The Death of Books?

You know, you wouldn't think this recession would hit a little ol' magazine like the Dew, which charges nothing, accepts most stories, and tries to stay out of the way of the big boys.

Well, believe it or not, the Dew feels it too!

Actually, what the Dew is feeling is sad these days.

As you know the Dew reviews books for many publishing houses. It has a lot of contacts and enjoys very much being "in the business" as tiny as it's "in" might be.

The Dew usually receives several books a month from different publishing houses. If it requests a book, a reply comes quickly and it's generally positive. The Dew admits to being a bit spoiled.

Well, the recession has hit publishing very hard - the raising price of books before that didn't help matters when everything started to go south. Large independent city bookstores that I remember from my youth are closing by the day. Chain stores sell nothing but the top few sellers. I've heard that several publishing houses didn't even pick new books up this season. Their inventory was too large from the last.

Last week I sent off a flurry of emails to various houses regarding 4 or 5 Southern natured books I saw out there in Bookland. I was confident in my emails and assumed that replies and books would be forthcoming.

Well, it was a harsh surprise when several emails came back as contact unknown. Apparent layoff victims there. The others... well, not one single email was answered. Not one. Perhaps everyone was laid off and only a few were deleted from their systems before I sent emails. Perhaps the emails lay dormant in piles of unanswered letters from understaffed offices. Perhaps these companies are so bowed under that they don't care if the dinky little Dew reviews one of their books.

The Dew hears from a lot of writers who are frustrated by the lack of response they receive from the publishing houses and we always have, in the past, offered encouragement to stay the course and keep trying because they could be discovered one day soon.

What happens if there are no publishers left to discover them and no bookstores left to sell them? What if sites like the Dew disappear for lack of input?

Folks, I am in a somber mood tonight.

Hometown award elusive

CELIA RIVENBARK

---

Loyal readers know that I was born and raised in a small town in a very rural county in southeastern North Carolina. Duplin County is an agricultural county, home to miles of chicken houses, turkey farms, hog parlors and some people. It has a picturesque county seat with a courthouse square, a popular winery, an amphitheater and a collection of small towns, one of which is this close to getting a Super Wal-Mart.

It's a great place to grow up, the kind of county where everybody knows everybody and, where, in one small town, everybody knows the local doctor doesn't believe in Daylight Savings Time so they show up at 2:00 for a "1:00 appointment." Small-town quirks give Duplin County its abundant charm.

It's also home of the world's largest frying pan. When I was younger, we'd attend chicken-fry fundraisers and the Lions Club volunteers had to turn the chickens with pitchforks because the pan was so huge. I covered the opening of the county's very first McDonald's and gave the mayor his own framed photograph of the event.

To say that I am nostalgic and appreciative of my rural upbringing in general and Duplin County in particular would be to seriously understate the situation.

Which is why it hurts to the quick, my hons, that I am going on 12 years of unsuccessful application to the Duplin County Hall of Fame.

Stop laughing; I'm serious.

My husband nominated me 12 years ago and each year, along about this time, I receive a very nice form letter telling me that "all nominees are deserving of the honor and recognition of receiving the award, for they have contributed in a significant manner to the growth, development and well-being of Duplin County, North Carolina, the United States and/or the world and its people."

OK, maybe I am really not deserving of being considered. After all, I can't honestly say writing a humor column or a few books has helped the well-being of the "world and its people."

I'm like a fat and much younger Susan Lucci, except that even she eventually got her Emmy. Because there are actually two Hall of Fame recipients announced each year - one living and one deceased - I'm starting to wonder if I'm going to have to die to win this thing. I've got my pride: If they pick me posthumously, I won't show up to accept it or to enjoy the much ballyhooed "nice steak dinner."

There are many more deserving recipients, that much is obvious. But, frankly, I was hoping that, by now, sheer population numbers would ensure that I'd have a shot. They're going to run out of people before I win this thing. If I lose to a chicken, somebody's gonna die.

In the meantime, I'll watch the mailbox every October, sulk a bit and continue to work on my new book: "Duplin County: Gateway to Pender County." Or something like that.

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ONLINE | For past columns, go to MyrtleBeachOnline.com.

VIRGINIA WINTER

VIRGINIA WINTER

Hobo Autumn hoisted his bindle,
hitchhiked out to another year, a warmer climate,
hoping to catch up with Spring
– then Winter arrived, demanding entrance,
banging at the door with cold fists as if he lives here,
doffing his hat to show where he keeps long nights--
when he opened his suitcase in the dank hallway,
darkness spilled onto the floor,
a few icy stars rolled across the rug.
He handed out freezing rain as if it were candy,
and from his frozen pockets he drew forth
a penny-whistle for the children,
upon which he blew a chill wind,.
We gave the old miser the extra room,
the one with the leaky window
where the draft comes in,
counting the days until he moves on.

Author: Jack Peachum

Chicken and Dumplins

Chicken and Dumplins
By Jane-Ann Heitmueller

"Hey Mother, I'm standing in the kitchen in a puddle of water." "UH, oh", I replied. "Is the new refrigerator leaking?" "Nope", " Kathy's water has just broken and we're headed to the hospital." It was May 29, 2003 and I, as well, was in our own kitchen at Mulberry Farm, some 200 miles away; swaddled in an apron, hands white with flour, rolling out dough to make a pot of chicken and dumplins for supper. And so it was that we learned of your exciting arrival, just one month ago today…so happy birthday to you, our brand new granddaughter! How strange it is that although we don't really know you, the love affair has already begun. Actually, it truly began when, in November, your Mommy and Daddy surprised us with the sonogram of your beginning.

