The Bodock Post Blog

The Perfect Christmas Tree ~ By Newt Harlan

2011-12-19T04:56:00.000-08:00

Back when we were youngsters my sisters and I had a set of benchmarks we used to count down the days leading up to Christmas. The first one was the start of school just after Labor Day. After that we dutifully watched as the calendar worked its way up to Halloween. We knew then there were only a few short weeks until Thanksgiving. After Thanksgiving rolled around, Santa made his appearance at the big department stores and folks began putting up their outside holiday lights around town.

We duly noted each of these mileposts and our excitement grew as we crossed each date off the drug store calendar on the back of the pantry door. Finally we reached what to us was the most important benchmark of all -- the first Saturday morning after school dismissed for the Christmas holidays. This was the day every year when we went with daddy on our annual search for that perfect Christmas tree.

Once the morning chores were finished we’d hook the utility wagon to the old Farmall tractor and put in the ax and saw and maybe an icebox with some cold drinks, then off we’d go to the patch of pines that grew at the very back of our back pasture, where we spent the better part of a half day selecting “the tree”.
There weren’t a lot of choices in what brand of tree we’d get, it was either loblolly pine or loblolly pine, since that was all that grew around our place.

A loblolly pine doesn’t have the best shape for a Christmas tree, usually being shaped more like an oak or elm than what we picture as a Christmas tree shape, but with a lot of searching and visualizing, we would find a tree two or three years old with a real good Christmas tree shape up in the top…that’s what took us so long to pick out the perfect tree.

We’d ferret out one that looked great until we got it down and then as we examined it closely, we’d discover it had a flat side or maybe a bare spot or two, so off we’d go again searching for another. Usually after cutting 4 or 5 trees, we’d find one that was suitable, but we’d always take a couple of the others we’d cut earlier, just in case we had to do some filling in or other cosmetic repairs.

When we got back to the house, mama would inspect our choice and make suggestions whether we needed to drill a hole and insert a branch in the trunk to fill a bare spot, or perhaps just turn the bare spot to the wall where nobody would notice. Finally we’d set the tree in a bucket of wet sand and put it in its place in the house and almost immediately the house filled with the fresh pine scent that we associated with Christmas.

Next, we’d test all the lights, big and small, matched and mismatched, and string them throughout the branches. Next came all the decorations…antique glass balls, handmade ornaments, handicraft pieces made in school and scouts, and other bits and pieces representing Christmases past, until finally we placed the radiating star with one broken ray (a long ago casualty) atop the tree. This was followed with draping tinsel and aluminum and cellophane strips called icicles from all the branches. For the final touch mama would whip up a concoction made from Lux Flakes beaten together with water which she had learned from the home demonstration club ladies. It was supposed to look like snow when she spread it on the branches of the tree; but always looked like white glop to me.

Finally, we’d turn off all the lights in the room and plug in the tree lights and TA- DA...The Perfect Christmas Tree.

No matter that it had a few bald spots, no matter that maybe there was an extra branch or two inserted and glued into holes drilled into the trunk, no matter that it was so top-heavy it had to be tied to nails in the wall so that it would stand, no matter that it was crowned with a broken star and no matter it was coated with an imitation snow concoction that succeeded only in making the house smell like a laundry room rather than the evergreen scents of Christmas, no matter any of a half-hundred other flaws our tree may have had, it was the Perfect Christmas Tree.

In retrospect, what made those trees perfect was not their appearance, what made them perfect was the same thing that makes every Christmas tree perfect... all the love and family traditions that are infused into each one of them.

Trees, Lights, Gifts and Bows

2011-12-04T07:07:00.000-08:00

There was Halloween for a month of goblins and pumpkins and haystacks and trick-a-treaters, then it was the almost forgotten holiday, Thanksgiving that we celebrated for just one day and now it is the season for Christmas. Trees and lights, gifts and bows; more often than not the true meaning of Christmas forgotten and completely passed by.

We shop and shop for the perfect gift for the people that we love and probably end up settling for something that “will just have to do” for one reason or another. We either can’t find exactly what we are looking for or we don’t know what we are looking for or if we do know what we want and do find it then we find we can’t afford it after all…..so we settle. Maybe this year we should sit back and think about celebrating Christmas another way.

We all have everything we want and goodness knows, much more than we need, so maybe this year we can share some of what we have with our neighbors. But, times are hard you say. Yes they are my friend, and that is why I say share, share, and share again. Make this Christmas extra special for those who are less fortunate then you. I know you hear this each and every year but this year especially, STOP and look around you.

There are people out of work right here in your own neighborhood. Are their families going to have the kind of Christmas that you are having or, NO WAIT, are they going to have any kind of Christmas at all? Will their children know that Santa dropped by their house on Christmas morning or will they feel forgotten? You could feel better about that if you helped. Take a minute and think about this:

The love for equals is a human thing–of friend for friend, brother for brother. It is to love what is lovely. The world smiles.

The love for the less fortunate is a beautiful thing–the love for those who suffer, for those who are poor, the sick, the failures, the unlovely. This is compassion, and it touches the heart of the world.

The love for the more fortunate is a rare thing–to love those who succeed where we fail, to rejoice without envy with those who rejoice, the love of the poor for the rich. Of the black man for the white man. The world is always bewildered by its saints.

And then there is love for the enemy–love for the one that does not love you but mocks, threatens, and inflicts pain. The tortured’s love for the torturer. This is God’s love. It conquers the world! - Frederick Buechner

Christmas can be different this year. We can make it so. We can change the way we think and the way we approach the holiday season. Our spirit can be more open to those around us who in their own ways are hurting in whatever way that may be.

Please take a few moments to go to the nursing homes; you don’t have to take a gift, just yourself. Stop by each room and wish them a Merry Christmas. Many do not have children or family for that matter and are often forgotten by everyone except the staff. I promise you that you will receive a blessing that you will not forget.

Just say Merry Christmas to clerks in the stores who ring up your purchases. Many times they are forbidden to say that back to you, but maybe they want to. Watch them smile back. They are tired and need to know that someone appreciates them. It’ll make you feel good, so go ahead and do it. Take the time.

Drop a few pennies in the kettle outside of stores when you hear the little bells ring. You won’t miss it and pennies add up. You’ll feel better. Send a card to someone you haven’t talked to in a while for whatever reason. This time of year is a good time to mend fences. You’ll both feel better.

In other words, take more than a day or a week to celebrate the birth of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Pick out one family to help and wrap the love of our Lord around them like He does to you each and every day. Someone out there is lonely. Someone out there needs someone and quite possibly that someone is YOU. God can use you. Listen, can you hear him calling your name? Celebrate His Son’s birthday by sharing the love a little differently this year. Trees and lights, gifts and bows; there is oh so much more to Christmas.

Clarene Evans, Contributor

Thankfulness

2011-11-24T07:54:00.000-08:00

We are not naturally bent toward thankfulness. Often we go all day and not once express our gratitude to anyone for anything. We grumble and complain about the least little thing and don’t even grunt if a wonderful acorn falls smack dab on our little pig-headed snout; to be exact we don’t even look up to see from whence it came.

I awoke this morning with one ear stopped-up and one eye almost matted shut (I think it is the same virus affecting both). Did I thank the Lord that I could still hear reasonably well out of the other ear, or still see out of both eyes even though one was not up to snuff? NO! I complained about the inconvenience. Pretty typical !

Now days I drive a lot; having taken on a part-time job with a bus line hauling people all over the country in one of those super-sized tin boxes on wheels that take up most of the road. I try to remember to pray before each trip that our Lord will give me wisdom, alertness, and the ability to get everyone there, and back again, safely.

If you know me you realize that I usually conk out on the sofa at about 9:00 PM or before. Seems that many of the trips require me to drive all night. Recently we left Notre Dame in South Bend, Indiana about 4:30 PM, drove over six hundred miles, almost non-stop, and arrived back in the Memphis area just in time to see the sun come up. I asked the Lord to keep me awake and the group safe as we left South Bend, He did, I forgot. Shame on me! The Lord held up His end of the trip, I failed to be grateful.

How often do we forget to be thankful for all the good things that come our way? How often does our Lord make an escape route in hard times for us to follow? How often does He close a bad door for us only to open a good one in its place. Do we look up and say thanks? Most times, not.

I always remember the story of the guy on top of a two story house with a steep roof re-nailing the tin that covered that roof. As he was moving he began to slip down the steep slope. Immediately he called out for God to save him, keep him from sliding off the roof, and no doubt breaking legs and arms if not killing him altogether when he encountered the ground. As he cried out a nail still sticking up just a little caught the seat of his overalls and stopped his slide.

His words were, “Never mind, Lord this nail just caught me.”

Isn’t that just like us!

I hope this Thanksgiving Day we will all remember those nails that the Lord provided to kept us from sliding into hurt, sorrow and despair. I trust that I will be more sensitive to the times You drove that last hundred yards, Lord !

As we gather together in our own way, where we reside, or at some distant place, or sitting alone at a table with meager fare; may we all be Thankful To You Dear Lord, for all You have done for each of us!

May we be truly Thankful !

By Ralph R. Jones/ Editor ~ The Bodock Post

One-Man Gui-tar

2011-10-30T06:46:00.000-07:00

Our motel in Naivasha, Kenya, modest by American standards, was transformed into something of a nightclub on weekends. We had been forewarned that there would be loud music on the weekends. What wasn’t revealed was that the music played well into the morning hours.

It’s rare that I hear music, any music that I enjoy listening to. There are just not that many places that play songs by Bill and Gloria Gaither. I like a little music in my life, but like preaching, it doesn’t take a lot to do me. But, stick me in an automobile where I can’t control the radio, set me down in a church pew and play and/or sing a contemporary-style song or two, or bed me in a motel with loud music playing while I’m trying to drift off to sleep and I’m miserable. Here, I associate the word misery with Chinese water torture.

So, I’m an odd sort of bird, who has very limited likes when it comes to music. However, I do enjoy really good music, just not the sort that appeals to the masses, certainly not much of what shows up on shows like American Idol.

I wouldn’t have enjoyed the music at the motel any better had it been sung in my native tongue and not Swahili. I don’t listen to the words unless it’s a ballad or a gospel song, and as far as I could tell, the singer was singing American country music, but not the Patsy Cline or Hank Williams songs that are dear to my heart. Fortunately, I was so tired both Friday and Saturday nights that the music didn’t keep me awake all night.

Our group wanted a change from the typical evening meals served at the motel, so we let staff know we’d be ordering pizza. They provided us a dining room adjacent to the band area. Our driver, known only as Ben to me, was invited to dine with us. Our meal coincided with the start time for the band. I could hear guitar music, a singer, and drums. When I asked Ben about the band, he told me it was a one-man gui-tar. I don’t think I can break down guitar as he pronounced it, but he accented both syllables equally.

It sounded like a small group of musicians to me, so shortly afterwards, I slipped away to check out this one-man gui-tar. Just as I thought, there was a drummer pounding away on a set of drum, you know, a big bass drum a couple of snare drums and cymbals. I returned to share my discovery with Ben.

“Yes,” he smiled obligingly, “It’s a one-man gui-tar.”

“But he’s got a drummer.

“It’s a one-man gui-tar,” Ben insisted.

Still curious, I pressed him for additional information.

“What do you call one guitar player, one drummer, and a second vocalist?”

“It’s a one-man gui-tar.”

By this time other team members had started listening to our conversation.

“What if there are three singers?

“It’s a one-man gui-tar.”

I continued to add an extra singer until the count reach five and each time Ben’s answer to my question was, “It’s a one-man gui-tar.”

“Okay, I see the pattern here, Ben. What do you call one man playing a guitar with a choir of singers?”

Are you ready for this one?

“A choir.”

“Dang,” I silently mused, then asked the obvious, “At what point between five vocalists and a choir does the definition of a one-man guitar change?”

Ben laughed and explained any band with one guitar player and one or more vocalists is simply called a one-man gui-tar. It’s only when a second guitar player is added the terminology changes and the group playing/performing is called a band.

See, if I hadn’t gone to Kenya, I’d have never known what a one-man gui-tar is.

Ask For Neal

2011-10-29T09:09:00.001-07:00

Packing enough clothes for a 15-day trip oversees into two checked bags is enough of a challenge, but as we were carrying tools to use on a worksite, keeping the weight of the bags under fifty pounds became something of a problem. Barbara and I decided to purchase a large duffle bag to hold mostly my things and some tools. We also bought a small duffle bag for me to use for a short stay at a safari lodge as well as to accommodate the luggage restrictions of the small aircraft that flew us to the game conservancy.

Suffice it to say, the large duffle bag was a mistake. With its bulkiness, and at just under fifty pounds, it taxed both my strength and my pleasant disposition every time I had to move it. Why I didn’t buy one with wheels is a question I’m still asking. Let’s just say the unwieldy device was enough to make a preacher cuss.

Clothes tend to shift around inside a duffle bag that’s not bursting at the seams. We did a lot of motel hopping in Kenya, so what was in the middle of the bag one night might be at the end of the bag the next night or a night or two later. Organization was a nightmare, but adding to the nightmare was the fact that our motels, by and large, lacked spaces allocated for baggage. There were none of those nice little folding racks found in cheap American motels. Conditions for living out of a suitcase were less than ideal.

I swore I would buy a large suitcase with wheels before lugging the duffle bag back to Pontotoc, but with the dollar’s weakness against the schilling, a bargain was not to be found. And, going through check-in at the airport in Nairobi on the night of our departure, I was still lugging the cumbersome, loathsome duffle bag.

I had left some clothes for the disadvantaged in Kenya and all the tools were donated to Habitat for Humanity, but part of the weight of these was offset by the souvenirs we had bought. It was a few pounds lighter than before, but not by a noticeable amount.

Check-in went fairly normal. I handed over my passport for scanning, a boarding pass was issued, and my bag was checked and strapped with a luggage tag, and a luggage stub was affixed to the back of my boarding pass.

Three hours later, around midnight, we filed, orderly, aboard the airplane that would take us to London. I had hardly gotten comfortable in my window seat when an airline representative boarded and asked if I were Mr. Carter.

I assured her I was, and she handed me another luggage stub, stating simply, “This has your baggage claim number.”

I pocketed it, all the while wondering why I had two stubs and only one bag.

After deplaning in London, a couple of our team members, including me, had to pick up a boarding pass at the American Airlines counter, as there had been a printer problem back in Nairobi. The very nice lady, who issued my pass, informed me there was no bag on our flight that matched the claim number assigned to me. I then retrieved the stub given me after boarding in Nairobi. It matched a bag on the flight, but she said I would have to go to the gate and identify the bag before it could be stowed aboard my flight to Chicago.

An agent adjacent to her had been tuned in to what we were discussing, and he said, “That’s my flight,” which I supposed to mean he would be assisting at the gate.

“Don’t worry, Sir,” he stated, “I’ll meet you at the gate and take you down to identify your bag. Just ask for Neal.”

But, as you might suppose at airports such as London’s, the gate assignment for my flight was not immediately forthcoming, especially since I was looking at a more than four-hour-layover. Fortunately, when traveling with a group, time passes more quickly than when traveling alone.

When we finally were in line to access the gate (lots of security in London) there was no Neal. I spoke to an agent at the gate desk and explained I was to meet Neal about a matter of luggage. Shortly afterwards, Neal arrived, found me and told me the baggage was not yet at the gate but should be shortly.

“I’ll find you as soon as the baggage is here,” he assured me.

