Dust of Times Past

A young boy is awakened by his fathers touch from his peaceful dreams in his warm bed. "Get up, and get ready" "It's time to go" his father ordered. Rolling out of bed his excitement of the day ahead made him hurry. The boy dressed himself in a small hunting outfit just like his fathers and grabbed his red hat and BB gun as he ran for the door. Outside he was greeted by his uncle and father as they loaded his dog into the back of a old blue chevy pickup. The dog was excited too. Normally the dog stayed by the boy's side but today he was all business because he knew their destination. They all climbed in the cab of the truck and off they went.

They drove for what seemed an eternity to the boy till a dusty Georgia red dirt road sent them to their destination. The men unloaded the dog as his tail wagged with delight. Two shotguns were removed from the gun rack and the boy grabbed his BB gun as they silently and slowly walked thru the tall pines with the dog leading. They crossed creeks and used the rocks as stepping stones. Barbed wire occasionally grabbed him as they crossed the fields. The morning sun illuminated a field of tall brown broom sage. The boy had trouble getting thru it since it came to his chest. He pushed forward in it as it tickled his nose.

All of the sudden the dog froze. He was motionless with his nose pointing forward and tail up. The men drew the shotguns from their shoulder perch and aimed forward. Slow steps forward released a covey of quail as the scattered in every direction flying away. The shotguns blast startled the boy and thundered across the field as several birds dropped to the ground and lay dead. The forest became quite. The dog immediately began the search and returned with a mouthful of bird and feathers with almost a smile on his face.

Lunch consisted of peanut butter crackers, a moon pie and a coke as they sat on stumps and used a big rock for a table. They hunted till the boy was exausted and walked like what seemed forever back to the truck. The boy climbed in the back with his dog and as they drove home both settled into a afternoon nap. Once back at home the exausted dog's long white hair was dirty and matted with sticky cockleburs. The dog took up his spot on the porch as the boy watched his father pluck feathers and start to clean the birds. He did not like that part and found his toys to occupy his time.

As the time passed the hunting suddenly stopped as age had taken its toll. His uncle had died. His dog who had been his companion for 13 years died in his arms from old age. He had long outgrown his hunting outfit and it hung out of sight in the back of his closet forgotton. He often thought about the trips with his father and wished they could do them again someday, but they never did.

Many years later a man stands in a barn his father built. He had stood there many times but had never really noticed the long forgotton hunting clothing of his fathers hanging in the corner. Its plastic wrapping was covered with layers of dust of times past. His father too was now gone and the hunts themselves would be no more. All the fabric would contain now would be the memories of a boy, a dog and a hunt in the tall Georgia pines.

Written by: Greybiker
@ http://www.southerntwilight.com/blog/

(Greybiker is a brand new contributer to the Dew. Welcome!)

Ditching Out Mudholes

Carolina mountain farmers depend as much on spring rains for their living as they do their own hands. Growing up in the Carolina mountains I learned early in life to appreciate and enjoy the weather and know that it is all just part of life. As far back as I can remember I looked forward to the rains. Mama said that as soon as I could walk good I would be two steps behind Daddy when he went out the door. I know why of course. There was always something to look forward to when going anywhere with Daddy, especially after a heavy rain.

We lived up a hollow (holler we called it) and had a narrow dirt road to the farm. When we weren't too busy farming and milking we would travel in Daddy's old "52 Chevy pickup over to Spruce Pine to get a load of spar from a mica mine. It was free for the taking and all that was required was the truck, shovels and muscle. We would haul this back and spread it on our road for gravel to help keep down mud and erosion. Sometimes we would take Old Dan and Buck, our farm horses, hook them to a sled and load up rocks that we had piled at the edge of fields we were to plant later. We would spread these rocks in the biggest mudholes and "tamp" them in with heavy locust poles. Gradually, with traffic they would sink in and make it somewhat smoother. When heavy rains came those holes would stay filled with water and Daddy didn't like that. He didn't drive but he liked to make it easy for our visitors, which were plenty, to have a decent drive.

After a rain Daddy would start for the door and grab his shovel from the basement. I'd carry a little short-handled hoe (Daddy had broken the handle and smoothed it down) given to me around the age of two. Down the road we would go and clear away any brush that might be lodged in the creek, and I would find the most magical things. Crawdads (crawfish) would be swimming backwards in the creek and Daddy showed me how to catch them without getting pinched, or scare them and watch them scoot through the mud.


Big night crawlers, good for catching the best trout would be seeping up out of the wet grassy areas on the creek bank. We'd collect them in a tin can Daddy had in his overall pocket and save them for later. He would ditch the mudholes so the water would drain from them to the creek and I would help with my hoe. I had rubber boots so I wouldn't get too muddy, but I always managed to splash mud on my overalls. Mama never fussed.

There was always such a special smell in the air after a rain, kinda like God has washed all the dirt from the trees and grass just so we could see how green it really was. Sometimes in hot weather we would see snakes lying on branches jutting into the creek and I would throw rocks to see if I could shake them off. We could catch lots of frogs hopping in the roads enjoying the "steam bath" from the warm dirt after a cool rain. Heavy rains always uncovered new rocks in the creek bed and Daddy would help me collect some of the pretty ones for Mama's flower beds. I would usually end up with a couple of small frogs in my pockets to catch bugs out of her flowers. Well, I thought that would be a good reason to put them in my pockets. They were fun but Mama was scared of them.

