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Remembering Purvis ‘Perky’ Ponder

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P urvis ‘Perky’ Ponder was an incredible influence in my life. Of all the dear friends and family

whom I’ve lost over the years, I would have to say that Ponder, as we called him around here at FSU, is probably the person I truly miss the most.

The great tragedy of it all is that I didn’t realize how much influence this man had on my life until after he passed, or how much I’d miss him. Ponder taught me in a class with just two other students. He and I had a lot in common, a love of the country, natural things, and enjoying life, the simple things. As you probably know, he loved telling stories, and he’d say with that grin that they were mostly true stories, maybe embellished just a bit to make it interesting.

In my memories I can still see him smiling, and still

hear him talking, and I would give nearly anything to hear him tell me another story. Ponder grew up in Wheeler County in the little town of Glenwood GA, population 725 as of 2010. One can see upon reading the following stories, submitted to the Eagle in 2005 the love that Purvis ‘Perky’ Ponder had for his little town. Glenwood never left Ponder, and if you spent any time at all with him, you were told some story, which was almost certainly mostly true about Wheeler County and Ponder’s adventures.

Guys like Ponder don’t happen in academia anymore, and that’s sad, but it’s the way things go. In my time here at FSU as a student, I never saw Ponder in the office past 11am. The way I understand it, he was a horrible insomniac and would get up and be here at work before anyone else, 4am comes to mind. He’d

FOREWORDBy Mickey Damelio

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then go home before lunch and work his farm, and one could often see Ponder on the corner of Chaires Cross Road in Tallahassee selling vegetables in his overalls. I do believe that few people knew outside of FSU that he was a well-regarded college professor who co-wrote the first textbook about Orientation and Mobility, and played a major role in the landscape of our field today, if nothing else, by the many orientation and mobility specialists we have out in the field that Ponder trained over the years.

I’m sorry that I didn’t reach out to spend more time with Ponder when he retired; one just thinks there will always be tomorrow to make that phone call. There wasn’t. Ponder didn’t get a lot of time retired, but he died doing what he loved, and that was working his farm. I didn’t make it to Ponder’s funeral, and I go back

and forth on whether I regret this. For me right now, I think I’ll fully embrace that bit of denial that says Ponder is still alive, I’ve just not made that phone call, besides, if I do call, he’ll probably be out on his farm, or canoeing somewhere in Georgia. I like to imagine he’s telling someone one of his stories, perhaps “The Raccoon Story” which this collection ends with, and is the only story here not submitted to the newspaper, he didn’t think it appropriate. In all the times I heard that story; I never tired of it, and never quit laughing. The stories are unedited, typos and all, which seems just that little bit more authentic, I’m sure you won’t mind.I’ll miss him forever, and continue to believe he’s enjoying his retirement, of playing on dirt roads, laughing and loving with his family, and telling stories, most of which are true, but might be embellished a little.

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T his series of articles evolved over several years of writing my recollections, thoughts, observation

and musings down with the intent of submitting them to the Wheeler County Eagle. I am just now getting around to doing so, being concerned about how they would be received by the people in the county and my hometown of Glenwood. Quite frankly, I am still apprehensive but through the encouragement of friends I submit them to you now. My hope is that when reading them they will bring your childhood, and other, memories into your consciousness and you will take the time to write them down. We are each unique in our perception of the world we grew up in but I feel it is our childhood experiences and the people we were around that shaped us. I certainly know it did me.

I would like to say this will be a bi-weekly column (after reading them some may say a more appropriate term would be a “bi-weakly” column.) but knowing myself the way I do I will simply say that when the mood, the energy and a thought comes you will hear from me. I have always had a problem with consistency. In fact, the only thing consistent with me is my inconsistency. But I will try.

ME: I am the tall, skinny, towheaded boy who roamed the streets, roads, rivers and creeks of Wheeler County. I played on the 1958 Glenwood basketball team, a team that beat everyone but Pitts. Actually, we did beat them once during the regular season but when it really counted, the regional championships to determine who went to the state championship finals, they defeated us for the second time. No other team

INTRODUCTIONBy Purvis “Perky” Ponder

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came close. In fact we beat McRae who won the state championship both times we played them during the season.

I have been gone for forty-five years, but I still consider Wheeler County home. I married a native, we own property there, and we come to visit, infrequently. I have in-laws, kinfolk, friends, and memories. My connections are long and deep.

My writing is from the male point of view. I make no apologies, because I engaged in young boy activities: fishing, hunting, working in the fields, roaming the woods and streams, playing baseball and basketball. I cannot relate to the things young girls did. Occasionally I will write about the women of my childhood: Mother, Mama (my grandmother who raised me), my great aunt, and my aunts and uncles who were more like sisters and brothers, and, of course, my wife. These are the people who have loved me and given me the security that goes with knowing you are loved. I will also write about the “characters” of the county--it seems to have been blessed with so many.

My mother and father divorced when I was quite young, so I grew up without a father in the strictest sense. This seems to have put me at an advantage, as my many uncles became father figures and role models. Being called uncle had nothing to do with

blood kinship but more with respect and contact. My many cousins and the men in the community with whom I had contact were my uncles. I am a part of each of them. After divorcing my father, my mother moved to Brunswick to work in the shipyards, the U. S. had become involved in WW II. By the time she was settled in Brunswick, I had settled in Glenwood with my grandmother. It was home and where I lived the first eighteen years of my life. Looking back, admittedly with an element of sentimentally, I remember the good times of my youth and wish, on occasion, the hands of time had not moved. I wish my sons, and the sons of others could have known my experiences; I can only hope their recollections of their young lives will be as full. Just as “nothing is as sure as death and taxes,” there is one more sure thing: Glenwood, Wheeler, and the surrounding counties are still home, and I, occasionally, will show up for a visit, if for nothing more than to watch the red light change.