“I’m easy to spot,” I replied, “in my red jacket with Ole Miss on the front.”

About ten minutes passed and Neal motioned for me to follow him. He was wearing a lime-green security vest, so I wondered what other passengers thought as I followed him from the waiting area. He led me into a room where another security guard met us and from there we went through security doors accessible by badges and passcodes.

At some point, Neal asked about Ole Miss, “Isn’t that the college in the movie Sandra Bullock was in?”

Knowing he was talking about the Michael Oher story and the movie “Blind Side,” I respondeded affirmatively, somewhat surprised by his memory. The other guard accompanied us at all times. An exterior door was raised and there sat my duffle bag on the pavement.

“Is this your bag?” Neal inquired.

I could see my name tag on the handles as well as the red/white/blue ribbon tied onto one end, and I responded, “Yes, it is. My name is on the name tag.”

Neal didn’t take my word of it he bent down to flip over the name tag, read it, right himself, and quiz, “The Bodock Post?” even, pronouncing bodock correctly.

“Yeah, that’s my newsletter,” I replied.

We chatted briefly about my hobby as we made our way to the waiting area of the gate via a different route of security doors. I looked inside my billfold to find my last Bodock Post business card and gave it to him. He gave me his, as well.

I thanked him for his helpfulness and was generally impressed with his politeness and professional manner, to say nothing of London Heathrow’s security measures. Fly American, I say, and if you do get to London Heathrow Airport sometime, ask for Neal.

Kenya Trip

2011-10-25T14:42:00.000-07:00

My wife Barbara and I recently completed our trip of a lifetime. We were part of a team of eight volunteers representing Pontotoc County Habitat for Humanity who traveled to Kenya, Africa to assist Kenya Habitat for Humanity build a house for a family displaced from their home in the after-elections violence in 2007. Three of our group were volunteers from Chicago and five were from Pontotoc. The Pontotoc five were Keith Thomas, Mattie B. Wilson, Gloria Fitzpatrick and ourselves.

2011 marks the 20^th anniversary for Pontotoc County Habitat for Humanity, and since for most of these 20 years our affiliate has sent its tithe to Habitat for Humanity International designating it be used in Kenya, it seemed right for our local affiliate to send a small group to help with a build in Kenya.

We worked hard for an entire week building not one but two houses. A foundation for each had been laid prior to our arrival, so we began by pouring the concrete slab. I should add that all our work was manual labor, no electricity for power tools, not even a hand operated cement mixer. We raised walls of mortar and lava rock quarried from the side of a mountain and delivered to the job site. We built wooden trusses using handsaws, hammers and nails and added a tin roof. We left the finishing work to the stone masons and their assistants which they could easily complete in a week. So, by now there are two families enjoying the fruits of our labors.

What horrid conditions these displaced families have endured since 2007-2008. They’ve lived in tents made to last up to six months, which after more than four years are largely in tatters. Their water source is a storage tank supplied by the government. Animals such as goats and poultry are kept in pens beside or inside their tents. These animals supplement their diet with fresh milk and eggs and an occasional meal with meat. All cooking is done outside the tent over a charcoal fire. Bathing is accomplished with a small bucket of water, also outside. Yet for all we viewed as foreign to our sensibilities of decent housing, they manage to keep themselves respectably clothed and relatively clean under the most adverse conditions.

This particular camp of displaced persons consists of approximately 365 families living as a community. Habitat for Humanity and other organizations have made it possible for most of these families to move into permanent houses each on a 50’ x 100’ plot of ground. The houses are all about 325 square feet; imagine something smaller than a two-car garage. The houses are partitioned into three rooms, one for sitting, and two for bedrooms. Thus, cooking, bathing, and use of toilets are all done outside the house.

They call their toilets, Long Drop, as the outhouses sit above a twenty-foot-deep pit. We were all happy that we didn’t get to participate in digging one of the pits. The pits are covered by a concrete slab with a trench and two holes, one hole for the vent pipe and the other for excrement. The squat area is enclosed and utilizes roughly half the slab. The remaining half can later be converted to a shower area.

We felt good with our work accomplishments and our hosts bragged they’d not ever had a group of eight or less volunteers complete two houses in a week. We were frustrated, though, by the lack of decent tools with which to work and lack of mechanization to reduce the amount of manual labor required. It was as though the government of Kenya prefers to maintain a labor force in a pre-industrial revolution era.

After completing and participating in the dedication ceremonies for two houses, we spent our remaining time in Kenya sightseeing and on safari. We found ourselves experiencing two extremes, one of impoverishment and one of luxury, the former being the camp of displaced persons and the latter the plush lodging of the Serena Lodge on the Maasai Mara game reserve. Personally, I’ve not stayed in many American motels that meet the standards of the Serena.

Our four safaris over a three day period were quite memorable, and the pictures we brought back will keep those memories vivid for years to come. Other tourist-type attractions such as the Karen Blixen home (book and movie Out of Africa), the US Embassy memorial park commemorating the terrorists bombing that destroyed the embassy and took the lives of more than two hundred people, along with souvenir shopping, and dining in Nairobi rounded out our stay.

Each of our team returned to America with a renewed appreciation for all things American, our foods, our freedoms, our form of government, and especially all those can’t-do-without, labor-saving devices. We left some of our belongings to the disadvantaged and displaced persons at the camp, and we left some of our money, enough to build two more houses in Kenya. And, for the immediate future, Pontotoc County Habitat for Humanity plans to continue to send its tithe to Kenya.

May God Bless America

2011-07-04T11:27:00.000-07:00

Here it is, July 4^th, 2011, a beautiful Independence Day in our neck of the woods. I sit here drinking a cup of coffee and thinking just how fortunate I am to be a United States citizen, yet how concerned I am for our country. Yes, we have problems. Yes, we have young men fighting and dying on foreign soil. Yes, we have unemployment, businesses closings by the dozens, jobs are scarce – almost non-existent, people can’t afford the houses they have bought on credit, and so many other things that are not good. However, we are still free, we still have food in the frig, a little money in the bank, there are no creditors pounding on the door, we are healthy for our age, so many things that are good and that the Lord has showered down on us.

Do we need a change of leadership in government, YES! Do we need less big government out of our lives, YES! Do we need people in Washington to fight for OUR rights, YES! Do we need less government, YES!

But as I think about what a mess the government is in, how we detest how it is run, and the regulations it imposes on us; I cannot but remember that it was “We the People” who put these people in office. A majority of the voters elected these clowns, so we must take some of the blame for their actions. Now, it is our place to rectify a situation “we” made. It’s time for us to roll up our sleeves and replace the bad apples. There is still a majority of good, honest people in this country, both red, yellow, black and white, that wants what is right for our country. There are still people who will do an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay, if given a chance. There are still God fearing people who trust in Him for guidance and strength. Our country did not get to where she is, over these two hundred - plus years, by hiring illegal aliens to do it for them.

I for one still care and am doing what I can to bring about change in our government. Our grandson, USMC Sgt. Garrett Misener, was killed in Afghanistan last December.

It would be sad indeed if I had not spoken out when we meet in Heaven and have him to ask, “I gave my life for freedom, what did you do?”

For the most part, I fear we have become lazy in our affluent society, we have told God to take a hike and have hidden behind air conditioned walls while sitting in the light of our TVs. We have bought things we did not need, with money we did not have, just to impress people that we do not even know, and have left the running of our great nation to the no-accounts, the power and prestige hungry, money grubbers, and the self serving.

We must wake up, pull our heads from the sand, and tell those who seemingly desire to destroy our country to cease and desist or face treason charges. A public gallows, on court square, might be in order to drive home the point that “We the People” are still in charge. But, we must follow through! We can no longer sit by and let others tell us who to vote for or who to support, we must do our homework and support those who would guide our country back to the intended paths of our forefathers.

Some would tell us that our country was not founded on Christian principles, my answer to them is to go and visit the Jefferson Monument in Washington D.C. and read what is chiseled in stone on the walls of that great monument and tell me again on what our country was founded. The answer is also found in hundreds of books and periodicals written about our first great leaders. However, some of the so called modern “historians” are changing history; they too should be introduced to the court square gallows.

Our leaders should once again go back to the Bible as their basis for governing. Groups like the ACLU would be shushed and told to get a real job. God and country would once again have preeminence. The flag could, and would, be flown everywhere, and God’s name would be reverenced, uplifted in praise, and not reduced to a common curse word in our vocabulary.

My coffee is gone now and I have said some hard things, things I do not enjoy writing, but they must be said. A doctor once said, “The worse the disease, the stronger the medicine required.” We have a sick country, it needs strong medicine, we need God back in government!

GOD BLESS AMERICA ! ! ! !

Bodock Post Intro ~ June 2011

2011-05-24T08:26:00.000-07:00

What with the unseasonably cool weather in mid-May it’s hard to believe summer is only a month away. Nonetheless, the summer solstice occurs June 21, 12:16 P.M. CDT. And, even in parts of the country where Daylight Saving Time is not observed, it will still be the longest day of the year.

I trust, with the advent of summer at hand, all my friends who wished for warmer temperatures last winter will rejoice and be glad the heat has returned. In the event ours is a long, hot summer, rest assured the global warming alarmists will be out in force warning how people are bringing this highly-hyped calamity upon themselves by releasing greenhouse gases into the atmosphere, belching, or whatever supposed inducement is in vogue.

June is typically the big month of the year for weddings, and I’m sure there’ll be plenty of beaming brides this June. But, one such “beamer” has chosen to wed her beloved in July. My eldest granddaughter, Anna Butler, a recent graduate of The University of Mississippi, will wed Andrew Wallace on July 9th.

I imagine the media from levels local to national will report on how steep gasoline prices are keeping families from summer vacation travels. I don’t discount the fact that gasoline prices will influence the decisions of some people, but the vast majority of Americans who motor their way across our country for a vacation will do so regardless of the price of a gallon of gasoline. They may cut back the family budget somewhere else, but vacations will happen en masse.

Continue reading ==>

From The Arbor ~ May Is A Joyous Month

2011-04-23T20:25:00.000-07:00

My, my, aren’t you glad May is finally here? Winter has been a long time in going, here at our place. However, everything is coming alive and new growth is sprouting everywhere. Even the dark colored automobiles have all of a sudden turned a yellowish green. Have you noticed?

While driving on Highway 78 a few days ago there was a most beautiful sight. Redbud trees were sporting their beautiful red coats, new-growth leaves surrounded them with a light yellowish-green, and darker green pines provided a backdrop for the entire picture.

The cream for the pudding was an occasional white tree among all of this. It is a white blossomed tree similar to a Bradford Pear, but it did not look exactallyhttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif like a pear tree. It seemed as if God said, "I approve of these colors," and put that white dot of distinction among the growth.

The cherry on top of the entire delicious view was occasionally a Wisteria with its lavender blossoms. What beautiful scenery along that stretch of highway in North Mississippi from Tennessee to Alabama. We do enjoy our beautiful state!

There are other events in May that we can look forward too as well: The National Day of Prayer (5th), Mother’s Day (8th), and Memorial Day (30th), just to mention the main ones. Then there are others like: The Kentucky Derby (7th) the granddaddy of horse races as they run for the roses, and the Indianapolis 500 (29th) auto race at the time honored "brick yard" track. Continue reading ==>

From The Arbor ~ Showers Of Blessings

2011-03-25T06:04:00.000-07:00

Among Momma’s favorite hymns was "I Need Thee Every Hour" which was ever on her lips as she struggled to raise us five children after Daddy died. Times were hard sometimes, and the uncertainty must have been hard to bear. But she would also sing "Heavenly Sunshine" and "Showers of Blessings." She could pray with full trust "…give us this day our daily bread…" knowing He would.

It is often said "April showers bring May flowers." Here in our beloved Bodock Land in the middle south, we run a month ahead of that, with jonquils, yellowbells, quince, spirea, and henbit having bloomed in late February.

Many of us are already picking and eating kole crops from our spring garden, have the taters and cabbages and onions growing with promise, and will plant our Summer gardens just after April 15, when the threat of frost is past and the ground will be reliably warm. Of course we want to plant root crops during a waning moon and above ground crops in a waxing moon.

The heavy showers of early spring put what Ralph Graham, my daddy-in-law, called season in the ground. The slow rains soak deep into the soil to be wicked up when needed during the dry spells of summer. Most of us can remember hardly ever watering a garden in the old days, but recent weather patterns make watering necessary, such as the nine straight weeks of no measurable rain last summer....Continue Reading

Why Are We Smiling (Read to end)

2011-02-28T16:55:00.000-08:00

After having worked in Retail Technology for the twenty-one years prior to my retirement in October, I’m now finding myself enjoying volunteer work for Habitat for Humanity. And, to say I’m out of my element is an understatement.

In some respects, both types of work are similar. For example, problem solving skills are necessary in both, and a certain amount of experimentation is involved, as well. The biggest difference is the work with Habitat is largely manual labor.

Today (2/26), there were six of us on the work-site where a new house is being constructed. It’s still in the foundation-phase. We laid re-bar in the trenches made earlier in the week and retrofitted a plumbing mistake.

After the building inspector for the City of Pontotoc approved our work, we set about covering the in-ground plumbing and leveling the dirt, a step necessary prior to pouring the concrete slab next week.

It was in the fill-in phase, that I lamented to my co-laborers, “The reason I went to college was so I wouldn’t have to do manual labor.”

They laughed, and one chided, “But, this gives you an appreciation of the work being done.”

I appreciate it all right, but I’d appreciate it a lot more in a supervisory capacity.

But, because so much of what I help do is uncharted territory for me, I have difficulty balancing job skills and mental skills. Carpenters, masons, dry wall workers, and the like, all have specialized tools for the job. And, as it is often their means of livelihood, they are quite adept in their specialty. Carpenters have tool belts and/or nail aprons which aid them in keeping near at hand the tools and supplies needed to perform a given job.

Soon after I retired, Barbara bought me a leather apron to hold several tools and supplies for carpentry work. Fully stocked, it weighs a ton, so I don’t strap it around my waist unless I’m going to be hammering, measuring, sawing, and the like for extended periods of time.

Even with all the compartments, slots, loops, etc. I’m often undecided about what to put where after using say a pencil or utility knife. There are leather loops on either side for my hammer and a pouch front and center for my tape measure, which means those areas are out of the running for handy places to stow the aforementioned or my leather gloves, gloves that I’m apt to remove to make a phone call and then forget where I put them.

I’m not always consistent in holstering my hammer and several times in recent days, I’ve hung my hammer on top of a form stake to tighten a string or grab a shovel and minutes later be at a loss as to where I left my hammer. Maybe, I’ll get better with keeping up with my “stuff,” but at my age, maybe I won’t.

Today, my camera was the challenge. Barbara thinks I should document our work with pictures, and she likes me to take pictures of individuals and groups at work. Before, I started doing some of the manual labor, making pictures was simple…go to the work-site, make a few pictures and leave. It’s more complex trying to work and make pictures. Thus, she made some pictures with my camera at lunch and right after lunch, but gave it back to me after she finished and was leaving the work-site. I put into an already full pants pocket.

We finished our work and loaded all our tools and supplies to be returned to the warehouse for storage into the “company” truck I had driven from the warehouse to the work-site. I remember removing the camera from my pocket, as I collected my boots, jacket, and tool belt, placing some of these articles in the bed of the truck to make room for a passenger on the front seat.

I parked the truck in the warehouse and transferred my belongings to my truck and drove home. I took my jacket and tool belt and put them in the garage, then, without entering the house, carried my boots around back to hose off the sand and red-clay dirt.

