From The Arbor Victory Over Japan Remembered
Just the other day I told someone that it was the perfect fishing day; stick the pole in the soft dirt at the water’s edge, cut the hook off the line and go take a nap under the nearby shade tree. Now that is my kind of fishing arrangements. You don’t catch any fish that way, but it gives you an excuse to be out, and besides you get in a good nap. I hope your air conditioner is pumping out lots of good cool air and that it continues for the season. It makes a person want to put in a swimming pool; of course, a nice cool shower is a lot cheaper and more readily available. We are so appreciative of all who write for the Bodock Post and for those who read the Post. Regardless of the temperature, hot, cold, or lukewarm; you are our favorite people. August, seventy (70) years ago was a very happy day for many people around the world and especially those in the U.S. August 15, 1945, World War II was over when the Japanese surrendered. On September 2, it was made official by the signing of the documents; it was OVER ! FINISHED ! DONE !. Aboard the battleship "Missouri" the signing ceremonies took place under the watchful eyes of General Douglas McArthur and the cessation of hostilities between Japan and the Allied Forces was history. "V-J Day" was a great day of celebration here in the United States. A group of us kids from "Happy Hollow" did our share of celebrating with hand cranks, cowbells, horns, and such noise makers. We dressed for the occasion and paraded through downtown Pontotoc. Margie Huey (Little Miss America), Jan Huey (WAC), Nancy Abernethy (Miss America), Ralph Jones (Navy), Howard Huey (Army), and Ray Daniel (Uncle Sam) did the honors that day. I do not know who had the idea or where the costumes came from, but we were a happy bunch of kids. It was a glad day for people of all ages, probably more so for our parents. However, we were made happy by the thoughts that our loved ones would be coming home soon, the killing had stopped, and the world was at peace once more. What a price many paid for this peace! We owe a tremendous debt to those who fought, bled, and died for our freedom! GOD BLESS AMERICA !
Addendum: We are honored to share articles by four book authors this month: ~ By Ralph R. Jones, Editor Going Back Home By Gerry Gooch Wilson, Contributor Last summer, my #3 son, his three older children (seventeen, fifteen, and eleven), and I "toured" my home town. His youngest, only six, stayed home; she’ll have to get the genealogy tour later, when she’s ready. Son wanted the grandchildren to learn about where I—and by extension, they—came from. I worried that in Pontotoc, Mississippi, a town nestled in the red clay hills near Oxford (the home of Ole Miss), there’s not much to see: the square, now virtually stripped of the old trees I remember, with its Confederate monument. The store my dad once owned, now an antique shop. A museum housed in the post office, itself an historical building. The house where I grew up, and the one where my parents lived later. It turned out to be a drizzling, sticky day, and I must admit when we left the hotel in Oxford that morning, I didn’t have high hopes. I anticipated bored kids and a general disappointment with grandmother’s roots. I was wrong. As we drove through town, I pointed out landmarks: the square, the courthouse (hard to miss), my dad’s store, the store on the corner that had once been my uncle’s grocery, the flaking ghost of an old painted grocery ad still evident on the side of the building. After the post office museum where we spent maybe half an hour and the women volunteers told the kids stories and connected with me—"Now, you’re so-and-so’s daughter?"—we stopped by the Presbyterian church I grew up in. I had emailed the church ahead of time and learned that its doors are never locked; we were welcome to drop by any time. No one was there, but we walked right in. I had not been inside that church since my grandmother’s funeral in 1994. Indeed, my last three visits there had been for funerals, so maybe that gloom had affected my memories of the place.
It had never occurred to me to ask about the history of the stained glass; isn’t that terrible? But history means more to me as I get older. I intend to find out, and I will certainly share it with my children and grandchildren. We explored: we lingered in the prayer room at the back of the sanctuary, its walls lined with books. We went upstairs to the room where I dressed for my first wedding when I was twenty-one years old. So many memories for me. The kids responded with curiosity, love, and awe. They listened to my stories. They opened doors, peeked in nooks, touched things–the books, the glass, the dark wood–not in a bad way, but as though they wanted to take something of this place away with them and lock it in their memories, too. There’s a photo I didn’t share here: one of me with the three grandchildren, standing in the narthex of the church. That one is private, a connection to them and a precious time we shared. If you have not "gone home" lately, I encourage you to do it. More importantly, go with someone you love. Share the place. Share the stories.