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M any of my friends say that there was a turning point in their lives. They can remember a

time, incident, scene, moment that changed their lives or taught them a valuable lesson and has guided them through life. Lately I have been searching for that moment in my life, but I have come to realize it doesn’t exist. The small degree of success I have enjoyed is a series of lucky events that has culminated in a lucky life.

Some say to ascribe luck, good or bad, to one’s status in or progression through life is rather disingenuous. However, in my case, being someone who has never had a master plan, it is appropriate.

I am sure most of us can look back and remember incidents in our lives when we were lucky. Me? I’ve always been lucky both in my personal and professional life. Things just always seem to work out right for me. I am sure there were a few times when I was unlucky, but in all honesty, I cannot think of any. Let me share with you some of the highlights of a lucky life.

My luck started with being born in the small rural town of Glenwood, Georgia on March 27, 1940. The fact that I was ever conceived and born at all was luck, I guess, since my mother and father were only married for a very short time. I really never knew my father well but I know that he was a livestock auctioneer and went from small town to small town plying his trade. He was tall, blond and handsome with his Stetson hat and I have been told by those who knew him that he drank heavy, was extremely jealous of my mother, but it was he who was the tomcat. It all added up to an early divorce.

But being born at this particular time made me especially lucky. My birth date made me too young for the Korean Conflict and too old for the Vietnam War. Had I been born sooner or later I could have served in one of those wars as my three uncles did, and might have survived as they did. However not having to serve assured my survival.

I also feel I was lucky in that I grew up relatively poor and had to work for the few things I wanted

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and sometimes needed. The different types of work I was lucky enough to get included picking cotton, cropping tobacco, bagging groceries, pumping gas, changing tires, and peeling poles. Work when you are young, contrary to some folks belief, is a blessing, not a curse. Work can help direct you away from, as well as toward, a future occupation. I know work did this for me and for this, I was lucky.

I was lucky to have an understanding mother, a loving grandmother and great aunt to raise me, other aunts and uncles to give me the security and love necessary to keep me on track. They let me have the freedom to hunt, fish, and roam the town and surrounding woods, discover the beauty of the area, and meet the different “characters” who lived in Glenwood. At such a young age, I had no control over my environment. It was determined by luck, and luck was on my side. I was born to parents who were tall, and thus, to grow up tall. The family genes made me tall - pure luck. Luckily, some of my classmates were also tall and/or good basketball players, who helped me win a basketball scholarship, without which I might never have gone to college.

My luck continued when I was in the right place at the right time while in college in 1962. I was sitting in my major professor’s office, not knowing what I wanted to do after graduation, when he received a call from the Georgia State Rehabilitation Department. He turned to me, gave me a quick briefing; they were looking

for someone to provide recreation activities for newly blinded adults at the Georgia Academy for the Blind. “Perky would you be interested?” “Dr. Strop, I have never seen a blind person in my life”. “It pays $218.00 per month plus they will board and feed you”.

For someone who has never made over $1.00 per hour it sounded too good to be true. I got the job and thus my lifelong career began. Can you beat that for luck? Luck brought me to the university. I was sitting in a bar at the old Biltmore Hotel in Atlanta in the spring of 1969. During the course of a conversation I learned that the gentleman sitting next to me was Dr. Gideon Jones, a professor in the teacher preparation program in Visual Disabilities at Florida State University. He had received a grant to prepare teachers in the area of Orientation and Mobility, my specialty, and the present faculty member was leaving. “Would I be interested in the job?” The plan was that I would teach and work on my doctoral degree. I found I enjoyed the teaching but not the infinite hours of library research that obtaining my Ph.D. required. My teaching skills were rewarded with promotions up to Associate Professor and Tenure. This freed me from any concern of losing my job, so I will retire soon after 35 years of teaching.

I would not even be considered for the teaching position I now hold, not having a doctoral degree,

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but this chance meeting at the Biltmore Hotel and subsequent hiring predated the era of detailed vita, search committees, and formal interviews applicants must go through these days. Interviews and decisions were made by the boys in smoke filled back rooms over a glass of beer - I can hold my own in this environment. Talk about luck!

I’m especially lucky to have married Barbara Sikes from Alamo on the last Sunday of June 1965. We were born and raised only 5 miles from each other but I didn’t meet her until I was a senior in college. As a young boy I helped my uncle Jarrel McDaniel build a den onto their house in Alamo but only remember that little skinny black headed girl running around in the yard. I was only about 14 and she 11 years old. I was interested in hunting, fishing, baseball and basketball; she was interested in dolls or whatever girls are interested in at that age. Both of us too young to be interested in the opposite sex. When I went to her house and we told her mother and father we wanted to be married her father had to take an angina pill and sit down. He had heard of some of my youthful antics from some of my kin and his fishing buddies. But then I had heard of some of his, and he knew it.

She wanted to be a June bride, and I have always suspected that her mother made her wait until the end

of the month thinking she might, given enough time, change her mind about marrying that poor boy from the next town. Not only that but he wanted to work with “blind” people. We now have three fine sons, and for that, I’m lucky.

Finally, I’m lucky to live close enough to Glenwood and to be able to return occasionally and see family, friends, and the “characters” who still live there, have an opportunity to catch up on the news, and swap a few tales.

Now that folks is a lucky life!

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Y es I am going to retire. It has been a good work life and not terribly taxing but forty years is

enough. Some of my friends say I will get tired of loafing around and be bored. Maybe so, but I am looking forward to giving it a try. I want to see if it is all that it is made out to be. After all, some of my Wheeler County friends (I won’t give their names) who seemingly have been retired most of their lives should help me get through the experience.

There is one thing I will miss – having a captive audience to tell some of my tales. My university students know that I love to spin a good tale but unfortunately my repertoire is limited. Not being very creative all my tales have to spring from an element of truth, something that has happened to me or I observed happening to someone else. But they accuse me of making some of them up.

