Closing The Bodock Post

Dear  Friends of the Bodock Post,

It is with a sad hearts that we must tell you of our ending the Bodock Post.  Wayne Carter and I have come to the conclusion that we must end this most enjoyable run of the Post.  Many of you have been with us since the very first posting back in September 2008, almost eight years ago, and we appreciate your faithfulness so much.

We hope some of the writings have been a pleasant and helpful reminder of years gone by, in and around, Pontotoc County, and other rural areas of our country.  Both our wells have about run dry.  Fresh new things to write about are becoming harder to secure.  To adhere to our mission statement of true and accurate stories, all written in a manner and language that your grandmother would like to read; this has about ‘played out,’ as my granddad would have said.

To our many guest writers we say a big ‘Thank You’ for all your hard work, your fine stories, and willingness to contribute.  Without you we would have had much less to say.

To our many readers, we again say, ‘Thank You’ for your support, encouragement, and allowing us to come into your home each month.  Not only do Wayne and I say ‘so long’ but also Cornpone, Junior, John Henry, and all the other cartoon characters.  It has been a wonderful journey.

May God Bless each of you!

Ralph Jones, Editor

Why Now ~ By Wayne L. Carter, Editor & Publisher

This year marks my twentieth year of writing for a hobby. Many of you may not be aware that I wrote and published a weekly newsletter for twelve years prior to starting The Bodock Post with Ralph Jones and Carl Wayne Hardeman, almost eight years ago.

After consulting with Ralph, we agreed to cease publishing The Bodock Post.  We could easily have continued to compile articles right up until our 8^th Anniversary this August, but it really didn’t make sense to either of us to prolong the inevitable.

It’s really been a pleasure working with Ralph Jones throughout the life of The Bodock Post. He has a knack for storytelling and has done an admirable job with his monthly cartoon, Cuzin’ Cornpone.

We have been honored to share articles submitted by fifty-two other writers, as well.  These helped balance our respective perspectives and helped take the edge off the occasionally politically charged musings of either Ralph or me, and generally added to the appeal of The Bodock Post.

We are presently in the process of terminating the registered domain names used by our website and deleting said website’s content.

Ralph and I are thankful for the years you, our readers, have allowed us to be a part of the things you read.  God bless each of you.

If you would like to keep in touch with either of us by email, you may do so as follows:

Ralph R. Jones ~ rjhomeplans@aol.com

Wayne L. Carter ~ wcarter218@yahoo.com

A Modern Exodus

In the Christian community, there is a great deal of concern that young people, particularly young adults in their twenties and thirties are leaving “the church.”  While this is not a new trend, by any means, it has certainly given many Pastors cause for concern. Some seek solutions to the “problem” by changing worship formats from traditional to contemporary.  It may be too early to tell, but I have the feeling the hole in the dam will take more than a patch here and there to stem the torrent.

Here’s my take: Do whatever the church leadership advises, throw out the hymnals and “sing off the wall,” eliminate the church choir and stimulate the congregants with exciting music of praise teams, make all aspects of the worship experience entertaining  for everyone from the youngest to the oldest, then de-emphasize sin and accentuate praise.  Do all these things or any combination of them or try something else altogether, if you like.  But, none of this will stop the exodus.

It’s not like young people have just started leaving the church since the generational group of Millennials arrived or the Gen Xers before them, no it’s been happening at least as long as I can remember.  As a young adult, I had problems remaining faithful in attending church on a regular basis, not because I was rebellious or because I rejected the programs of the church.  No, there were then, as there are now, many things to distract one from faithfulness to the church.

Young adults marry, start families, seek to advance their careers, which are all good things, but in doing these, they often lose sight of the need to balance work, play, family, and church activities.  They know what happens in church, but suddenly they’re hit with all things new to them, as they begin their life’s journey through child-rearing and work years.  When there’s only so much time to do it all, some things fall by the wayside, and church attendance is among the first to be discarded.

The good news is the Bible plainly states, “Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old, he will not depart from it.”