Barbara heard me running water and brought her shoes for me to clean up, too. Afterwards, she asked to see the camera, and I told her it was among the things I dropped off in the carport. She checked the tool belt and my jacket. The camera was not in either.

“I remember it was in my pocket with my cell phone, and I took it out as I was getting in the truck to leave the site. Maybe, it’s still in my pickup,” I suggested.

It wasn’t. I checked the same places Barbara checked, and still the camera was missing. It bothered me that I could not remember what I did with the camera. Maybe, I put in on top of the tool box of the pickup, and it fell off leaving the work-site. Maybe it’s on the front seat of the pickup at the warehouse. Maybe…maybe we should go back to the warehouse and check the truck. We did. It wasn’t there.

Back at home, I was frustrated even more.

“Did we look on the dash of the truck?” I asked.

I thought we might as well rule out the work-site first, so we returned to the site. The shiny object in the ditch near where the truck had been was not the camera. Next, we drove back to the warehouse a second time and looked on the dash of the truck. We also looked at every place I had been in the warehouse when unloading the tools. No camera.

“Like you said earlier, ‘It’ll turn up…or it won’t,’” Barbara remarked as we left the warehouse.

As we walked into the carport, I checked the dryness of the boots I’d left drying on top of the lawnmower, and something inside the toe of the boot caught my eye. It was the shiny metallic surface of my camera. I plunged my hand deep into the boot and retrieved the camera.

“Here it is,” I exclaimed gleefully, not so much for the value of the camera as it’s relatively inexpensive (less than two hundred dollars) or for the pictures it held in memory but for the satisfaction in finding something that was lost.

In trying to remove the sand and clay, I had hosed, scrub-brushed, and banged those boots onto concrete an hour earlier, oblivious to the added weight of the camera inside one of them. Apparently, Sony makes a pretty rugged camera for the price paid.

Finally, I remembered having placed the camera in a boot prior to moving the boots from the floorboard of the pickup to the bed of the truck. Yes, I thought about putting in in my jacket, and I thought about putting in an open pouch of the tool belt, but the boot made sense at the time.

It may be an unlikely conclusion, but perhaps all the manual labor I’ve done recently is contributing to my forgetfulness. I’d like to believe it’s not early onset dementia, or Alzheimer’s Disease. One thing is certain; time will tell. ~ Wayne Carter/ Associate Editor and Publisher/ The Bodock Post

March 2011 ~ Spring Is Close By

2011-02-24T13:53:00.000-08:00

The groundhog, Punxsutawney Phil, did not see his shadow on February 2, 2011. This gives hope to many of an early spring, which is good news to those who can’t abide a big dose of cold weather or multiple snowfalls, such as has fallen on Pontotoc this winter. However, it has been my considerable experience that it’s far easier to put on enough clothes in winter to keep warm than it is to remove enough clothes in summer to stay cool. My wife, though, prefers to neither shiver nor sweat. I call her penchant for fair weather, the Goldilocks’ Syndrome. She likes it just right, and for her, the ideal year-round environment is 70 degrees.

The ancients marked the change of winter to spring by calculating the day of the year when nighttime and daytime hours are nearly balanced as 12 hours each. In our northern hemisphere, it is called the vernal equinox or the March equinox. We also call it the first day of spring, annually occurring around March 20 or March 21.

While we herald the coming of spring based on the position of the sun relative to earth, farmers have long used the moon as a guide to planting crops. See Charles Wood’s article on Planting By The Signs in this issue.

And, speaking of planting, Carl Wayne Hardeman is ecstatic with the successes of the Collierville Victory Garden, a volunteer maintained vegetable garden with all the bounty going to the needy. Additionally, others have been inspired by the success of the Collierville Victory garden and Carl Wayne is helping several victory gardens get off on the right foot, including one in New Albany, MS sponsored by the Union County MS Master Gardeners Association. Contact Carl Wayne if you need more information.

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The Bodock Post ~ February 2011

2011-01-24T19:56:00.000-08:00

How can it be February already, we just got through eating all the leftover Christmas turkey last week! I did not know you could fix, or should I say re-fix, turkey in so many different ways. Although, the turkey milk shakes are stretching it just a mite….

We’re glad to have you back with us at the onset of this New Year 2011. January has flown by at our house even with being cooped up inside some of the time with all the cold weather and snow. And, be forewarned, we may still be in for some of the real cold stuff here before February is gone.

We have some of our coldest days and often snow or ice (heaven forbid) during this month. But, as I get to thinking about it, there is little we can do to change the weather, be it pleasant or downright nasty. You have permission to go ahead and enjoy whatever comes.

We have a very steep driveway to our house and people are always asking me how we get in and out when it snows or when a freezing rain comes.

My stock answer is, "Getting out is no problem at all, just point the car down the hill and let ‘er go. Now coming back up is a totally different story."

Peggy and I have laid in a stash of hot chocolate mix, and we have cases of soup that can be heated on the fireplace in the event of an ice storm. A good friend has provided us with ample firewood for the fireplace, but I might need to check on the coal oil for the lamps. I have tried and tried to find the electric outlet on those coal oil lamps to plug in the TV, but I suppose ours are just too old, they don’t have that plug anywhere.

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USMC Sgt. Garrett Misener [Update]

2010-12-28T19:20:00.000-08:00

Dear Friends and Family,

As most of you have heard by now, my son, USMC Sgt. Garrett Misener, was killed in action in Afghanistan. If you have not seen the news on TV, you can visit pretty much any of the Memphis local channels web sites and see the reports and know the basic details about it. At this time, I'd like to let you all know about the time line and services, etc. Many have been asking and we can not possibly speak with everyone on the phone or even attempt to answer individual emails. So, if you are receiving this email and wonder if someone else has seen it, feel free to pass it on.

What Happened: Garrett, a squad leader of 13 men, was on foot patrol in the wee hours of December 27, 2010 and stepped on or near an IED (improvized explosive device) and was mortally wounded. They med-evaced him to the hospital, but he did not survive. Only one other man under Garrett's charge was injured. He received a concussion and expected to make a full and speedy recovery.

To Date: Garrett's remains have been flown to Dover, Delaware and he arrived there earlier today. In the next few days he will have several things happen including Positive ID, an Autopsy and Burrial Preparations. Unless something unexpected arises with the positive ID or another portion of the burial prep, he should be flown from Dover to Memphis via private jet on Saturday. We will know for sure by either late Thursday or Friday morning.

Services: As long as things go as expected, and barring bad weather or snow, we were instructed to not FINALIZE the service date/time until we knew for sure he would be in Memphis. So at this time, we know that the earliest a service can take place would be Sunday Afternoon. Again, we will know more by Friday.

We will make the service time and date available to all the local stations and the commercial appeal if you don't receive another email like this.

We plan on a service taking place at Bellevue Baptist Church.

As far as flowers, we are trying to think about what Garrett would have wanted. He would not want folks to spend a lot of money on flowers when there are so many in this world who are less fortunate. We believe he would have rather had donations go to some other charity so that others could know the love of Christ.

We will provide names and contact information for the selected donations in the next day or so.

Many have asked what they can do to help us, and quite frankly, there is not much anyone can do other than let us know you are praying for us. However, there is something that can be done by everyone.

Garrett was a squad leader in charge of 13 men. As you can imagine, these men are sad to lose their leader and Garrett will be hard to replace. I would ask each of you to pray earnestly for these 13 men so that they will not be distracted from their duty in Afghanistan and thus be in greater danger of being injured themselves. Pray for strength and endurance for each of these men.

Also, for those of you who knew Garrett, if you have pictures, videos or stories that you would like to share (and we want to hear/see them ALL), please feel free to email them to me, or post them on line and email the link, or you can mail them to me at the below address:

Janne Zaccagnino
293 S. Walnut Bend Rd. Ste 204
Cordova, TN 38018

At this time, we ask you to keep the phone calls to a minimum as we are still trying to reach Garrett's friends and make arrangements for the Services. We are trying to respond to emails, but it may take us a few days to catch up. Please know, we love and appreciate EVERY comment. We will eventually read every word.

Thank you everyone, we covet your prayers.

Janne Zaccagnino

The Bodock Post ~ January 2011

2010-12-26T20:02:00.000-08:00

Be always at war with your vices, at peace with your neighbors, and let each new year find you a better man. ~ Ben Franklin

It is cold this morning as I write this. Me and Mimi once said, after living three years in Nebraska one winter, that if we survived, we would never complain about winter in our beloved South. I’m having to bite my tongue as I write this.

It is 16 degrees this morning with wind chill index near zero: a balmy day in Nebraska where the locals would be griping about having to turn the heat on in their homes. But that’s pipe freezing, battery killing, three dog night weather in Bodock Land.

But every cloud has a silver lining. Granddaddy would have talked about the cold killing bad bugs, and Uncle Aubrey says we wouldn’t appreciate the summer without the winter. And most of us have good memories of the sound and smell and heat of a wood fireplace, and getting our britches too hot on one side and burning our legs when we walked away.

My New Year resolutions are simple and mostly the same as last year and that is to be a better servant in His Kingdom, be a better husband, daddy, granddaddy, friend, and neighbor, and to make the world a little brighter and happier for those around me.

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Apple Season

2010-09-21T07:22:00.000-07:00

Happily, this delicious cake can be enjoyed year round, not just in apple season, but seeing recent comments on Facebook by various individuals regarding apple season, I thought of sharing this recipe.

Fresh Apple Cake

By Nettie Mae Carter Gaillard and passed on to Barbara Carter.

Ingredients:
1 ¼ Cups Cooking Oil
2 Cups Sugar
2 Eggs
2 ½ Cups S.R. Flour
2 tsp vanilla extract
1 cup chopped nuts
3 baking apples (Granny Smith), peeled, cored and chunked

Prepare apples and chopped nuts then set aside.
Combine the first five ingredients then incorporate the apples and nuts into the mixture.

Bake at 325 degrees in an oblong pan 9 X 13, until cake is golden brown and top slightly crisp.

Glaze:
Heat to dissolve:
1 stick oleo or butter
1 cup brown sugar
2 tbsp. milk
Bring to boil, then add:
¾ cup sifted powered sugar

Once all is blended, pour over warm cake, allowing cake to cool…glaze will harden. Serve from pan.

Shared by Wayne L. Carter

Out West ~ Day One

2010-08-27T09:31:00.000-07:00

Sometime last year, Carl Wayne, sent me an article about bodocks that he’d read online. It came from a blog by Terry Thornton of Fulton, MS. Terry’s blog had an unusual name “Hill Country H.O.G.S. Webpress.” The “H.O.G.S.” part stands for History, Observations, Genealogy, and Stories. I contacted Terry about sending one or more of his writings to be shared in The Bodock Post, and he indicated he would. Sadly, Terry, passed away while Barbara and I were on our Out West trip, recently.

Terry was passionate about Monroe County, Mississippi and would frequently share something of interest about this area of Northeast Mississippi. Earlier this year, he mentioned the work of an artist and included a picture of an old home the artist had painted in Aberdeen, MS, where beautiful old homes abound.

I followed the link Terry provided to the artist’s blog and discovered the world of art through the eyes of Arni Anderson. Arni was in the middle of a year-long project to paint one picture each day of the year in 2010. What fabulous pictures he had, including great portrayals of landscapes, houses, barns, many from Mississippi. The great part about Arni’s blog is that he explains the color medium used, the type of paper or canvas it’s on, and something about where the subject is located.

At some point, I left an appreciative comment on Arni’s blog, and soon he had asked me to be one of his many Facebook friends. One day I read that he would be in the Aberdeen, and he invited his Facebook friends near Aberdeen to join him at a popular eatery one Friday night. I had a Class of ’60 dinner that particular evening and felt obligated to attend it rather than make the trip to Aberdeen. Yet, when I began to look at the route Barbara and I would take for our Out West trip, I realized we would spend our first night in Oklahoma City, near Arni. I contacted him, and he seemed delighted.

Arnie suggested he and his wife meet us at Cattleman’s restaurant in OKC. According to Arni, Cattleman’s is about the best place to eat for miles around. The food was excellent, but the opportunity to meet Arni and Nina was better, still. She’s an Aberdeen “girl” whom Arni had met in college and determined to marry, so determined in fact, that he moved to Aberdeen and worked there until he could talk her into marriage. (I saw on Facebook today, 8/27/10, that he and Nina are celebrating their 45th wedding anniversary.)

I was amazed at the many different jobs Arni has done throughout his life to support his family. He’s currently an art teacher in Edmond, OK, and has a few, hand selected private students, too.

Arni and Nina were the first of several folks we would encounter along our route to tour the West by automobile. I feel our friendship is now stronger than ever with our having met face to face. Arni tells me he’s planning an art showing in Northeast Mississippi next year. I hope to see Nina and him, then. Meanwhile, I’ll be keeping a close tab on his blog, www.arnisart.blogspot.com, and following his posts on Facebook.

~ By Wayne Carter/ Associate Editor and Publisher/ The Bodock Post

The Bodock Post ~ September 2010

2010-08-24T20:40:00.000-07:00

From The Arbor Starting A New Year Of Publication

By way of comparison, has this summer been as hot as last winter was cold? I don’t have the statistics to back up my claim, but I declare it to be so and with confidence that most folk will agree with me. Thanks to the rainfall this summer, Pontotoc County has stayed green longer into August than one might expect in a more typical year.

I think my co-editor, Carl Wayne, had a successful tomato harvest, but if not, it’s safe to assume his was more fruitful than mine. I’m not a gardener, but I did purchase three tomato plants in early May and set them in a sunny spot in my backyard. There they sat, and nothing I did for them worked. I transplanted one to a container after two months and purposefully mowed down a second one in early August. I doubt the third will fare any better. So far, I’ve not harvested a single ripe tomato, which is a personal low in my lifetime of green thumb efforts.

I continue to despair that our area public schools start their respective school year in early August after having ended the prior school year in late May. At best, students get about a ten weeks’ vacation from their formal studies and teachers less than that. Economically, it makes little sense to air-condition classrooms during the hottest month of the year, when adjusting the length of a few of the many holidays of the school year would allow students to return to school after Labor Day.

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The Bodock Post ~ August 2010

2010-07-24T18:52:00.000-07:00

Dry August and warm doth harvest no harm. ~ Old Folk Saying

It's hot and dry in Bodock Land. We are smack dab in the middle of the Dog Days of Summer, named for Sirius, the Dog Star. They range from early July till early August.

An Amish lady of the Randolph community once told me when I asked about the tornado which had struck their farms: "We take whatever the Lord sends our way."

Not only can we accept, we can look on the bright side of all the heat, and even rejoice in the beautiful sunlight, which we sons and daughters of the South do. I remember Momma singing us to sleep with the song "Heavenly Sunlight". Mimi did the same for our children and granddarlings.

Late summer is a time of harvest of our summer garden bounty. Our rich red dirt on the hills and in the bottoms gives us food enough for the entire year. We eat food grown in concert with the times and cycles of Mother Nature when our local soil has rising nutrients, is sweetened with warm summer rains, and direct sunlight enables photosynthesis to be at maximum.

