourbon Street the night before the hurricane hit rather than being where I should have been—on the roof of the Superdome pounding in extra nails to hold the roof on.

As the architect of the Superdome, it was my fault for claiming that the Dome could survive 200 mile-per-hour winds. It couldn't even handle a relatively gentle 160 mile-per-hour zephyr. Strap me to my drafting table and set me adrift.

Global warming? My fault. Despite the fact that nearly every serious climatologist in America has stated over and over again that there is no clear evidence tying human-generated greenhouse gasses to global warming, and even if there were, there is no evidence tying global warming to hurricanes in the Atlantic basin, I was opposed to the Kyoto treaty and so it is my fault.

It is also my fault that during the administration of Bill Clinton the U.S. Senate rejected the terms of the Kyoto protocols by a vote of 95-0. That would be zero, zilch, nada, nil, bupkis.

As the Grand Poohbah in Charge of all TV Coverage, it is my fault that there is constant video of looters and almost none of humanitarian activities. I am the person who issued the statement: 'No more rescue footage UNLESS the person rescued complains about how long they had to wait or, if he shoots at the rescuers.'

And, finally, as Chairman of the National Association of Gasoline Producers it is my fault that I had the bad judgment to put so much of my drilling, refining and transportation assets in a hurricane-prone area like the Caribbean basin. What...was...I...thinking? If I could re-do that whole thing, I would have put all that equipment in Lake Erie and Lake Michigan. There may not be any oil there, but hurricanes are very rare. So. There you have it. Everything that has happened is my fault. Now. Shut up and help."

Patriot No. 05-36: 5 September 2005

Source - http://federalistpatriot.us


Bodock Beau Martha Vs. Maxine

The following was submitted by Ken Gaillard. It compares helpful hints from Martha Stewart followed by a retort from caustic "Maxine."

To keep potatoes from budding, place an apple in the bag with the potatoes.

Buy Hungry Jack mashed potato mix, keep it in the pantry for up to a year.

When a cake recipe calls for flouring the baking pan, use a bit of the dry cake mix instead and there won't be any white mess on the outside of the cake.

Go to the bakery! They'll even decorate it for you.

Wrap celery in aluminum foil when putting in the refrigerator and it will keep for weeks.

Celery?  Never heard of it!

To be continued…


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