April 2012

Volume 44

Spring came to Pontotoc well before the official day of the vernal equinox. Daytime highs reached the low eighties a couple of weeks prior to March 20^th, making our weather feel more like summer than spring.

All the Bradford pear trees around here were in full bloom by the first week of March and have long since greened up. The dogwoods of Dogwood Circle, as well as dogwoods all over Pontotoc, were in full bloom before Saint Patrick’s Day.

In my yard, the azaleas have blossomed, as well as the Carolina jasmine that engulfs my lamppost with its brilliant yellow. All the hedges surrounding my house are loosening up earlier than normal and will likely give me "a run for the money" as I try to keep them trimmed.

Spring is definitely my favorite season, but fall comes in a close second. There’s something about watching our natural world come back to life in springtime that is inspirational.

Each spring, I’m reminded of the newness of life, the rebirth experienced by those who trust Jesus as their Savior, our eventual resurrection, and the glorified bodies we shall keep for all eternity.

To those who cannot see God, I say open your eyes. He’s shown us his handiwork in all that he created. Failure to see God, especially in the springtime, is possible only in those who purposively will not open their eyes to the beauty of our natural world. If you’ve not seen God before, you’ve only so many spring times left. Why not see him this spring?

After a very mild winter and the beginnings of a very warm spring, we may have a hot, hot summer. These days, weather patterns are more cyclical than sensible, so just because winter and spring are warmer than normal this is not solid evidence to predict a hot summer, but summers are almost always hot in Pontotoc.

Of the several events and days of note that appear on my calendar for this month, April 15^th is my least favorite. Big government gets more than a fair share of my money each year in taxes, and tax year 2011 is expected to hit my pocketbook just as hard this year as that of 2010. Yet, I’d rather pay in more once a year than give it to Uncle Sam all year long.

Speaking of Uncle Sam, he may soon be a forgotten character if voters give our current President another term in office. When presidential candidate Obama said he wanted to fundamentally change America, most of us didn’t realize he really meant destroy our American Republic. I truly fear he will guide us into socialism unless he’s stopped this November.

I recently expressed that I never really understood how anyone could be a yellow dog Democrat until we got stuck with Obama. Now, I’m ready to say I’d vote for a yellow dog before I’d vote for a Democrat president.

The Democrats have taken to heart, the wisdom of George Bernard Shaw who postulated "A government that has a policy to rob Peter to pay Paul can be assured of the support of Paul." My prayer is that there will always be more Peters than Pauls in this country.

As Editor, please allow me to encourage you, the reader, to submit an article of your choosing for our consideration. Submission guidelines may be found at http://rrnews.org/bp/submissions.htm

Note: From The Arbor is a monthly feature of The Bodock Post in which Editors Ralph Jones and Wayne Carter rotate responsibility of introducing a new issue to our readers.

~ By Wayne L. Carter, Editor and Publisher

A little known secret place in Pontotoc was so close, yet has gone unnoticed by many for years. Its entrance was obvious if you know where to look. This writer questioned someone just recently about the place and they had no idea it even existed.

The Joy Theater, for many years, sat on the northwest corner of Marion and Liberty Street in Pontotoc. It brought many hours of entertainment from Hollywood to the people of our fair town. Many happy, exciting, and entertaining hours were spent watching everything from "B" Westerns and cartoons to some real movie classics.

Adjacent to the theater on the west side was a store building that different companies occupied at various times. Between this building and the Shannon’s Jewelry Building was an open set of stairs from the sidewalk that went up to the second floor. While growing up there, the stairs just opened up directly onto the sidewalk. However, in recent years a locked door at the bottom has been installed and decorated to conceal its existence. The store next to the theater may have been taken over by Shannon’s in recent years.

Years ago there was a beauty shop located at the top of these stairs; over the jewelry store, as I recall. At the top one turned left from the landing to get into the beauty parlor. Also, at the head of the stairs on the landing was a window that opened to the north.

Looking down from the window there was an enclosed no-man’s land; I’m guessing it was a rectangle about ten by fifteen feet. It was a deep, void; surrounded by solid brick walls with no openings. A place that seems could be used for an open air dungeon and if a prisoner was placed there, could see the sky, but nothing else but brick. It has been a long time since I have seen that hole, but if I remember correctly there was no door that opened to the area. Wonder why it was left? Surrounded by solid brick walls, two stories tall; yet unused. It must have had a drain in the floor; otherwise there would be a small, but deep, swimming pool.