Editor's Note: First Presbyterian in Pontotoc will celebrate its 100 Anniversary
on August 30, 2015. Mark your calendar for this event. Because I Said So By Celeste Connor King, Contributor In this era of political correctness, tolerance, and "Blurred Lines," boundaries are disappearing. Distinct black and white blend to a murky grey. More and more, we make our own Truth these days. But not at my house. At my house, certain long-standing, non-negotiable, hard-and-fast rules exist and must not be broken. At my house, we attempt to have gratitude in our hearts every day of the year, and we do not listen to Christmas music until the day after Thanksgiving. We devour it for the season, promptly pack it away before school returns to session, and do not pull it out again for 10 ½ months. (Wiggle room exists for choir or band practice, but we are not to enjoy it.) My mama’s rule was No Cheering in the Kitchen. She did not care that the beautiful plate glass window showed a brilliant reflection of a perfect hurky. Another Conner canon states The Book Must Be Read before the Movie Is Watched and/or Series Are to Be Consumed in Order. My friend Jordan is a willy-nilly book reader/movie watcher. She WATCHED HP and the Goblet of Fire before she ever READ HP and the Sorcerer’s Stone. This is unacceptable behavior. One comes before 2; a comes before b; doe comes before re. (At times I struggle to fathom how I can befriend someone with such a blatant disregard for natural order.) Fried chicken must be eaten at family reunions and washed down with sweet tea. (I believe this to be a universal truth.) At the lake, you don’t wear makeup. Or, you don’t wear makeup at the lake. (Either rule is acceptable.) When Jeremy showed up for a funeral with a five-o’clock shadow (probably more of about a 4:30 one), my sister, Starla, decided then and there, "If you’re wearing a tie, you have to shave." These are words to live by. When I told Little Granny that the ultrasound detected TWO heartbeats, she wisely instructed, "You know their names have to rhyme."
I have a new decree that needs to have the kinks worked out. It is called No Drumming until You Are Dressed. Every morning, the Boy gets out of the shower, puts on his clothes, and begins to drum on every imaginable surface. I holler, "No drumming until you are dressed!" He replies, "I am dressed!" While his hair is not combed nor his teeth brushed, he is technically dressed. I haven’t given up on the wording of this mandate yet, because No Drumming until You Are Ready to Walk Out the Door and Your Backpack Is Packed Up Like It Should Have Been Done Last Night When I Told You To Do It just isn’t catchy. I don’t care if you wear white after Labor Day, but at my house, you are not allowed to talk smack about High School Musical; you will help at Vacation Bible School; and you had better kiss your mama goodnight. Period. Biographical Sketch: Celeste Conner lives in Dothan, Alabama. She has recently published a delightful book of memories of her childhood and her immediate family. It’s called, "Blabberings" and it’s available on Amazon.com. Read more about Celeste. Spring Cleaning By Shelley Palmer Jamieson You’ve probably heard your mother say,"This house is a mess!" But what if she then took a sledge hammer and began tearing down the walls? Basically, this is what some spiders do. Our family enjoyed studying from the inside the intricate design of a spider’s web on the outside of a floor-length window in our house. The web completely covered the window from top to bottom and from side to side. Tiny insects could be seen entrapped in the sticky web ready to be consumed. Soon, the once perfect pattern of the web was marred by tears and holes – no longer a display of art. We were fast losing interest in protecting it from the squeegee. Breakfast was interrupted one morning when my son called, "Come see what the spider is doing!" Soon all the family had deserted their soaking cereal to watch the industrious spider as it moved about the web. "What is she doing?" asked Melissa. "She tearing down her web," replied Doug who was now in a squatting position to get a better view. Our morning schedule was delayed as we watched with fascination as the spider, beginning at the edge of the window, walked with the four legs on one side of its body while balling up the strands of webbing with the four legs on the other side. As it reached the center, it would leave the ball of silk, travel across the web to another spot on the edge, and repeat the procedure until the entire web was completely gone.
Spiders have three to five silk glands that are used to spin the silk threads. The threads appear very delicate but are the strongest, natural fiber that will not dissolve in water. If you question this, try washing down spider webs on your patio with the garden hose! Just as there are many kinds of spiders, there are many different web designs. The spider at our window was an orb weaver. The beautiful, complicated geometric design can best be described as similar to a wheel with a hub in the center and spokes extending from the hub to the outer threads that border the web. Beginning at the hub, sticky threads coil around and around connecting the spokes until the architect has completed a home strong enough to catch insects that are larger and stronger than the spider itself. Once an insect has been trapped, the spider rushes to the victim, wraps it in sheets of silk to assure that it will not escape. Some spiders repair damaged webs. The webbing is eaten by some and thrown away by others. Still in awe at the marvelous web-removing expedition we had witnessed, we got up the next morning to find a new web with perfectly placed strands of webbing that glistened as the sun rays served as a spotlight to call our attention to our resident spider’s overnight handiwork. It was at that point that my husband made the announcement that our spider was a female. "How can you tell?" the family demanded to know. "She is arranging the furniture." This explanation came from a man who never understood the need to re-decorate or rearrange the furniture. I still believe that a dust cloth and vacuum are a simpler way to clean house! Big Steps By Wayne L. Carter, Editor & Publisher Oh, there are lots of big steps we take in life, the first day of school, joining a branch of the military service, choosing a career, going to college, getting married, deciding whether or not to have children, and the list goes on. However, I was not thinking of these types of "big steps," when I began this reflection. Instead, my thoughts were perhaps more concrete, really, like concrete steps. In fact, this is a story of two memorable sets of steps in my life. At or before my fifth year, my family was living in Corinth, MS. We had been there for a couple of years and would soon be moving to Iuka, where I began attending grade school. I did not attend kindergarten, because it was not offered in the public schools, or else the private program would have been too expensive for my parents to have me enrolled. I do not recall my exact age, but I remember the Christmas that Santa brought me a tricycle. My brother Fred, six years my senior, remembers the same Christmas as the one that he got a bicycle. Oddly enough, it is the tricycle that anchors my "big steps" memory.
