Ain’t Innersted

Big Bob was taking his first (and incidently, his only) flight on a commercial airplane. "My daddy tole me when I'se jus a youngun ta keep boff my feet on th' groun' an' that thare's whot I aim ta do. Wudn't be on this heah'un if they wus a 'nother way ta git ta New Yawk 'fore mornin'. Order'd me one uv them Jay-pan gals outten that thare singles catalogue an' she's a'coming in tomorrer."

He was greeted at the doorway to the plane by a beautiful flight attendant who asked if he preferred the smoking section. Big Bob was quick to say, “If this heah airplane smokes, hit’s a-burnin’ oil. If Y’all’ll take hit oveh to C.B.’s garage an’ sodie shop, he’ll put a set uv rings an' points in hit in ‘bout a week if he ain’t drunk." She explained that the smoking section was where passengers smoked cigarettes and his reply was, “Naw sugah, I'll jus set on th' chewin' side, iffen hits all th' same ta you." She directed him to his assigned seat with the caution to fasten his seat belt. "Hell, honey, I ain't nevah hooked no belt up on my tractur an' hit ain't nevah throwed me yit." She smiled and explained that regulations required the seat belts were to be fastened during takeoff and landing. Big Bob said, "Sugah, you jus make sartin' that driver dodges them other airplanes an’ lan's this heah thang an' I'll take kere uv me."

He was seated beside a business man on a routine trip to the Big Apple who asked, "Do you travel to New York often?". Big Bob replied, "Naw, I ain't nevah been outten lower Masadonie County 'cept that time I got hauled inta court fer fightin' that theah hippie ovah in Ar'dell County.” You?" The man explained that his business required him to make frequent flights to different parts of the country, to which Big Bob asked, "Ever been ta Nu-Orlenes?" When the man stated that he had indeed attended the Super Bowl in New Orleans, Bob said, "I ain't innersted in no football game, I wus axeing 'bout them places whare them fellers rassle allegaters. Folks tell me that they's more fun than th' race at Talledega when Ernhardt wrecks. "Billy Joe tolt me he seen one uv them rasslers up at Chimbley Rock oncet but he wont no reel rassler. Billy Joe sez he had painted his dog ta look lak a allegater. Atter a while, Billy Joe, he axed fer his dollar back an’ that man sez “hail no.” Billy Joe, he flew mad an busted out three uv th’ man's teeth. I’ll tell you rat now, nobody messes wiff Billy Joe an’ his money.”

When the man assured Bob that he had no interest in either the race or the reptile farm, Bob said, "Sheeit far, buddy, you musta ain't had no fun a'tall. Since you ain't never done no innersting thangs, I ble've i'll jus' catch me a little nap 'fore this heah airplane gits back onna groun' an' I has ta meet th' little womern." He pushed the button that signaled the flight attendant and when she responded, he asked, "Sugah, you got any long-neck Miller Hi-Life in th' ice box? Kinda helps me sleep."

The amused businessman then realized that he had been witness to a part of Americana that he had thought of as belonging to another era. Notwithstanding was the fact that he had met and actually talked to a genuine, 'baccer chewin', dyed-in-the wool "Red Neck" in the person of Big Bob from "Lower Macadonia."

Jay Henry

 

Building a story

The building blocks for a story come from ideas gathered in the least expected places. From conversations, incidents that happen during day-to-day activities, and even the semi-consciousness of an insomniac desperate for the peace of deep sleep. There have been many times when I have awakened for no good reason except to think about past experiences and to wonder about future events.

These are usually the times when creative juices flow and ideas for stories are born. Unfortunately, many of these ideas are not as great when they have been written as when they first materialized. Page after page would eventually be discarded before the final product emerged. Often after completion, there is doubt that it will be interesting to anyone other than myself.

The recording of events in such a way as to appeal to others is by far the hardest task for any writer. We know what we want to say but the question remains, can others relate to our interpretations of the events in the same context and will the final draft be dull and boring or will it become a candidate for the bestseller list?