At a recent visit, I noticed that the door to the stairs had been kicked in and I ventured just inside the door to see what was left. Alas, the stairs are gone, just two solid parallel brick walls, spaced about three feet apart, lead into a pitch black abyss. Only evidences here and there give credence to a past stairs. Since I did not want to be arrested for trespassing I eased back out and closed the door behind me. The deep enclosure is probably still there, the mystery still exists, and now with the stairs gone, we may never know about that secret enclosure.

Somehow you wonder about the enclosure’s use then and now, if, in fact it still exists. Did the beauty shop use it to toss out old wigs, perhaps a place to imprison writers for the Progress who did not meet their deadline, or could questionable films have been stashed there by the theater?

The mystery may never be solved.

~ By Ralph R. Jones, Editor

Pollen is everywhere. My wife’s silver Buick LaCrosse remains greenish-yellow...or is it yellowish-green? There is a mocking dust at the "Palatial Campbell Compound." It shows most on my daughter’s black Elantra. No one pays attention to my senile, also-somewhat-silver Chevy "man-van." (At nearly thirteen years old, it’s supposed to be filthy, dusty, and smell funny.)

The best part of this season in our calendar year is that pollen shuts down my sinuses so affectively that I cannot detect the "funny" smell that grows in the van in which we haul bags of mulch, sand, soil, and plants every spring.

"These sinuses are ______." That’s what I’m hearing, and mine are acting out as well. Growing up, I do not remember having any issues with allergies. An occasional sneeze meant nothing to me. My eyes didn’t start watering much until I was long out of college.

As a matter of fact, I was an adult before I noticed our weathermen presenting a "Pollen Index" or "Allergy Alerts" during the nightly forecast.

All of this comes as a reflection because over the Spring Break week recently, we cut the dead grass out and removed the willow’s, pecan’s, and pin oak’s leaf-blanket in our back yard. Deana and I both were coughing and sneezing like crazy. We drank water often, and I was smart enough to combat it with Alka Seltzer Plus so the constant drip in my throat was at least abated a tiny bit.

Sinus trouble will not keep me from mowing. Mowing has become my therapy. I really am not as able as I used to be to handle "mowing the lawns & gardens of the estate" but I do it anyway as best I can, because I figure the cash we save by me pushing the mower saves us enough cash to buy our heirs some underwear or at least a couple of Sam’s Club sized boxes of Pizza Rolls to put in their bellies.

My right leg stays numb from the knee down through my foot as a result of back surgery. I refuse to concede completely to its ability to make me fall over like a bowling pin. I recognize my limitations. My yard does, too. It has evil tendencies.

The yard uses its grass to hide tiny uneven dips that trick my right foot into stepping in them and collapsing my ankle. That happens often enough that I have become somewhat alert to when it is happening and can sometimes catch myself clumsily and avoid the fall. It’s not 100% successful, but my hip and right arm appreciate the extra effort my brain is exerting to catch the ankle-roll and keep me upright.

Fortunately, for my waistline we still push the mower, so the blade stays far enough away that it isn’t going to steal my numb toes (though I might not notice it if it happened). Air-cap/MTD made a really fine 22" Yardman Mower that is lightweight and has a very nifty bag to catch the grass so that we don’t have to rake too much afterward.

What I would have given for a bagger-mower when I was a teenager! My daddy’s mom, the grandmother we called Nanny, (and her friends called Verdie Belle Campbell) died in 1970 and left her home to my sisters, Carolyn and Susan. They were off seeking their respective fortunes away from Pontotoc in the 1970’s, so my brother, Preston, and I kept it mowed. When Preston went to Ole Miss in 1973, I took over.

Strange; still sweet are those memories of pushing our little Murray 18" mower to cut the grass in front of Nanny’s house and the expanse between the street and the sidewalk. There was no executive-style, scientific-bred, hybridized grass that was molded into a beautifully manicured lawn. Bermuda and a wild invasion of Dallas grass covered this yard.

Any teenage boy will tell you that mowing is no fun. I chose to make it fun by singing while I mowed. I do not claim to have a voice that is inspiring or even entertaining, but I will confirm that I grew up with a song in my heart because it’s in my blood.

Everyone loved to gather at the Campbell Home on South Main Street because my Aunt Gi-Gia (Virginia) played the piano, as well as Nanny (who also played guitar), and Daddy John played the trumpet. No air conditioning meant the windows were up and the neighborhood could hear the music sailing up and out from Nanny’s.