We lived in a rental house, within walking distance from downtown Corinth,
MS. I know we lived "in town" because there was a sidewalk between our house
and the street. Folks living outside of town would not have had a sidewalk.
Our house was connected to the sidewalk via a walkway leading to a set of
3 or 4 concrete steps that descended to the sidewalk. Not long after getting
the tricycle, I discovered a fact well known to tri-cyclists: a tricycle
pedals a lot easier on a concrete sidewalk than it does on a grass lawn.
The same may be said for a scooter. For this reason, I spent more time playing
with either a scooter or tricycle on the sidewalk than the
lawn. One warm sunny day, I had tired of scootin' on the scooter and was attempting to get it up the steps and into our yard when the unthinkable happened. Okay, mothers think it could happen, they even worry that it might happen, but kids just don't think it could possibly happen to them. I had struggled to the top step when I lost my balance and tumbled, head over heels, down the steps. My head struck the concrete hard enough to have cracked the concrete or my head, though there was no physical evidence of either actually occurring. I don't remember crying, but I am certain I did. Mom came to my aid and soon had me worrying that I was at death's door. Mom had a way about her of suspecting the worst in given travail. Additionally, she could read in the newspaper of someone's injury and feel certain one of her own would suffer a similar fate. Whichever of the children was hurt or sick, Mom would fret over, all the while trying to make us well, but constantly giving us the history of horrors visited upon someone else who had once experienced whatever we had. Worry did not kill Mom, but it probably took a dozen years off her life. My fall did not bring about a bloodletting, but soon a large knot appeared on my skull and was, according to Mom's diagnosis, the size of a goose egg. We never had geese around, and to this day, I've never seen a goose egg. My dad was summoned home to inspect my head wound, and after consulting Mom, the consensus was "no doctor needed." I continued to grow in wisdom, and stature, and favor with…oops, that was someone else. Nonetheless, as I grew, I was never diagnosed as brain-damaged, regardless of the opinions of some, and I never had another accident that resulted in a head/ skull injury. My second recollection involving concrete steps happened on the campus of Pontotoc High School around my 8th or 9th school year. Returning to the main building following a lunch break, I ran hastily, if not carelessly, up a flight of steps where the auditorium wing joins the main building. Somehow, I managed to wedge my shoe between the rise of one step and the run of the one under it, twisting an ankle in the process. Looking back, I count myself lucky I did not break a bone. Yet the sprain was so severe, I could not walk on the affected limb within a half-hour of the accident. I remember hobbling painfully along on one leg for the afternoon classes, and when school was out for the day, I had great difficulty in getting to the line of busses awaiting those of us who relied on such for transportation. (Every high school student didn't have his or her own personal vehicle in those days.) Seeing my problem, Madison Rowzee, a cousin of mine, came to my aid. Madison was a senior and a star football player. As an athlete, he may best be remembered for lumbering more than twenty yards along the sideline carrying one defender on his back and dragging another one who managed to grab ahold of his leg, before finally being brought down. Placing one hand under my left arm and reaching with his other hand to the bend of my knees, Madison lifted me into his arms as effortlessly as one might lift a feather. For me, it was an embarrassing moment as this bulky athlete carried his "scrawny" cousin onto the bus and placed him gently in a seat, but I was only half done with embarrassing moments that day. The other half came when the bus stopped on Main Street, directly in front of my dad's grocery store, where Madison carted me off the bus and inside the grocery store. It's bad enough when your peers see you being transported like a baby, but worse still for adults to watch. I do have a few more memories of concrete steps squirrelled away, but they’ll have to wait for a rainy day. Elvis And A Driver By Ralph R. Jones, Editor It was reported on TV that Elvis, had he lived, would turn 80 on January 8, 2015. I’m not quite as old as he, yet no one seems to give a flip about my birthday. I was born poor like him in the adjoining county and no one flocks to my birth place, my early home, or my beautiful mansion; that is, if I had a beautiful mansion. Yes, small things can make a lot of difference in a fellow’s life. I was in that same hardware store in Tupelo many times before, but just did not know what a difference a guitar could make in one’s life. Had I only known! Of course being able to sing and wiggle my hips, could have helped.