If you don't have access to a garden, visit a local farmer's market like the one in New Albany for fresh delicious garden veggies like peas, Bella Rosa tomatoes, and corn raised by local farmers Tim Burress and Stanley Wise, Jr., and others. Continue reading ==>>

The Bodock Post ~ July 2010

2010-06-24T19:38:00.000-07:00

From The Arbor Muster The Patriots

In slightly more than a span of thirty days Americans celebrate or observe three patriotic occasions. Starting thelast weekend of May, we pay homage to those who’ve made the ultimate sacrifice for our nation and mark the last Monday of the month as Memorial Day and we observe it as a national holiday.

Memorial Day began here in Mississippi, as a day set aside to tidy-up the
graves of both Union and Confederate soldiers and was, for a time, referred o as "Decoration Day." Far from its roots, today, Memorial Day is, largely, just another holiday to be celebrated in activities of "summer fun." Oh, some of us find time to observe the day as intended originally, but the big crowds pay little attention to the day save for a bit about the day on the evening and/or late night news. After all, it’s a holiday and holidays are about what we as individuals can do for our own enjoyment, right?

Next in the process of special days is Flag Day, June 14^th. It’s also a day to show our patriotism with a bit of "flag-waving," and to reflect on our freedoms and the many countries around the world that enjoy a measure
of freedom, today, thanks to the efforts of the brave men who carried our flag onto foreign soils.

Third in this series of patriotic occasions is by far the biggest. We call it Independence Day as it is the day we honor our founding fathers in their decision to declare our independence from colonial rule by the British. July
4, 1776, was not the day we won the right to rule ourselves, but it began the process whose end result we now enjoy.

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Favorite Sandwich

2010-02-20T11:49:00.000-08:00

One of the conversation starters I often use when dining with groups of volunteers on hand to help Habitat for Humanity, Pontotoc, and who are visiting Pontotoc for the first time, is to ask each one at my table what they consider their favorite, made-at-home sandwich. After each has described his or her favorite, I’m usually asked about my favorite sandwich.

I also watch a lot of shows on the Food Network, and one of the programs I enjoy is “The Best Thing I Ever Ate.” Various chefs and stars on the Food Network are asked to describe the “Best Thing I Ever Ate” with respect to a given food item or category. For example, one program might be devoted to desserts; another to an entrée, and one I saw fell into the category, “between two slices of bread.”

I’m not a star, but if I’m invited to be on the show, I’ll have to say my favorite thing to eat in the sandwich category is a BLT (bacon, lettuce and tomato). Of course, the sandwich is much better when home-grown tomatoes are in season and are of any variety which has plenty of acid. I also prefer honey-wheat bread, thick-sliced bacon, iceberg lettuce, and a generous slathering of mayonnaise, as components. And, given a choice of where to consume it, I’ll pick my house as long as my wife makes the sandwich. For some reason, the sandwich she makes tastes better than mine. I’ve watched her put them together and have tried to replicate her actions, but mine just don’t look or taste as good as hers.

My second favorite is even simpler. If the tomatoes are unusually acidic, I like a BMT, bread, mayo and tomato.

Rivaling my love for BLTs and BMTs is the peanut butter sandwich. I grew up eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches which Mom made for me. Mom always stirred the jelly, most often grape, into the peanut butter before spreading the concoction onto white bread. Toss in a glass of cold milk to wash it down, and it made a great after-school snack. I also enjoy peanut butter and banana, and while I will eat one with the bananas mashed into the peanut butter, I prefer my bananas sliced over the peanut butter.

A number of years ago someone introduced me to what is now my favorite way to consume a peanut butter sandwich and that is a PBMC, peanut butter marshmallow creme. No mixing, please; just spread peanut butter (smooth kind) on one slice of bread, spread marshmallow cream on the other slice of bread and press the sandwich faces together. I like to cut the sandwich along a diagonal, prior to eating, as it keeps me from getting marshmallow crème in my ears when taking big bites. And, if you’re brand conscious, I use Jif peanut butter and Kraft marshmallow crème.

If there’s a better sandwich than one of the three named herein, it’s yet to touch my lips. However, I’m open to suggestions.

~ By Wayne L. Carter/ Associate Editor & Publisher/ The Bodock Post

Super Bowl Crazy

2010-02-11T13:28:00.000-08:00

It was with mixed emotions that I watched part of this year’s Super Bowl. Yes, I was proud for the New Orleans Saints, but I was a Baltimore Colts fan long before their owner moved the Colts to Indianapolis.

I have great respect for the accomplishments of the Saints this season and was particularly impressed by Drew Brees throughout the year. Still, we Archie Manning era, Ole Miss fans think of his son, Peyton, as one of our own, and it’s hard for most of us to root for any opponent of Peyton, unless there’s a direct family member link with the opposing team. I really thought Baltimore had the best team in pro football this year, but as the race does not always go to the swift, neither does the best team always win the Super Bowl.

I confess to growing tired of all the pre-game buildup about how the Saints had given New Orleans residents hope, something allegedly lost when Hurricane Katrina submerged much of the Crescent City in aught five. How this renewed hope will translate into a rebuilding initiative or bring back the many who left New Orleans after the hurricane, never to return, wasn’t made clear. New Orleans will require much more than winning football team to elevate it to its former glory, though I use the term glory for the South’s Sin City loosely.

Yes, there was an element of craziness about it all; the hype, the game, the celebrations, and it wasn’t all bad. Anything that gets folks’ minds off their miserable existence, if but for a few hours, has its own merits. In some respects the Saints are for New Orleans what Obama is for America, an agent of hope and change. But, if the changes wrought for New Orleans are no better than the ones Obama has brought America, hope is all the Crescent City has left.

On a lighter side, it was a little crazy at my house on Super Bowl Sunday. I was expecting Rayanne’s family to be on hand to watch the game and eat, and I’ve learned to buy more and prepare more than we might possibly need simply to cover the unexpected.

Kickoff for the game coincided with grill time and prep time for all the food, so I missed seeing most of the first half of the Super Bowl. I enjoyed preparing and cooking some of the meats, and I must credit my wife and daughter for much of the other work that went into the various dishes comprising our dinner. To please everyone, simple one meat and two vegetable dinners won’t suffice for most occasions, and since this occasion was special, I didn’t mind overdoing the smorgasbord a bit.

There was enough food to feed our normal Christmas crowd and then some, but we ended up with only five adults and two children for our Super Bowl party. Sarah’s on a diet, and neither of her children were on hand for the soirée. Granddaughter Anna ate lunch with us but went back to Ole Miss to watch the game with her ‘feller.’ Suffice it to say, we had a lot of leftovers, leftovers that will spoil before we can eat them.

Next year, it may be even crazier at my house, but there’s no way to know a year in advance. I do know that I won’t go quite as crazy with the menu. What do y’all think? Pizza?

By Wayne Carter
Associate Editor & Publisher
The Bodock Post
http://www.bodockpost.com/

Owner's Manual

2010-01-28T11:57:00.000-08:00

Most guy-things come with an owner’s manual; women are an exception. Though, a how-to guide would be nice for boyfriends and husbands. Of course, the name would have to be different from “Owner’s Manual.” I’m sure feminist would rise up, if not in arms, at least, braless, over that.

When I think about it, most of my Christmas gifts came with manuals and/or instructions. What intrigues me about owner’s manuals is they seldom apply entirely to the item purchased. For example, the owner’s manual for my car explains features my car doesn’t have, but similar models would have them, so information concerning these features gets thrown in to make the owner long for that which he or she doesn’t have, or so I suppose.

Yet perhaps, it’s a subtle snub…"Oh, you have the custom model; only the deluxe model has that feature. It’s too bad, you can’t afford the deluxe model."

Here’s another example of a non-specific owner’s manual for a product. I received a Garmin GPS (global positioning system) for Christmas, complete with an owner’s manual explaining all its nice features. According to the manual, I could use hands-free cellular phone dialing through my GPS provided the model that I purchased were so equipped. For my device, such information is worthless, other than to make me wish for a gadget with more features.

I was rather curious as to why the box described the Garmin as a nüvi 255wt, but the product is stamped “nüvi 255w.” While, I’m still searching for the meaning of nüvi, I solved the “wt” puzzle. The ‘w’ represents widescreen, and the‘t’ is for traffic.

A week or so ago, I was on my way to Memphis from Indianola, MS. Nearing Memphis, I noticed a symbol in the top left quadrant that I had not seen before. It was a small green circle with two automobile icons inside it.

Upon pressing the green circle, I discovered previously unseen screens, all dealing with traffic. When the green circle changed to yellow, I got really curious, but driving in Memphis traffic, I didn’t spend a lot of time trying to figure out all of it. What I couldn’t get my mind wrapped around was how I was receiving life traffic updates on a GPS.

When I can’t understand a particular feature of an electronic gadget, I will read the instructions or the owner’s manual. I don’t like to, but I will if necessary. And, it was inside the owner’s manual that I learned how my GPS knows about live traffic situations. It uses an FM receiver. Furthermore, the receiver is not inside the GPS unit; it’s inside the power cord, which explains why the power cord has an ugly bulge about eight inches from the end that connects to the GPS.

~ By Wayne Carter/ Associate Editor & Publisher/ The Bodock Post/ http://www.bodockpost.com/

Blindsided

2010-01-10T18:25:00.000-08:00

A sage once said, “An idle brain is the devil’s workshop.” If true, the devil will have a tough time setting up shop in my daughter’s brain. I don’t think her mind ever shuts down. Almost since birth, her middle name has been “Go!” When she stops it’s only to think of where next to go or what next to do.

In some ways I’m glad she doesn’t live in Pontotoc, for if she did, she’d keep me far busier doing things she wanted me to do than is my present situation. The seventy miles that separate us is a buffer zone, but sometimes I get blindsided by an unexpected request.

When I read her post on Facebook, Saturday afternoon, stating she was enjoying being off work and had plans to shop in Tupelo, I felt relatively safe from what are often schemes of hers that involve her dad. My world, Wayne’s World if you care to think of it as such, turned rather nicely until about three-thirty Saturday afternoon.

I knew by the ring-tone on my wife’s cell phone that Rayanne was calling, so as the conversations are often of a mother/daughter nature, I scarcely listened to what my wife was saying until the phone was thrust in my face.

“It’s Rayanne,” Barbara stated, “talk to her.”

Well, maybe that’s not the exact words, but that’s what I heard, once the words were filtered by my brain. About the same time I took the phone, a neighbor rang our doorbell, so I had good reason to cut short the phone conversation.

“We’re all in Tupelo,” Rayanne said, “and, everyone wants to go see The Blind Side after we eat. Do you and Mama want to meet us?”

Neither Barbara nor I were bathed and dressed for going out, so I responded we’d talk it over and get back to her. Anyway, going to movies is not something I do with any regularity. Let’s see, Barbara and I went to see The Sound of Music in our early years of marriage and took our small children to see Herbie Rides Again, the last movie I remember viewing in a theater, but I’ve possibly been to one since and don’t remember it.

With the coldest night of the year just hours ahead, going out into the frigid night air to see a movie was not something I desired to do. But, my intuition told me I had better go, as I knew my wife wanted to see the movie, and I have since been lambasted for not taking her to the inflatable city at Cotton Plant during the Christmas season.

Theaters have changed quite a bit from my adolescent years, and I surely don’t remember climbing steps that led anywhere except to a balcony. The Malco in Tupelo is one of those new-fangled, multi-screen theaters. We walked up stairs so we could descend to the desired level to view the movie.

Upon being seated I was glad I had worn several layers of clothing to protect me from the cold outside that had somehow seeped inside. I had stuffed a pair of cotton gloves into a pocket of my jacket, mainly for use going to and from my car. Little did I know they would be all that stood between my fingers and frostbite…inside the theater. For the next two hours, I sat miserably cold, weighing the pros and cons of my decision to make my wife happy. In the past, I have spent two hours being colder and more miserable, but that would have been on a deer stand back in the days when I went deer hunting.

The movie…oh, it was good as movies go, and I could understand most of the dialog. Being an Ole Miss alum, I took pleasure in the story of a former Ole Miss athlete, whose wife was an Ole Miss cheerleader, and who together helped change the life of a Black youth who eventually became an All American tackle at Ole Miss and is now playing professionally for the Baltimore Ravens.

It was a heartwarming movie, and I enjoyed it to the extent that circumstances allowed. I have no plans to see another movie this winter, but having been blindsided once, it could happen again.

By Wayne Carter

Clifty Farm ~ My Favorite Country Ham

2009-12-31T11:24:00.000-08:00

The first time I ever saw a Clifty Farm country ham was in 1982, at the Sunflower Food Store in Iuka, Mississippi. I was a meat merchandiser for Lewis Grocer of Indianola, MS, at the time. The market manager had a display of more than one hundred country hams. Based on my experience, I thought he’d made a big mistake ordering so many hams for Christmas. The meat departments of the much larger stores might need twenty or so country hams for Christmas.

“We’ll sell those and more,” he commented, laughing at my limited knowledge of his customer base.

That same Christmas, the store owner gave me one of the Clifty Farm hams, and after trying it, I’ve been sold on the product ever since.

Though I still work for the same company, I no longer advise market managers of ways to merchandise products and maximize sales. However, I still use the meat cutting skills I learned as a teen working in my dad’s store in the 1950s.

Each year for the past dozen or so years, I buy several country hams, Clifty Farm of course, take them home, remove the skin and bone, and slice them on a commercial meat slicer. The slices are then vacuum sealed in packs weighing approximately 22 ounces. The finished product makes nicely appreciated Christmas gifts for friends and family. I always tell the recipient, or include a note in the package, that the ham is a product of Clifty Farm.

Friends rave about the taste of Clifty Farm country ham. This year, a neighbor friend whom I had not previously gifted with country ham was greatly impressed.

“It’s the best ham I have eaten in a long time,” she wrote in an email.

At sixty-seven, I may not have many more ham-giving years in me, but as long as I am able, I’ll be buying Clifty Farm country hams, slicing them at home, and blessing others with them at Christmastime.

PS: The photos were made in my home to show the various steps I go through to slice and package these wonderful hams.

Step 1 ~ Removing the skin (pictured above)

Step 2 ~ Skin and Bone removed.

Step 3 ~ Slicing a country ham.

Step 4 ~ Top view of Slicing Process with Hobart slicer.

Step 5 ~ Slices on waxed paper awaiting packaging.

Step 6 ~ Vacuum sealing with FoodSaver.

Step 7 ~ Packs are ready for gift bags.

Signs Of Christmas

2009-12-18T07:19:00.000-08:00

‘Twas the eighteenth of December and all through the house signs of Christmas to come were all scattered about (surely the reader didn’t think I was going to rhyme a parody of “The Night Before Christmas”).

Presents lie colorfully wrapped under the tree, stockings are hung by the chimney with care, various boxes of Chex cereals are in the pantry awaiting their incorporation into the party treat known as “trash,” “nuts ‘n bolts,” or whatever name grabs a hold of you. Eggnog has been granted “staple” status and is inventoried as such.

There’s even an Advent calendar, a first for this household, to help us track the days leading up to Christmas Day. Set-abouts of all things Christmas are in abundance.

Poinsettia candles grace the dining room and a seasonal tablescape adds a cheery look to the dining table. This year, Barbara has added effervescent waxes, discs that are electrically warmed to release their aromas, to her collection of Christmas smells. Christmas Cards are piling up in the card basket, a sure sign that Christmas is near.

We’re in a holiday-baking lull but chocolate fudge, snicker doodles, and peanut butter cookies tempt the passerby. Baking and basting and cooking in general will kick into high gear about mid-week as preparations to feed twenty in our home on Christmas Day are readied.