So my years of teaching at the university have fit well with my proclivity for tale telling. Each year I get a new crop of students, therefore I can tell the same tale to a new set of virgin ears. They think it is new

material and they are the first to hear it. Little do they know that it has been embellished and honed for over thirty-five years.

For some time now I have been seeing signs or having thoughts that told me it was time to retire. Let me share a few with you:

• Many/most of your faculty colleagues who were at the university when you arrived have retired and many are dead.

• The department you are assigned has undergone six name changes through reorganization during you tenure, and is about to undergo another, and you can detect no change.

• You have seen nine College of Education Deans and five university presidents come and go.

• You have been teaching the same subject matter for thirty-five years and individually have possibly trained as many students as anyone in the world. And before that spent five years at the Georgia Rehabilitation Center in Warm Springs.

Retirings

• You are now teaching the sons and daughters of former students.

• You are hearing some of the same professional issues debated now that were debated forty years ago with no resolution then, and no resolution in sight.

• You are beginning to have the misperception that no one can do the job as well as you.

• You have spent so many hours walking the halls of the university that you sometimes fear turning the corner and seeing yourself sauntering along in the opposite direction.

• You have now begun to call the office and in a low tone ask if you are in; then home, leaving a message to return the call if you come in; and then as a last ditch effort to find yourself you call the local morgue to see if they have checked anyone in under you name. When learning that you are in none of these places

you relax in great relief and have another beer.

• Lastly, and what some male readers may consider the most important: during my lectures I no longer loose my train of thought when the young mini skirted cutie on the front row of class crosses her legs and flashes a little to much skin.

One of the most exciting is that retirement will free me to visit with my boyhood and Wheeler County friends more often. Although much has changed I find that as I drive around the county and talk with friends and see places of my youth long lost memories come to mind. I hope you enjoy them as much as I enjoy remembering and sharing them with you.

So now I am lucky once again, the Wheeler County Eagle is letting me share some of my tales with you.

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A s I near retirement I have been reflecting back over the past thirty-five years and the many

wonderful students I had the privilege of knowing/teaching. They have come from almost every state and many foreign countries and my musings have led me to the conclusion that most did not have roots, a place they strongly identified with and wanted to return - home. Thus, how different they were from me.

For me the old saying, “Home is where the heart is”, has the ring of truth. I would also add, “Home is where the mind is”. I have now been gone from home for forty-five years but somewhere deep within me I never really left. My heart and mind have always been in Wheeler Co./Glenwood, Ga.

I had always intended to return home, hopefully soon but definitely later. It never happened, but it will. I wanted to return because it was home, a place I loved, a place I felt at ease, and a place I felt I belonged. Yes it has changed – dramatically, and yes, I too have changed – but not so dramatically. Things, places, and people who were the magnets and drew me back

and made it home are, for the most part, gone. Oh, I return for brief moments but know it will only be for a moment. Tallahassee, Florida is now home and while my roots here are shallow they are strong – kids and grandkids.

It is during my brief visits to Wheeler County I try to reconnect with the past by riding the dirt roads (many have now been paved), visiting the places of my youth and remembering little snippets of time, small events that bring back memories of a bygone era. I know you cannot bring back the past but these brief interludes are as close as I can get and give me some solace. It is a bridge between my real world and my make-believe world. A make believe world now, but a world that once existed, now gone, living only in my memory. My imagination brings them to life.

One of my favorite interludes is when I ride the streets of Glenwood in my truck. Streets I once walked or rode my bicycle. I look down the railroad tracks as I pass over them and in my imagination I walk them trying to keep my balance; go under them crawling

Only In My Imaginations

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through the large culvert; throw the rocks that lie between the crossties and watch them splash in a small stream we called Booger Branch; put a penny on them for the train to flatten as it pulls away from the depot.

I look to the left before turning down Main Street and I see Manning Boatwright’s barbershop for black folks and shoe repair for all. Then as I turn down Main Street which started at Atcheson’s Grocery Store and ended at Bud Peacock’s Blacksmith’s Shop I pass: the Post Office, Willard and Jarrel McDaniel’s carpenter shop, Alice Riner’s Café, an old wooden building once a store but even in my youth closed, uncle Jarrel’s Barber Shop, Pittman’s Grocery, Colan Clark’s Grocery and Max Seigle’s Dry Goods store. I cross Highway 19 and look north and I see Selph’s Dry Cleaning. Then comes Uncle Bob Simpson’s Grocery, Morrison’s Appliance Store, Browning’s Drug Store,

Annice’s Beauty Shop, Joiner’s Hardware, Ms Legget’s picture show and the Mason’s Lodge. The pavement ends and I start down the hill and there’s Browning’s Sawmill and Commissary, and finally the blacksmith shop.

At each of these establishments I remember the people who owned and ran them. I see them sitting on the benches or window ledges that graced their front entrance. Glenwood was their home also and the local cemetery is now their home. They never intended nor wanted to leave and never did. I hope they remember me when I return.

As you can see each of these establishments and the people who eked out a living from them have a special memory for me and this is what brings me back to my roots, even if while there - only in my imagination.

P.S. I am sure as some read the above they will say, “He

left out so-and-so store or he forgot this-or-that” and

they are probably right but I can only relate what I

remember … for after all … it has been a few years.

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G rowing up without a father for some leaves a void in their life and is considered by many

one of the reasons for the ills that plague society. For me it seems to have been a positive. My grandmother, Minnie Lee Purvis and Aunt, Viney Browning raised me, and they, according to my mother, aunts, uncles and wife spoiled me beyond repair. I do know that my childhood was one of bliss. They gave me very little in terms of material things but the freedom they gave to roam the small town of Glenwood Georgia and the surrounding woods was the greatest gift they could have given. This freedom allowed me to come in contact with all of the local men folk, many of whom were “characters”, and they, unknowingly to me, or them, shaped my perception of life and the people around me. Uncles, male relatives close and distant, neighbors and just men of the small town I grew up in became “father figures”. I saw many of them daily and as I grow older I seem to be a part of each.