One of the groups that I drove was French people that had come from many parts of France to Paris, where they took a flight to Memphis just for "Elvis Week." There were three coaches of fans, about 150 people total, that our company drove for three days. None of the people could speak English and I could not speak French. They did assign a man to my coach that could translate just a little. Although we could not communicate by spoken word very well, we did manage to communicate. Hand gestures, pointing fingers, grunts, and laughter assisted in many ways. The interpreter helped in his broken English. If I really listened and tried hard to understand, he and I could communicate some. The first day we visited Graceland and they took the tour of the mansion, the planes, the museum, and other things. They seemed to understand and enjoy it very much. The second day we went to Tupelo to visit the Elvis birthplace and things there. We went over to the Tupelo Hardware Company where Elvis bought his first guitar, to the new town square, heard a lecture or two, and saw all the sights. On the third day we were to visit places around Memphis where Elvis had grown up since their move to Memphis in 1948. The three coaches went different directions so that our visits would not cause a crowding problem. Our first stop was at his first home at 1034 Audubon. Same old story, everyone got off, oooohed and aaaahed, took pictures and returned to the coach. Next stop was Humes High School where Elvis graduated high school in 1953. All this time, I was little more than a part of the motor coach; sort of like a wheel, or seat; just a necessary part of getting around. On that faithful morning when we drove up in front of Humes, the interpreter in his broken English asked me if I had ever seen Elvis in person. I answered yes; I had seen him on several occasions. That’s when it all started. He turned around to the group on the coach and started talking to them in French, all the while pointing to me. I did not have the foggiest notion as to what he was saying but in retrospect I know he just made me a "Star." There in front of Elvis’s school the people all seemed to want their picture taken with me. "I could do no wrong," as the saying goes. When everyone returned to the coach, the leader asked me if I would tell the group all I knew about Elvis. I was glad to tell what little I knew and he interpreted for me. In the early 1950s at the Mississippi – Alabama Fair and Dairy Show in Tupelo, there was a young man on the open-air stage singing, wiggling, and strumming a guitar. Several of us Pontotoc boys passed by and it happened to be the young Elvis. The only other time I saw him perform in person was at the high school auditorium in Randolph, MS, there in Pontotoc County. I think it was in conjunction with a radio station that had a show traveling around and he was part of that show. We lived on Old Hickory Road for many years, just a few blocks from the Graceland Mansion. Our kids and the neighborhood kids played in the woods behind his house before he got famous and they had a fence erected to keep out the sight-seers. One of our sons delivered the Press-Scimitar newspaper to the mansion. Often we saw Elvis playing football and riding horses with his band and others on the 13 acres of Graceland. He had a secret escape route through the carport of his mother’s house there on Doland Drive. He could leave Graceland by opening his back gate, go through the carport, and drive by the "back roads" to get away from the crowds. He would sometimes come up Old Hickory in that little pink and white striped Jeep, with his girlfriend, enjoying the afternoon. I don’t know of anyone in our area that tried to invade his privacy as he came through. My office, at the time, was over on Poplar Avenue near the zoo. Peggy, my wife, called me one morning in August of 1977, said the radio had been informing them that Elvis had been taken to the Baptist Hospital and they thought he might be dead. Rumors flew over the air waves all day and when afternoon came, she called back again and confirmed that Elvis had died. She said not to come home the usual way that Highway 51 was totally blocked with mourners. Going home on the back streets, I did drive on over to the intersection of Old Hickory and Hwy. 51. Sure enough Highway 51 was solid traffic, sitting still, as far as you could see in both directions. The "King" had died! Well, I told my story to the group on the coach, the interpreter translated it into French, and the people thought they had experienced something special. Did I know Elvis personally? No. Were we friends? No. However, I did see him many times and that was enough. They had traveled so far for some kind of connection with the king and I was that connection. As little as it was; I was the tiny thread that tied them to Elvis. Soon the tour was over. I expressed my gratitude in having them in Memphis and they responded with a nice tip. The most touching thing to me was that as each person got off the coach he or she gave me a kiss on each cheek as a gesture of friendship. Although we could not communicate very well with words, I felt the love these wonderful people extended to me. Ole Red And Me By Anne B. McKee, Contributor I shall never forget the day we brought the new riding lawn mower home. It was a beaut’. I loved it at first sight, but then, I am easily impressed, at times. My discerning eye appreciated the bumblebee yellow fenders, with black-detailed-edging. I admired the lovely line of the front hood, which coordinated perfectly, with the over-sized tires. Oh, how