One person’s perspective

Many years ago, most church services did not follow strict guidelines insofar as the order of service. There were standard procedures such as opening prayer, opening hymn, retiring to Sunday school rooms for classes, and then preaching. There were hardly any bulletins in which to follow the order of service. Everybody knew what was coming next.

When the pastor began his sermon it was not uncommon for a deacon or an elder to agree verbally with him or to punctuate his remark with a hearty “A-MEN.” This was true in a lot of southern churches because most of the rural South took their religion seriously.

I vividly remember being told a story about one particular service that was attended by one man from the community who was known to be attracted to strong drink of one kind or another. (We’ll call him Joe.)

The preacher was well into his message on the vices. He said, “The good book tells us that we are NOT to steal.” “A-MEN,” said Joe. “The good book tells us that we are NOT to bear false witness.” “Tell it brother,” retorted Joe. “The good book tells us that we are NOT to lie.” “A-MEN,” Joe said. By this time Joe is really getting wound up as the preacher continued. “According to this BOOK,” he said, raising his Bible high into the air, “We are NOT to covet.” “Tell ’em brother, tell ’em.” was Joe’s remark. This went on for a long time and every time the preacher would make a point, Joe would emphasize the remark with his booming “A-MEN” or “Tell ’em brother.”

Thinking that he had finally gotten through to Joe, the preacher was pleased with himself, and decided to try to do what he could to change some of the bad habits that Joe had. His next remark was, “AND the book also tells us that we are NOT to partake of HARD LIKKER!”

There was utter silence in the church for what seemed like an eternity, and Joe finally stood up and said….

“Preacher, you has done a good job up to now, but I thinks it’s my duty to tell you that you’s done quit preachin’ an’ gone to meddling!”

Jay Henry

Letters & Numbers

 

           Quote:  “Me and Mary Lee drove the old XL all the way to Atlanta, Georgia, and it only took twelve gallons of gas and one quart of 10W40 oil.” 

            The amount of gas and oil is not important here.  The idea behind this statement is to inform the uninformed that the method of transportation was an XL.

            Just when numbers and letters began to be an important accessory on an automobile is not quite clear in my mind, but the prominence of owning a numbered or lettered car is a status symbol by today’s standards.  No one in his right mind will refer to his car as a Ford, Dodge or Chevrolet.  It must be the 300 D, the 280 Z. the 4.2 EX, the 360 Ei or just plain XL. 

            There are other titles that are sometimes referred to when describing a vehicle.  Names like Prism, Rodeo, Spirit, Accord and Escort, but these names do not carry the same distinction, as do the numbered/lettered cars.  There are even clubs where membership is denied to anyone who does not drive a 300 XL or equivalent, and it is entirely possible that one is placed on probation if his car sports only the XE.

            Fortunate for me, I have never been a joiner.  My present means of transportation would tend to prohibit my membership from consideration in these exclusive organizations alone.  And if they somehow found that my idea of formal wear is different from most people, my chances would be remote to say the least.  This stigma would be enough to forever ban me from membership.

            I once harbored thoughts of attempting to join one of these clubs.  When I received the application, the first question was:  Designation of car?   The second:  What kind of formal wear do you own?   Being the truthful person that I am, I answered the first question with 1933 Ford Sedan; and the second with, Leisure suit, polyester, circa 1956.   Surprising, as it may seem, I was accepted. However, along with the letter of acceptance was another note which stated.

            Dear Demijon:

            Upon arrival, would you please park in back behind the Dempsey-Dumpster, proceed to the rear door and into the kitchen where a table has been set-aside for you.  It is the one with the new oilcloth on it.  Have a nice time.

            Your brother: Gene.

 

 

Way to go!

Interstate travel is the fast and sure method of going from one place to another; however, it is not necessarily the most scenic route. To view all of the wonders in this great land, one must avoid at all costs, these boring stretches of concrete ribbon. There are no “Bubba’s Reptile Farm” situated beside the interstate highways.

I am convinced that the interstate system was responsible for the idiom, “You’ve seen one, and you’ve seen’em all.” Mile after mile of nothing more exciting than huge signs with neon letters that read, “SEE ROCK CITY” or “STUCKEYS”, exit 10. In addition, travels on these expressways do much to increase animosity among family members. With conversation limited to: “Are you sure that you turned the coffee pot off?” and “If you youngun’s don’t sit still and shut up, we’ll go back home,” is there any wonder that family break-ups are on the rise?

Enjoyable vacations are the ones that traverse the country by way of the back roads. You know, the ones where you circle the courthouse five times before you can exit, and chances are you still get on the wrong road and end up in the parking lot of the fertilizer plant. This in itself is not bad, simply because you can educate the children in the proper methods of fertilization while attempting to find your way to “Joe’s Flea Market: Things, Stuff and Junque.”