The creek was a most interesting place. "Skimmers" as we called water spiders would skim across the water with ease as their long legs stretched way out. Water weeds in full bloom would droop, heavy with raindrops, over the creek and black, shiny dragon flies, (snake-feeders Daddy called them) would flit from bloom. I never knew what they fed snakes but they were beautiful. Once in a while we would see big mud-turtles laying in the edge of the water in the mud. Daddy said if one were to bite you that it wouldn't turn loose 'till it thundered. I wouldn't catch any of them.

Among weeds near the creek a "writin spider"( I believe the argiope spider) dangled near its message written in code as its web glistened with rain droplets. In some of the Queen Anns Lace blossoms, soft and tiny, glistening cup-shaped, cotton webs waited patiently for some juciy morsel to fall into them. In the warm mist the cup-shaped webs appeared ghostly and of course with a child's curiosity, I would have to touch one. To my surprise it melted away as if it really had been a ghost. Down lower on the plant there might be a large deposit of white slimy spit attached to a branch. Daddy said it was from a "spittle bug".
Having never actually seen the bug and judging from the size of the spit it must have been big so I decided I did not want to see it. I could barely spit that much as big as I was.

The rains came and went giving life renewed energy, and Daddy and I had given our road the once over. We headed home a little damp and muddy but refreshingly happy. Daddy stopped to cut a birch twig for us to chew and I felt good; like I was part of something very important.

Daddy always thanked God for the good rain to help our gardens and crops. I always thanked HIM for Daddy.

By Freda Kuykendall

2006

Iced Tea

You can find anything on the Net. I have said that so many times that I ought to be on a commercial for the resourcefulness of the WWW. Therefore, it should come as no surprise that when I found myself craving a glass of good old Southern iced tea that I should hunt the Net for a good recipe.

Now - for those of you were raised on tall cold glasses of sweet tea, this might seem like a “no brainer”. However, were I was born and raised; iced tea was served without sugar. Needless to say, I was in for quite a shock when my first glass of southern iced tea was served up. And while I cannot say that the liquid is a steady in my diet, every now and then I want a good cold glass of the stuff.

Which brings me to yesterday’s pursuit of a good recipe. You see – I have attempted for years to get the taste right. Employed in my quest has been a variety of teas. Batches upon batches of sun tea, microwave tea, Mr. Coffee-maker tea, etc. were concocted in my attempts to re-create a fine glass of ice tea. All to no avail.

Do not think me too proud not to ask for advice. I did. People have a tendency to get that squirrel look on their face when you ask them how to make iced tea. Around here it is a given that you “just know”. Guess it is considered part and parcel with the Southern identity. I have listened to many a patient dear soul who tried to educate this poor ignorant soul on how to create a good glass of the amber colored elixir of life. No good – a waste of time.

No matter what I did, I ended up with an unsatisfactory simile. Half-drunk glasses of the stuff would be left by my guests (who knowing my reputation would forget and say yes to a glass of tea).

Until. Today. I am writing this with a great glass of tea sitting by my side. My tea tasting buds are dancing for joy. I finally created a good great glass of ice tea. The secret – a pinch of baking soda! All those years of frustration. All it took was one pinch of baking soda and I have produced a smooth glass of the good stuff. Wait ‘til my friends come over. There shall be no more half-empty glasses of tea at my house.

Drink up and be merry – life is good. May everyday be so sweet.

Written by: Lillium

Boiled Peanuts

I simply can not remember a summer of my childhood (or adulthood for that matter…) without boiled peanuts. Make that – I can not remember any time in my ENtire life without boiled peanuts – and, no, I am not being dramatic.

Just the words alone – boiled peanuts – makes my mouth start to water and get set for that salty delight with its juice just running all down my arms while nearly inhaling this southern delicacy.

What is a boiled peanut, you ask?

It’s not just one. You do not boil “a” peanut. You boil masses of them – for days. That’s the only way you get good boiled peanuts. Not to mention all the salt – great day! I’m swelling just at the thought.

I specifically remember one summer – I think I was about 14 – when one of our cousins and his wife were expecting their first baby. She craved boiled peanuts. We spent that entire summer playing canasta and eating boiled peanuts. It’s a wonder the baby didn’t weigh 20 lbs. and come out demanding a sackful!

Now somehow, South Carolina has claimed boiled peanuts as their official snack. Well, that’s okay and everything – South Carolina being a southern neighbor and all – but, great day in the morning, Y’all – peanuts are “the” crop of Georgia……….don’t get me wrong, Y’all, I genuinely love my southern neighbors, but who was asleep at the wheel that day?

Meanwhile, in the event you should want to cook up your own boiled peanuts rather than buy them at Bubba’s roadside, here’s the recipe:

Boiled Peanuts

INGREDIENTS:

5 Pounds of Raw (green) Peanuts (rinsed several times with cold water)

1 Cup (heaping) of salt

Largest stock pot you own. If you don’t own one – you will need to buy one that will hold 5lbs of peanuts. [There are some (lucky) people who actually cook them in those very large cast iron pots outside over an open fire. Did I mention they were lucky?]