Reflecting back on my youthful experiences during the 40’s and 50’s I am struck by the time and attention given me by the adult males in our small community.

They taught me how to fish, hunt, work, view the common in an uncommon way, enjoy and tell a good tale; filling my head at times not only with nonsense but lessons that have served me well.

Did they share their time with me because I was fatherless? Was it because I showed an interest in what they were interested? Did they see themselves in me? No matter, I am indebted to them all.

Now in my trips back to my beloved hometown I find the passing of these many father figures is creating a void and I am drawn occasionally to the cemetery where their headstones reflect the past. Small events we shared, made memorial through the passage of time and the sentimentality that age brings to me. They would probably not remember but events I relive as I stare at their grave: a fishing trip on Oakwalkee Creek or Oconee River; a day cropping tobacco or picking cotton; a day of quail or night of raccoon hunting; a Saturday bull session in the barber shop. I long for the impossible: to relive these events and a desire to express my appreciation for their giving them

Father Figuress

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to me. Hoping, and wanting to believe, they know. Fantasizing they may be listening to my thoughts.

They gave unknowingly. I took unknowingly. What wonderful gifts – memories.

A poet I am not but the following came to me as I wrote the above:

Parts of many I am A piece here, A piece there

Unknowingly given, Unknowingly takenAll molded over time

To make me What I am

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A nimal lovers are a kind-hearted, loving, sensitive lot but they can quickly become

fanatical on their favorite topic of animal rights. They belong to such organizations as PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) or ALDF (Animal Legal Defense Fund) and many others, and believe me there are many others. If you don’t think so, just get on the mailing list of one and you will be surprised at the amount of mail you get as it is shared with like-minded organizations. At my house, we average fifteen letters a week from these animal rights organizations, requesting donations. My wife gives to some of these organizations with the same regularity with which many people give to the church. Unfortunately, I am afraid the amount she can afford to give does not cover paper and printing cost plus phone bills requesting more. The vegetarian house she runs is motivated not out of concern for our health, although there is evidence that vegetarians live longer, but out of her concern for the animals that are slaughtered each year for human consumption.

You see, my wife is an animal lover. I am not talking

about the kind of person who loves the family dog or cat. There are millions of these. I am talking about the person who believes in the dignity and right to a decent life (after they are born) of all animals. While most people discuss human rights, these people discuss animal rights. They will argue with vigor, conviction, and passion equal to that of a human rights activist that the majority of the world does not really care for the lives of these less-than-human vertebrates.

Here in Tallahassee, we have an animal humane shelter that takes in unwanted animals. The people who run the shelter say that most of the animals they get come from people who decide to give up their pet after it has reached adulthood and is no longer “cute”. The shelter tries to find homes for these animals but I am told that 5,000 of them were “put to sleep” last year. How many of you know someone who gets a cute puppy, and after it grows out of the cute stage, decides it no longer fits into their lifestyle, and decides to get rid of it? Or someone who has allowed their dog or cat to become pregnant and then “disposed” of the litter. Too often this disposal is taking them to an isolated location and

Animal Loverss

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dumping them out of the car, leaving them to die the slow death of starvation.

I know from first-hand observation and experience that this is a problem in Wheeler County, having raised two dogs and several kittens, abandoned on or near my farm.

Domestic animals require care and love in the same way children do. Just as irresponsible people should not have children, neither should they have animals. Unfortunately, it has been my observation that too often these are the very ones who have both in excess.

My wife said, during one of her fits of anger over this issue, that since she is an animal lover, it was easy to fall in love with me! I certainly know that the fact that she was an animal lover attracted me to her. Come to think of it she’s right - maybe it was the animal in me that made me stalk and catch her. It was a good catch, forty years ago and I have never seriously thought of letting her go, even if she does fly into a fit of rage when discussing animal rights.

Do yourself, the environment, and most importantly the animals in and around your house a favor—have them spayed or neutered.

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M y house is 99 and 44/one hundredths percent vegetarian. The remaining .56 percent comes

from the bacon drippings I manage to slip into the turnips, collards, mustard greens, peas, beans, and the like. These drippings saved for me by my mother-in-law, bless her heart. My wife would have me cease even this small pleasure but a man has to stand up for something. After all, my manly image is at stake and my friends already accuse me of not wearing the pants in my family.

The vegetarian household my wife runs is motivated not out of concern for a healthy lifestyle for her family but out of concern for the animals we would otherwise be consuming. (Remember that my wife is an animal lover.)

Most of my friends say they could not sit down to a meal without a little piece of meat on the table. If, as is my case, their wife would not cook meat for them, they would be faced with the following options:

- They could learn to cook for themselves. It has been

my observation that most men love to cook once in a while, primarily if the cooking is done out-of-doors, on a grill, like for a picnic. But everyday day-after-day life-sustaining wholesome full-course meal cooking is not their style. It gets old in a hurry. I can speak from experience.

-They could eat out every meal, or third, buy frozen dinners for themselves. Now for most of us, neither of these options is realistic. Eating out on a regular basis simply costs too much for most of us, and as for frozen dinners ... for those who have tried them, need I say more? They are alright once in a while, but as a steady diet? No way.

