Be Thankful You Don't Need Glasses Down There

I’m a pretty intelligent guy. At least that’s what some people say. They actually use the word “smart” and almost always in front of another word that refers to a member of the equine family. I usually take such compliments in the best possible light and go about my merry way.

But I do realize that I have a sarcastic side that can sometimes get me in trouble. For example, a few years ago I was working as a consultant in a State far north of here. It had not been a real good week. My paycheck was late, my landlord was demanding the rent on my shabby apartment and it was cold. Six inches of snow had fallen just a few days before and it was still October. This ol' southern boy was not looking forward to spending a full winter in the Snowbelt. All of these things combined to get the juices of sarcasm flowing.

This particular morning, I had a meeting scheduled with a possible client whose office happened to be in the County Courthouse. I arrived a few minutes early and the building wasn’t open yet. Rather than walk back to my car, I decided to take a seat on a bench positioned just outside the main door. After I scraped the remaining snow off the seat, I found that the last of the birds left a few presents before flying south for the winter. As I had on my best khakis, I took a newspaper that I had under my arm, unfolded it on the bench and sat down.

As I sat there shivering, thinking about those warm October afternoons watching SEC football in Scott Field at MSU, an older gentleman who obviously had business in the Courthouse as well, came & sat beside me. We carried on a minor conversation about the weather and as to how a public building should open its doors at a respectable hour. It was at this point, that the man looked down and pointed and said, “Are you reading that paper?”

The sarcasm kicked in and I couldn’t resist. “Why, yes sir, I am.” I said as I stood up, turned the page and sat back down again. Blessedly, the janitor opened the door at that moment and the old man scurried in. I couldn’t see if he was smiling or scowling as the door closed behind him.

Well I gathered up my things and went inside. I found the office I was looking for and the secretary escorted me into a snug little room. Behind the desk was that same gentleman. He greeted me with a smile and made no mention of our encounter outside. We had a pleasant discussion of the particulars of our possible contract and it seemed that my ill-timed but rapier wit had done no damage. He suggested that I read over the specifications required and if I could meet those then we could draw up a contract.

In my best businesslike voice I said, “I’ll be glad to look them over. Do you have a copy for me?” He smiled softly and said, “Well, I assumed that you had already read them. You’ve been sitting on them since you came in!”

Zukes Aplenty

Another news story got my attention over the summer. It seems that somewhere in North Dakota, thieves stole several thousand onions from a farmer’s truck patch. They stripped the field completely. Now the only reason this story caught my eye is because of all the produce that most gardeners have around here in late summer. By the middle of July, most folks can’t give a tomato away and if you’re known to grow zucchini squash, people will actually cross the street to avoid you for fear that you’ll force a grocery sack full of the stuff into their arms.
My friend “Roop” almost went to jail because of zucchini squash. He once tackled a young man running down the sidewalk because he thought he had mugged the little old lady who was chasing after him with what looked to be a club in her hand. Come to find out, she was trying to give him a big ol’ zucchini to take home to his momma. The kid was going to press charges but Roop finally agreed to take the zucchini in lieu of jail time.
Living in an area of such surplus, it’s hard to imagine anyone going to the trouble of garden thievery. Maybe there was a little snitching out of the watermelon patch in years past, but nothing major like stripping a farmer’s field. There just isn’t any need to steal produce in this part of the country. Most folks who wouldn’t put a quarter in the collection plate on Sunday are generous to a fault when it comes to their garden vegetables.
The South is the only part of the country where there are such prolific vegetable gardens. We have the weather, the space and the tradition that produces the finest crops in the world. Just a generation back, a big garden was a necessity and people are still in the habit of planting more than they need. Purple hull peas, butterbeans and green beans have been the staples of the southern diet for generations now. Before television, sitting on the front porch in the evening, shelling peas and butterbeans was family time. Parents and kids actually talked to each other. One of the best evenings I’ve ever spent was shelling peas with my wife and daughter. We were all actually in the same place together doing the same thing which is pretty rare anymore. My daughter even had fun as she would steal shelled peas out of my bowl, add them to her bowl and taunt her mother. “Look how many more peas I’ve shelled than you- you better get busy.”
Gardens are a lot of work and a lot of people don’t want to work that hard. I ‘m always full of enthusiasm every spring when I plow a garden, but by the heat of July, I’m pretty sick of the whole thing. I let the grass and the bugs take over by then and look forward to school starting. But some people are even worse than I am. My brother always plants a patch of corn every year; much more than the family can use so we often try to give it away. I’ve offered corn to people and have actually been told that they are considering several offers and that I would need to sweeten the deal a little. The neighbor down the road had offered to pick and bring corn to them but if I would shuck and silk mine for them they might be interested. I’m just not that generous. But I will make a deal with you. I won’t bring you a grocery sack full of bell peppers & okra if you won’t bring me any zucchini. How’s that?