The sleepy towns with a few cars angle-parked on main street and an array of straight chairs leaning against the store fronts on a wooden sidewalk are as much a part of Americana as “The World’s Largest Mall.” The towns that have yet to sport even a McDonalds or Wendy’s are nevertheless more exhilarating than the high-speed lanes of the interstate highways. It is here that you find the historical markers that announce the birthplace of the colonial governor of Arkansas or where General Jason P. Snodgrass was slain during the Civil War.

Attractions of educational appeal are in abundance when “back roading.” Where else can you find plots of land where “Funk’s Hybrid” corn seed is tested? Abandoned buildings with huge weed infested parking lots that once housed a thriving cotton mill. “The Pig & Whistle Drive Inn” with the now silent speaker posts anchored in rows that was the gathering place for countless teenagers consuming the famous “Burgers and Fries with large Coke – .69 cents.” Individual one-room cottages with a broken neon sign that reads “Stella’s Tourist Cabins, No Vacancy.” “Arthur’s Used Auto Parts, if we don’t have it, you don’t need it.”

“B and G’s Filling Station” is another must on your trip through America’s heartland. It is here where your gasoline is pumped for you, your oil is checked, your windshield cleaned, your car is vacuumed of all the candy wrappers and spilled popcorn and the proper amount of air is put into your tires, all while you enjoy a soft drink from the ice box and a package of cheese crackers from the wire rack just above. A trip to the outside “privy” in back and you are on your way to another adventure.

A vacation of this type can and does offer enough “Show and Tell” material for an entire school year. Here one experiences firsthand the fabric that made this country great. The metal that forged uniqueness found only far from the endless stretches of highway called the Interstate.

By the way: Be sure to have your picture taken with “Chief Redjaw” of the famous Alcura Indian Tribe or alongside the stuffed bear at “Red’s Burger Barn.”

It will be unforgetable, to say the least.

Demijon

FRUSTRATIONS, a quiz

Have you ever ???

Folded a roadmap the correct way; on the first try?

Eaten breakfast in the dining room of a hotel to the tune of $18.95 and then walked half a block past a restaurant offering breakfast for $2.99?
Been unable to look up the correct spelling of a word in a dictionary because you didn’t know how to spell it?
Tried to cut a tough piece of steak on a paper plate? with a plastic knife? On your lap?
Noticed that the last few minutes of a newscast is filled with drivel from the anchor and co-anchor making a weak attempt to be funny?
Used the excuse, “I bought you a birthday card but I misplaced it. When I finally found it, I was embarrassed to send it”?
Spent hours shopping for the perfect wedding gift, carefully wrapped and mailed it and never received a thank you note?
Tried in vain to open a drawer with something sticking up and you can’t push it down until you open the darn thing?
Been told by a maitre d’ at a restaurant that there will be a forty-five minute wait for a table when there are only two couples in the building?
Noticed that everyone on the sidewalk stops to watch when you try to parallel park?
Sent money to “Save the Lizards Foundation” and the next week received twenty seven requests from other charities?
Ever noticed that the one roll of film that gets lost is the one with twelve shots of you sunbathing in the nude?
Pointed out to the waiter that your coffee cup has lipstick on it and watched as he wiped it off on his apron and set in back on the table?
Had the faucet in the restaurant bathroom splash water on the front of your pants and noticed that everyone turned to look at you as you came out?
Explained in detail about your operations and all of your aches and pains when your waitress asks: “I’m Trisha. I’ll be your server tonight. How are you?”
If your answer to any or all of the above “life’s little frustrations” is in the affirmative, you are a completely normal “senior citizen” and you should ignore those who consider you weird.
Demijon

PORTICO FUN-RAISER

                                                        PORTICO           PORTICO

                                                        REINDEER          VEGGIES

 

Saturday – December 9, 2006

THIS IS A FIRST FOR “NO-DA.” YOU DON’T WANT TO MISS IT!

HANDCRAFTED ITEMS WILL BE FOR SALE WITH PROCEEDS BENEFITING PORTICO CHURCH.

IN ADDITION TO THE ITEMS OFFERED FOR SALE, YOU CAN OBSERVE VARIOUS ITEMS CREATED WHILE YOU WATCH.

 

THIS IS ONE WAY OF INTRODUCING YOU TO THE PORTICO CHURCH.

 

WE GATHER EVERY SUNDAY AT 5:00 pm IN THE FELLOWSHIP HALL AT JOHNSTON MEMORIAL PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH.

YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO CHECK US OUT.