There have been few writers that have not agonized over these questions more so than the original story. Happily, many have overcome this malady and have produced products that are excellent in every detail.

I am sorry to say that my “stuff” is not in the same category as these best sellers; however, the endless possibilities for creating an entirely different look at an everyday occurrence is very satisfying to me. If anyone wishes to read it, then this is like having gravy on my biscuit.

To become a famous writer is the furthest thing from my mind, and my rejection slips will prove this point. To create something that someone would find amusing or interesting is the sole purpose for my continuing to record these musings.

First order of business at 05:30 a.m. is the re-fueling with 100 proof caffeine. Now comes the chore of re-calling all of the incidents that were so outstanding only yesterday and destined to be recorded this morning for entry into the Writers Hall of Fame.

Alas, as I stare at a blank computer monitor, I suddenly come to the realization that this effort is the substance that dreams are made of and have little or no relevance to the literary community.

Fortunately, a computer has a delete button, designed to rid cyberspace of unsolicited material that no one wants.

If you read before depressing the delete button, I thank you.

 

Demijon

 

A Sack Of ‘Taters

In the years before entitlements, country folks were a proud lot. They asked no quarter of anyone beyond the opportunity to earn their own subsistence. While they were far from content with their meager livelihood, they nevertheless accepted the fact that if one did not earn his daily bread, he simply "done without."

Quite different from many of today's generation, wouldn’t you say? Dependency on entitlement programs has risen to the point that some people have made a career or two from simply filling out a few papers and then waiting for the letter carrier.

They are not disturbed in the least by the fact that the constantly rising tax burden for the rest of society is a direct result of their refusal to comply with the old adage of “a days work for a days pay.”" It is their contention that they are owed this income because they are alive and breathing.

Entitlement programs were created as an aid to those that are unable to earn a living due to circumstances beyond their control and not for those unwilling to take advantage of the opportunities available to them

I am a staunch believer in a balanced budget. In fact, I have never understood how the leaders in government allowed the country to get this far in debt. Even during past wars we managed to keep our heads pretty much above the surface of the water, and now, here we are with an economy greater than any country in the world. Yet, we are unable to “pay as we go.”

Aside from a catastrophe, no individual would be allowed to venture into debt to the point that he could never pay even as much as the interest. If, in fact, said individual reached this point, the powers that be would insist that HE / SHE be the ones to suffer from this mistake rather than expecting the rank and file to bail them out.

Not so with today's lawmakers. While seeking election, all candidates align themselves with the average taxpayer and yet, once elected, not once have any of them agreed to relinquish any part of their windfalls to help the downtrodden or to bolster a weak economy. They also, seem intimidated by the hoards of voters who are determined not to "strike a lick”" and yet are able to live beyond the means of the average citizen.

Perhaps they are convinced that the elderly. the infirm and the unfortunate have never been accustomed to a decent living; therefore, it would not affect them as adversely as the ones who consider it their just dues.

I am reminded of a farmer from the community where I was raised. His wife had been plagued for many years with poor health and required frequent visits to a doctor.

The doctor was aware of their financial situation and made no charges for the treatments. Nevertheless, after each visit, the man would help his wife into the cab of the pick-up truck and return to the doctor's office with a sack of potatoes and say, "Doc; I 'preciate what you've done an' I brung you some sweet 'taters fer pay. Tha's all I got, but I won't be b'holden to nobody."

Now, this is what America is all about. It is truly a shame that some of today's elected leaders have never known such a man.

The answer to our dilemma is really quite simple. Create work for the able-bodied. Stop payments to the ones who refuse to help themselves. Reduce the salaries of government officials to within the range of average persons. Practice restraint in regard to the wholesale allocations to other countries that have nothing but scorn for us until we dangle another fistful of money before them. Change the tax laws to require an equal percentage from all inhabitants, regardless of their status.