the tires glistened in all their blackness. At the time, I was amazed and couldn’t wait to get my hands on it. Come Saturday morning, I hopped up and down with glee. "I get to cut grass today! I get to cut grass!" My husband and I made our way into the barn, like two kids entering a candy-store. There it was -- the brand-spanking-new riding lawn mower. Ole Red, my trusty mower of many years, had been moved to the rear. The old mower needed help with the lawn, my husband said, but I knew there was still plenty of life in her. My husband’s plan was we use the old mower for the rough areas of the lawn. Of course, he claimed, I have used Ole Red roughly the entire time, making it my personal bush hog. I must admit that I do feel powerful, when riding atop my special turbo grass-cutting-machine. Why, if I see something I don’t like, I just roll over it (poor thing!) and Ole Red will gobble it right up! As we entered the barn, I walked to the new mower, without hesitation. My husband called my name, and as I jerked my head around to answer him, I noticed him point toward the old mower. I was totally stunned! "You mean you want me to use Ole Red?" I asked. My husband answered, "Yes, use it today until you get the hang of the new mower." The hang of the new mower, I thought, as I walked to the back of the barn. Now what could that mean? As I approached Ole Red, I declare the mower actually grinned at me -- gave me the willies! Now I know a mechanical object cannot grin, but there it was (the grin), and did I see the wink of an eye? That’s going too far I reasoned as I rolled Ole Red out and filled her with gas. I decided to keep the mower’s friendliness to myself. I mean I did not need any jaw-dropping from my husband, although I do it to him regularly.
My husband and I both left the barn in a dead heat. I headed for the high grass all along the rough areas of the lawn and he headed for the smooth, silky grass of the main yard. Ole Red attacked the tall grass and weeds with vengeance and great force. As I headed for the intimidating and always spiteful kudzu patch, Ole Red kicked into turbo and with skill and grace overran the enemy. Oh, how sweet is victory! As Ole Red and I coasted along the nut grass and briars, I happened to notice my husband had stopped to take a water hose and wash off the oversized tires that audaciously tippee-toed the yellow, sissy thing around the lawn. What a wimp, I thought. That new mower just can’t take it. I reached down and patted Ole Red on her scratchy, faded hood. My girl and I are survivors! We don’t need special pansy attention. Just about that time my husband motioned to me and I rode over to see what he needed. You see Ole Red and I are dependable. You can count on us. She understands me and I understand her. Why, we have many, many years of companionship all over the lawn. Who needs that new fancy, smancy mower anyways? As I reached my husband and his new favorite, he asked. "Are you ready to swap out? I thought you might want to give a turn around the lawn on the new mower?" I answered with an air of arrogance, I suppose. "What makes you think I need to take a turn around the lawn with that fancy new mower of yours? Ole Red and I are doing just fine." I yelled this as I rode off into the sunset on my old friend -- back into the muck and the mire of real-grass-cutting. There it went again -- the jaw dropped as my husband stared after Ole Red and me. I don’t think I will share Ole Red’s grin and wink with him – not today, anyway. Frankly Speaking By Wayne L. Carter, Editor & Publisher Roughly seven years ago, I wrote an article about a then coworker who grew up with a distinct dislike for chickens. Dennis Conn had nothing against live chickens, but having had to help his grandparents slaughter several fryers back in his childhood, he never could bring himself to eat chicken in any form. In fact, he said he didn’t eat much meat at all as a child and was fifteen when he ate his first steak while at a class dinner. Today, Dennis is retired and lives with his third wife on rural acreage about thirty miles south of Champaign, Illinois. As his wife loves farm life, they raise a few head of cattle to sell and have about two-dozen laying hens that keep his family supplied with eggs. A few years ago, Dennis had two more roosters in the brood than were needed and told one of our other co-workers he could have the two roosters if he would come get them. Our friend Mark Frank reasoned he could take the roosters home with him and slaughter them for a nice chicken stew. Mark is a hunter-gatherer in his spare time. He tends several fruit trees on his property, grows garden vegetables, and raises strawberries. His wife is a fine country cook, whose oatmeal cookies and peanut butter cookies are enjoyed by the gang with whom I fish Kentucky Lake each year. Mark knows how to dress any wild game he harvests, so he figured dressing a couple of roosters would be a no-brainer. When Mark picked up the roosters at Dennis’ farm, he put them in a cardboard box and folded down the top to take them home with him. The ride home was without incidence. When he took the box of roosters out of his car and sat the box on the ground, one of the roosters popped his head through the slit in the folds of the top of the box. It was at this moment, Mark decided how to proceed with killing the roosters. He had considered chopping their heads off with a hatchet as well as simply wringing their necks. But, seeing the head of a rooster sticking out of the top of the box, he thought of using a pair of hedge shears to whack off the roosters head.