So, there I was week in and week out pushing that mower singing church hymns learned from the Pontotoc First United Methodist Church and Broadway tunes courtesy of my mother, Peggy’s love of Broadway soundtracks (on 8-track tapes) to make the toil go by quicker.

The beloved Mrs. Mary DeKay who lived across the street and was a great friend of Nanny’s enjoyed the singing at least a little. Often, she would come out and flag me over to her porch where she would offer me an ice cold Coca Cola, or sweet tea to ease the heat of the summer. (Or maybe she was just trying to get me to shut up for a few minutes!)

Mowing has always been a welcome challenge to Campbell men. We have a brief film clip of my daddy cutting the grass at his home across the street from Nanny’s.

The "Original Palatial Campbell Compound" sat on South Main in Pontotoc and mother got the 8mm out to shoot daddy mowing after work in his white dental shirt using the manual, circular blade, push mower like you see in old movies. In the clip, he looks up and waves before grabbing the handles and resuming the pull-back, move over, push-forward of the real work he was doing. He had a smile on his face.

You know, I figure if he could do that kind of slavish work with the back issues he had then (back problems are hereditary for us) after coming home from a day of work on his feet, stooped over providing people’s dental care, & do it with a smile and wave, I can at least do it today, too.

And really, how much "real work" is involved when you have a power mower that bags the grass for you, a string trimmer to edge the walk and drive, and a blower to send it all into the street?

Yeah. Tell that to my back and my sinuses!

Writer’s note: Nanny’s home is now my brother, Preston’s home where he lives with his family. It is a beautiful house that he has, with his sweet wife Melissa, restored and improved beyond its original glory. They share it with their teenage daughter, Georgia Claire, and their loyal English Sheep Dog, Bolivar. No. They have no sheep. No word on if Scott and Elese Black who live in the Mary DeKay house now ever take Preston Coca Cola or Sweet Tea to keep him from singing as he pushes his 22" Poulan mower in the yard.

"Ralph, go outside and play in the front yard and watch for the Ice Man. We need twenty-five pounds today."

That statement was one I heard quite often, when we lived up on top of the hill not far from Mr. & Mrs. M. K. Griffin’s house, and relatively close to the railroad depot.

The extent of our house was just two rooms on the upper level and an un-finished basement or cellar on the lower level. The front of the building hooked onto the hill and the remainder hung over, thus making space for the basement. I cannot remember if it had electricity or not, but we did not have a refrigerator and relied on an old fashioned ice box.

I do recall the ice peddler coming down the road going on to the end of the little one lane road and turning around and coming back. We usually hung the familiar diamond shaped card on a nail on one of the porch posts, but for some reason it came up missing from time to time, however the little red-head had nothing to do with its disappearance. It had the numbers 25, 50, 75, and 100 pounds and whatever number was on top was how much ice the driver would bring into your house and put inside your ice box.

As best I remember, the ice man drove a 1937 Ford truck with a regular bed, but it had a slatted wooden floor so the water that melted away from the blocks of ice would drain out. The ice was covered by a heavy tarpaulin as they traveled. They hauled large blocks of ice and only cut off smaller pieces when needed to fill an order.

I seem to remember that they carried the 100 pound blocks and they were scored in the middle as they were frozen at the ice plant. If you wanted only 25 pounds the delivery person would take his ever handy ice pick and stab a line of holes at the halfway point of the 50 pound section.

After the line of holes was made he then went back and whacked it harder with the pick and that section would break away. He had a set of ice tongs that he would grab it with and sling it over his shoulder. He also had a leather shield over that shoulder and partially down his back that kept it from being so cold on his skin and to keep his clothes dry.

Those of you who have not been fortunate enough to have had an ice box didn’t miss much. It did keep things inside the box cooler than outside, but a refrigerator it was not. There was no freezing compartment, just a metal lined box with a chunk of ice in it. It did retard the spoilage of foods to some extent, but not for long.

The entire box was not very large in most cases and would not accommodate the volume we stick in the fridge today. We always kept a cow and the amount of milk we had was usually too large for the icebox. The milk was let down into the well water in a bucket to keep it somewhat cool. The water there was always about 52 degrees and it kept the milk from souring for a while. However, the way we drank and used milk, it did not stay around long anywhere.

Sundays and special days we usually had home-made ice tea and Dad would chip off a small amount for each tea glass. Mind you, just a sliver or two, not a full glass by any stretch of the imagination. When I’m at a fast food restaurant now days where you fill your own large cup with drink; I see people filling the cup up to the top and sometimes overflowing. I remember how little we used and now see how wasteful we have become. I remember putting just a small piece of ice in a glass at supper time and filling it with milk. What a delight to have a "cold" glass of milk; we usually drank it at the temperature of the well water.