-Then there’s counseling. I am sure if I had written Ann Landers, she would have recommend joint counseling, but I am just as sure Ms Landers never lived with an animal rights activist. There is no give and take, no middle of the road on this issue. The counselor would finally call me off to the side and recommend that I submit to my wife’s demands or be faced with the fifth option:

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-DIVORCE!!! I must admit, I think of this occasionally, after a week of tofu this and tofu that. (For those of you, who do not know, tofu is made of soybeans and is high in protein. It has the consistency of wet cotton and tastes worse.) Also, never having gone through a divorce or read about someone who is faced with my dilemma, I wonder--would forced vegetarianism be sufficient grounds for divorce? I really do not wish to follow in the footsteps of Lewis Grizzard, for after all she does have some redeeming qualities - she makes good biscuits although not for breakfast, as Mr. Grizzard desired. Also, my lawyer friends say she

most certainly would get the cookbooks in the divorce settlement, and then where would I be? No, divorce is not an option for me.

-Lastly, I could ask my mother-in-law, bless her heart, for advice. Now, I have read and heard all the stories about a mother-in-law and their meddling in he daughter’s marriage, but this has not been the case with my mother-in-law. When she gave her daughter to me some 40 years ago that was it, and some days I understand why! Sometimes I wish she would meddle. Maybe I’d get some relief ... and maybe even a piece of meat for supper occasionally!

P.S. At the insistence of my wife, and for personal

honesty, I must say that tofu, if cooked properly,

is excellent and there are multiple ways it can be

prepared. Give it a try. You’ll like it, plus the animals

and you will live longer lives.

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H ow I would like to go back to the days, when I didn’t know a good carb from a bad carb, a

saturated from an unsaturated fat or HDL from LDL cholesterol. I remember the days when you sat down at breakfast to a plate of grits with butter, yard eggs, sausage, cured bacon or ham and red eye gravy, with everything salted to perfection. Also, biscuits with more butter and drizzled with cane syrup, spread with blackberry jelly, or pear preserves along with a large cup of coffee with cream and sugar. You could devour all these foods completely guilt free.

For dinner there’d be juicy deep fat fried chicken, black-eyed peas cooked with salt pork (fat back), creamed corn flavored with bacon drippings and/or real butter and thick biscuits made using lard. This would be followed by a dessert of fried apple tarts or huckleberry pie, topped with ice cream. Other favorites commonly seen on the table were chicken and dumplings, meat loaf, sweet or mashed potatoes, butter beans, onions, fried cornbread patties, and banana pudding, all washed down with sweeeeeet iced tea.

Supper was always special too, with leftovers from dinner, biscuits and baked sweet potatoes stored in the safe, fried fat back with the rind still on it, milk gravy and/or cane syrup for sopping, and of course sweeeeeet iced tea.

The vegetables were fresh from your own or your neighbor’s garden or from jars that had been canned to supply the year. Butter and milk may have come from your own, or a neighbor’s cow. Pork was smoke-cured during the winter and cornmeal was ground locally from corn grown on the farm. Fresh eggs came from the back yard hen house. Chickens were fed scraps from the table and enjoyed a good life of freely roaming in someone’s yard before becoming a part of Sunday dinner. When chicken was a part of the meal, a familiar scene usually followed. The most favored piece of chicken by the kids was the pully bone. When stripped of meat, it was held under the table, one bone grasped by one child, the other by another as each made a wish. When pulled it broke and the one with the longest piece was supposed to get their wish. Only a few items used for the meal in those days, such

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as coffee, tea, sugar and salt had to be bought. These items came from Colan Clark’s grocery store. The bill was put on “the book” and the payment was due at the end of the month.

I do not remember a cookbook or measuring cup in Mama’s (my grandmother’s) house. Her recipes came from years of preparing, with the help of my aunt Viney Browning, basic life-sustaining meals for her eight children and myself.

You ate unabashedly at each of these meals until you absolutely could hold no more and you got up from the table with pride (your own and Mama’s) at the quantity and quality of the food you had eaten. After supper everyone retired to the front porch - menfolks lighting up their pipes, cigars, cigarettes or a “chaw”

of Bull-of-the-Woods chewing tobacco. For my Aunt Viney it was a time to put a dip of snuff (Buttercup was her brand) between her cheek and gum. This was a time to savor the good food you had eaten, reflect back on a day of hard work, plan for the next day, or just swing and do nothing – while sipping your sweeeeeet iced tea.

To enjoy such foods and in such quantities, we are now told makes us fat, clogs our arteries, gives us shortness of breath, makes our breath smell bad, rots our teeth, and will not digest properly giving us colon cancer. It also, we are told, contributes to diabetes, elevates our blood pressure, and causes other diseases/conditions most of us have never heard of. It probably makes us impotent or even sterile! We are told with certainty that such eating will put us in an early grave.

All of these things may be true, but I sure do wish they hadn’t told me - eating

used to be so much fun!

24

D uring my recent trip to Wheeler County my brief contact with one of the county’s

most prolific taletellers conjured up memories and motivated me to write about the many hours I have gathered with friends and enjoyed this pastime.

In thinking about this I have come to the conclusion that most everyone loves an audience once in awhile to share their tales. I have also observed that most tales start with an element of truth but over time the tale teller begins to embellish them. These additions and deletions to the original tale adds flavor and gives it a personal touch. They also hold the audience’s attention and usually get more laughs. There is nothing some of us enjoy more than to gather up with friends and swap a few old and new tales. There is only one rule when involved in one of these tale telling bull sessions: never stifle a “little white lie” when embellishing a tale if it does no harm to the person on whom the tale is being told and gives it color.

This reminds me of a tale I heard or read some years ago about an interview someone had with Ms. Lillian

Carter, mother of former president and governor, Jimmy Carter. The interviewer asked if Jimmy had ever told a lie. Ms. Lillian said no. The interviewer pressed further: “You mean that Jimmy has never told a lie?” Ms. Lillian then said: “Well, maybe a ‘little white lie’”. The interviewer then pressed even further: “Ms. Lillian, give me an example of a ‘little white lie’?” Ms Lillian responded: “Do you remember when I told you I liked your hair style?” Sometimes telling a “little white lie” is best. Or as my tale telling friend says: “It is OK to tell a lie if it ‘keeps the peace and holds down confusion’.”