INSTRUCTIONS:

After thoroughly rinsing the raw peanuts, place them in the stock pot. Add the salt. Fill the pot, completely covering the peanuts. In fact, you need to just fill the pot all the way up to the rim with cold water.

The peanuts will all float up to top of the water. Use a slatted spoon and push them down in the water to get them soaked a good bit and to stir the salt around evenly distributing it throughout the peanuts and water.

Put your burner on medium to medium high heat, bringing the water to a boil. Once the water boils rapidly, reduce your heat to a strong simmer.

Boil the peanuts for no less than three (3) days – maybe even four (4) days.
Seriously.

Continue to add back water as you cook the peanuts and see the water level drop from evaporation, etc. Stir the peanuts periodically throughout the cooking event.

DISCLAIMER: Now I am well aware of all the famous chefs and southern cooks on television and the Internet, published in books and what not and so forth claiming “cook the peanuts for several hours….”, but I have never eaten a boiled peanut in my life that was cooked and ready to eat in less than two days. Peanuts boiled for only a day or so are, well, crunchy.

And while I do not want to stir up a great debate over the length of time it takes to properly boil peanuts, the fact of the matter is, boiled peanuts are not crunchy.

As the peanuts continue to boil, they will cook down. “Cooking down” is a phrase that means the food is soaking up the water and salt – I guess like getting saturated in it – and they will no longer float. The water will also begin to get dark - as will the peanuts (they’ll get heavy and soggy, too, yum!).

Sometime during the second day of boiling, you need to be sampling the peanuts (my favorite part). You need to determine if they are still too crunchy, if you need more water and most definitely…..if you need more salt.

I don’t care how many times you boil a batch – the salt doesn’t always absorb the same way – so it is a must that you sample and adjust accordingly.

By the end of day three (if not somehow before), the peanuts are ready to eat.

They are best if eaten on either the front or back porch – and eat them hot to warm! But they are also good cold out of the frig the next morning, too!

I’ve been told that you can freeze them. Who eva` has any left-ova`?

In the meantime, if you’re not up to a three day cooking event and marathon, you can almost always find good boiled peanuts year round at nearly every festival and fair event across the south. Summertime fruit and vegetable stands will usually have them as well.

Eat ‘em hot and enjoy! They are to die for!

Y'all ~ I need a water pill!!

Harriette K. Jacobs
Copyright © 2006
All Rights Reserved.

Daddy's Girl

I've got this picture of my Daddy before I was ever delivered from heaven to south of the Mason Dixon into his unsuspecting life. He's sitting on a fencepost as a teenager actin' the fool. He and his sharecropper family had survived the Great Depression and he was probably a freshman in high school, give or take a couple of years. He looks happy and full of hope and faith. Billy went to the ag college up in Martin Tennessee and got a degree in farming and wildlife and such. As fate would have it, this farm became his to oversee shortly after his Air Force duty and graduation. His day job was with the US Department of Agriculture tracking bugs with colored pins on a giant United States map. He would scour the surrounding West Tennessee counties and come home for a good hot red-faced supper of vegetables that he had grown himself, fried just so by Mama and accompanied by homemade biscuits. Dang, that woman can cook like a wizard! Purple hull peas are his favorite and I reckon I inherited that trait. You have to cook 'em just so...for a long time with bacon and plenty of water until they're soft enough not to crack a tooth. Funny thing about those purple hulls. They get better every time you warm 'em up again. Peaches'n'cream corn is the same way. Daddy joined the Methodist church back when he married MaMa and has served the least of these like Jesus would do in so many ways. Prior to that he was a Southern Baptist, drug to church by Miss Laura who was always in the business of saving souls for the Lord. They all lived out there on the road to Roellen, right close to Billy Yeargin and them. When Daddy was just a boy, he fell out of the barn loft and broke both of his arms. Those bossy sisters of his wiped his tail until the arm bones healed enough for him to do the job. The oldest was Mary Virginia, with Helen close behind. The baby sister goes by the name of Katherine Rose...Kathy for short. We used to go to family reunions down in Blue Mountain, Mississippi where his family lived. I remember a big old house with a huge wrap around porch and lots of homemade pie. Since it was Mississippi in the summer, it was hot as hades but I didn't care as long as the screen doors didn't pop me me in the butt runnin' in and out to play. Life was good for the farmer's daughter. We went fishing in the cowponds with cane poles and dreams of the big bite. When winter set in it was time for the calves to be delivered and sometimes he would do the deed in the middle of a snowy night, all clad in insulated coveralls and totin' a chain to drag that baby moo into our beautiful world. One Christmas Eve he snuck out and made some reindeer tracks in the snow covered yard so that us kids would wake up to the miracle of Santa. He loves dogs, especially border collies.

I made Daddy cry one time, and I'll never forget the shame I felt over that. Late one night I crept out of the house to meet a boy out on the road for some smooching. Sometimes I still do feel like I've disappointed him in some way, but in my heart I know he's proud of who I am because I'm a lot like him. I can pitch a runnin' Stafford fit with the best of them. Happy Father's Day, BG. You done good.