Ice cost money, and money was a commodity we did not have much of, so ice was a luxury. Now when you are served a cola they fill the cup up with ice and then fill the voids with soda, the ice is cheaper than the cola, evidently.

Aunt Myrtle and Uncle Frank Tallant had no ice box and would sometimes give the milk hauler money to pick up 50 pounds of ice at the ice plant in Pontotoc. Of course it rode in the back of the open milk truck for about ten miles with little protection. Mr. Freddy Tutor, the hauler, would leave the ice on the empty milk cans without anything to insulate it. Frank would try and meet the truck so he could save as much as possible, haul it a quarter mile to the house in a wheelbarrow and put it in a wash tub and cover it with old quilts.

They could keep ice longer than anyone I ever knew. For one thing they did not use ice in every drink, and too, they used it very sparingly when they did. What a treat to come home at dinner after plowing all morning in the hot sun and have a large pink "depression glass" full of home-made Lipton tea; with ice, no less. That was the height of luxury to this ole red-head.

The ice boxes that remain are mostly in antique stores or displayed as a novelty somewhere. They were only an intermediate step from no ice, to the more modern electric units of today.

The first refrigerator was made around 1913 and was big and bulky, and used ammonia for a coolant. In 1918 the Frigidaire Company began mass producing refrigerators. By 1929 Frigidaire had become a household word and the term "Frig" came from their popularity.

Yes, ice is still in the box, but now it is readily available through an opening in the refrigerator door. You don’t even have to stop the ice man, fill a tray with water or anything; just press the button and hold your glass.

Magic isn’t it?

For years now, I fall in love all over again each spring. Most years that love is manifested in the rebirth of Nature, and in more than a few years, thoughts of romance dominate the love affairs I experience, but for the past few years, I’ve fallen in love with whole groups of individuals. For the most part, the latter are college students.

My wife’s work with Pontotoc County Habitat for Humanity (PCHFH) has exposed me to large numbers of people I would have otherwise never have known. It’s typically in the springtime that I meet the greatest number of persons with whom I shall eventually fall in love. I also meet, in lesser numbers, others during the summer months and learn to care equally about them. Generally speaking, these I come to love are from other states.

Pontotoc County Habitat for Humanity builds houses for poor people, people whose income level is too low to qualify them for a conventional bank loan to purchase a house. Habitat homeowners pay a mortgage calculated largely on the cost of the materials required to build their house. Since a significant portion of the costs of building a house is attributable to labor, Habitat for Humanity seeks volunteers to help build each house. Volunteers need not be skilled laborers, only willing workers. Their work is overseen by an experienced construction supervisor and knowledgeable volunteers.

Spring Break is observed by colleges and universities all across the United States, but not all choose the same week of March. Usually, Pontotoc County Habitat for Humanity hosts collegiate volunteers separately for three weeks during March. This year was no exception, with college students from the University of Central Florida arriving the first full week of March, followed by a like number of students from the University of New Hampshire the next week, and finally a lively bunch from St. Olaf College located in Minnesota finished our three weeks of collegiate volunteers.

Ideally, PCHFH will have readied the foundation of a new house prior to Spring Break so that volunteers can begin constructing walls upon arriving, but delays in site acquisition prevented the concrete slab from being poured in time. Therefore, our Spring Break volunteers experienced all that goes into the beginning work on a new house from setting the batter boards to digging the footings and setting the plumbing prior to any concrete being poured.

The work required in preparing a foundation is arduous and labor intensive, but each group of students was up to the task. They did all that we asked of them to the standards required and did so with a cheerful spirit.

As I worked alongside them, I discovered a parasitic quality in myself that I had not previously recognized. These youth were full of energy and enthusiasm. I drank often from their well of energy and found strength to continue when I might otherwise have chosen to rest. While I’ve known that being around young people keeps one young at heart, this energizing experience was new to me.

As much as we who get to experience Spring Break with volunteers enjoy the time spent with them, we find by week’s end they have enjoyed the Pontotoc experience, too. Most express the desire to come back again next year, and sometimes that happens. But, whether or not any are able to return in no way diminishes the experiences we hold close in our hearts.

Yes, I fell in love again this spring, and I expect to do the same again next year.

For my earliest memories, music has been a major part of my family’s activities and traditions.