If parents have done so, if church leaders and teachers do their jobs in helping with the spiritual training of our children and youth, regardless what happens with those who migrated away from the church, many will return, and it’s probably a lot many more than most people think.

Any church of any denomination that revamps its programs and activities to focus greater energies on a particular age group does a disservice to the rest of its members and may be setting up itself for failure.

I don’t have a seminary degree; neither do I have a degree in psychology, though I may be a qualified observer of human nature.  Churches are wasting a lot of energy trying to stop human nature, and if churches expect to be around for the long haul, they best stick with the tried and true, the things that are known to work. It's okay to experiment with new forms of worship and service, but caution is needed before making wholesale changes.

Besides evangelizing the lost, the highest calling of a church should be to educate its youth and leave the rest in God’s hands, for the child that is trained in the way he should go, will not  ̶  even when he is old  ̶  depart from it.

~  wlc

A Hike In The Canyon ~ By M.G. Russell

The seventeen mile hike down to the Colorado River and back up from the south rim of the Grand Canyon is definitely not a walk in the park. But to my way of thinking, if you have not taken the hike down into the canyon, then you have not really seen the Grand Canyon.

Like most people, I had heard of and seen pictures and film of the canyon but really had not thought that much about visiting there. I had travelled to the most of the southeast, and along the eastern seaboard, and the middle of the country, and even to several countries in Europe, but had never been out west.

Then somewhere around 1992, my son became a national park ranger. He was assigned to The Rocky Mountain National Park in Colorado. My wife and daughter decided that we would go out and visit him. Since both my daughter and I had taken our vacation time, we decided to make a two week trip out of the visit.

My wife did a good job of planning, and we visited many of the vacation spots, including, Bandalier National Park, New Mexico, Petrified Forrest, Arizona, The Four Corners, Mesa Verde, the Grand Canyon, and finally finishing the trip in The Rocky Mountain National Park.

We of course visited the south rim of the canyon as most everyone does when they vacation at the Grand Canyon. The big difference for us would be a side trip to the north rim. The canyon is said to be ten miles wide from the south rim to the north rim, but if you go by car it is almost a day’s drive.

My son hiked to the canyon floor from the north rim when he was on his way to Colorado. After hearing about his hike my daughter wanted to do the same. That was the reason for driving to the north rim.

At the time we were in good physical condition. I was running from four to ten miles per day, and she had increased her walking in anticipation of the hike.  It was the week after the fourth of July, so we knew that it would be hot down in the canyon. The hike we would take was about ten miles round trip, so we decided to wait until a little after noon to begin in order to take advantage of a little shade from the canyon walls. The posted information signs told us that the average for this hike was approximately six and one half hours. This proved to be almost exactly how long it took us.

Since we made the north rim hike without trouble, we at once began making plans to do the seventeen mile round trip hike from the south rim to the Colorado River. We did not even consider attempting the trip in one day. A few years later we finally made our final plans for the hike. It was the fall of the year and she was finishing a tour of duty in the Rocky Mountains. I had to make a business trip to Dallas, so we decided that rather than flying back to Memphis, I would just take a flight to Denver, where she would pick me up, and then we would drive on to the Grand Canyon.

We obtained much coveted permits for two nights camping in the canyon. The only problem was that just before she left the Rocky Mountains, she sprained her foot. This caused us to have to make a change of plans. We would still do a canyon hike from the south rim, but we knew there would be no way that she would be able to complete the full hike with a recovering sprained ankle. We gave up our camping permits so that someone on the waiting list could have them, and we settled for a shorter day hike. 

After beginning the hike it became something that I put on my list as a goal, and something that I considered a “must do.” I had no idea at the time that almost ten years would pass before I would have another opportunity, but I never gave up hope.

A little over ten years later my daughter was transferred to a city which about six hours drive from the Grand Canyon. It was nearing Thanksgiving so we made plans to visit her over the holiday. I mentioned to my son that I was thinking about giving the canyon another try. Neither, my wife or daughter thought it was a good idea. By now I had passed my sixty sixth birth day, and they felt that I should begin to slow down some. They all finally agreed that if I could get back in good enough shape to run six miles, and hike ten miles in the hills with a full backpack, they would feel better about the hike. 