WE FIRMLY BELIEVE THAT YOU WILL LIKE OUR UNIQUE AND INFORMATIVE APPROACH TO THE TEACHINGS FROM THE BIBLE.

http://www.porticochurch.org

704-784-9551

I’m somewhat confused

I firmly believe that advertising is the basis of our economy, but I really don’t understand it. How can EVERY product be better than the others? Don’t they realize that there are those of us that rely on them to show us new products, tell us about the best places to eat and what automobile to drive? This is important to us because we really don’t know.

So, we watch television hoping to locate a good place to get a fast meal. One commercial tells us that Wendy’s is the greatest. Before we can get our coat on, lo and behold, another ad says that McDonalds has beat out Wendy’s in a taste test. While we try to decide between the two, here’s yet another commercial telling us that the only place to get real food is at Hardies. The others are substitutes, I suppose.

This gives us a headache, so we sit and wait until an ad tells us that more doctors recommend Advil. Following this we learn that still more doctors are recommending Bayer two to one. I never knew that there were this many doctors. What do they all do? Just sit around waiting for something to recommend two to one? This goes on and on until we finally decide to open a can of sardines.

After filling the void in our stomach, we start to watch our favorite program. The first commercial tells us in graphic terms that their amazing Belly Bouncer will reduce our waistline by six inches in one week and for only $9.95 plus S&H (some assembly required). Ordered and received, we discover that the parts don’t fit together and should not be used by people over 40 with waistlines over 28 inches. (It is stored in a box along with the Vegematic, the amazing toenail softener and Mr. Microphone).

Automobile ads are another thing that puzzle me. They casually inform us that the cost of the Backfire V/8 is only $39,000 (plus tax & dealer prep). ONLY $39,000?? That’s three times my annual income. buut, they say, it rides better than my 1970 Pinto and has an EPA rating of 7 (city). The payment book is also bigger than a Sears catalog.

There is another thing that bothers me. We have adjusted the volume on the television to a comfortable level and are relaxing while watching re-runs of Andy Griffith Show. The picture fades to black and the noise level increases by 250 decibels as someone attempts to convince us that we must hurry down to CHEAP JOE’S UUSED CAR LOT before sundown or we will miss out on the gigantic sale. Are they giving away hearing aids with each purchase?

We all receive mail that informs us that WE, and only we, are guaranteed five million dollars if only we will “send it in.” If we observe the postmark we will see that this letter was mailed by bulk mail permit. This means that thousands upon thousands have received this same letter implying that THEY are the only ones guaranteed to receive this windfall. Amazing, isn’t it?

So, being ever the optimist, I send it in. I even request a one year subscription to “Breeding Roaches for Fun & Profit” and sit back to wait. I plan to pay off the loan on my 1970 Pinto with the first installment of my five million. Three days later I receive a bill for the subscription and am told that I can save even more by subscribing for three more years. I don’t even have the first issue yet. I suppose their billing department is more efficient than their shipping department.

I believe that advertising is necessary, but I personally would like to see someone advertise with something like, “Hey, we’ve got a good product here, and we would like for you to try it. But if you don’t like it, please continue to use BRAND X.” Now, that’s honest advertising.

Well, I’ve got all this off my chest, so all that is left for me to do is to relax, use the formula of ennie, menny, minney, moe to decide which food chain is best, take Carter’s Little Liver Pills for a headache, forget my waistline, get the oil changed in my Pinto, turn off the television and wait for my OTHER sweepstakes’ letter.

Demijon

Uniforms of the day

Most folks living in rural America had no use for the lavish dress that their counterparts in the cities enjoyed. Since the majority of their work consisted in tilling the soil for their substance, their dress varied little. Although they perused the Sears-Roebuck catalogs for the necessary items, they also were aware that the models dressed in designer clothing were not necessarily representative of the rural workers in the Countries heartland.

As a general rule, families who were dependant on a farm for their living would opt for more practical clothing, usually in three catagories.

For men, there were, overalls for all work in the fields and around the homestead, sharkskin slacks and sportshirts for Saturday afternoons and knock-around days (wet weather, etc.). Of course, there was a suit, shirt and tie, kept primarilly for church and funerals. Removal of the above was mandatory immediately afterwards.

For women, house-dresses that were hand-made from printed feed sacks along with aprons from the same material sufficed for every day wear. For church services, funerals and a few special occasions, a complete outfit was ordered from the catalog, ( if the crops were profitable). This outfit consisted of a dress, shoes, hat and gloves. Yes; Hats and gloves were worn to church as well as any formal outing back when.

For children, the catagories were much the same; i.e. work clothes, school clothes and church clothes. On every schoolday, children were admonished to, “Take off your good clothes, put on your work clothes and come to the field. We’ve got to pick that cotton before it rains.”

It really wasn’t such a bad life. It was just different.