By adopting these modest changes, it would be a relatively short span between debt and prosperity. Moreover, the truly needy could be compensated with a livelihood more in keeping with that of everyone else.

"A sack of sweet 'taters" is a small price to pay for the unified, debt-free society envisioned by our forefathers.

It’s my opinion and I’m glad I said it.

Demijon

We’ve been to the fair; We’ve seen the elephant

Blake Davis reclined on a straight backed chair, inverted to support his back as he half-lay, half-sat on the front porch of the unpainted house that had been home to him for better than sixty-eight years. He was tall and gaunt, with a weathered face and a shock of white hair protruding from the battered straw hat, just under which, the clear blue eyes glistened.
"Was born in th' front room there," he said, gesturing over his left shoulder. "My daddy built this house in eighteen and eighty. Him and Ma raised eight younguns right here. All of 'em gone, 'cept me. I Recon it won't be too long before mine and Addie's younguns'll be either fighting over this place or sell it off to some of them timber folks. You know how young folks are this day and time. Don't put no stock in holdin' on to land." Pointing to a dense grove of huge pines, many of which were three to four feet in diameter, he continued. "Them timber people been after me for twenty years to sell off that patch, but they ain't talked me into it yet. Me'n Addie don't need th' money, what with our government checks and all. We just like to sit out here on the porch and watch 'em grow. They ain't nothing like hearing the wind whistle through them pines. It's just like a dose of medicine." I asked him if he had ever left the place for any length of time. "Only time was when I was in the war," he said, his brow furrowing as if trying to retrieve ancient memories. "Sent me over there 'cross the pond to fight them Germans. Addie and me ain't never seen no reason to go anywhere since. We got all we need right here. Raise 'bout everything we eat and our checks cover 'bout everything else. The younguns give us a television 'bout eight years ago so's we can keep up with the goings on. They ain't much fittin' to watch on that thing 'cept the news. I declare, this here world's in bad shape."
The screen door opened and Addie came outside with a pan and a basket of green peas. She took a seat in the dilapidated swing and began shelling. "Looks like this'll be the last of the peas," she said. "Did Blake tell you 'bout the time me'n him went to the fair?" When I said "No," her surprisingly smooth features lit up with a big grin and she said, "Thought I'se going to have to kill him. Couldn't get him away from that tent where them hoochie koochie gals was a'dancing."
Blake laughed and replied, "Aw, Addie, they won't much to 'em. They won't a one in the bunch as perty as you." Addie actually blushed underneath her bonnet. "Ain't he a mess?" she said, trying hard to appear shocked but her eyes belied her efforts.
Blake then turned his chair upright and rose from his reclining position with some effort. Pulling a thick plug of Red Coon chewing tobacco from the breast pocket of his Lee overalls, he bit off a corner and when he had gotten it situated just right in his cheek, began his rendition of their visit to the fair.
"Addie here, she liked the quilt and canned vegetable judging the best. I sort of took to the livestock exhibits, myself. They had one pen with one of them elephants in it. Lord, that was the biggest thing I had ever seen. Ugly, too. With a nose that just 'bout drug the ground. Can't figure why anybody'd want one of them things. Couldn't raise enough feed for that thing on this whole place." Addie had ceased shelling the peas and sat as if in a trance, obviously reminiscing about the thrill of their outing. Blake continued with his description of all the different rides and side shows until it was time for me to leave.
I asked one final question of the two of them. "Don't you sometimes miss mingling with different people and all of the excitement and the large cities?" Addie was quick to answer. "Nosir;" she said, "We've got everything we need here, and the only thing we would like to have any different is for the younguns to visit more often and bring them precious grandchildren."
Blake placed two fingers on each side of his mouth as if aiming, and spat a stream of tobacco juice over the rail of the porch and into an azalea bush before he spoke. "It don't take much satisfying for just me and Addie, and besides, we've been to the fair, we've seen the elephant and what is there left?"
John

“Cussing”

What youngster has not dreamed of being old enough to smoke, spit, whistle and cuss?  This was something our elders did and it was, to us, the ultimate of being grown up.  The risk of having our mouths washed out with soap did not deter most of us from playing grown-up, although we were careful to avoid our parents when we practiced this art.