By a couple of weeks before Thanksgiving I had fulfilled their requirements, and had spent a full weekend hiking the mountain trails in the Smoky Mountains. I was ready for the south rim.

My wife took a flight out to our daughter’s house, and my son and I began packing for the three day trip to the Grand Canyon of Arizona.

We arrived at our cabin on the south rim the afternoon before the hike was planned. The day was the Monday before Thanksgiving. We planned to do the hike in November because we knew that the weather would have cooled somewhat by then. That is both good and bad. It is good because it is cooler, but can also be bad because you have less daylight. Most people do not wish to be caught down in the canyon after dark.

The cabin where we would be staying was located near the Bright Angel trailhead. That’s where our hike would end.  We were up before daylight. Since we would be taking the Kiabob trail down to the bottom of the canyon, and the Bright Angel trail back up, we had to take the shuttle bus to the trailhead. We knew that we would be running short of time so we took the first shuttle. We hit the trail at daylight. It was eighteen degrees when we started out.

There are signs posted many places advising that you should never try to make the hike down to the river and back up in one day. It is said that even seasoned hikers should not try to do so. We felt that we could make it, and also, it was something I had set my goal to do. 

We were told that each person needs about four gallons of water, or a portion could be something like Gatorade. With the weather being cool we took about five gallons of liquid together. That proved to be enough, and even that much, along with our food, flashlight, and other necessities, made for a heavy back pack. Also, because of the cold we each had to wear a heavy jacket, which would also have to be placed in the pack once the weather warmed some. We knew that by the time we reached the canyon floor the temperature would be up to about seventy degrees.

We passed the first rest station in a couple of hours. This is where we lost the most of the so called, “day hikers.” I had made it fine up until here. I knew that I was physically strong enough to make the hike. What I had not counted on was that I would have trouble with my knees. I had experienced no problem with them when my daughter and I hiked the north rim. However, that had been over ten years before, and I had suffered a broken foot during that time. 

The Kiabob Trail is said to be some shorter, but is also steeper. In addition to that, this is the trail that the mule pack train uses to transport supplies down. The big problem is that they have placed timbers for steps along the trail. The constant travel by the mules has caused holes to be dug out on the down side of the timbers. So it is not a matter of just stepping over the timbers. You have to step over the timbers, and down in the hole at the same time. This really places pressure on the knees.

By the time we were a little over half way down my knees were really giving me trouble. My son had really become concerned. First off, he said that at the speed we were walking it was going to be after dark before we made it out of the canyon. I told him that I was not tired, that it was my knees, and that if I could take my time I would be fine once we reached the bottom. I felt that the knees would not bother me on the climb back up. This proved to be true. Though I was tired, I made it much better after we started the climb back up.

We reached the bottom of the canyon. There you have a choice of two trails. You can take the one down by the inside of the canyon which cuts off some of the hike out to the river, or you can take the foot bridge across the Colorado River, walk down canyon to the Phantom Ranch, and then take another foot bridge back across the river and hit the Bright Angel Trail for the hike back up. 

My son had advised me to not try the full hike when we were about three quarters of the way down and he saw the problem I was having with my knees. He said, “Dad, I am not telling you this as your son, but as a park ranger. You should turn around here and go back up.” The only thing was that I had waited too long to undertake this hike, and also, I felt that it might be my last chance. Also I felt that if I did not take the trail on out to the river, and down canyon to the ranch, I would not have made the full hike.    

   

I crossed the bridge and walked down to Phantom Ranch. I ate my lunch and then found a bench and rested for a few minutes. Now it was back down to the bridge, cross the Colorado, and hit the trail for the hike back to the top of the canyon. It was almost one in the afternoon. There was not much doubt now that we would not be out of the canyon by dark. For that reason we had packed a small flashlight.