Those of us who engage in this pastime know that some of our friends are better at telling tales and using “little white lies” than others. Often one will even defer to a friend, letting them tell the tale because they do a better job. Or they will begin the tale and the friend will simply take over and finish, not being satisfied with the way it is being told. Or interrupt occasionally filling in details (little white lies) they feel relevant to the tale, but left out by the taleteller. They may even go so far as to tell the tale again in a more

The Telling of Taless

25

colorful manner. A number of years ago I was on one of my trips to Wheeler Co., and during a gathering of tale tellers, one of the members new car had been rear ended. When I asked what happened, he said, “let so ‘n so tell you, his version is better than mine”. Old so ‘n so has honed the art of telling a tale through years of practice. He is a master. Every new person who joins the group will hear the tale, each version varying slightly as he “gets it right”. He is a strong believer in the old saying among some journalist: “Never let the truth get in the way of a good story”. I practiced this frequently in my teaching years, when I occasionally threw in a little tale, never lying, but changing the true circumstances of the story to fit the audience and the moment.

There is nothing taletellers enjoy more than getting something on a friend and then sharing it with other friends in his presence. Since ribbing can get pretty strong at times, it can only be enjoyed among friends who are genuinely fond of each other. This is not an activity for insecure friends. Over the years several tales have evolved regarding some of my antics and if you are an infrequent visitor, as I am to Glenwood these days, the tale is repeated each visit and each time everyone enjoys hearing it. I know I certainly do. My feeling being that if you cannot take a little fun poked at you by friends, around friends, you do not deserve to poke a little fun at them. I love this pastime, so turnaround is only fair.

One of the tales shared often with newcomers to our group regards the summer my two oldest sons and I spent in Wheeler County cutting, loading and hauling pulpwood with my wife remaining in Tallahassee. Soon after the summer my wife announced that she was pregnant with our third son. My friends, who were all “experts” on the gestation cycle of women, began to kid me that she had become pregnant during my absence. One night around the campfire when we were all just about to the top of Bush Mountain and the telling of tales was at its peak and I was getting a great deal of ribbing about having a new baby at my age, one of them turned to me and said not to worry, that if I would hold it, rock it, feed it, and change its diapers I would, over time, come to love it as if it were my own.

It’s a good tale and I enjoy it as much as anyone. Since it gets so many laughs, I thought my wife would laugh. She didn’t. Some tales are best left at the campfire.

26

I t seems the desire to have a way to ride is inborn. Walking for short distances is something we all

have to do but, as evidenced by drivers trying to find the closest parking place to their destination, it is not a favorite pastime. When at the university I walked briskly two or more miles each day for health reasons but I found myself getting upset if I had to park very far from the building where my office was located.

My first recollection of my desire to ride being satisfied had both sad and happy moments. I must have been about 10 years old and my mother had bought me a bicycle from the Sears and Robuck catalog. It was to be delivered to Glenwood by train. Not knowing on which day it would arrive I began meeting the train daily in eager anticipation. When it arrived I had expected it to be rolled off the train ready for me to jump on and take a spin down Main Street to show it off. Much to my disappointment not only was it in a box, but also in many different pieces. I lived only a short distance from the train station, but I knew Mama (my grandmother) and Great Aunt Viney with whom I lived didn’t have the necessary tools for

assembly. I was dejected. Mr. Rivers, the depot agent, seeing my disappointment and knowing my dilemma promptly got out his toolbox and assembled it and helped me get going - happy to see me happily on my way. Such were the men folk of my youth.

The bike was a 24-inch Schwinn and really too large for me. Funds however were such that to buy a smaller one and then as I grew a larger one, was not an option. I would grow into it. I quickly found I could, by standing on a wooden box, mount it and get started but I had difficulty dismounting and the only way was to jump off as it fell over. Not very graceful and skinned knees were common but I soon mastered the technique.

As my riding skills advanced over time so did my horizons. Most of my friends had bikes making it possible to quickly get to our sources of youthful pleasures: Kent’s Pool, Oconee River, Sandhill Bluff, my Great Uncle Smith McDaniel’s farm, Peterson Creek, Kent’s Warehouse and Cotton Gin. Parents worried little since traffic was sparse and crime, so

Motor Cycles: Weaned Earlys

27

far as I knew, non-existent. That someone might steal your bike never entered our minds. The streets and roads surrounding Glenwood were ours from early morning until late evening.

We learned early to fix flats, broken chains, and replace spokes. We also learned that a piece of cardboard, attached by a clothes pin to the brace that attached the fender to the axle and bent at an angle, would strike each spoke as the wheel turned giving the sound, and in our young minds the feeling, of riding a motor bike – the next step up in our desire to ride.

This next step up was the beginning of my aversion for motorcycles as a way to ride. My Uncle James “Goot” Purvis purchased a motor scooter (I have a picture of myself sitting on it). It had a small engine that required kick starting, and when you wished to kill the engine you must lift the seat and push the ground wire onto the spark plug. Gas flow and thus speed was controlled with a thumb-operated lever on the handlebars. It was a simple machine and after some brief instructions - me riding in front of him proving that I could steer and operate the gas and bring it to a stop, he consented to let me take it for a spin around town. I was ready.

Most of the streets other than Main were not paved. I planned to go by the one-cell jailhouse, cross the railroad tracks, hit Main Street by the Post Office,

Colon Clark’s Grocery, the loafer’s bench, cross Highway 19, top the hill at the Masonic Lodge down by Browning’s Sawmill to Bud Peacock’s blacksmith shop. Boy was I excited. I had only gone about one-quarter mile when I came up beside a mule drawn wagon. Probably getting closer than I should, the mule, startled having never before seen or heard such a contraption, reared up and when he did I took to the ditch. Less than five minutes into the ride and already a bad experience.