Hidden Treasures

What little I know about other areas of the world has been acquired mostly from reading. I am not a "world traveler" as many are but I do know of God, wonderful grandparents and growing up in the North Carolina mountains. I feel that I am an expert on this as I learned of it "first-hand".

A small child is a remarkable thing to behold. The imagination reaches far beyond one's vision and into other worlds as did one of our greatest authors, Robert Louis Stevenson. I had a GOOD imagination as a child. I had to have in order to do some of the most wonderful and most disasterous things that I did.

Feel free to let your mind wander back to those days gone by and study some of the games, toys, and inventions that survived insurmountable obstacles to come to life in your childhood as I share a few of mine. Being a child and the master of invention, I thought a grapevine swing was one of mine. But truthfully I do not know how far back that goes. I could swing to and fro over the Amazon river and monstrous snakes would strike for me. Or perhaps I would just swing over the Grand Canyon and see Indians riding after wild horses. I might even swing over the Jordan river and see Jesus being baptised.


I had a horse and for a child from a poor farm family rich only in love, that was a wonderful thing. Daddy had two big Belgium farm horses that he used to log the forests, plow the fields, gather corn, or mow the hay. But my horse was an old tree which many years ago was hit by lightening, or trampled by Indians riding ponies while chasing deer or big cats. No matter. This tree horse (Lightening I named him) was bent just so a child could, if she had a mind too, actually saddle it and gallop away into far away places. I rode with Chief Red Cloud into battle across prairies and fought the white man. I rode with the Lone Ranger and Tonto, Wild Bill Hickock, Geranimo, Roy Rogers and Hopalong Cassidy. Some days I rode out alone and camped near a great flowing stream in the Smoky Mountains and feared for my life as huge black bear, "painters" and wildcats roamed the night.

I loved to walk with my Dad on the farm. He told stories as we walked or pointed out things a child might miss, such as an Indian arrowhead laying in the trail, or a buckeye to put in your pocket for good luck. He knew all the names of plants, such as "mountain tea" which I think we now call wintergreen. I picked many of the tiny leaves growing just above the soil and chewed them until they became bitter, savoring the wonderful wintergreen taste. The old folks and Indians made a medicinal tea from it. He taught me to pick "branch lettuce" to carry home for Mama to fix wilted lettuce with spring onions and fried fatback grease poured over it. With Mama's fresh hot cornbread and homemade butter, a child could eat so fast she forgot she had supper. Daddy knew all the different rocks, kinds of soil, birds, bugs, and once pointed out to me a "June" bug. Now, this was a most fascinating bug. It was big, dark green and shiny and strong. He taught me how to tie a string around one leg and turn it loose. I would fly one for hours until it pulled off a leg or I got tired. I did, however, notice that my hands surely smelled after handling them. Many years later, I learned they were called "carion bugs" by some and survived in unmentionable places. I discouraged my children of flying "June" bugs.

Daddy taught me to make my own bows and arrows. He would cut hickory splits, somehow just the right lengths and I would tie them into bows, placing them in the creek to soak for days until they were permanently bowed. Seemed forever waiting for them. "Bird points" (tiny arrowheads) made fine points for my small arrows. I was cautioned to shoot at set targets, not at living things. Hours passed as I rode Lightening with Indians whooping and hollering, being shot at and shooting back. Later, I spent many hours in plowed fields hunting for the prized arrowheads or anything resembling one. I found many treasures: seashells in fields and trails high in the North Carolina mountains and wondering if they got there during the Great Flood, stone marbles of all sizes belonging to history, pottery shards telling stories of all kinds, old "muleshoe" shaped, corked bottles which likely held some sort of medicine of yesterday, perhaps the dreaded Castor oil. UGH!! I found "cow killers", large fuzzy, red and black ant-looking creatures and treasures of time long past; each one holding a marvelous, most exciting adventure.

I sailed wooden boats with a rusty nail mast and piece of flour sack for a sail, up and down our 3 foot wide creek and ventured into places beyond the wildest imagination, meeting Eric the Red, Comodore Perry, and even Columbus on the greatest adventure of all. I sailed down the Mississippi with Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer and up the Missouri to watch Custer in his last adventure then down the Colorado and all of its rapids to look up at canyon walls and wonder of its history. My Dad could make the most wonderful boats. You have probably heard of him as one of the greatest boat makers of all of history, and he used only a handsaw, a tiny board with a rusty nail, and an old rag Mama gave him. He never knew his fame and fortune came from those boats. I wish I had the chance to tell him.

Living in the country could get sorta lonesome with none of my school friends nearby so on Sundays after church I would beg and plead to Mama and Daddy to let someone come home with me, or hope they would let me go home with someone. When friends came home with me no time was wasted after the dishes were finished. We would head out the door to the barn and come up with many things to do. Kick-the-can was one of my favorite games when I had two or three more kids there. Mama would give us an empty KARO syrup bucket or Pure Lard bucket and we would hunt a tobacco stick. If you never played kick-the-can you haven't lived. Rules are: Inny-meany-miney-moe to choose who is "it". Can placed in center of large "hiding area" of course outside the house. Near a barn is a particularly good place. Inny-meany-miney-moe is done again to see who gets to hit the can first. After the can is hit as hard and far as possible from said spot, "it" chases the can, retrieves it to said spot, counts to 100 or chosen number while all others find super good hiding places. "It" stays "it" until she can catch someone trying to sneak in to hit the can again. Sometimes a particularly young or small, unknowing, trusting little soul might acidentally get stuck being "it" for a while, until we began to feel guilty and got caught. After the Grindstaff family rented the old Carter home on our place I had kids to play this game quite often.