Adding to all the above is the distinct smell of country ham, not so much the smell associated with it in a frying pan, though we have noted that aroma of late, but more along the lines of a smokehouse. It’s ham slicing season here in “the circle.”

Each year for the past several years, we buy a number of country hams which we de-bone, slice, and package for gifts to friends and family. It is a labor of love and a fairly inexpensive way to bestow a meaningful gift to others, and one that usually extends into the New Year.

Yes, the signs of Christmas in our home are numerous, indeed!

~ By Wayne Carter

A Plan For Christmas Dinner

2009-12-12T10:04:00.000-08:00

This weekend, Barbara’s doing her Christmas Memories’ bit with our two youngest granddaughters, Merilese and Katherine. They arrived last night with their parents, Rayanne and Anson Adams. Our plans were to take the girls to a restaurant for dinner, go riding around town looking at Christmas lights, then today (Saturday) Barbara and the girls would bake cookies.

Already, our house has the smell of Christmas about it, and the baking hasn’t begun. But, the entire peel of a naval orange is simmering with cloves and cinnamon on the stovetop, filling the air with delicious smells.

Last night's dinner plans, were modified to include the girls’ parents (surprise), who decided they would have time to eat with us, since learning we were dining out, and still have time to get on with their Christmas shopping plans in Tupelo on their way back to Belmont. Our son, Jason, joined us, too (no surprise, as we ate at Kirk’s, one of his local favorites, but a notch or two below his very favorite, Mi Pueblo).

At one point during our dining experience last night, somewhere between the salad and the entrée, a conversational dry spell occurred. Instead, three cell phones were silently being used at our table of seven. Anson was Facebooking, and Rayanne and Jason were texting others. I reminded them there was a time when families gathered round the table, ate, and actually talked to one another. It was my sarcastic way to let them know family time is more important than the pursuit of personal pleasures.

We turn the TV off, or else mute it, during family mealtime gatherings in my house. It is my belief that family conversation takes precedent over any and all things on the boob tube. And, as our extended family will gather for Christmas Dinner at our house, I’m taking steps to insure the family-time infractions that occurred last night are not replicated on Christmas Day. If my cell-phone ‘neutralizer’ doesn’t get here in time to block all cellular transmissions inside our house, I’ll ask all cell phones be turned off during Christmas Dinner. Surely, no one will have technology withdrawals as a result. And surely, Christmas Dinner 2009 will be more memorable.

~ By Wayne Carter

Two Christmas Memories ~ 1948 and 1961

2009-12-08T14:35:00.000-08:00

The following comprises the written account of my storytelling at Lunching With Books at the Pontotoc County Library at noon today. Were I still any good at memorization, what you will read would have been what I said. Since I did not memorize my talk, and I ad-libbed a lot, you'll have to settle for my writing voice and not my talking voice and the text which served as my notes. (It's not been proofed very thoroughly, so expect some missing words, misused words, comma splices, missing commas, and possibly a few typos.)

My name is Wayne Carter…my agent, Carl Wayne Hardeman of Collierville, Tennessee, told me to let everyone know I am the Associate Editor of The Bodock Post…that’s a monthly e-newsletter filled with nostalgic articles and written by ordinary folks like you and me. It’s free…you can subscribe and get the monthly updates emailed to you or you simply check our website near the end of every month for the next month’s issue. You can check us out at bodockpost.com and decide which you prefer.

Christmas is more than getting presents, though as a child, I didn’t think so. Christmas is, as you know, as much about giving as it is receiving. God made our salvation from sin possible by gifting us with his Son, Jesus, who would later give his life to atone for our sins. In fact, to experience the fullness that is Christmas, giving to others is a requirement.

Though I was born in Pontotoc, my Dad moved us away from here when I was two. We lived in four other cities and towns, over a period of nine years, before we moved back here in 1953.

One of the first memorable Christmases for me was the year I five or six years old. Dad was working for Kroger, at the time, and we were living in Iuka, MS. Our house was within walking distance of the downtown area and the school.

My older brother and I walked to school…sunshine, rain, sleet or snow…uphill both ways. (smile) If you know anything about Iuka, you know there’s a city park there with mineral springs. Well, our house was located a hundred yards or so from the park.

Our house had electricity but the principal source of heat was a coal heater that stood in our living room. It had “Warm Morning” embellished somewhere on it, and provided plenty of warmness on a cold winter’s morn.

Our heater had a flat-topped surface that could be utilized for cooking, and I remember a coffee pot sat there from time to time. However, other than for general heating purposes, I remember the heater was also used to parch raw peanuts. As a family, we’d shell a pound or so of raw peanuts; Mama would place a cast iron skillet with some grease in it on top of the heater. We’d add the peanuts, and she’d keep them stirred as they became hotter and hotter. The peanut husks would be almost black when they were done, but sprinkled with salt the parched peanuts were a treat we all enjoyed.

As Christmas approached, I remember going with Mama to a variety store, actually a 10-cent store, where she asked which toys I wanted Santa to bring. Of course, she steered me to the more affordable items, as was her custom, and offered excuses as to why they’d do just fine.

About a week before Christmas Day, a tree appeared in our living room. Most likely, it was one of the spruce trees sold by Kroger, but through the years, I remember a lot of cedars, so I’m not sure about the species of our Christmas tree. I feel certain there were some multi-colored lights and a number of ball shaped ornaments, also in various colors like red, gold, blue, and green. But it’s the silver icicles that are my most vivid memory…perhaps because I got to hang some of them…the icicles were thin slivers of aluminum foil that were about a foot long. They’ve fallen from favor over the years, but for many years no self-respecting Christmas Tree would be caught dead without them.

That Christmas, Santa brought me a few of the toys I had shown Mama I wanted at the ten-cent store, but he also brought a gift to be shared by my brother and me, an electric train set. It had enough track to configure in either a circle, oval or in a figure eight layout. It was made by Lionel and consisted of a locomotive and perhaps a handful of assorted cars and a caboose. Funny thing, though, once it was assembled and everything was running, we discovered Dad enjoyed playing with the train set almost as much as we did.

Of course, my brother and I tried to see how fast the train could take the curves, a practice that often resulted in a train wreck. So, we got lots of practice fitting the locomotive and the other cars back onto the HO gauge tracks.

The train set provided hours of entertainment for our family. We didn’t have toy villages, tunnels or mountainous terrain for our train, but we had our imagination. I remember we made our own hills by elevating the track with books and boxes or scraps of wood. We even staged train wrecks by placing small toy cars on the track for the train to run into.

Those of you who’ve been around electric train sets will be familiar with the odor that is generated, which is similar to the smell in the air after a thunderstorm passes through. Electric sparks in the air produce Oxygen atoms with an extra ion, which scientists call ozone. Because of the smells created by the electric train, I recount Santa’s visit that year as our Ozone Christmas.

The only other gift I recall that year was “the family” got a five-pound log of peppermint candy that seemed to last forever. I remember Mama or Daddy whacking the huge piece of candy with a knife handle to break away bite-sized portions. I learned that peppermint and saltine crackers go well together. If saltines are not available, try ice water and peppermint candy.

I’m thankful to have a this Christmas memory from my childhood as well as a few more that relate to gift receiving, but I would now like to share a Christmas memory of gift giving that occurred about fifteen years later.

I have a much younger brother, whom you may or may not know. He was born on a cold January night in 1956, the same year I was a ninth grader in Pontotoc City Schools. I well remember that night as it was the coldest night I’d ever spent in any house. With Mom in the hospital and Dad nearby, I got farmed out to some relatives. My aunt and uncle lived in a house between this building and the Red Rooster café. The bedroom Aunt Jo had me to bed-down in was an unheated room, and I thought I’d freeze before morning. Obviously, I didn’t.

My little brother, James, and yes I still call him my little brother even though standing toe to toe, we can look one another eye to eye, showed an early interest in mechanics, particularly how something worked. If a toy could be disassembled, he wanted to take it apart to see how it worked. By the time he was five years or six years old he’d become quite skilled at disassembly and was extraordinarily good at taking the wheels off any toy vehicle he was given.

As Christmas approached in 1961, I began to look for something special to buy my little brother. We had a Western Auto store back then and it was there I found a set of toy fire trucks. They were made of metal, made in the USA as I recall. The smaller of the two was a pumper truck that was about the size of shoebox. The other was a hook and ladder fire truck with the cab part and the ladder part being joined like a semi. The ladder would swivel and extend a foot or more to rescue occupants in an imaginary three-story building.

Together, the two trucks sold for the handsome price of $27.50, which was a lot of money at the time, especially when you consider minimum wage was about a dollar per hour. In fact, if you thrown in Inflation it would take $200.00 in today’s money. Certainly, it was more money than my parents could afford to spend on toy, but I had a part time job at the bowling alley…yeah we had a bowling alley in Pontotoc back then also…and I had saved some money for Christmas presents.

“Finally,” I thought, “I’ve found something that my little brother won’t be able to get the wheels off of!”

One pumper truck and one hook and ladder fire truck…$27.50. The face of a small child on Christmas morning who received a better gift than he or she was expecting…priceless. I don’t remember my little brother’s face that morning, but I do remember the excitement he showed and the joy he had playing endlessly with that set of fire trucks.

I wish I could recall my personal happiness in experienced in making his gift possible, but that too is quite vague. I know it must have been a good feeling, for through the years, I have sought to replicate it again and again by giving something to someone simply for the joy of doing it.

I’m able to report that my money, that $27.50 was well spent. James was unable to remove the wheels from the fire trucks, though he tried sorely to do so the first year he played with them. Neither could he get them off the second year; the toys were simply too well made.

But, he was a persistent little cuss, and around the fourth year of his having the fire trucks, he managed to find a way to remove their wheels. But, by then, it didn’t matter to me that he was able to; my Christmas joy had lasted far longer than I ever expected.

Sarah's Cedar

2009-12-03T18:39:00.000-08:00

My only sister, Sarah Brown, lives down the street from me. Her street has a different name, but since my street merges right onto (left actually) hers, I consider her as living just down the street. Living as close as we do affords us many opportunities to do things together.

Twelve years ago, five of us, including Sarah, drove to Alabama to visit two dear friends, Richard and Jane Pennington, who, at that time, had just relocated from Greenville, Mississippi to Greensboro, Alabama. They had purchased an antebellum home and invited us over, during the holiday season of ’97. We had a wonderful meal in their home, were treated like royalty, practically given the key to the city, and before we left were presented with two small cedar trees that Richard dug from his yard.

Sarah, upon returning to Pontotoc, immediately set out hers in her back yard, but positioned it on the side that can be seen from the street. Mine died in a planter from lack of attention and indecision as to where in my small yard on 8th Street to plant it. Sarah’s has thrived. We’ve not measured its height, but it’s close to twenty feet tall, now.

For the past several years, Sarah has lit it with multicolored lights for the Christmas season. However, the weather turned wet and cold last December before Jason and I could get by to rework the lights that had been left up from prior years. This past summer, I got tired of hanging the loosely strung strands of lights with my lawnmower and, one day, pulled all the lights down. Some strands were unusable after my tugging. (I actually pulled the wires apart, removing the tangled web of wires from the branches.)

Afterwards, the cedar seemed much fuller, all to the delight of Sarah, who had worried about her skinny tree for at least the prior four years. I believe we had the tree so wrapped with lights that, as it tried to grow, it took on the look of one netted for sale on a tree lot.

When I had a tree service firm trim and remove a few of the trees in my yard, this summer, the owner of the service assured me he would use his bucket truck to help me get new lights strung on Sarah’s cedar. He later agreed to a specific timetable, the week of Thanksgiving. But, when he had not arrived by the weekend, Jason and I took matters into our own hands.

I have a pool pole, that when extended is about sixteen or so feet in length, so I fashioned a coat hanger in a v-shape and secured it to one end of the pole to use as an “arm extender” to help hang the lights higher than we could reach by standing in the bed of a pickup.

Sarah bought four thousand lights, but Jason and I decided we only needed about three thousand of those. After a couple of hours, we felt we had enough lights on the tree to be attractive and not so many as to overload the power supply. When Sarah voiced her approval, we stopped the work. Returning after dark, we saw a few holes, and after some minor adjustments decided to leave well enough alone.

Sarah’s cedar is not perfectly lit, but it’s a nice addition to the neighborhood. Her Montgomery neighbors have already told me how much they appreciate having the beautiful tree to look at from their back windows.

Everyone that lives in Dogwood Circle or on Ridgewood Drive must stop before leaving this subdivision. When they do, they can’t miss seeing Sarah’s cedar ablaze with multi-colored Christmas lights. At least one of these drivers has told me how much she and her girls have enjoyed the lighted tree off to their left.

If you like simplistic exterior illumination, a well-lit cedar is hard to beat. This one’s at 195 Highland, Pontotoc, if you care to drive by and see it. It’s making my Christmas merrier. Perhaps, it’ll do the same for you.

~ By Wayne L. Carter/
Associate Editor & Publisher
The Bodock Post.
http://www.bodockpost.com/

End of 2009 and Still Gardening

2009-11-03T13:24:00.000-08:00

"Hear! hear!" screamed the jay from a neighboring tree, where I had heard a tittering for some time, "winter has a concentrated and nutty kernel, if you know where to look for it." ~Henry David Thoreau

We may miss a wonderful garden if we omit the fall season. The Victory Garden is verdant and growing in the crisp air. She is not afraid of cold, short of a killing frost. We are past the earliest recorded frost date of Oct 27, so it could happen most any time. The real bane of the garden is shorter days with less sunshine for the plants to do photosynthesis, make sugar, and grow.

We volunteers know the needy are hungry in winter, too, so we continue our efforts with renewed vigor and optimism. We rescued bedraggled cabbage sets from a local nursery and are giving them a try. Our radishes, chard, cabbages, and turnips are lush. The turnip plants have turnips, some larger than a baseball. We have picked and taken eight bushels of greens to the Food Pantry and have over twice that many more for Thursday morning deliveries in November.

I continue to garden in containers in my backyard. I wonder why I never did so my previous sixty years. I take a few minutes to sprinkle seeds in containers and grow lush pots of arugula, micro greens, garlic, and turnip greens. There is no tastier salad than one fresh from your own patio, and tonight my sweet Mimi is cooking turnip greens from my backyard containers, along with baked sweet potatoes, cream style corn, and cornbread slathered with real butter.

I planted the garlic mid October thinking they would sprout next spring. Alas, they will need to be covered when Jack Frost blows into town as they already have foot tall shoots. I have 5 containers of garlic plants. I don’t eat them much, but some things gardeners do for the sheer joy of watching things grow, learning, and sharing bounty with friends and neighbors, plus bragging rights.

My bat faced cuphea and nepenthes serracenia carnivorous plants, the Addams Family, need to be brought in under the patio. I may sneak the bat faced cuphea, Count Dracula, into a spare bedroom to see if it will live. It will live, at least until Mimi discovers it. They are annuals in the desert southwest.

For next year I have twenty seeds of naga jolokia peppers from India. They are over a million Scoville units of heat – twice that of red savina habaneras. Mimi asked why. I’m still thinking up a plausible answer.

One of my granddarlings, Courtney, helped me rake the leaves today to mulch my flowerbeds. I paid her more than I made chopping cotton for a whole day. Maybe she will associate this with fun and nature and His creation!

Ain’t God good!

By Carl Wayne Hardeman, who leads the Collierville Victory Garden, and co-edits bodockpost.com. He is available to speak to groups at no charge. Contact him about visiting or volunteering for the Collierville Victory Garden or about speaking engagements at 485.6910 or mymaters@yahoo.com.