A Rose By Any Other Name - Still Smells

It’s 4:30 in the morning and I’ve experienced one of the joys of rural life. As any other old man is apt to do on a Friday night, I went to bed about 10:30. My lovely wife fell asleep on the couch while watching some misunderstood sci-fi alien psycho axe killer on the Chiller channel. At 4:00, she made her way to the bedroom and gave me a good shake. “Wake up. You need to go close the garage doors.” Even though I wasn’t fully awake – I was pretty sure that thought didn’t just come to her in a dream.

“ I think there’s a skunk in the garage. The dogs have got it cornered.”

I was awake enough now to understand the gravity of the situation. Our old Lab is a hunter – he hunts snakes, turtles, squirrels, birds and field mice but he especially loves skunks. Their spray is like Chanel # 5 (guess they still make that) to him. He manages to get “skunked” about twice a year and it takes about six weeks for the odor to become tolerable enough for us to get close enough to scratch his belly. But the matter was complicated by the fact that he had recently had a tumor removed from his front paw and still had stitches. As a result, he had been spending much of his time inside the house. In fact, I had just put him out the front door at 2:00 am.

Tracy said “close the garage doors” but that really didn’t make any sense and that really wasn’t what she meant. She meant “You go out and get that skunk out of the garage before it stinks up my car. By now I was awake enough to smell the smell and hear the dogs barking. Anybody who has dogs knows that they have different barks for different situations – the somebody ‘s coming bark- the big ol truck on the highway bark- the UPS truck is comin & I’m gonna try & pull its tires off the rims bark and then there’s the higher pitch yelp indicating that there’s something going on here that I really don’t like. This bark was coming loud & clear (just like the smell) through the utility room door. Ol’ Shad had him cornered right by the doorstep. This was gonna be a mess and only get worse. I rolled out of bed, threw on a t-shirt, turned on all the outside lights and tentative opened the door to the garage. There were two of the dogs – barking and lunging right by the steps. In the corner, between the steps and the rack that held soft drinks and dirty boots and anything else we didn’t want to bring in the house - was a possum, not a skunk. But he smelled just as bad if not worse. Shad had him cornered – bared teeth to bared teeth & Sophie was cheering him on – Dixie was cowering on the front porch. ‘

Well, Shad couldn’t take him without getting a serious bite and the possum couldn’t get around Shad and it was a stinking, loud mess that could have continued for hours. I won’t go into detail about the method that I used to dispatch our intruder but let’s just say that ol’ possum is lying in the bed of my truck until daylight and a little clorox water will kill the possum smell in the garage. It could have been worse. It could have been a skunk. Thank the Lord for small blessings.

Say a Few Words Over 'em

May is the month of memorial. In this part of the country, many people return to the churches of their roots to pay respect to their ancestors. My family does the same. Our history is long in Winston County and my mother’s family has an ancestral plot that dates back to the mid 1800’s. There is something comforting about walking through this cemetery and reading the gravestones of the people that came before you. Not only are the names and dates meaningful but many stones have quotes or Bible passages that were appropriate or near and dear to that person.

In the Deep South, almost all epitaphs are of a religious nature; providing comfort to those left behind but not really telling us much about these people. Were they kind or cruel? Did they lead happy lives or did they meet their end in some unfortunate way? In other parts of the world, epitaphs can be a bit more colorful. Some people utilize humor when dealing with death and write their own epitaphs probably to the chagrin of the remaining family. For example, on a grave marker in England:

“On the 22nd of June
~ Jonathan Fiddle ~
Went out of tune.”

Or in a New Mexico Cemetery:

“Here lies Johnny Yeast
Pardon me for not rising.”

Or

~ ANN MANN ~
”Here lies Ann Mann
Who lived an old maid
But died an old Mann.
Dec. 8, 1767”

It’s not difficult to recognize when the deceased didn’t choose their own inscription: the choice often left to someone that probably wasn’t too fond of the person that was just interred. Examples include a grave stone in Nova Scotia:

Ezekial Aikle
Age 102
The Good Die Young.”

Or

~ ANNA PERRY ~
”The children of Israel wanted bread
And the Lord gave them manna
Parson Perry wanted a wife
And the Devil gave him Anna!”

Some epitaphs provide too much information as to the method of death of an individual:

“He died at a public gathering
When the platform
Suddenly gave away.”

Or

~ ANNA HEPEWELL ~
”Here lies the body of our Anna
Done to death by a banana
It wasn’t the fruit that laid her low
But the skin of the thing that made her go!”

Or

“Here lies Lester Moore
Four slugs from a .44
No Les No More.”

My favorite story is a tale of a neglected gravestone in a grassy cemetery. The original inscription was thoughtful and perhaps appropriate:

"Pause, stranger, when you pass me by,
For as you are, so once was I.
As I am now, so will you be.
Then prepare unto death, and follow me."

However someone had decided to add a few lines and had scratched this below:

"To follow you I'm not content
Until I know which way you went!"

All of this probably doesn’t matter a great deal but if you want to be remembered well, you should live your life well. When you think about it, not only do your children choose your nursing home, they also might have a few choice words to remember you by.