Recovering, I got it started again and crossed the railroad tracks and turned down main street, proud to see people looking at me on my new way to ride, but afraid to turn lose the handlebars and wave. As I topped the hill at the Masonic Lodge, where the paved road ended, and headed down by Browning’s sawmill to Bud Peacock’s blacksmith shop, I discovered that the gas was stuck. Now going wide open bouncing up and down on a wash board dirt road, I felt out of control and my youth and lack of experience kicked in. The only way I knew to get control was to kill the motor. I stood up, lifted the seat, and stuck my finger down to push the ground wire onto the spark plug. Instead of touching the ground wire I touched the spark plug. Instead of a killing the motor, I got a good shock. From that point forward it was that damn motor scooter and me, first one on top, and then the other. When finally coming to a stop a crowd gathered and upon seeing that no real damage was done, other

28

than I was skinned and bruised, began to kid me about the spectacle I had put on. The physical pain was far less hurtful.

This should have been enough but, no, it took one last experience to wean me from the desire to ride one of these devils of destruction.

My Aunt Sylvia had married Roger Mitchell and they were living in the house with us. Roger loved motorcycles and had bought one to ride to his place of work in Vidalia. It was a beautiful shiny yellow

Harley Davidson and it too had to be kick started. On this particular day it had been left in the yard beside the house. For a long time I had been straddling it pretending to ride, mimicking all the sounds it made as Roger roared away, gears changing. It was far too much machine for a young boy. But just for the heck of it I decided to push the kick pedal and lo-and-behold the engine came to life. My youthful ignorance again surfaced, I engaged the gears and through the privet hedge I went, holding on for dear life. It was only a short ride but seemed like eternity. Thank goodness for the barn stopping me or I may still be on it.

I know that motorcycles are a popular way to ride

by many people as evidenced by the number I see on

the road and the thousands that attend Bike Week

in Daytona each year … but I can’t help but wonder:

would my early experiences have weaned them?

29

30

31

I t was an early Fall Saturday1950, and things in downtown Glenwood were booming. The local

small farmers had had a good year. Tobacco had brought a good price, cotton crops looked good, peanuts were almost ready to dig and it was still to warm for hog killing. They came in their new trucks or cars; some came in the backs of the boss’s old pickup truck. Still others walked. A few still came in their mule drawn wagons, tying their mules behind the barbershop where my great uncles Jarrell and Lamar McDaniel were doing a booming business cutting hair and giving shaves to the white folks. Using a brush swirled in the soap dish, warm shaving lather was spread over their beards, then a hot steaming towel wrapped over their face. The straight razor expertly struck on the sharpening strop and even more expertly pulled over the skin removing the facial hair after another layer of lather was applied. The smell of talcum powder, hair tonic, after shave lotion, and the sound of the popping shoeshine rag filled the room. Ceiling fans turning overhead stirring the warm air. My youthful desire at that time to have a store bought shave satisfied many years later by Bernice Yawn the

barber who would replace my Uncle Jarrell.

One block down the street Manning Boatwright provided the same service for black folks and shoe repair for both.

The businesses on Main Street were all brick sharing a common wall with the one on either side. Between the sidewalk and the curb were oak trees for shade. On the opposite side of the street was a narrow grassy area, then a ditch, then the railroad tracks, which ran parallel to the main street of Glenwood, a small town not unlike many that dotted the South Georgia landscape in 1950.

Although it was still early in the day, the streets were beginning to come to life. Alice Riner’s café fed white folks in the front and blacks out the back door. Tommy Barber’s taxi service was in full swing, bringing in the turpentine workers from the surrounding forest and making trips to the Barrel just across the county line for legal red liquor and trips to the local bootleggers for illegal shine. Times were good.

Saturday – 1950s

32

The loafer’s bench between Main Street and the railroad tracks held its usual white folk crowd: Bear Store, Snorting Short Tootle, Sport Odum, Doc Screws, Cob Johnson, Hambone Atchinson and Sleepy Butler. It filled early on Saturdays. Each man, I am told, given his nickname by my grandfather, Alfred Purvis. Each always anxious to tell the past weeks town news to the country folks and spin tales - tales honed from the hundred’s of times they had told them. Occasionally, the taleteller took his leave to further hone his memory, while finding others hidden in the fruit jar behind the seat of one of their trucks or in one of the bushes close by. The loafers bench was off limits for us kids but we would occasionally find a way to casually stroll by and listen to some of the words and tales we were not suppose to hear.

Black folk had begun to fill the opposite corner at Max Seigel’s dry good store. Laughter filled the air from both sides of the street. Going to town on Saturday to buy food staples was a necessity but perhaps more important it was a social event for country folk.

Down the street under an oak tree, away from the loafers bench, was an elderly black gentleman dressed in his usual black suit and black hat with wide straight brim. Here kids would gather to hear him rhythmically beat the bones. He called it making them “talk”. Try as he might he could never teach us his technique. We could snap them together but could never make them “talk”. The bones were two flat pieces of wood about

eight inches long worn slick from use. Fingers were cupped slightly, with one “bone” held between the first and second fingers, the other between the ring and little fingers, then with a slight quick movement of his wrist and forearm he would snap them rhythmically together, often humming a tune only he knew. How I wish this had been recorded.

As the day progressed and night approached the tempo picked up. The streets filled with local farmers, their wives, kids, and their “hands”. The week’s work was over, it was Saturday, time to enjoy the pleasures of town. Families gathered on the street to talk. Stores abuzz. The kids excitement of being in town filled their laughter, defined their antics. For me, a town raised boy, it was a time to see my friends from the country and show them the sights of Glenwood. All were anxious for Ms. Leggett’s picture show to open its doors. Blacks went to the balcony. Pop corn, Cracker Jacks, a fountain coke all to be enjoyed while watching one of our heroes: Tex Ridder, Johnny Mack Brown, Buster Crabbe or Fuzzy Knight. Oh, what complete pleasure.