I would have never been crowned a champion marble player but I could hold my own with the best of the boys at school. Winning their marbles would come back to haunt me later when hoping to secure a date for the prom. Boys remember the strangest things like loss of marbles, failing to catch high flys hit by a girl, or losing at arm wrestling to a girl in the fifth grade. Somehow my imagination missed that one. In later years with the Smiths and Jones competing to see who could grow the prettiest lawns sand or dirt was almost annihilated from yards. The game of Marbles was then placed on the Endangered Species list. I bought modeling clay and made circles and mounds on our congoleum floor for my kids on rainy days and loved it.

Mama and Daddy went to school only 6 years and only 6 months of each of those years. Hard work like skinning cherry bark, sassafras bark and root, gathering chestnuts and herbs for medicinal teas, and growing everything they had to eat to survive filled most of their days. However, since my daughter still has Mama's "First Reader", education in those days far exceeded our expectations today. My fifth grade reading would have been comparable to Mama's first. Both Daddy and Mama were resourceful in many areas. Mama taught me a game called "Fox and Geese". It consisted of a piece of cardboard with lines penciled on it, two red grains of dry corn and I believe 20 white grains of corn. Of course the object of the game was for the fox, inny-meany-miney-moe chose which, to catch the geese. I wish I could remember the principle with which we moved. If any reader knows that would be great. Mama was a wise old bird and though shy, as sneaky as she could be. Checkers was her "favor-ite" game and she truly was a champion. She would have me trapped in two or three moves and snicker from the side of her mouth. Somehow the board acidentally managed to get knocked over or kings toppled from their perches never to recover. Of course many times Mama let me win when I was younger.

"I Spy" was another of Mama's favorite games during rainy or snowy days when for one reason or another I could not sneak outside. Mama would spy something of a certain size, color, or pecularity in a designated room and it would be my job to guess in a number of guesses or she would spy something else. No matter how busy Mama was she took time for me. I hope to pass all these along to my grandchildren.

Mumblepeg was a favorite game of boys and a few girls who had knives. Of course, Daddy had a knife so I had one too. It could be a dangerous game but played carefully was quite challenging. The choice of knife was a five-bladed or more so you could get lots of points. Playing in the dining room on Mama's hardwood floor, however, was not one of the more desirable spots.

I write this hoping you have enjoyed traveling back over the years with me and realize how important it is to communicate with your children and grandchildren the value of quality time instead of television. I truly feel by sharing at an early age how to use your imagination boosts a child's ability to love life and the desire for stability and knowledge throughout life.


Written by Freda Kuykendall

2006

Just Desserts

It was a sunny April day when JoBeth McClusky found out that her husband, Rick, was having an affair with the town’s…how do you say it delicately? Well, let’s just say she was as easy to get as a cut in a briar patch.

There we were, standin’ on the sidewalk in front of Pat’s Set and Curl, just leavin’ after our monthly beautifyin’, when we saw Rick sittin’ across the street next to the park in his precious Cadillac with his hand down Virginia Hoopah’s blouse! Right next to the statue of Blue Falls, Alabama’s own General Lee Hartford who died in the Battle of Blue Falls durin’ the War of Northern Aggression.

I declayah, it was one of the most shockin’ things I have evah seen, let me tell y’all! If it had been me, I’d have marched right ovah to that car and wrung his neck, that’s for sure.

But not Jo Beth McClusky. She stood there for, I don’t know how long, couldn’t have been but a few minutes, but her face nevah moved. Not a sign of angah or sadness. She just turned away and began walkin’ down the sidewalk towards her house on Spring Street.

Latah on she would tell us ladies at the Set and Curl how she got even with the cheatin’ son of a witch. It was pretty sickenin’, let me tell y’all right now. That woman went straight home like nothin’ had even happened and started dinnah. When Rick came home a few hours latah, Jo Beth was calm, cool and the perfect southern lady. Little did he know that his beef casserole was actually made with his dog, Fred’s, canned Alpo. She called it Alporole. Snort

But THAT was only the beginnin’. A few days latah, she called me while I was watchin’ my soap opera. At first I was annoyed, but what she had to say grabbed my attention, and y’all know that nothin’ can drag me away from Sofie, Mal and my other favorite charactahs.

"Dadgummit, Jolene! Y’all won’t believe what I found this mornin’! That dadblamed man is a swingah!"

"A what? He’s been swingin’? On what, Jo Beth?"

"No! He’s a swingah! He’s been goin’ to these parties…" she whispered, "Orgies, Jolene!"

"No!" I was horrified, if not slightly titillated.