Before I was born, my father’s family traveled all over north Mississippi during the depression putting on shows at local high schools. My grandfather played the fiddle, my aunt played the piano and my Dad played 8 instruments and sang. Additionally, my uncle was a comedian and my grandmother sold tickets at the door for a nickel each. As my dad said "no one had much money, but they were so starved for entertainment they could scrape up a nickel to see the show."

My mother said that the first time she saw my Dad he was singing "My Blue Heaven", "I’m looking over a Four Leaf Clover" and "The Isle of Capri" at a nearby high school. She said that she fell in love with him that night and knew she would marry him someday.

Dad was invited to sing at the Mississippi Pavilion at the 1933 World Fair in Chicago. However, getting there was his problem. He talked a fiddle playing friend into going with him and they hitch-hiked from Pontotoc in Mississippi to Chicago, IL. He said that when he arrived in every town in the late evening he would go to the Mayor and offer for the two of them to play for a local dance that night for a room, supper and breakfast. He was never turned down!

During WWII he was classified 1A but instead of being drafted, was hired by the Defense Department to go to the Meridian Military Base and provide entertainment and special programs to the troops. The base was reorganized in 1943 and my Dad lost his job so we moved to Mobile, AL. Dad went to work at Smith Bakery there and soon became a route driver. Back then the bread was delivered before the stores opened so he finished his job every day at around 9:00 am.

From 1944 until 1952 my Dad would come home on Friday, get in our car, and drive to New Orleans where he would sing at Pat O’Briens Night Club on Friday and Saturday nights. He would then return home on Sunday. In 1952 my Dad came home and informed me that he had quit the night club the night before since he wanted to be involved in my teen age activities.

Although he stopped singing professionally, he never even considered quitting what he loved so much and was so good at. I recently had a man in the music business tell me that "Elvis had the most memorable voice he ever heard, but your Dad’s was a very close second". He began singing in our church choir and soon was Choir Director. Due to health problems he finally had to give that up but continued to sing in church until the week he passed away.

All of us have Christmas Memories tucked away in our mind but my favorite one was unique. Every Christmas we would load our car and drive the 300 miles from Mobile to Pontotoc and then home again. We all got great food and welcome presents but I got to lie in the back seat of our car and listen to my Dad sing Christmas carols both ways. Christmas has never been as sweet to me as it was back then.

Biographical Note: Charles Baldwin was born in Indiana but reared partly in Mississippi. Charlie remembers spending most of the summers of his youth with his Pontotoc grandparents, the Shorty Baldwins. For most of his adult life Charlie has lived in Corinth, MS, but Pontotoc carries many special memories for him.

Some seventy years ago eating out was much different for most of us in Pontotoc County than it is today. We knew there were restaurants where people could purchase food, but we generally associated them with traveling long distances. Some folks went by train to distant places, eating on the train and then in hotels at their destination. Nice hotels and restaurant were available and flourished in larger cities. However, this was not the norm for people in our county. Possibly more people than I knew did eat out, but for most of us it was very out of the ordinary.

My eating out began as I reached high school age, in the early 1950s. Since Mom worked in the lunch room at school, I usually paid my fifteen or twenty cents and ate in the cafeteria.

Even though Mom worked there the food was not very good to this boy’s palate. It was a diet devised by someone to be healthy for us kids, but it sure did not taste that way, nor did it always "go together."

What I mean is they served things that were totally foreign to the balance of the meal. Most of us country boys were used to vegetables with cornbread, possibly a piece of ham meat on the side with a radish and/or vine-ripe tomato, with a large glass of iced tea. What we got was a vegetable or two, still squeaky and undercooked with some mashed potatoes that tasted like a cardboard box and served with something they called "brown and serve" rolls (tasted worse than sliced white bread)!

It seems that every dietitian wants to poke lots of carrots down us kids. Why don’t they give the carrots to horses, hogs, or cows, they love them; kids don’t. They say the carrots give color to the plate; hang the color, give me something good to eat.

A small bottle of milk that could be consumed by many of us guys in two gulps was furnished also, why not a pint (minimum). Desert was always present, but just barely. A lettuce leaf with a pear half, a pinch of cheese, and a dab of mayonnaise on top was either desert or a salad, I never could figure which. If there was a slice of cake it was so thin you could read the paper through it on any given day.

In defense of the fine ladies that worked there, they were under orders, and they had to cook what they were told to cook and how to cook it. My Mom was one of the best cooks around, but they would not allow her to cook the way she knew how, consequently even her veggies were always undercooked.