With shears in hand, Mark returned to find the rooster still in the box with
its head sticking out of the
top. "This is going to be easy," he thought to himself as he positioned the blades on either side of the rooster’s neck and prepared to snap them shut. It was Robert Burns who poetically framed the statement, "The best laid plans of mice and men oft go awry" which is but a forerunner of Murphy’s Law about things going wrong, though in Mark’s mind there seemed little that could go wrong. It is uncertain whether the rooster, sensing impending doom, flinched or whether Mark closed his eyes before snapping shut the giant scissors, or if the blades were not quite sharp enough for a quick, clean cut, but something went awry, and the rooster’s neck was only partially severed. Those of us who have been tasked with killing a pullet for a Sunday dinner or just privileged to watch from a safe distance know all too well what happens when a chicken’s head is severed from its neck, and the same is true for roosters. They do not lie still and bleed out. No, they quite literally run around like a chicken with its head cut off. They may be headless, but their body is unaware what has just transpired, and they run first this way, and then that way, all the time wildly flapping their wings, and tumbling until dying is complete and finally they are still. In the case of Mark’s rooster, it had no place to run as it was largely confined to a small box. So, an instant after having its head partially severed, it exploded skyward. Mark remembers it sailed higher than his head, and he is more than six feet tall. It was bleeding profusely as it flew by Mark’s head, and with wings a-flapping, blood was also flying…everywhere. Moments later, the rooster was dead, but only after sprinkling blood over Mark and a wide area nearby. The second rooster in the box was dispatched with far less fanfare. Mark took both roosters to a bath of boiling water for dipping in order to make quick work of removing the feathers. I wish this story had a happy ending, but it does not. After all his troubles, Mark said no amount of boiling made the meat of either rooster tender enough to eat. The lesson Mark learned from all this is don’t boil a rooster if you want a chicken stew. Cracklin’ Bread By Bettye Hudson Galloway, Contributor I just opened the refrigerator to find a mid-morning snack. The problem is, I only found half of a snack—a carton of cool buttermilk. Now, buttermilk is fine, and it serves many purposes, but the good Lord designed buttermilk primarily to bring out the goodness of cracklin’ bread.
The secret ingredient in cracklin’ bread is, of course, the cracklins’. When it’s hog-killing time in Mississippi, all the neighbors gather for the event. The best sharpshooter in the neighborhood does the honor of putting the hog out of its misery. The hog is hung, hind feet upward, to provide access to the total carcass. Washing begins, and when the carcass is clean, the outer skin is scraped to remove all the hair and extraneous material before the butchering begins. Since hog-killing is a way of life in our rural areas, everybody knows from experience just exactly how to butcher the carcass into bacon, hams, shoulders, and other specific parts. Nothing is wasted. Bits and pieces of trimmed material go into a vat to be turned into sausage. Other bits go into the souse pot. Even the trimmed skin is saved to be turned into cracklins’. The skin is cut into small pieces and cooked in its own fat until it is brown and crisp. It is then placed on paper or other absorbent surface to drain and dry from its oil bath. Cracklins’ were used for many purposes, primarily to season boiled vegetables, but in our house they were used to make cracklin’ bread! Cracklin’ bread was made by following the recipe for cornbread as outlined above, with the exception that when the ingredients were in the mixing bowl, a generous handful of cracklins’ were added to the mixture before it was poured into the skillet. Ah, the aroma from the oven as it baked! When the cracklin’ bread was done, it was crumbled into cereal bowl and covered with cold buttermilk where it became a dish fit for a king! Since cracklins’ are no longer available, I’ll just put my cold buttermilk over some plain old cornbread and enjoy every spoonful of my snack. It’s not cracklin’ bread, but I can still dream, can’t I! This Little Piggy By Jane-Ann Heitmueller, Contributor I have always found it strange that one would use the word cute when referencing a hairless, squealing, grunting creature with a long snout, big nostrils, pointy ears, tiny, beady eyes, thick toenails and a short, corkscrew tail. There’s nothing about the combination of various features of a piglet that match, yet somehow, they all seem to come together to create a unique little animal that many people speak of as adorable. "Mom, please, please ask Mr. Evans if I can have one of his little pigs." This was Jane’s daily plea on the drive to school past the Evan’s farm. "I’m sorry, Jane. You know we don’t have any place to keep a pig. Sweetheart, you must remember that they don’t stay little forever. Maybe one day you will live on a farm and have all the little pigs you want." "Honey," said her husband fourteen years later when he returned to their farm from a day of quail hunting. "go check in the truck. Eddie sent you something I think you’ll like." She heard the familiar high pitched squeals before she peeked through the slats in the truck bed, yet unable to believe her eyes once she spied the pair of little piglets darting around like two terrified kittens. Hardly able to contain her excitement, Jane scrambled over the tailgate and quickly gathered the tiny, quivering babes in her arms for a better look "Eddie said these two were the runts of his last litter. He knew they wouldn’t be strong enough to survive, but since you had always wanted a pig, he felt sure you’d take great care of them and give them a chance.What do you think?" Tears came to her eyes as Jane joyfully nuzzled the warm, wiggling piglets. Her childhood dream had finally come true… just as her mother had promised. She was so happy! "Ray, let’s call the black and white one Sonny and the pink one can be Woogie. Thank goodness we have a place to keep them. Grandpa’s old hog parlor will be perfect."