"Yes! I found his password for the computah so I could check and see if he’d been emailin’ that slut again. but I found out that he’s been goin’ into these chat rooms for swingahs, makin’ plans to meet these deviants, and then takin’ Mrs. Virginia Hoopah as his significant othah so they could all have sex!" This last word was spoken in a hushed mannah, but I could tell she was just shocked and livid.

"I can’t even get him to buy me some Tampax!" she said, "I tell you, Jolene, I’m as mad as coon stuck in a pickle jar and I’m gonna make sure that that man pays."

"What are you gonna do, Jo Beth?" I asked eagahly. I absolutely adore gettin’ even with husbands. I have gone through two so far and both of them were cheatin’ horndogs. Let’s just say they involved Uncle Leo and his Mafia buddies up north in Chicago, but those are stories for anothah day.

Jo Beth went on, "Oh, I’ve got an idea, Hon, but I won’t say right now."

And she didn’t, to my utmost dismay. In the meantime, she went about her business as usual. Monday goin’ grocery shoppin’, Tuesday doin’ the wash, Wednesday volunteerin’ at the veterinarian’s office, etceteras, etceteras… And while she was doin’ all of that, she was makin’ side trips to old Mrs. Johnson, who was said to work voodoo and could mix up a fine potion for errin’ husbands. By Thursday, that man got his just desserts in a way that had the whole town talkin’ for months! I should know. I’ve had Mrs. Johnson’s ‘help’ before!

Now, Jo Beth walked back into the Set and Curl on Friday and said she finally wanted to confess. The girls and I sat spellbound, waitin’ to hear what dastardly deed she did to run off the cheatin’ blankety blank.

"Here, honey, have some tea," Pat had said, handing her a cold glass before sitting down in one of the cuttin’ chairs, "Now tell us all about it."

I’m gonna tell you right now that Jo Beth McClusky is a pure genius, that’s what she is. Get this…on Monday she made Rick his favorite dinnah: spicy chili and cornbread with a chocolate cake for dessert. He found out real fast that the chili was extra hot that night, but he dealt with it. The cornbread had chopped up chili peppahs in it, so he was chuggin’ down the beer like it was goin’ outa style. But the cake, oh that beautiful chocolate cake? Jo Beth used a special ingredient: Ex Lax. I know it’s common, but it’s very effective.

Rick spent the entire night on the john, bless his heart! Served him right.

Tuesday, Jo Beth sprinkled itchin’ powdah on his shirt and slacks. She said he came home from the bank early, his skin all blood red from all the scratchin’ he did. She just cooed to him, and helped him off with the offendin’ clothes, and led him to a bath filled with warm watah and some of those voodoo herbs from Mrs. Johnson. I’m assumin’ that it didn’t feel too good soakin’ into all those scratches because I could hear him yellin’ from my back porch and I live three blocks away.

But it gets bettah.

Now, on Wednesday, Jo Beth brought home a special guest from the vet’s office. Rick, unknowingly, climbed into bed with Slimy, Miss Teensy Kilbraken’s latest pet du jour who was on loan from the vet. Slimy must have been curled up at the foot of the bed undah the sheets when Rick climbed in because he started screamin’ that somethin’ had bitten his toes off and then ran out of that room in nothin’ but his underwear.

Of course, Miss Teensy had found out that Slimy had been terrorized, (won’t say who told her) so she decided to put one of her spells on Rick. Now we in Blue Falls don’t normally take much stock in spells and such, but Miss Teensy has a way about her. She has been known to make things happen. Like the time she cursed Mayah Wolford with ticks, and the time she made it snow one winter. Way down here in the south and it snowed!

Anyway, Jo Beth said she and her significant othah were sittin’ in their rockin’ chairs on the front porch when Miss Teensy walked up and then stopped, pointedly, in front of their house.

"Oh crap!" Rick had said, as he stopped rockin’.

"What’s the mattah, honey?" asked Jo Beth innocently, while cross stitchin' a sampler. She always did have a good pokah face.

"It’s that Kilbraken brat. She’s starin’ at me," Rick whispered, then jumped out of his chair. "Oh Dear Lord, she’s sayin’ something! Everybody knows when she chants she puts a curse on you! What have you done, woman?"

Jo Beth said she just kept on a rockin’ and smiled.

We all asked her what Miss Teensy had actually said, but Jo Beth refused to say. Latah, we all learned that Rick had been afflicted with a man’s problem and could no longah attend those ‘swingin’ parties any more. Plus, pictures of him and Virginia mysteriously showed up in her husband’s car along with a few loveletters they had written to each othah. Needless to say, Rick didn’t stick around long enough for Mr. Hoopah to come aftah him.

And Jo Beth? Well, she ended up with a hefty divorce settlement, the Cadillac, and the house.

Life is never dull in Blue Falls, Alabama.


© 2006 Dana Sieben
www.southerngalgoesnorth.blogspot.com

Southern Fried Biscuits

(Not for someone watching calories or cholesterol!)

1 1/4 cups milk
1/4 cup water
1 1/4 tablespoons sugar
3/4 tablespoon active dry yeast (2 2/3 packages)
1/4 cup shortening
1 3/4 teaspoons salt
2-2 5/8 cups flour

Makes approximately 24 biscuits

1 hour 10 minutes 1 hr prep
Dissolve yeast in warm water.
Add and combine sugar, shortening and salt.
Add flour until mixture has a good dough consistency.
Knead for 5 minutes and let rise until about 1 1/2 times.
(45 min) don't let it rise to high.