I know because I was there, even though I have never picked one hundred pounds of cotton in my life.  I was th’ baby and was therefore excused.  Unfortunately, this designation ceased when I became an adult and chose to marry another baby.

Demijon

LIFE – on the downhill drag

Have you ever thought about your reply when meeting a friend, or for that matter a total stranger,  and they greet you with “How ya’ doing”? As a general rule, our answer is “fine.” Why do we hesitate to tell them that our back is killing us, our bunions wake us when the sheet touches them, our hair is falling out, all of our clothing has recently gotten smaller, the spring in our steps is now recognized as a shuffle and what we used to do all night now takes all night to do, (if at all). Do we really think that they care?

Suppose we convey to them all of the above problems in great detail. Are we willing to listen to them while they relate all the gory details of their latest operation as well as the new aches and pains resulting from this procedure? I think not.

Let’s face it, ours is a sorry lot. Everyone can take one look at us and readily discern that life has done a number on us, so why are we reluctant to reply with, “Thankfully, I’m alive,” and let it go at that. After all, they were just asking to be nice.

As I reminisce about my time on this planet after I became two years older than dirt, there is one important lession that has guided my behavior as well as my outlook on life in general. Every day when I awake, the first chore for me is to read the obituary column. If I can’t find my name, the next job is to put on the coffee.

Enough said.

Demijon

DUCKWALKING – The art of cheating at CROQUET

Three young couples that were struggling to raise a total of seven children on limited incomes could hardly afford to hire a babysitter for a night out for dinner or the theater; therefore, they were required to create their own brand of entertainment.

A few dollars from one purchased a cheap charcoal grill, a bag of charcoal and a few hot dogs. Another managed to buy a Croquet set. Not to be outdone, the third couple acquired a Badminton set. They were now prepared for amusement that could include the entire families. The net for the Badminton set and the Croquet set hoops could easilly be moved from one yard to another.

When the hot dogs had been ingested, a rousing game of Croquet began. At sometime during the game, one or another player would be observed moving their feet in a shuffling motion in an attempt to move their ball closer to the hoop. This action raised a cry of foul among the others, “Look at him;” “HE’S DUCKWALKING!” Since this was comon practice, everyone not presently engaged on shooting, kept an eagle-eye on all the other players. Several players became so adept at duckwalking that it was almost impossible to spot their transgressions.

The sport of Badminton evened the playing field somewhat since it was  impractable to duckwalk. Nevertheless, other methods of cheating were devised that brought about many heated discussions among the young participants.

Many young folks today would scoff at batting a Shuttle-Cock across a net or pounding a wooden ball through a wire hoop, but it was a form of entertainment for those of us who had more participants than we had of money.

Demijon

Can we afford it on a fixed income?

There are certainly times when we all are required to seek a doctor’s advice. We call for an appointment and are told to come in Tuesday at 10:00. On an average, most of us will arrive at least fifteen minutes early. We sign in and browse through a tattered copy of Look magazine (May 1932) and wait until our name is called.

While we wait, fourteen patients enter and sign in. A very pretty nurse herds them, one by one, into the examination rooms. We use the excuse to visit the bathroom to quickly scan the sign-in sheet and observe that eleven of the fourteen have appointments after 10:45.

Returning to our seat, we discover our magazine is no longer available so we sort through the reading material until we find a copy of Liberty (July 1944). Suddenly we realize that we are the only one left in the waiting room and the time is 11:45. Failing miserably in our attempt to control our anger, we approach the desk to inquire of our status. “No one has pulled your file,” we are told.

Thirty minutes later, our name is called and we are led to an examination room where we wait, clad in the scant little gown and sit shivering in the frigid blast of air from the overhead vent.

20 minutes later the doctor comes in and takes our blood pressure. “Hmm, 213 over 106. We’re going to have to do something about this,” he says, reaching into the pocket of his gleaming white, stiffly starched, coat for a prescription pad. “Take three of these each day and come back in a week,” he adds as he began to leave.

“Doctor, I need to talk to you about waiting for two hours and fifteen minutes while patients who arrived after my appointment time were attended before me. Do you think this had anything to do with my elevated blood pressure?”

Closing our file and hanging his stethoscope around his neck, he replied, “That will have to wait until your next visit because I am only allowed 8 minutes for this assessment of your condition.” With that, he walked out.

We fill the prescription and find that these pills are the ones that are constantly hyped on television, radio and the printed media. Imagine our surprise when we discover that the cost is $13.63 per pill! Without all of the expense of advertising, the pills could possibly be purchased for 8 to 10 cents each. And, the cost of eight minutes of the doctor’s time amounted to $96 dollars and change.

Don’t get sick.

Demijon