            Most of us did not know the meaning of the words, but we thought that they made us sound big and tough.  The fact that the cuss words that we used had very little to do with what we were saying did not matter.  One reason that cussing was so appealing to us was that we knew that we were not supposed to do it and would probably be punished if we were caught. 

            Huddled together behind a barn or in a secret cove in the woods, we would "dag-nab it" and "dern it" to our hearts content, knowing that we were safe from the ears of parents.  Sometimes we would even get brave enough to cuss and spit at the same time.              There is a distinct difference between cussing and the use of profanity.  As we would find out much later in life, profanity only displays one's ignorance and indicates that the vocabulary is inadequate to express oneself.  Cussing on the other hand was a form of emphasizing a point.  Example:  Dern it, that dag-nab old hog turned over the dad-gum slop bucket again.

            It was rare indeed if we were ever subjected to profanity.  This simply was not done, especially in the presence of children.  If someone would slip, an announcement would come forth to the effect that "Little pitchers have big ears."

            As we grew older, we experienced more of the ways of the world.  We found out that there were more "cuss words" than we had ever heard.  We still did not know their meaning or the correct usage of them, but they sounded "big."

            I vividly remember once when my Mother was doctoring a cut on my arm.  She was applying an ointment, and I decided to let her know just how grown up I was.  Stretching myself to my full 3 ft. 4 in. height, I informed her that I would not allow any of that "damned Ben-Gay" on my arm.

            When I was able to sit again, you can be sure that I limited my expletive's to cussing in the future, and even this was not done in my Mother's presence.

            I still cannot understand why the use of profanity is so prevalent today.  It seems that almost every movie maker considers it dialogue.  It really is unnecessary and the use of cuss words would serve just as well, and would not be as offensive.

            What is wrong with saying, "Get in the dern car, dog-gone it, and we'll catch those dag-nab criminals and throw them in the dad-gum jail!"

            Unite, cuss word users of America.  Together, we CAN make a difference!   Demijon

WHILE SOME COME, OTHERS GO

This was a favorite expression of a friend of mine from years past.  The man literally had a heart of gold even though he occasionally was prone to take a nip, and another, and another.  It was said of him that he had only one enemy, himself.  There were times when he would not stray from the straight and narrow for months until, for reasons of his own, he would succumb to the lure of intoxicants that would hold him in their clutches for periods of weeks at the time.

            During these "binges," his preferred activity was securing a driver for his vehicle, riding throughout the countryside while nursing his bottle of "Old Grand Dad," and spouting profundity like the above from the rear seat which he considered his domain during these jaunts.

            His automobiles were always either new or almost new, and he never lacked for drivers from the young men in the community whose experience with driving a new automobile was practically nonexistent.  His one iron-clad rule during these adventures was that none of the young men could partake of anything stronger than a "co-cola."

            It seemed not to bother him that he was not held in high esteem by most of the community, even though his willingness to lend a helping hand when needed was known far and wide.

            He was both friend and confidant to most of the young men and constantly advocated that we abstain from the evils of the same "demon rum" that had controlled most of his adult life.  His method of teaching us was not the lecturing that we were used to, but merely that of a friend citing his own unpleasant experiences.  We listened, and for the most part we understood that he was sincere in his determination that we would not follow in his footsteps.

            Although he is gone now, the thrill of driving a new car with our friend reclining in the back seat are still vivid in the minds of most of us, but most importantly the sound advice that he offered us simply because he was our friend has sustained most of us through our later years.

            Reflecting on the past, it seems that I can even now feel the power of that new automobile and hear the words, "while some come, others go."