Roll out and cut into biscuits.

Heat oil in deep fryer to about 355 degrees but no hotter or biscuits will come out with a soggy center.

Drop biscuits in oil and fry for 8 to 10 minutes.

They should be medium brown and done through.

Do not crowd too many biscuits in the oil at one time.

Recipe donated by Jen at J. Butterfly

FRIED DILL PICKLES

We Southerners will fry anything!









1 jar sliced hamburger dill pickles
1 egg
1/2 c. milk
1 1/2 c. fish fry

Mix egg and milk then dip pickles in mixture. Roll in fish fry. Deep fry in oil until golden and crisp. Drain well on paper towels.

It may sound odd, but they are tasty!

Recipe donated by Jen
http://asoutherngirldiscovered.blogspot.com/

"The Little Outdoor Toilet"

Sharing Wonderful Southern Comforts

My grandparents, Mama and Daddy, took me in upon my leaving the hospital when I was only three weeks old . Four years later, in 1949, Daddy bought a farm of our own and built our new house. At this time not many mountain folk were financially able to have indoor bathrooms so down by the creek Daddy and my two uncles, Richard and Don, dug a deep hole and set a little wooden building over it. This was "the little outdoor toilet".

If people waited until the last minute to go to the bathroom at our house, it became a serious matter when they discovered that the outdoor toilet (outhouse) was quite a distance from the house. Using an outhouse is an experience I"ll never forget, and over the years I developed a deep, passionate hatred for the little outdoor toilet. I remember our toilet well, especially on the long, cold winter nights when a foot or two of snow lay on the ground with more falling.

Poorer than some mountain folk, we owned only one porcelain "pee pot" with a lid; the one kept under Mama's and Daddy's bed. Mama had given me an eight-pound lard bucket to put under my bed as they were plentiful. When she ran out of home-rendered lard she bought Pure Lard in metal buckets. She saved them for a variety of uses such as: berry-picking, milking cows, carrying water from the spring, playing kick-the-can, or for a "pee can" under the bed.

Mama wouldn't let me use the bucket for anything other than peeing to avoid the long-suffering of other family members, and the fact that it had to be kept clean. On a cold winter night I was in trouble if I had to do "number two". I'd have to wake Daddy to light the old kerosene lantern then proceed to hunt the Sears-Roebuck catalog (good for wishing too). Sometimes we didn't have spare paper; however, we were usually well-supplied with corn cobs. It was my job to keep the basket filled with cobs as I helped Daddy shell corn for the chickens, guinneas, duck, turkeys, and pigs. I like catalogs best! The trip to the outhouse in the winter was always cold and lonely but fast. Our winters started in October and usually continued through March or April before the snows and cold would ease up.

Another reason I hated the outhouse involved my Aunt Jean, who lived in Oregon and her visits home -- thank God-- were few. Sometimes I was glad God put Oregon all the way across the country! I really love my Aunt Jean and enjoyed having her visit except for the many trips we made to the outhouse. She is Mama's youngest daughter and at that time was in her 20's (now in her 70's) and full of mischief. She had a twinkle in her eyes and possessed a floor length, PINK, chenille housecoat which she would put on a first light to make her regular trip to the outhouse. Since the outhouse stood about a hundred yards from the house she would usually dash out the door, paper in hand. Spotting the big white turkey gobbler lurking outside, she would run back in and yell, "Freda, get your stick and hurry!!". I'd grab my stick kept by the door and take off running after her.

At first glance our old turkey gobbler appeared docile. Truth be told, he was overcome with a passion for meaness like no other we had ever had. He was white as snow but his face and neck changed color with his moods. When showing off for hens, his face and neck would range from a deep turquoise blue to a pale sky blue; however, when angry or excited they would turn to violent red. He would then strut, make a loud noise by dragging his wings on the ground, and puff up like a huge, white, feathery balloon apt to burst at any moment from over-inflation! A bluff more than anything else, this was still effective enough to keep men inside their cars for protection. For years no one realized that he really was not after the men, but the other gobbler which he could see in the car; his own reflection!!

This cantankerous turkey passionately disliked hot PINK or RED colors. He seemed to lurk just outside the back door, waiting for trouble, especially when Aunt Jean was home. The moment she popped out the door in that old pink housecoat, he would strut, bobbing his head up and down 'til he looked as if he were an Indian doing a war dance. He'd turn as red as the "poke" berries which he loved to eat so well, while drumming his wing tips on the ground with anger. I'd whip him away, escort Aunt Jean to the outhouse, then stand guard because I had actually seen him so angry that he would "flog" the door. Aunt Jean must have enjoyed the turkey's exhibition or she would have worn something else to the outhouse. She kept that housecoat for years.