It was just as I thought. I had no problem with my knees on the climb back up. By sundown we had reached the plateau where my daughter and I hiked to on our day hike. I was very tired. About every ten feet my son would turn and ask if I was alright. I could never convince him that I was doing fine. But that I just needed to rest more often. I am sure he was also pretty tired.

We knew that we would be the last hikers out of the canyon. That proved to be true. That is except for one girl. She kept stopping along the way, and we would pass her. In a little while she would catch up, but would then linger as if she was just looking at the sights. She finally passed us when we were near the top. As it turned out, she was a plain clothes ranger. Apparently it was her responsibility to make sure everyone was out of the canyon.

We made it out of the canyon about an hour after dark. I guess some people would be scared, and it is probably not a good idea to be on the canyon trail after dark. It would be very easy to make a wrong step, or even startle a rattlesnake. They are said to come to the trail at night. But if you have never been down in the canyon at night, then you have really missed something. That night as I looked up at the stars that seemed so close, and heard the night sounds of rocks falling, and the sound of the animals and birds, I was happy that we were the last ones out. 

Will I try to hike the canyon again? Probably not: I am five years older and am still recovering from another broken foot. Would I do it all over again? Absoutely! 

By M.G. "Russ" Russell

In Remembrance

As I sit here this very early morning at the computer exploring my blessings; I look out at the beautiful trees, shrubs and grass; and think how fortunate we are to live in such a beautiful and free country.  I think of all our young men and women who, over the years, have fought, suffered, and died in foreign lands, on deserted beaches and scorched landscapes for our freedom.  There were many times, no doubt, that they did not know why they were there in the bad situation, nor if any good would come from it.  But, how thankful we are that they stayed the course and won the victory.

Especially how thankful I am here just a few days before Memorial Day that I have been privileged to know and call many of these men, “Friend.”  Some of these come to mind.  One of which comes to mind because of a phone call. 

Yesterday, the daughter of one of my dear friends, Edsel Adams, called to let me know that Edsel had stepped over into heaven.  As a young man, he stood aboard a U.S. warship in World War II to protect our freedom!  He put himself in harm’s way for our country.  Fortunately, he came home, married, had a family and career, and lived to be a “senior citizen.”  He did not call himself a “Hero,” tho he was one, in my estimation.  He did not think of himself as going above and beyond the call of duty, but he did!  Once when asked why he served in WW II, he just said, “It was the thing to do.”  That was about all he would say about it.

 Another friend, still very much alive today who stands out as a valiant defender of freedom is Vern Stone.  He was another who stood in defense of our nation and freedom.  He was not, in actuality, tall enough to pilot the F4U, “Corsair” that he so bravely flew in the South Pacific; but he did so.  Does he consider himself a “Hero?”  No!  But the bullet holes in that returning plane says that he was!

One of my first cousins, Leslie Jones, was an infantry soldier captured by the Japanese and kept in a WW II prison camp until he almost starved.  He returned home, but lived an abbreviated life because of the cruel treatment he received.  Was he a “Hero?”  Yes!  Do we owe him and all the others who marched along side him a debt of gratitude?  Yes!

Ralph Carter, my wife’s first husband, was killed in an F-14 jet fighter while on his way to Viet Nam; a “Hero” also; giving his life for our freedom.

How about a more recent “Hero?”  Our grandson, Marine Sgt. Garrett Misener, was killed in action in Afghanistan two years ago.

You could just as easily enter the names of your friends, relatives, and loved ones in the above list and we would be equally proud of their freedom stand, May God Bless Them All !   

To all those brave young men and women who offered themselves for our defense, we must be very appreciative and show them the respect they deserve.  How thankful we are for you all ! 

WE HONOR ALL OF YOU ON THIS “MEMORIAL DAY 2012!”

~ By Ralph R. Jones, co-Editor The Bodock Post

The Perfect Christmas Tree ~ By Newt Harlan

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.

Why Are We Smiling (Read to end)

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

USMC Sgt. Garrett Misener [Update]

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

Apple Season

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

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

Blindsided

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

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.

Article and photos by Wayne L. Carter/ all rights reserved.

Signs Of Christmas

‘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

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