November 2, 2009

Lamar's Visit

2009-10-31T19:54:00.000-07:00

I received an email from my New York uncle, Lamar Carter, in early August, informing my sister and me that he planned to visit relatives in Mississippi the last week of September stating he would give us a call in a few days, once we recovered from the shock. And, it was a shock, as neither my sister nor I expected him to ever again visit his Mississippi relatives.

Barbara and I had already made plans to attend a Senior Adult conference in Gatlinburg, TN, with a group from our church on the week of my uncle’s planned visit. We suggested an itinerary change to either the week prior or the week after our conference, but as my first cousin from Dallas, GA, which is near Atlanta, planned to be here to chauffer Lamar, the scheduled visit could not be changed to accommodate our conference plans. Instead, we agreed to open our home to them for their use in our absence, and we’d plan to enjoy their visit as our schedule permitted.

Upon learning of our uncle’s plans, my older brother, who lives in Florida, and his wife drove to Pontotoc for the occasion. As a result, Uncle Lamar was able to visit my two brothers (one lives in Pontotoc) as well as my sister, in the absence of my wife and me. Uncle Lamar and Rebecca also spent a day and a night in Falkner, MS, visiting relatives there and making stops in Ingomar and Thaxton to visit old home places. They learned what I already knew, that little remains to remind either of them of the land once familiar to them.

Farmsteads are gone from the countryside throughout the area, and while a sense of rural America remains, many of the old homes of neighbors are gone. Fields that once grew crops of cotton and corn are now in pastures, or woodlands. The old home place of Hayden and Rebecca Carter near Thaxton is void of the features once so familiar: the house, barn, corn crib, work shed, and outhouse. Even the croplands of corn, cotton, and sorghum are gone and have long since been converted to timberland and pasture.

In time, the remains of the driveway leading from the road to the house, as well as the old well, will also disappear, if not by natural forces, then perhaps by the hand of man. In spite of the lack of visual clues it’s good for us to return to the terrain of our youth, if only to elicit a memory. The Biblical writer admonished, “Life is a vapor,” and in context refers to the temporary nature of our earthly bodies but also applies to all of Nature.

Barbara and I were able to spend a few days with Uncle Lamar and my cousin Rebecca before they returned to New York and Atlanta, respectively. Lamar and Rebecca got most of their site-seeing accomplished while we were away, leaving us to enjoy family time with them, upon our return.

It’s difficult to describe the excitement a visit by Uncle Lamar generates today, and harder still to convey to others the thrill of his homecomings of yesteryear. Sara Sue and I agree that on a family level, a visit from Lamar is viewed in much the same way others might treat a visit from royalty or a president. Not only are we honored, we feel a sense of awe in his presence.

In the years before the Internet, books and magazines were the principal resources for vicariously seeing the world. And, if one wanted to learn more about a city or country, a set of encyclopedias were indispensable. My family could not afford encyclopedias, but we had something better. We had Uncle Lamar.

By the time I was a teenager, Lamar was working in Venezuela for Exxon (Standard Oil, at the time). His company sent him around the world on business trips. We never knew just how affluent he was, but in our minds we had a “rich uncle.” And, why wouldn’t we think so? He went to all the exotic places, made thousands of color slides, and could talk endlessly of his exploits. Surely, the richness of his knowledge exceeded that of our own, and his lifestyle incentivized Sara Sue and me to obtain a college degree.

Before color TV, Uncle Lamar had color slides, ranging from slum dwellings of the poor to the palatial homes of the rich in Caracas, Venezuela, from the ruins of the Maya and Aztec Civilizations to the streets of London and Southeast Asia. Not only were we treated to the a movie-like atmosphere of color slides projected on a screen set up in our parents’ home whenever Lamar visited, we also received spellbinding commentaries on the places and people in the pictures shown. It was better than a movie in that we could ask questions, live!

Today, a visit by Uncle Lamar remains a thrilling experience. Yes, there’s less talk of world travels, and on this visit there were no color slides, but a friend of Lamar’s is transferring thousands of them to DVDs. However, one can, at Lamar’s feet, relive the tragedy of 9/11 and hear a first-hand account by one who witnessed and photographed the horrific events of that day.

Lamar remains active with ICIS (International Council for Integrative Studies), and is a patron of the arts, particularly Broadway. Surgery to remove an intestinal tumor earlier this year has slowed his New York gait, but even with a cane, he’s remarkably quick in his daily, three-mile walks.

I doubt my octogenarian NYC uncle will get back to visit us in Mississippi, but I hope to see him in New York during our next visit.

~ By Wayne Carter

Farmers Helping Hawks

2009-10-19T19:22:00.000-07:00

Today, I noticed Delta farmers were back in their fields trying to harvest their crops after the rain delay that ran most of September and into October. I witnessed combines in rice fields as I drove through the northern portions of Sunflower County along Hwy 49. I’m told the soybean crop has been heavily damaged by the wet conditions, and I’m sure the same could be said of cotton and corn.

Starting just south of Ruleville and extending almost to Parchman the roadway had what appeared to be an excessive amount of grain that either blew out of uncovered truck beds or else spilled through a not very tightly closed drop chute beneath one of the grain-hauling rigs.

I wasn’t sure if the grain was soybeans or corn, but the grains were too large to be wheat or rice. I wondered how much of the harvest was lost due to poorly maintained transportation equipment. If I were the farmer, watching bushels of my harvest being spilled along the roadside would have greatly depressed me.

Seeing the lost harvest of grain, I was also reminded of the significant amounts of cotton that is also lost in transporting it to a cotton gin. I have known industrious folks to pull a cotton sack down the side of a highway gathering cotton and reaping where they did not sow, but I’ve not heard of this in recent years. Anyway, I figure the Democrats have given away enough of the taxpayers money to the folks who used to try to scrape a living by gleaning or gathering along the roadside that they don’t have a work incentive anymore. Congress has plenty of varmints eager to rob Peter in order to pay Paul.

With huge quantities of grains being left on the roadsides for the field mice, the Delta can expect an overabundance of varmints this winter and plenty of food for the migratory birds of prey. I suppose the farmers’ loss is gain for the rodents and especially the hawks.

A Busy Month

2009-10-06T09:43:00.001-07:00

September was the busiest month I’ve had all year, possibly the busiest in several years. With respect to my work, I drove/ rode to Kenosha, Wisconsin for a department meeting in the middle of the month and followed that by completing the third stage of migrating two retail stores from SUPERVALU’s wide area network to a VPN.

Upon returning from the business trip, I participated in a committee meeting to help plan a reunion for the 1960 graduating class of Pontotoc High School, and attended both a pre-game get-together of classmates at a local restaurant and the homecoming football game and watched the Pontotoc Warriors defeat the Amory Panthers.

I had appointments with two physicians and my periodontist, and somehow managed to fit in a week-long vacation which included a Senior Adult Conference in Gatlinburg, Tennessee and a trip to Vicksburg, Mississippi to participate in a “roast” honoring my good friend, Jim Hess, on the occasion of his 25th Anniversary of service at First Baptist, Vicksburg. Granted, the roast was October 1, but all the preparations and memorization of material was done in September. And, if that were not enough, my last surviving uncle, Lamar Carter, and Rebecca G. Franklin, a first cousin from Dallas, Georgia were at my house the week of my vacation.

Additionally, it was my month to write the introduction for the next issue of The Bodock Post ezine/ newsletter, which was but one part of assimilating the articles and publishing the issue on the 25th of the month.

The above referenced happenings do not include the normal activities of my day-to-day work or the late afternoon’s and weekend’s yard chores. If it’s true that one can expect to be busier in retirement than in the workforce, I intend to keep working.

A Friend That Will Be Greatly Missed

2009-09-26T10:02:00.001-07:00

On July 30, Mr. Clyde Wilson, Editor/Owner of the Tombigbee Country Magazine stepped over into his final resting place. He was a friend to so many of us. Through his magazine he communicated to America some of the finest country messages, thoughts, recollections, and photos found anywhere.

He encouraged many of us “would be writers” to express ourselves and then published them in TCM. The magazine was a collection of stories from all different points of view, different topics, and from different sections of the country. Mr. Clyde published them for all fifty of these United States to enjoy.

We have truly lost a great editor and a fine gentleman.

Ralph Jones
Managing Editor
The Bodock Post
Pontotoc, Mississippi
editor@bodockpost.com

Bob Jackson ~ 1940 - 2009

2009-09-11T14:40:00.000-07:00

The sixties were tumultuous times for many Americans and were especially trying for me. The sixties were filled with protests and demonstrations for “Civil Rights” characterizing the norm for much of the decade.

I graduated high school in 1960 and began attending junior college in Senatobia, Mississippi. After completing two years of college I enrolled at Ole Miss the same year James Meredith decided he wanted to become the first Black student to enroll in The University of Mississippi. A riot ensued.

Disillusioned by the use of U.S. Soldiers, National Guardsmen, and Federal Marshals to break the resistance of citizens and politicians who opposed desegregation of The University of Mississippi, plus the imposition of martial law on campus, and having personally run short of financial aid to continue my college education, I dropped out of school at the end of the first semester of my junior year at Ole Miss.

On a personal level, things could have been gloomier, though at the time I could not have imagined them so. I don’t recall who told me about a supermarket in Tupelo that was soon to open and was in need of meat cutters, but it was probably my dad, and it’s likely he was told this by a salesman visiting Dad’s grocery store.

With a grand opening slated just days away, the new Sunflower Food Store on West Main in Tupelo may have been desperate. I was hired on the spot, without prior supermarket experience. Oh, I knew how to cut meat as well as anyone, but my experience had been behind the service counter of my dad’s store in Pontotoc. Supermarkets and self-service meat departments were just evolving and would soon revolutionize the retail grocery industry.

Bob Jackson was the market manager of the Meat Department. His was a winning personality, and he appeared confident in his managerial position. Our introduction was mostly a “Hi-how-are-you,” and I was soon put to work trimming ham steaks.

The older gentleman that hired me was the store’s meat supervisor. His name was Charlie Muse, and he was Lewis Grocer Company’s expert on self-service meat, having helped inaugurate the concept in Virginia a few years earlier. I must have impressed both Bob and Mr. Charlie.

A few hours after I had been hired, Mr. Charlie pulled Bob and me aside and said to me, “You know what you’re doing, so we’re giving you a 25¢ per hour raise.”

It doesn’t sound like much today, but in 1963, it amounted to a 25% increase in pay from $1.00 per hour to $1.25 per hour.

I only worked one year with Bob Jackson before returning to Ole Miss, but in that time we became good friends. Bob was the bright spot in my otherwise drab year. Bob and his wife Mitzi had me over to their house for supper a few times when Bob and I worked together. It was in their home that I first enjoyed cracker salad, a concoction of fresh tomatoes, salad dressing, and crumbled crackers.

Bob and I kept in touch after I returned to college. I would stop by the Sunflower store to visit him whenever I was in Tupelo. When I asked him to be one of my groomsmen in 1967, he readily accepted. After Barbara and I married, we’d occasionally visit Bob and Mitzi in Tupelo.

As the years flew by, Bob changed jobs, going to work for Frito Lay as a route salesman, and for many years worked the area route that included Pontotoc. I saw Bob more frequently during his Frito Lay years, and while he’d changed jobs he never changed. He remains in my mind one of the most personable individuals I’ve ever known. Oh, it could be he thought I was funny looking, but whenever we ran into each other, he always had a smile and warm greeting for me. But, I saw him being that way with others, so maybe it wasn’t just me.

Bob’s son became a Christian counselor, whose work kept him in Tupelo for a few years but later required him to leave Tupelo and Mississippi altogether. Bob and Mitzi packed up and left with them. They wanted to be with their only child and with their grandchildren, and thought nothing of moving to Minnesota, Washington state, and later Colorado.

Fortunately, by this time in Bob’s life, he’d discovered the Internet, and we were able to stay in touch electronically. Bob and I exchanged a lot of emails through the years. I always enjoyed his perspective on political topics we were interested in, and I loved getting pictures of his family in his emailings.

Bob began having heart troubles, before he turned forty. His heart attacks and surgeries are too numerous for me to recount, and while I never questioned him about his faith, I have the impression that his oft-failing health contributed to him developing a closer walk with our Lord. After moving to Colorado Springs, Colorado, Bob became a volunteer for the Christian ministry, “Focus On The Family,” something he enjoyed immensely.

Bob and Mitzi moved back to Mississippi a few months ago, in part to be closer to other family members and in part because of the medical treatments needed. When I learned a few days ago that Bob was back in the hospital, I presumed he would survive another procedure, as such was his history. But, this time it wasn’t to be. Maybe, he was tired of fighting, or maybe his body simply gave out on him.

One thing I’m sure of is where he is today. And, if I know Bob Jackson, he’s having the time of his life now that the time of his life is over.

Home Renovation - The Bookcase Project

2009-09-06T06:17:00.000-07:00

It seemed like it took the better part of the day to add the crown molding to our bookcases in the master bedroom. But, it probably only took about five hours.

My day began shortly after seven o’clock with me finishing up trimming the tall shrubs around our house. After that, Barbara and I mounded up most of the wood chips from a tree stump in the backyard that we had ground up last week, following getting a couple of trees removed the prior week. Yeah, I was surprised that my wife wanted to work in the yard.

The condition of our garage has been an embarrassment to both of us for too long, so once we were done with the wood chips we started piling boxes of odds and ends into the back of my truck to haul to the dump. Our painter had left the lids on the empty paint cans following our recent room-painting project so they had to be set aside for another day, as the lady at the landfill won’t allow sealed paint cans past the checkpoint. Yeah, I could have hidden them in plastic bags, but I didn’t.

We did stop by the hardware store to buy some wood stain to use on the crown molding that was delivered Friday afternoon to our then messy garage. We couldn’t get an exact match, but found something close enough and then drove on to the landfill to unload half a pickup load of “junk.”

Barbara and I stained the crown molding and the pieces we’d asked the lumber company to cut for use as book-stops. These are wooden slats about forty-eight inches long and 3/4 of an inch wide and perhaps a ¼ inch thick. Once that chore was complete, it was time for lunch.

Dot Bell came over after lunch to show us a new outfit she would be wearing Sunday evening at a reception in her daughter’s home in Germantown, TN. She also wanted to see what we’d done to the house during recent weeks of painting, flooring, carpet replacement, and rearranging. Dot liked what she saw, especially the living room which is now more conducive to sitting and visiting than before.

I had just left the house to go cut Sarah’s yard when Barbara phoned to let me know Keith Thomas was on his way over to miter the crown molding for us. Keith has all the “man toys” to make quick work of mitering, and he used a newly purchased electric brad gun to nail the crown molding in place. He even cut the book-stops to the lengths I needed and ripped off a couple of strips of plywood for me to add as a cover plate on top of the bookcases. He might have been at our house an hour, but I spent the next couple or so hours staining and installing the cover and the book-stops. Without Keith’s help, I would not have finished the bookcases Saturday.

I should mention the bookcases were custom built for our prior house on 8th Street, but we dismantled them and moved them to our present home, before we sold the 8th Street house. The late Oakley Hooker made them for us when we closed-in the carport in the early eighties. In our old house, the bookcases were on either side of the arched entrance inside the new den off the living room.

At our present location we had placed the bookcases in our master bedroom with one on either side of the doorway leading into the master bathroom. When our renovation project began, we had to dismantle the bookcases and cabinets once more. Rayanne suggested they might look good on a different wall as a side-beside unit.