Even more scary were the many unwelcome visitors and boarders which frequently inhabited the outhouse. The monstrous bird spiders would move in, web, babies and all overnight, then pretend to pay rent by catching insects. The spider's legs, long as those belonging to an octopus, looked as if they might reach out and wrap around me at any moment. Their funnel web created a mysterious aura about the spiders, giving them the advantage of being able to sneak up on me. While I sat concentrating on the task at hand, one would dash out to the mouth of the funnel to peek, pause for a moment then dash back inside as if hooked by a rubber band. It could break the strongest concentration, and many times I'd have to make two trips to complete the task or leave with pants the slightest bit damp. It was hard to run and wipe at the same time.

Daddy called the other creature a "thousand-legged worm" and I believed it too!! That worm was about two and a half inches long and completely surrounded by legs. It looked as if it were dressed for trick-or-treat at Halloween in its costume of black and bright yellow, and being unable to tell one end from the other, I wasn't sure whether it was coming or going, but I was usually going! I could feel each of those thousand legs tippy-toeing through my hair at the base of my neck. Often I left without finishing the paperwork!

Most of all I hated the outdoor toilet because it was far from the house. It was in my fifth year of life on a sultry, Sunday afternoon in August, that family and visitors crowded around Daddy on the large front porch listening to him reminisce about horse-breaking in the stable for Paul Bruce, fishing with Gudge Barnette or some bear hunt with Glen Whitt. Daddy was sitting on the front steps whittling magically on a stick. Everyone the this period of relaxation that follows a week of grueling, hard work on a tobacco-dairy farm. Now and then sunlight reflecting from a car traversing the Blue Ridge Parkway would flash through the trees while the drone of a single plane stirring the billowy, buttermilk clouds would slice the peacefulness like a knife. Even the flies were lazy and deliberately slow while savoring each passing breeze for a tantalizing odor.

I just couldn't stand it much longer! I had to go pee! I didn't want to miss the story nor the fascinating game of mumblepeg between two boys on the porch, so I had dawdled too long and knew I would never make it to the outhouse. Mama could plainly see that I was to the fidgeting stage already and since she had to go too, she said, "Come on. Just this once we'll sneak around behind the house but you have to be careful and not be seen". We went out the back door to the right and above the house, passing bedroom windows and near some small bushes. While getting into the squatting position I glanced at Mama doing the same. At first it was funny because of the mischievous thing we were doing until I saw the black snake, coiled and ready to strike only a foot or so from Mama. Being acquainted with snakes from egg-gathering and berry-picking, I was a fast thinker and mover even at five years old. Yelling, "Snake!", I grabbed Mama's hand. Still in the sitting position with my pants down, I waddled along pulling Mama to her knees with her pants still down, and out past the bushes at the front corner of the house into full view of our front porch. People who I don't remember or prefer not too, were now racked with uncontrollable laughter. It must have been a sight to behold!!

This incident led to the gradual demise of the little outdoor toilet. Mama was normally a very shy, easily embarrassed, sweet little old lady but when confronted she became a brick wall of determination. When Daddy sold the tobacco that fall, she insisted on having and indoor "toilet" installed, complete with a tub for bathing. For me it meant no more carrying water for Saturday baths in front of the Home Comfort wood stove in the kitchen, but more important; NO MORE TRIPS TO THE OUTHOUSE!

The little outhouse stood neglected, while insistant pink, white and blue morning glories poked their bright, proud heads through cracks in the door, adorning it with the hope that perhaps someone might pause to say, "Look at the pretty little toilet". The knot holes in the boards watched with sad, basset hound eyes as if pleading with me to stop and sit, even if only for a moment. The door swung open wistfully with each passing breeze while the rusty hinges sang a mournful song.

Hickory shakes from the roof would rise with each wind as if tipping a "Good Day!" to passers by. Gradually the rusty nails began to shrink and slip from their holes causing the boards to sag, allowing spirits from the past to float through the cracks.

With time the little outhouse came down, board by board as Daddy stacked them away, filled the hole with dirt, then planted a grapevine where the little outhouse once stood. The grapevine struggled for survival and still weaves its way through a knobby, gnarled, old weeping willow, but to this day the vine has never seemed healthy nor put forth many grapes. From the past a wispy little voice hauntingly seems to say, "It's my way of getting even!".

Though I hated the little outdoor toilet years ago, soon to be reconstructed, it will proudly welcome each visitor while nestled in its own special place among day lillies, foxglove, iris and azaleas at the edge of my yard.

Each of my stories are written with loving memories of my days with Mama and Daddy, the best parents ever.

Freda Kuykendall
1991

Idgie's back from the beach!

Hey there.... I had to be dragged, kicking and screaming, back from Gulf Shores, Alabama. But I am here and ready to get back to work.

If you held your submissions for my return, go ahead and send them my way! (I could really use some stories/info on Mississippi, Louisiana, and the Carolina's - they are severely lacking here.)

I had a great time and will shortly have two restaurant reviews - fantastic - (LuLu's and Original Oyster House) and also a write up of the conditions of the area itself... which I will say now was distressing to me.... I thought it would be much further along in it's renovations. I fear it's not lack of money, but lack of interest in battling Mother Earth again that's keeping Gulf Shores from being the hustling hive of liveliness and energy it once was.

Anywho, give me a day or two to get settled, and I'll start telling ya'll all about the places to go and places to eat!