Woogie and Sonny grew by leaps and bounds in the next few months. They could certainly no longer be considered to be runts! As fall approached, Jane began to have a gnawing feeling inside. For some reason, she had always pictured her new babies as just that…babies; never daring to imagine how big they would grow to be or what would become of them at that point. The voice of her mother reminding her that piglets don’t stay small forever kept ringing in her ears. "I know it’s going to be hard," Ray said that chilly November afternoon, "but it’s time to take Woogie and Sonny over to the stockyards. They’re getting much too big for us to handle any longer. You’ve taken good care of them, but it’s time to sell them. They’ll bring a good price at the auction next week." A grieving Jane simply couldn’t bear to help Ray load Woogie and Sonny on the truck that blustery Wednesday morning. The overcast, misty weather perfectly reflected her own heartfelt gloom.It just didn’t seem possible that it had already been almost a year since they had come to the farm in that very truck bed and now they would be leaving forever. "You stay in the house, Jane. I’ll take care of this. I know it’s sad for you to give them up." He gave her a long, comforting hug before heading out the back door to load them on the truck. With tears streaming down her face, a distraught Jane dashed into the parlor where she sat Indian style on the floor rocking back and forth, fingers stuck deep in her ears. Between sobs she sang "Happy Birthday" over and over again at the top of her lungs until she felt Ray had finally pulled out of the driveway with her two squealing, frightened pigs. It was several hours before Ray returned. By that time Jane had composed herself, realizing that giving up Woogie and Sonny was one of those things in life that couldn’t be prevented. At least her good care had given them a chance at survival as Eddie had imagined. The payment the couple received that day was used to purchase new wool carpet. Though the deed was difficult, in time, Jane learned to bring a bit of levity to the situation. She was sometimes heard to remark that she and Ray were the only folks around who have a genuine pig skin carpet in their parlor. Police Are Handicapped By Ralph R. Jones, Contributor We sure live in a topsy-turvy world, or upside down world; whichever you prefer to call it. My mother could not have kept enough soap in the house to wash out my mouth with, if I used as many bad words as people do today. The peach tree would not have survived since she would have used so many of the limbs for switches. I worked with a construction company for a number of years and there was some bad language floating around there. These men were hard working, but man, could they come out with some choice words. Sailors have had the stigma of being bad to "curse;" as in, "Cuss like a sailor." But I don’t think they were any worse than any other group of men out of earshot of the women folk. I watch some programs on TV that has so many bad words "bleeped" out that it is difficult to know what they are trying to say sometimes. One show is about police arresting people for various violations, crimes, bad driving, etc. and many times the culprit is drunk or high on some sort of drugs. There is a camera on the dashboard of the patrol car and a mike somewhere, probably on the policeman, that picks up and records every word that both of them are saying. Some of those who are arrested would not have many words to say if it weren’t for profanity.