 

JOHN SELLERS

Man’s best friend is his pick-up

I have heard all I wish to hear about the fact that man's best friend is a dog.  I have not believed in this statement since 1977 when a poodle was adopted by my wife and me.  "Petey" set out immediately to prove to us that he was king of the hill.  It only took a sad look from those black eyes and a whine that was more like a cry, and whatever it was that he sought was forthcoming.

            Perhaps this was instinct, but I suspect that he knew from the start that he had two gullible softies in his grasp and was determined to take full advantage of this fact.  Why else would he demand so much from us?  If everything went his way, he would cuddle at our feet with an aloofness that defied us to even change positions.  If our schedules changed for any notable time, he would go into the old "feel sorry for me" routine, knowing full well that we would relent and give him his way.

            "Feed Petey."  "Take Petey for his walk."  "Find Petey's sweater/toy," was practically the extent of our communication during those years.  To say that we owned him was a misnomer.  He "OWNED" us, lock, stock and flea collar.

            When Petey passed on to that great land of fire hydrants and milk bones in the sky, we were determined to never be subjected to the domination of another animal.  Instead, I took refuge in a more unsophisticated plaything, my pickup truck.

            Gone are the days when I must first decipher the mood of my companion before I am able to enjoy a casual jaunt through the countryside.  I simply approach the vehicle without fear of being bitten, turn the key and it responds with a mighty roar of power and does exactly what I want it to do.  As long as I occasionally fill its tank, check its oil (at least twice a year), and wash it (once a year), it does my bidding.

            It does not whine.  It is not jealous.  Its headlights do not take on the look of a whipped dog (pun intended).  It does not pee on the floor, nor require to be taken for walks on cold, winter nights.  It is content with sitting in the driveway until such time as I have need of it.

            I suppose that when the time comes and my truck departs for that huge junkyard in the sky, I will also miss it.  But for now, I am completely satisfied with my best friend and faithful companion, my pickup truck. 

 

Several years have gone by since we had resolved never to let an animal completely dominate our lives when my wife’s hairdresser mentioned a silver miniature poodle that was in need of a good home.  Needless to say that, along came BEAR.

            Bear immediately ascertained that his human’s were an easy target for his wiles.  In the course of a couple of weeks, he had them wrapped around his paws.  Whenever he desires anything, he stands at attention before either of his humans with his stubby tail wagging and his black eyes shinning.  No request is ever denied him. 

            It is truly a shame that, once again, our entire lives revolve around what a fourteen pound ball of fur wants.  What fools we mortals be.

            Come to think about it; I believe my pick-up was jealous.  It reached the point that obeying my commands was an effort and was therefore relegated to the back lot of automobile dealer and replaced with a more complacent model.

John Sellers

  

It just flat ain’t easy!

While my wife turned the collar on my Sunday shirt, I went out to the barn and got three quarts of 10 W 40 oil and put it in the bed of the pickup.  I figured that with a little luck we could make it the 65 miles to Billy Frank's wedding over in Dudley before the motor locked up.  Billy Frank had been going with Mae Nell Purvis for about four years before her daddy decided that they should have a quiet, formal wedding (a silencer on a white shotgun).

            Susie Mae, that's my wife, come out on the porch with her new print dress on and said, "Get a feed sack and throw over that seat so that axle grease won't ruin my dress."  While I got the sack, she went back in the house and wrapped the present in a nice Food Lion plastic bag.  The present that she was taking to Mae Nell and Billy Frank was a big bunch of plastic white gardenias.  She knew that gardenias was Mae Nell's weakness.  Kind of puts her in mind of a funeral.

            We had no more than got to the big road when Susie Mae kicked over her spit can and her white tennis shoes was suddenly brown.  "Stop down at the creek and I'll wash them off.  They'll dry before we get there if I put them in the bed of the truck," she said.  I had to climb over a barbwire fence to get to the creek and ripped a big hole in the crotch of my Sunday britches.  "Dad blame," I said.  "Stop that cussin' or I'll just go on back to the house," Susie Mae said, while vigorously scrubbing.