Many kids brought their lunch from home, prepared by a loving mother. The food was good and usually in the form of a sandwich or two. Much good wholesome country ham on a biscuit brought from a country home was traded for a bologna and mayo, on white bread from one of the city kids. I suppose that was the start of more modern eating habits.

Our school was close to town and there were a couple of hamburger joints, a pool room, and a snack counter in some grocery stores where folks could eat when they were "in town." This was the first eating out I ever did. I always liked Mr. John Prewitt’s hamburgers, and the chili from Austin’s Pool Room. Somewhere along this time the Dairy Bar opened over in Westtown and had some of the best milkshakes a fellow could consume. However, the thirty-five cents cost for a large one, was more than most of us could afford very often.

Our family just did not eat out. Mom was of the "old school" where you cooked breakfast and dinner then ate the left-over’s for supper, even if it was just corn bread crumbled in a large glass of milk. The "lunch" meal had not been invented back then. It was unheard of to ask could we go out and eat or could we call for a pizza. As far as I know, pizza had not been invented back then; at least not in Pontotoc.

But, oh how we did eat! Vegetables by the ton that we grew in our own garden, meat from hogs we butchered and preserved ourselves, biscuits that were about the size of a turtle shell with real cow butter from our own cow was there in vast quantities. Mom could make some of the most delicious cakes and pies anywhere around. Her banana pudding usually caused a flurry at family gatherings. I particularly liked her apple or peach fried pies (turn-overs), made from fruit that we had peeled, sliced, and dried in the sun. Corn bread for dinner and supper every day was made from meal ground at a local grist mill.

It’s been a long time since then. We run to the restaurant at the drop of a hat and eat our fill of under-cooked food, under-sized portions, and over-priced vitals. Drinks are mostly flavoring, sugar, and water; even the milk has been tampered with.

Four of us ate out recently at Cracker Barrel; a meat, two veggies, and a drink each with biscuits and corn bread; the total bill was about forty dollars. In today’s market, that’s about right, however, in the early 1950s that would have bought the family’s groceries for about two weeks; possibly more.

That thirty five cent milk shake now cost over two dollars in most places and is half synthetic stuff. Some of the "milk" shakes do not even contain any milk.

As I so often say, "We’ve come a long way baby." However, in this case I think we may be going in the wrong direction."

Most Southerners know this already, but it bears repeating.

A possum is a flat animal that sleeps in the middle of the road.

Southerners call Armadillos, possum on the half-shell.

There are 5,000 types of snakes and 4,999 of them live in Pontotoc.

Only fear three kinds of snakes: live ones, dead ones and sticks that look like snakes.

If it grows, it'll stick ya. If it crawls, it'll bite cha.

People actually grow, eat, and like okra.

"Fixinto" is one word. It means I'm going to do that

There is no such thing as lunch. There is only dinner and then there's supper.

"I couldn’t git up with nobody." Means no one was home

Iced tea is appropriate for all meals. You start drinking it when you're two.

The word "jeet" is actually a question meaning, 'Did you eat?

You don't have to wear a watch, because it doesn't matter what time it is, you work until you're done or it's too dark to see.

Vigilante justice is not tolerated in the South; however, several thieves around Memphis have stolen more log chains than they could swim the river with.

You don't push buttons; you mash ‘em.

Y’all is singular. All y’all is plural.

All the festivals across the state are named after a fruit, vegetable, grain, insect, tree, or animal.

You carry jumper cables in your car…for your own car. 
 
You only own five spices: salt, pepper, mustard, Tabasco and ketchup.

There is a couple in Tupelo who had been married so long they are on their second bottle of Tabasco.

The local papers cover national and international news on one page but require six pages for local high school sports, car races, and gossip columns.

Everyone you meet is a Honey, Sugar, Darlin, Miss (first name) or Mr. (first name).

The first day of deer season is a national holiday.

Rifle racks come standard on Southern pick-up trucks

You know what a "hissy fit" is… and who pitches them

Fried catfish is the other white meat.

A salesman in Clarksdale told the farmer that his children needed an encyclopedia for school, the farmer said NO, they can walk just like I did.

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

It is our desire to provide a monthly newsletter about rural living with photographs of yesterday and today, including timely articles about conservative politics, religion, food, restaurant reviews, gardening, humor, history, and non-fiction columns by folks steeped in our Southern lifestyle. 

Copyright © 2012 ~ The Bodock Post.

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