Once the new carpeting was down, we started reassembling the bookcases as Rayanne had suggested. I was concerned that they might not mesh or marry well, but I was able to use my somewhat limited carpentry skills to line up the pieces rather nicely.

I was doing okay until I decided the upper portions need to be screwed together. The well-seasoned wood was giving my somewhat dull drill bit a run for its money. I don’t have a C-clamp anymore, so I was using one hand to pinch the sides together and pushing the drill with all my might using the other hand.

I failed to consider the drill would eventually push through both pieces of wood. A longer drill bit would have probably run my middle finger through and through, but the one I was using only got part of the way through the bone in the middle joint of my middle finger. Boy did that ever hurt!

The longest wood screw in my arsenal wasn’t long enough for the job, so I drilled a larger hole and inserted a bolt with a washer and nut. With everything as snug as possible, we set the bookcase against the wall and secured it. I don’t know who’ll move it next time, but I’m predicting it won’t be me.

Barbara is all smiles with the appearance of our newly ‘crowned’ bookcases, and the books-stops are a nice touch. And, my drilled-into finger is healing nicely. However, there’s a section close to the first joint that doesn’t have any feeling in it. Happily, I made it through the project without serious injury, which is yet another reason for smiles and thankfulness.

Impromptu Fun

2009-08-30T10:18:00.000-07:00

The days of childhood, while seeming endless from a child's point of view, simply do not last long enough. Maybe, that's why God gave children so much energy in order for them to race from one activity to another.

My folks were not "into" lawn care, though my mother did like to have a flowering plant or two somewhere around the house. These were usually roses and hydrangeas or the jonquils of spring. But, watering the grass to keep it green was not something we did in our family.

As an adult, I've occasionally watered my lawn, though I've questioned my wisdom for doing so on more than one occasion. Still, there's something inviting about a water sprinkler. For children and the young at heart, a sprinkler in summer is an invitation to impromptu fun.

My present home has a lawn irrigation system that doesn't get a lot of use, but with my front lawn looking parched on the last Saturday of August, I turned on the sprinklers.

My two youngest grandchildren, Merilese and Katherine, came outside about the time I fired up zone 2 of the system and were captivated by the spider-action sprinklers. The gentle rotation of the streams of water proved too much for them and soon they were running with abandon through the spray.

It brought to mind the simpler days of my youth when I enjoyed spraying others and being sprayed by a water hose. However, as tempting as the sprinklers looked, this young at heart "old man" let the notion pass. I like my showers hot and soapy.

Tickled Pink

2009-08-17T19:50:00.000-07:00

On January 02, 2007, I underwent a surgical procedure to have my esophagus stretched to relieve problems associated with swallowing food. For at least a decade, possibly two, I had experienced, on an occasional basis, food lodging in my esophagus during mealtime. I was not in danger of choking and was able to dislodge the food by forcing myself to vomit. I considered my situation more a nuisance than a health issue.

At the urging of my cardiologist, I saw another specialist who did the esophageal procedure and also prescribed a medication to prevent acid reflux, which I continue to take on a daily basis.

While I was happy to be able to swallow foods more comfortably than before the procedure, there was an undesirable side effect. I gained nine pounds during the next three months, presumably due to eating more food, a result of being able to swallow more rapidly than before which must have confused my brain into thinking I was less full than I really was.

I wanted to drop the extra pounds but found little willpower to do so until late last year, when I committed to a health coaching program sponsored by my health insurance provider. My goal was to start a walking regime for both cardiovascular and weight control reasons. The additional exercise had just begun to pay off with a pound lost here and there, when I developed a soreness issue with my feet that virtually shut down my walking program.

Disheartened, I decided to try eating less until I could get the foot problem resolved. I rocked along a month or two thinking I had a shoe problem, because the onset of foot pain seemed to be related to the purchase of new shoes. However, I discovered it didn’t matter which pair I wore, of the half-dozen pairs I routinely wear, they all hurt my feet.

Finally, after seeing a doctor a week ago, I learned the problem was not shoes. I had an inflammation called metatarsalgia, which was localized in the balls of my feet. A shot of cortisone in my arm removed the soreness in my feet within a few hours. And, my doctor sent me to the shoe store to buy a pair of New Balance running/ jogging shoes that purportedly will allow me to get back into a walking routine without the pain. While there, Cecil Fauver, owner of Progressive Shoe Store, sold me another pair of casual work shoes, Clarks’ Unstructured, which like the exercise shoes are extremely comfortable. But, then that may still be the effects of the cortisone dosage.

For most of this year, I’ve weighed at work approximately every two weeks. Slowly, the pounds have rolled off, and when I weighed today, I was pleasantly surprised to discover I had lost two pound, bringing my net loss to 9.5 pounds since last November. I’ve certainly not set any records for quick losses, but I’m tickled pink in having achieved my original goal and can’t wait to report the results to my health coach in a few weeks.

Now, that I’ve proved to myself I can intentionally lose weight, I intend to keep doing what I’ve been doing, supplemented with regular walking and hopefully get below 200 by this time next year. Wish me luck!

Uh - Obama's Poker Tell

2009-08-10T20:23:00.000-07:00

The following appeared in the Patriot Post dated July 27th. I am sharing it to illustrate how the current administration and the MSM seek to rewrite history by use of filters when quoting President Obama. Mark Alexander tells us what he really said and it's certainly "telling."

Steve Killian, president of the Cambridge Police Patrol Officers Association called for Obama to "make an apology to all law-enforcement personnel."

Not to be upstaged by the police unions, Obama made an unplanned appearance at a White House conference an hour after the Cambridge conference, to remake his case.

Receiving a reception similar to that George W. Bush received with his surprise appearance to have Thanksgiving dinner with our troops in Baghdad a few years ago, Obama's unannounced appearance at the press conference elated his adoring MSM audience.

"Hey, it's a cameo appearance. Sit down, sit down," Obama said, like some Hollywood teen idol.
In one of the most contorted makeovers of his asinine remarks to date, Obama feigned "making nice" with Crowley and offered to have him and Gates as guests at the White House "for a beer."
I am including a few Obama quotes below (with editorial reply), not only because he has dug himself deeper, but also because his comments were not read from a teleprompter.

Consequently, the incidence of his verbal tic, "uh," occurs at a ratio of 1.2 times for every 10 words. This is significant because for Obama, "uh" constitutes a "poker tell," an unconscious cue that he is attempting to be deceptive.

When studying Obama's unscripted comments, the occurrence of this tell at a ratio of 1/20 indicates his remarks are disingenuous. At 1.2/10, he is lying. (While the White House video mutes his verbal tics and struck all of them from the text of his comments, you can read the full -- and accurate -- text of Obama's comments here.)

"Uh, over the last day and a half, uh, obviously there's been all sorts of controversy around, uh, the incident that happened in Cambridge with, uh, Professor Gates and the police department there. ... Uh, and because, uh, this has been ratcheting up -- uh, and I obviously helped to contribute ratcheting it up -- uh, I want to make clear that in my choice of words, uh, I think I unfortunately, uh, gave an impression, uh, that I was maligning the Cambridge Police Department or Sergeant Crowley specifically -- uh, and I could have calibrated those words differently."

(I am certain that saying they "acted stupidly" constitutes "maligning.")

"Uh, I continue to believe, based on what I have heard, that, uh, there was an overreaction in, uh, pulling Professor Gates, uh, out of his home to the station. Uh, my sense is you've got two good people, uh, in a circumstance, uh, in which, uh, neither of them, uh, were able to resolve the incident in the way that it should have been resolved."

(Ah, they did not act stupidly, they just "overreacted.")

"Uh, the fact that it has garnered so much attention I think is a testimony to the fact that these are issues that are still very sensitive here in America."

(No, Obama's comment garnered so much attention because it was, uh, stupid.)

"Uh, what I'd like to do then I [sic] make sure that everybody ... uh, not extrapolate too much from the facts -- uh, but as I said at the press conference, uh, be mindful of the fact that because of our history, because of the difficulties of the past, uh, you know, African Americans are sensitive to these issues. And, uh ... interactions between police officers and, uh, the African American community can sometimes be fraught with misunderstanding."

(What is clear, however, is that Leftist socialized programs ostensibly designed to give blacks a chance to attain the American dream, have spawned a subculture of nightmares, and there is no misunderstanding about the resulting disparity in criminal activity by race, or the burden that places on society, including police officers of all racial backgrounds, who have to deal with that burden.)

"Uh, my hope is, is that as a consequence of this event, uh, this ends up being what's called a 'teachable moment,' where all of us, uh, instead of pumping up the volume spend a little more time listening to each other, uh ... instead of flinging accusations, uh, we can, uh, all be a little more reflective in terms of what we can do, uh, to contribute to, uh, more unity."

(The most teachable moment in this event was when Obama didn't have the facts. As previously suggested, Obama should learn to say, "no comment." The only folks flinging accusations were Gates, Obama, Patrick and Simmons.)

"Uh, but, uh, I just wanted to emphasize that, uh, one, one last point I guess I would make. ... Uh, the fact that this has become such a big issue I think is indicative of the fact that, uh, uh, race is still a troubling aspect of our society. Uh, whether I were black or white, uh, I think that, uh, me commenting on this, uh, and hopefully contributing to constructive -- uh, as opposed to negative -- uh, understandings about the issue, uh, is part of my portfolio."

(Actually, it became a big issue because Obama made a brainless accusation, and for sure, digging himself into a deeper hole is definitely part of his portfolio.)

"So, uh, at the end of the conversation there was a discussion about -- uh, uh, uh, my conversation with Sergeant Crowley, there was discussion about, uh, he and I, uh, and, uh, Professor Gates having a beer here in the White House. Uh, we don't know if that's scheduled yet -- uh, -- but, uh, uh, but we may put that together."

Sweet Sampling

2009-08-09T11:08:00.000-07:00

On Sunday afternoon, August 02, 2009, a fund-raiser was held in the home of my niece, Felicia B. Pollard, on Washington Street in Pontotoc, Mississippi. Billed as a “Sweet Sampling – a jewelry trunk show and reception,” it truly was.

Linda Thomas, who just a few months ago took up jewelry making as a hobby, was kind enough to donate the proceeds from the sale of jewelry items to help the local affiliate of Habit for Humanity. More than a dozen homemade sweet treats, provided by Glenda Corley, tempted the eye and pleased the palates of all who sampled them. Glenda also donated fifteen loaves of homemade bread, all of which were sold in the two hour period of the event.

Because, my wife, Barbara Carter is Director of the local Habitat affiliate, I was asked by her and my niece to photograph the occasion. It’s hard not to be conspicuous in a house full of women, but I did my best. I explained to several of the ladies that my reason for being there was to photograph the event, but I also welcomed the opportunity to give a man’s opinion on how a particular piece of jewelry looked on the wearer. Oddly, no one took my offer seriously.

Total receipts for the afternoon, including personal donations, totaled more than thirteen hundred fifty dollars. A second showing is being planned for the approaching Holiday Season.

If you’d care to view the photographs I took, click on this link, http://rrnews.org/Sweet_Sampling.

Good Deeds Punished

2008-12-28T10:43:00.000-08:00

My boss has a saying, “No good deed goes unpunished.” I doubt he’s the first to have noticed how doing a good turn for others often has unintended consequences. The first time I heard the expression, it was uttered by a coworker who was quoting our boss. In recent weeks, I’ve twice been reminded of the truth of the expression.

I was at a retail store and someone knowing of my PC skills asked for an explanation as to why the shared printer acted up when transitioning from printing signs to reports. I briefly did some troubleshooting and soon had fixed the problem. But, before I could leave, someone using a different PC found they could no longer access the shared printer. The problem was totally unrelated to the issue I fixed, but my actions were looked upon with suspicion. Thus, my punishment for doing a good deed was the seeds of doubt that were planted in the mind of the second user.

The second occurrence came about two weeks before Christmas. I had purchased several country hams, as is my custom, for the purpose of slicing them at home and distributing packages of sliced country ham to various friends during the Season of Giving. I was removing the bone from ham number four when I deviated from the norm.

Normally, the first step in boning a ham is the removal of the aitchbone. Next the hard, dry, cured skin is removed, which makes the removal of the shank or hock less difficult. The final extraction is the leg bone or femur. Once all the bones are removed, I chill the meat in a freezer for several hours prior to slicing it.

Instead of removing all the bones from the portion to be sliced, I opted to strip the meat from the hock. A small piece of skin was still on the hock and was something I felt should be sliced off before separating the tibia and fibula. I placed the boning knife near the skin and reached with my left hand to hold the hock while I removed the skin. In gripping the greasy hock, the middle finger of my left hand touched the tip of the knife.

Lightning reflexes are good only if properly applied. As soon as I felt the prick of the tip of the blade of the knife I jerked my hand. Unfortunately, the motion was toward me rather than away from me. The tip of the knife laid open a deep three-fourths inch gash in the tip of my finger.

Having once been a meat cutter by trade, I had ample opportunities to nick myself, though only once were stitches required. Folks don’t understand how a meat man might find the sight of blood disquieting, but I typically explain it is warm blood that bothers me, more especially so when it’s my blood.

I phoned my wife and asked her to come home and help access the need for stitches. She agreed sutures were needed and drove me to the ER of the local hospital, where I received five stitches and more than a little sympathy for having cut myself while engaged in an act of kindness on a mission to spread a little holiday cheer.

Truly, “No good deed goes unpunished,” though it's fair to say some are punished more severely than others.

Of Mice And Women

2008-11-15T08:17:00.000-08:00

Reportedly, the body weight ratio of man to mouse is 2,000 to one, and I imagine a similar ratio exists for woman to mouse, but I won’t be caught guessing that it’s a slightly bigger ratio. My idea in comparing creature with critter is to establish one basic fact; people are massive compared to a mouse. And, when one factors in the superior intellect of man versus mouse, it’s almost unfathomable to comprehend how so tiny an animal can produce so great a fear among humans.

For centuries women have feared mice, and I suppose men have, too, but you don’t hear of it as often. My mother was afraid of a mouse and was always fearful that one would run up her leg or affix itself to her duster. I’m sure her fear was driven by her having read of a mouse attacking a hapless female or else her having known of a “mouse incident” in the family.

Is there a super mouse somewhere on this planet that cannot be crushed by the wearer of a number eleven shoe, or that can fend off a broom-wielding housewife? I suggest there is not. But, somehow when it comes to small rodents, humans, like the cartoon character Mr. Jinks in the mouse-saga of Pixie and Dixie, really do “hate those meeces to pieces.”

Just how fearful some folks are of mice was brought close to home this week for me. My daughter lives in Belmont, Mississippi a mere seventy miles up the highway from Pontotoc. Rayanne was hurrying to get her two youngest daughters out the door and off to school and herself to work, when she glimpsed a mouse scurrying across the den floor. A few shrieks later all three of them were safely in the family van.

It was then that Katherine, the younger child, exclaimed she didn’t have a chance to put milk in her cereal. Apparently, my grandchildren are being taught to eat on the run, and under great stress, either of which makes for poor digestion, while adding nothing to family stabilization at mealtime.

“Well, this morning, you’ll just have to eat it dry,” Rayanne cried, “because there’s no way I’m going back into a house with a mouse in it.

“But, Mama, I don’t have my backpack,” Katherine wailed.