            She found a safety pin somewhere under that dress, and I pinned my britches back together while she cleaned her shoes and we went on to Dudley.  I didn't recollect exactly how to get to cousin Thurlow's house, so I stopped at a filling station at the edge of town.  There was a '36 Plymouth parked beside the station and somebody was bent over under the raised hood.  I asked him if he could tell us how to get to Cousin Thurlow's.  "Shore, turn leff at th' fus' blinker lite an' hit'll be th' nex’ house on th' rite."  From somewhere inside the station came a voice, "Won’t, no sech thang."  "Twill too," from under the hood.  "T’'wont neither, at airs th' Simmon's place," said the station. 

            When we finally got the directions right and drove up in the yard.  Mae Nell come out of the house, took one look at them gardenias, and commenced just a'squawling.  "Y'all so sweet," she said. 

            When the wedding was over and we had come back home, I said to Susie Mae, "It flat ain't easy trying to marry off kinfolks, but I reckon in Billy Frank's case, it was worth it."  "Lord knows, nobody else would have him and most likely Mae Nell wouldn't if she hadn't been in a family way.”                                                                                    

Jay Henry

Correctness is as Correctness does

After careful research and consideration, I have discovered the fallacies in most of my posted blogs and have come to one conclusion.

I am typographically challenged!

I suppose that I have trusted Bill Gates' technology to undo all the blunders and present my written words consistant with my introspection and therefore make the appropriate changes before completing the final draft.

Alas: It appears that Mr. Gates is not as smart as me (I). The finished product of all my epistles are a far cry from what I was thinking at the time. Now; before you quote the old axiom of "correct in – correct out," let me give you an example.

The bigg foxe jumpt overr th lazie dog.

And you wonder why I have not been blessed with numerous bestsellers.

Woe is me.

Jay Henry

Courting – “Back When”

Probably very few people can remember when paying court to a young lady was much more than dialing a number and asking for a date. First of all, there were very few telephones and protocol was more strict than it is today.

Admiring from afar was practiced by most young men well before they could gather enough nerve to approach the girl of their dreams. Thoughts of being considered too bold prevented them from voicing their feelings. As a general rule, the first attempt was to inquire of the chosen one, if it would be permissible to escort her home from a church social, quilting party or other family function.

The young lady then must secure permission from her parents before agreeing, and this permission was granted only after she had done a good "selling" job about your intentions. Only after she had convinced them that you were not "wild" she would be permitted to walk home with you as her escort.

The first "date" was usually embarrassing to both as neither one knew just what to talk about. Weather, school, crops and the like were usually the topics of conversation on this first encounter. Never was holding hands permitted and "heaven forbid," kissing was out of the question. The fact that the parents knew just how long the walk home would take, a rigid curfew was imposed and strictly adhered to.

Upon arriving home, the most a young swain could expect was permission to call on her again and sit with her in the "front room," of course under the watchful eye of the parents. If she agreed to a second date, sitting on opposite ends of the couch was abruptly ended when the father would knock on the wall and inform you both of the arrival of "bedtime." Departing at this time was instantaneous.

Only after several of these dates could you even think of holding hands and just maybe a kiss on the cheek upon leaving. If you had convinced the parents that your intentions were indeed honorable, and if she indicated that she liked you, you mustered enough courage to ask her to "go steady".

After months or sometimes years of going steady and finally "popping the question," it was still required of the young swain to ask the parents for their daughters hand in marriage. This was the final test of the young man's courage, but it was a necessity and somehow we all got through it.

When all of the formalities had been followed to the letter and the wedding had taken place, the young couple was welcomed into both families with open arms. However, if they had decided to forgo traditions and "elope," relationships with everyone could be somewhat strained.

To most young people today, this may seem like "too much," "far out," or even "gross," but it was a way of life in my day, and I really don't think that anyone who has experienced this has suffered any permanent damage from the way it was back then…..

JOHN SELLERS