Because your Daddy assured us that the three and a half hour trip would give us ample time to arrive before you officially entered this planet, I continued to stir the dumplins and mentally plan what one packs for the birth of her very first granddaughter. Common sense abruptly kicked in saying, "Lady, who cares what the grandmother wears, just pack something decent and hit the road." Suddenly your daddy, calm as a cucumber, was calling again. " You may not make it on time. The doctor said we would give it one more hour and if the baby hasn't come he will do a c-section."

Hurriedly, I rushed up both the packing and the dumplins and leaving your Uncle Fred in charge of the four dogs, three cats, twelve cows and "Bucky", the new baby calf on a bottle, your Grosspapa and Grammy struck out, just before midnight, on the adventure of our lives to meet and greet YOU!

I wondered just what thoughts swirled through your Grosspapa's mind as we streaked eastward. My own thoughts drifted to the excitement that must have been felt by the shepherds and wise men those many years ago, as they too, traveled to joyously welcome a new born babe. My mental video camera was racing as wildly as were we. I must record every precious morsel of this memorable journey along a black ribbon of highway, encased in our black velvet compartment, winding our way to your birthplace. As we scurried through the dark night I thought…how perfect…much like the midnight ride of Paul Revere…she's coming, she's coming!

We didn't talk much, each of us immersed in his own private thoughts and concerns. Silently, we both send heartfelt prayers on behalf of you and your mommy as the two of you traveled on your own journey. How quickly the past nine months had flown by and how proud, thankful and excited your parents were that all of their dreams, plans and hopes of your being were suddenly dangling on the precipice of reality! It was only in the quietness of that ride that the true realization of you, a living, breathing person, a part of your Mommy, Daddy, Aunt Terri, Uncle Fred, Grandpa Tom, Oma, Grosspapa , Grammy and a host of ancestors yet past, was really to be…

Thank you dear Lord, for your precious gift, which we are all about to receive.

Love and hugs,
Grammy

'Washing Clothes Recipe'

Years ago an Alabama grandmother gave the new bride the following recipe:

This is an exact copy as written and found in an old scrapbook -
with spelling errors and all.


WASHING CLOTHES

Build fire in backyard to heat kettle of rain water. Set tubs so smoke wont blow in eyes if wind is pert. Shave one hole cake of lie soap in boilin water.

Sort things, make 3 piles
1 pile white,
1 pile colored,
1 pile work britches and rags.
To make starch, stir flour in cool water to smooth, then thin down with boiling water.

Take white things, rub dirty spots on board, scrub hard, and boil, then rub colored don't boil just wrench and starch.

Take things out of kettle with broom stick handle, then wrench, and starch.

Hang old rags on fence.

Spread tea towels on grass.

Pore wrench water in flower bed. Scrub porch with hot soapy water. Turn tubs upside down.

Go put on clean dress, smooth hair with hair combs. Brew cup of tea, sit and rock a spell and count your blessings.
================================================
Paste this over your washer and dryer Next time when you think things are bleak, read it again, kiss that washing machine and dryer, and give thanks. First thing each morning you should run and hug your washer and dryer, also your toilet---
(those two-holers used to get mighty cold, and those corn cobs got
mighty rough if left out of the jar of water)

____________________________________________________

Author Unknown
Submitted by Arlene Lindsay

History of Aprons

I don't think our kids know what an apron is.

The principal use of Grandma's apron was to protect the dress underneath,
because she only had a few, it was easier to wash aprons than dresses and
they used less material, but along with that, it served as a potholder for
removing hot pans from the oven.

It was wonderful for drying children's tears, and on occasion was even used
for cleaning out dirty ears.

From the chicken coop, the apron was used for carrying eggs, fussy chicks,
and sometimes half-hatched eggs to be finished in the warming oven.

When company came, those aprons were ideal hiding places for shy kids.

And when the weather was cold, grandma wrapped it around her arms.

Those big old aprons wiped many a perspiring brow, bent over the hot wood stove.

Chips and kindling wood were brought into the kitchen in that apron.

From the garden, it carried all sorts of vegetables After the peas had been
shelled, it carried out the hulls.

In the fall, the apron was used to bring in apples that had fallen from the trees.

When unexpected company drove up the road, it was surprising how much
furniture that old apron could dust in a matter of seconds.

When dinner was ready, Grandma walked out onto the porch, waved her apron,
and the men knew it was time to come in from the fields to dinner.

It will be a long time before someone invents something that will replace
that 'old-time apron' that served so many purposes.

REMEMBER:

Grandma used to set her hot baked apple pies on the window sill to cool. Her
granddaughters set theirs on the window sill to thaw.

They would go crazy now trying to figure out how many germs were on that
apron. I don't think I ever caught anything from an apron ... but Love !!

______________________________

Unknown Author
Courtesy of Cappy Hall Rearick, who came across it in her travels.

**Photo by: Saundra Sturdevant, 2002
http://www.ssturdevantphotography.com/index.html