I see on my computer screen movie stars that are almost totally undressed. Some bikini’s would be hard pressed to have a space big enough to put a decent sized price tag on them. One fellow I heard say, "She didn’t have on enough clothes to blindfold a jay bird." He was about right. Why do you reckon they want to undress in public like that? I get a catalogue for men’s work clothes and apparel; one of the features is a group of men’s underwear that they call "buck-naked." Reckon what would happen if we decided to tell all those young starlets just to go ahead and go naked? I really think they are just trying to push the envelope and see how far they can go. We can eventually learn to live with all the bad talk and the undressing of our society. However, there is a situation that has been festering for a long time and it is very serious. It may be the downfall of our society. A group in our country has decided that they can let their children grow up without any training to speak of; grow up without a father figure in the home and sometimes no mother figure either; and they think that is satisfactory. These youngsters do violent things, rob, kill, and in general cause havoc in the streets and then just dare the authorities to do anything to them. Heaven forbid if one is killed in the act of performing a crime. If this happens, then the area where it happens is under siege by rioters, looters, and thugs of all kind. The area is black-mailed into doing things that is not right or possibly legal. It costs taxpayers millions of dollars and often times the police are penalized for doing their rightful job. Some policemen are brought up on charges and stand a good chance of spending time in prison. Our society, coddled by the government’s edicts of "political correctness" is in a bad situation, to say the least. What once was good is now bad and what once was bad is now considered alright. There are several generations of people, of several races, that have never worked; EVER ! They have survived off government hand-outs and that mentality has been handed down to their children and their children, etc. Now our government is allowing illegal aliens to flood into our country without any qualifying for citizenship whatsoever. They, too, rely on the government hand-outs to survive. Why are we allowing this to happen to our country? What did our young men and women fight and die for if not for freedom and the right to govern ourselves. Was that not what we fought the Revolutionary War about? At that time there was a cry, "No taxation without representation." Now we have our own country and we are still hearing the same cry. Our own elected politicians are padding their own pockets and to heck with the people who they are supposed to represent. I say, "Give Barney back his bullet and do not let political correctness stop him from using it." Scripture tells us, "Woe unto them that call evil good, and good evil…" Isaiah 5:20 KJV; that day is now!
Bubba Bodock A Bit Of Humor Andy Taylor, the Sheriff of Mayberry, helped keep the peace in his small town. But there may be other factors involved. It just dawned on me why Mayberry was so peaceful and quiet....nobody was married. Here are the single people that come to mind: Andy, Aunt Bea, Barney, Floyd, Howard, Goober, Gomer, Sam, Ernest T Bass, the Darlin family, Helen, Thelma Lou, Clara... In fact, the only one married was Otis and he stayed drunk.
Cuzin' Cornpone A Bodock Post Exclusive Our loveable friend, Cuzin' Cornpone, appears only in The Bodock Post.
Our Mission Purpose - 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 © 2015 ~ The Bodock Post. Return to home page.
|
Welcome
to August! It is starting out to be typical weather for this summer month.
It sure is hot where we live; why only yesterday, the temperature was 94
degrees and with the humidity it felt like 104, according to the news. But
what else can you expect; it’s summertime!
This time, I was
stunned by how beautiful and meticulously maintained the church is: the polished
dark woodwork. The breathtaking stained glass windows. At the back of the
sanctuary, the tall folding doors with the same stained glass that, during
my childhood, partitioned it off and made it smaller and better suited to
the congregation. The only times I ever saw those doors open were for weddings
and funerals. They are a magnificent work of art and architecture tucked
away in this unpretentious place.
I am a rule follower most of the time, but I didn’t
obey this one. I just wasn’t sure who was going to enforce it. However,
I did look over my shoulder for a while and whisper my newborns’ names
when in public, because you never know who is eavesdropping in the next booth
at Larry’s BBQ.
The eight legs of the spider distinguish
it from insects that have only six legs. Of the 30,000 known kinds of spiders
there are two basic groups: the web-spinning and the hunting spiders. The
web-spinners have poor eyesight and are unable to catch their food so spin
a web to serve as home and insect trap.
For the past several years, after I retired,
I drove for a commercial motor coach (bus) company located here in Memphis.
During many of those trips I have taken untold numbers of people to "Graceland,"
Elvis’ mansion. Even after all these years, since 1977 (38 years), people
still flock to visit his grave site and view the artifacts of the great singer,
Elvis Presley. People come from all over the world just to visit the place
where he called home.
By then my husband had cranked the bright,
glossy new mower and it sat purring sweetly, as he took a cloth to shine
the already shiny, bright, yellow fenders. I cranked Ole Red and she shook
and shimmied, spouting smoke all around the barn, just like normal. After
a few minutes, Ole Red had its gruff growl, with the usual mighty regurgitations
kicking, which indicated she was ready for action.
Luckily, the young couple had raised both soybeans and sweet potatoes
that summer. When the potatoes were dug they sold the large ones, but saved
all the small ones to feed their new pigs. Jane liked to jokingly refer to
it as ‘Runts for Runts’. Every evening she’d cook and cool
a large iron pot of potatoes and take them out back to the hog parlor where
she was happily greeted by the grunting, hungry duo. It soon became apparent
what the saying "slopping the hogs" meant.
When I was growing up; if you cussed a policeman you stood a good
chance of ending up spending time in the calaboose with a knot on your head
so tall that you’d have to stand on a stool to rub it. If you chose
to run, you might wind up dead. I suppose "black jacks," "flappers," and
"twist clamps" are a no-no. However, today they issue policemen clubs, guns,
pepper spray, and other such stuff, but are reprimanded, and often fired,
if they use them. I think the use of "tazers" has increased since they do
not permanently harm the recipient, only stuns and immobilizes him until
he can be restrained.