Wailing has been a common ailment of my two youngest granddaughters, something I blame on their being raised so far away from their granddaddy. When they were younger, and arrived at my house for a short visit, they came in wailing and more often than not, they were wailing when they left. They’re better now, but I’m always concerned they’ll relapse.

“I’m not going back inside,” Rayanne insisted, but knowing full well her baby would not go inside alone, ordered, “Merilese, go with your sister!”

As the children headed back into the house, Rayanne rolled down her window.

“And, get my cell phone off the kitchen counter!”

Alas, so much for the mothering instinct that mothers are supposed to possess that makes them fearless when it comes to protecting their own.

My daughter and granddaughters made it to their respective destinations without further instances. Rayanne phoned her husband, who was already at work, and informed him to set mousetraps when he went home for lunch.

By bedtime two mice had been trapped, but when Rayanne heard a third trap throw shortly after midnight, she’d had enough. She gathered her daughters from their slumber and carted them off to her in-laws one block away, where they spent the remainder of the night.

Friday night was also a night away from home. Rayanne and Merilese stayed another night with Rayanne’s in-laws. Katherine had a spend-the-night party, elsewhere. My son-in-law set more traps before leaving for the Alabama vs. Mississippi State football game and reported no more mice were caught during the night.

While I have the feeling life for the Adams Family of Shady Cove will soon return to normal, I’m afraid my grandchildren have suffered the imprint of their mother’s fear of mice and are henceforth doomed to walk fearfully among some of Nature’s smallest mammalians and someday even perpetuate the fear of mice to their children.

Pontotoc Scarecrows

2008-10-26T13:11:00.001-07:00

According to a recent article in the Pontotoc Progress, Main Street Association director, Ellen Russell said of Pontotoc’s scarecrow initiative, “We wanted this project to get people out walking and enjoying the fall.”

The same article also cited similar community efforts in Sherman and Ecru.

Judging by the scarecrows scattered throughout downtown Pontotoc, I would say the project has been a rip-roaring success. I tallied forty-one pictures in a slideshow I made from photos I took this weekend.

Timing of the scarecrow project was great in that school children will be able to enjoy the scarecrows when they participate in the Harvest Parade held prior to Halloween, annually.

The scarecrows were constructed by local businesses and civic clubs. Instructions were provided by the Main Street Association to assure scarecrows could withstand the elements for a few weeks. Pierce Bird, a Mother Goose look-alike, and constructed by D.T. Cox Elementary, is made entirely of recyclable materials.

At the end of this article is a link to the scarecrow slideshow. I suppose everyone has a favorite scarecrow. The linemen scarecrows in front of the Pontotoc Electric Power Association are perhaps my favorites. Certain members of my family were swayed by a creation of the Town and Country Garden Club depicting a pair of stockinged legs protruding from a giant flower pot. However, all scarecrows on display are in contention for “best of show.” The overall winner is simply in the eye of the beholder.

See http://rrnews.org/scarecrow/index.html

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That Hissing Sound

2008-09-25T17:11:00.000-07:00

That hissing sound is not flatulence. It’s the sound of your billfold or purse deflating as middle income Americans are called upon to bailout an ailing Financial Industry.

Generally speaking, I’ve backed President Bush on the hard decisions he’s made during his years in our nation’s highest office. However, I’m not so sure this bailout mess is the best option. I listened to the Presidential Address last night (24-September) and came away with less understanding as to what caused the market failure than I had going into the President’s speech.

If we Republicans have a fault, it’s a failure to do unto the Democrats as they do unto us. While, the root cause of the financial fiasco, as agreed upon by every commentator I’ve read, was formed during the Clinton administration, our modest President did not go there last night. He missed a great opportunity to explain to John Q. Public how the arm-twisting of the Clinton administration forced lenders to take huge risks, often making loans and mortgages available to entities unable to repay. As long as housing prices kept rising, the bad loans were not seen as bad, as a foreclosure could result in a property eventually bringing more than the initial amount of the loan.

Ronald Reagan once said that the nine most terrifying words in the English language are, “I’m from the government and I’m here to help.”

I’m confident the latest governmental “fix” will bite the average taxpayer not only in the billfold but elsewhere, too.

Browns In Town

2008-09-18T14:54:00.000-07:00

For some reason, parents assume their children will grow up to be perfect in every respect, regardless of the gene pool from which they came. Some of the worst parents have the best children, and some of the best parents produce offspring which give rise to speculation the mother really was abducted and impregnated by an alien. Though it may sound a little crass, even somewhat fatalistic, having children is a crapshoot.

The biggest problem parents face in raising children falls within the category I call “handling expectations.” Too their credit, most parents do a pretty decent job in getting their children from the cradle to college without killing them somewhere along the way. Children are born with a limited lifetime warranty, which is invalidated within hours of birth or shortly after the child realizes his or her world has suddenly and, unbeknownst to him or her at the moment, forever changed.

Unfortunately, new parents can’t simply return the “merchandise,” because it doesn’t fit, isn’t the right color, doesn’t look like the picture in the catalog, or doesn’t work properly. And, since infanticide is a criminal act, parents are stuck with a product they are often ill-equipped to operate.

It’s a good thing God made grandparents, especially grandmothers. Children need grandparents, preferably two sets of them. Grandparents, having survived rearing their own children, are endowed with a special wisdom, which can be most helpful to a child’s parents, especially during the early years of child-rearing when parenting skills are in the developmental stage.

My sister, Sarah, who has often stated, “I have raised two of the most ungrateful children, God ever let breathe,” will become a grandmother around April 10, 2008, or else “in the fullness of time.”

Oh, her son and daughter are not as ungrateful as she would have one believe. In fact she may have set her expectations of them too high. Even if she were the perfect mother, her children had a less than perfect father, and she’d be the first to so attest.

Sarah’s son, Brett, and his wife, Kathy, are expecting their first child. Presently, the parents-to-be are residents of Pearl, Mississippi. Brett is employed by Affiliated Computer Services and Kathy is in her final year of Medical School at the University of Mississippi. Together, the two have a bright financial future.

Brett and Kathy were in Pontotoc over the weekend to share their good news and sonogram prints of the “child within” with family and friends.

Sarah viewed the reason for their visit somewhat differently, “Brett only came home to get his birthday present.”

While, it’s true Brett’s birthday was this past week, and he doesn’t come back very frequently to see his mother, it’s not like he and Kathy live just across the Pontotoc County line.

It’s a three-hour drive for them, and my advice to Sarah is, “Cut him some slack, Sis.”

That which will be most interesting to me, should I live long enough for it all to play out, will be to find out if an imperfect son can sire a perfect grandchild.

Well Worth The Trip

2008-09-07T10:10:00.000-07:00

Barbara and I slipped away, recently, to enjoy something of a Nature walk. After parking our vehicle in a bottomland meadow, we made our way to a forested trail that meandered gently up a small hill. The canopy of half-century to century-old trees held undergrowth to a minimum.

Additionally, the walking path was padded with decaying wood chips and care had been taken to remove any branches of saplings to enable one to walk unhindered by Nature while enjoying all things natural along the trail.

After hiking about a quarter of a mile, we came to an opening where hundreds of others had gathered under canopies both natural and manmade to celebrate a remarkable event, the fall migration of thousands of hummingbirds. We were at the Strawberry Plains Audobon Center near Holly Springs, Mississippi, to enjoy the annual Holly Springs Hummingbird Festival. Once the property of Ruth and Thomas Finley, their daughters willed the 2,500 acre estate to the Audubon Society which has transformed the land into a paradise for naturalists and lovers of Nature.

The presence of hummingbirds may be the most celebrated and visible manifestation of the work of the Audubon Society, but the abundance of native plants provide habitat for more than 200 species of birds (source http://www.msaudubon.org/hummingbird08.php) Additionally, there are more than fourteen miles of walking/ hiking trails at the Center.

Barbara and I only stayed a couple of hours, but could have stayed a full day had time permitted. We listened to Bob Sargent explain hummingbirds to an audience surrounding him as he held a hummingbird in his hand and interacted with the group. Nearby, others demonstrated how captured birds were weighed, measured, and banded, before being released. A few lucky bystanders were privileged to release the banded hummingbirds.

I could not interest Barbara in attending the lectures on bats, snakes and raptors, but she and I enjoyed visiting the booths of vendors, where we window-shopped Nature prints, paintings, and bird feeders. We did make our way into the Davis house, the Antebellum home restored by Margaret Finley Shackelford, where the first floor was partially opened to allow visitors to enjoy the view from the sun porch of scores of hummingbirds feeding in the flower garden and enjoying the sugar-water in a multiple feeders.

We plan to allow more time to enjoy next year’s Hummingbird Festival, and next year I’m sure we’ll have our grandchildren and our daughter and son-in-law with us.

Jamie - After All These Years

2008-08-28T03:36:00.000-07:00

Pontotoc’s annual Bodock Festival was held the week ending August 23, 2008. The editors of The Bodock Post were on hand to promote their new publication and to encourage individuals to signup for the free online publication. We occupied a booth adjacent to the Post Office Museum in downtown Pontotoc. Ralph Jones and I were present both days, and Carl Wayne Hardeman joined us on Saturday.

The 10’ X 10’ popup tent we had borrowed shielded us from sunshine throughout the morning. But, to remain in the shade we were constantly moving our lawn chairs to accommodate the position of the sun, and by mid-afternoon, we found ourselves positioned slightly in front of the tent.

Our vantage point enabled us to do a great deal of “people watching.” There was plenty of foot-traffic passing by us. Many persons smiled or waved, and a goodly number stopped by to see what we were selling. Of course, we were not selling anything, we just looked like we were with a display of horse apples (bodock balls) forming a centerpiece on our display table and a stack of September issues of the Post in full view.

Of the vehicles that parked briefly in front of the Post Office, most were there because the driver needed to drop off some mail or check his or her mailbox inside the Post Office. Thus, when a car containing a man and a woman stopped in front of the Post Office and both of them began walking toward our booth, I quickly surmised we had something they wanted.

The man was smiling as if he knew one of us. I stood up to greet him, wondering if he was someone I was supposed to know. Ralph stood, as well. By this time, the woman had made her way to our booth.

As I recall, he expressed an interest in our centerpiece, stating they had driven to Pontotoc in search of some bodock balls for a decorative purpose.

I decided it was time to introduce myself and extended my hand while stating, “I’m Wayne Carter.”

The woman beside him shrieked, “Wayne Carter! Did you say Wayne Carter?” all but drowning out her husband’s reply, “Howard Thompson, nice to meet you.”

Her first words startled me, and I wasn’t sure whether to answer her or to run. But, when she removed her sunglasses, I immediately recognized her.

“Jamie!” I cried, as it was my turn to yell.

She grabbed me and hugged me like I was a long lost relative. Jamie and I had become good friends when were classmates at Northwest Junior College, Senatobia, Mississippi in 1960-1962. I had met her through my friend Ed Dandridge, another classmate, from Independence, Mississippi. Ed and Jamie had graduated high school together as had a number of other students in my class that Ed also made sure I got to know, because they were his friends.

A minute later, Ralph introduced himself. His actions provoked another round of shrieks.

“You did our house plans,” Jamie recalled. “I can’t believe it. We met you in 1969. We drove from Independence to Pontotoc to find some bodock balls, and here the two of you are together. I knew the Lord had a reason for us to be here today.”

I may have seen Jamie once or twice since we graduated in 1962, but I don’t remember when or where. The fact that I still recognized her after what may have been forty-six years is satisfying. We chatted for the better part of an hour, and I walked Howard and her to the office of Habitat for Humanity to meet my wife, Barbara.

Making the day even more amazing, for me, was the fact that Jamie asked how she could reach Fred Wicker. How she and the story-telling, retired Judge became friends is itself a long story, but it involves her needing someone several years ago to speak before a student body where she is an administrator.

Jamie went inside the museum to find a phone book and returned to state, “I didn’t need a phone book after all. There were a couple of little old ladies in there who knew his phone number, and they told me he would be speaking at the community theater, shortly. I also got directions to Jean Peeples’ house. Jean said I can have all the bodock balls I want right out of her backyard.”

Ralph, Howard, Jamie and I spent the better part of two hours reminiscing. I could easily have “carried on” a couple or more hours, but our schedules would not permit such an indulgence. Ralph and I went back to “selling” the Post, and Howard and Jamie left to visit the Judge and pick horse apples.

Rain Dampens Attendance at Festival

2008-08-24T07:19:00.000-07:00

For the second consecutive year, attendance at Pontotoc’s Bodock Festival was hampered by rain on Saturday. It was raining when we got there at 8:30 a.m. and it was raining when we left at 4:00 p.m. However, unlike last year, the evening’s entertainment was not rained out, simply moved to the Ag Center.

We (the editors of The Bodock Post) had secured a booth adjacent to the Post Office Museum and hoped to entice additional subscribers for our new monthly newsletter. Ralph Jones and I spent Friday in our booth, and Carl Wayne Hardeman joined us on Saturday.

Of the two days, Friday had the better weather with overcast skies and temperatures under eighty degrees (quite mild for the third week in August). Friday was also the better day for signing new subscribers with eight added to our roster. Saturday is when the larger crowds are usually on hand, but with light rain falling throughout the day, attendance was very poor. We did have two more new subscribers to bring the total of our charter subscribers to eighty-seven.

Many folks expressed disappointment that our newsletter is available only on the Internet. Initially, our thought was the printing costs and postage would be prohibitive for most folks, but if there is sufficient interest, perhaps we will reconsider our decision regarding no-hardcopies.

Meanwhile the first issue can be found at http://rrnews.org/bp/BP_1.htm.

The Post will be at the Bodock Festival

2008-08-06T18:36:00.000-07:00

Pontotoc may have more than its share of persons who love to write and are interested in Pontotoc from a historical perspective. A small group of writers with roots in Pontotoc and Pontotoc County have pooled their efforts and have begun a newsletter to showcase their writings as well as articles contributed by persons who share their love of this area.

Pontotoc Progress readers are familiar with writers Carl Wayne Hardeman and Ralph Jones, both of whom are frequent contributors to the Progress. Wayne Carter having recently retired from writing his own newsletter, Ridge Rider News, has agreed to help them publish and distribute a brand new Internet newsletter, The Bodock Post.

It is the desire of the editors to provide a monthly e-newsletter about rural living with photographs of yesterday and today, including timely articles about conservative politics, religion, food, restaurant reviews, gardening, humor, history, and non-fiction columns by folks steeped in our Southern lifestyle.

Anyone interested in becoming a charter subscriber to The Bodock Post may contact one of the editors online at www.bodockpost.com or by sending an email with SUBSCRIBE in the subject line to editor@bodockpost.com. The newsletter is free, with no advertisements, and the editors promise to protect the email address and other private information provided by all subscribers.

Carl Wayne, Ralph and Wayne will share responsibilities as editor on a rotating basis beginning with Carl Wayne for the September issue. Full color, sample issues (not for sale or distribution) will be available for viewing and perusing at the office of the Pontotoc Progress, the Post Office Museum, and the Pontotoc County Library as early as August 20, 2008.

The editors plan to have a display at the Post Office Museum on Friday and Saturday of the Bodock Festival and welcome the opportunity to speak to individuals interested in their new venture.

Welcome

2008-08-03T16:11:00.000-07:00

Welcome to The Bodock Post! If you'd like to receive a free, monthly eNewsletter, with no advertisements, please supply the basic information on the form at www.rrnews.org/bp/contactusbp.html.

The first issue of The Bodock Post is due for release on August 24th.

For more information, go to http://www.bodockpost.com/.