For this young 10 year old boy with few, if any, responsibilities it was a simple time, where one made do with simple pleasures, and now looking back through fifty years of time and lens clouded with the sentimentality that age seems to have brought, it was paradise.

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Over the many years since my youth the lifeblood has been sucked from it by the lure of the small and large cities that surround it, the demise of an agrarian economy, and the dominance of the automobile. Jobs in the cities not only paid more but were less physically demanding than working in the fields picking cotton, cropping tobacco, digging peanuts, dipping turpentine, etc. Jobs where the only time the hot sun did not shine on you were before it came up in the morning and when it went down in the afternoon. The day started early and ended late and it was the same every day, except Saturday.

Then, Main Street in Glenwood had a pharmacy, barbershop, dry good store, shoe repair shop, café, furniture store, appliance store, hardware store, picture show, four grocery stores, cotton gin, ice house, and four gas stations (where your gas was pumped and oil checked for you). It now has a café, furniture/appliance store, bank, florist, pharmacy, one grocery store, and one “food mart” (where you pump your own gas and check your own oil). Most of which you can not depend on being open next week due to lack of cash flow except the “food mart” where the main items for sale are cigarettes, beer and lottery tickets.

Now, Saturdays are like all other days.

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T here have been several times during my professional life that the ignorance of growing

up with a fairly rural impoverished background has surfaced, thus putting me in an awkward situation (impoverished in the sense that I had not had many of the experiences of my sophisticated professional university colleagues). One such experience occurred when interviewing a lady for a faculty position in our department and a prospective doctoral student from Korea.

During their visit one of my responsibilities was to take them out to lunch. It was during which time I would observe and interview them and make a judgment as to their competence and recommend to the search committee whether we should accept or deny their applications. A rather important responsibility considering you have partial responsibility for determining the direction of someone’s personal and professional life in your hands.

I decided it might be nice to take them to the Golden Key, a nice restaurant on the university campus.

The Golden Key was where the intellectuals and administrative types came for lunch and discussed the future of the university and world according to their profession - be it physics, math, psychology, geology, astronomy, chemistry or whatever. These are individuals who are very sophisticated and have traveled all over the world, interacted with people from many different cultural backgrounds, spoke several different languages, and tasted the cuisine of all. But from a practical standpoint (a standpoint that I admit is probably only important to me) I have observed that many know little about the beauties in their own back yards or the joys of standing around a fire with a bunch of Wheeler Co. type childhood friends, beer in hand, waiting for smoked turkeys and/or hams to get ready while discussing the joys of walking behind a bird-dog all day or the itch one gets from gathering okra. One might say, and some probably did, I was the “Bubba” of the College of Education, Department of Special Education. So the intellect and interest of the patrons of the Golden Key simply made eavesdropping on their conversations, for me, not very enlightening or interesting.

Once A Bubba, Always a Bubbas

35

The lady I was interviewing was Lynda Jones. She was a very articulate attractive lady, and she was totally blind. The young man was Koya Shon, very bright, but spoke and read English poorly. After we had been seated and the waitress gave us the menu it was my responsibility to read it to Lynda and interpret it, or explain the food items to Koya. After making some joke about not seeing dog on the menu (Korean’s are rumored to find them a delicacy), which Lynda found funny but Koya didn’t, I began to look over the menu items, most of which I did not recognize.

Deciding to give it a try my first attempt was Quiche, which I now know is pronounced “Kesh”. I pronounced it the way it looked like it should be pronounced with an emphasis on the “Q”. It came out as “Queshe”. Lynda quickly corrected me and as she did I embarrassedly scanned the remainder of the menu and noticed most were French, German or Italian dishes and my failure on the very first item gave me no confidence in further attempts. I flipped the page and there to my relief were items I was familiar and could pronounce: hamburgers & fries, club sandwiches, chefs’ salads, pizza, etc. I read them confidently.

A couple of years after this experience at a gathering where the fruits of the vine and hops fields were flowing freely I made some comment to the two of them about my mispronunciation of Quiche. By now

Lynda was a colleague and Koya had been my graduate assistant for two years. When I brought this incident up, Lynda said that, at the time, she was surprised such a fancy restaurant had such a limited menu and featured only items such as I had read. It was then that I confessed that since I could not pronounce most of the other items and she could not see the menu, and Shon could not read the menu, I had simply skipped over them, figuring neither would know the difference and I would not make a complete fool of myself.

Lynda is now a faculty member and Koya is now Dr. Shon. The menu is now in Braille and Koya can read English so I may get up the nerve to take them back to the Golden Key. They can read the damn menu for themselves and I’ll order something that I can pronounce.

36

B athing fifty plus years ago was a whole different experience from bathing today. It was quite

understandable that many folks took a bath only on Saturdays and most found it a chore quite unpleasant, particularly in the winters.

For some it required drawing water from an outdoor or perhaps a porch well, then heating water over an open fire. So what I call birdbaths, and what my mother-in-law calls spit bathes, were common in the winter. I remember as a preteen, Mama, putting a Number 2 galvanized washtub in front of the fireplace warming the water to a tolerable degree for me to immerse myself for a good scrubbing. We, at this time, had running water in the house, but no hot water, and even with a fire in the fireplace, removing clothes in a cold, drafty house was no fun in the wintertime.

Perhaps this was the beginning of my dislike for baths that remains today. Besides being unpleasant, a bath signaled an end to a wonderful day of play a time to prepare for bed before I was ready to put away my popgun, sling shot, or marbles.

Bathing in the summertime was not so unpleasant, and often I felt unnecessary after swimming in the creek. However the freshness of a summer bath, or swim, was short lived, for soon sweat reappeared in our humid southern climate. Yet there seems to be some people who never look dirty or rumpled and never smell, even in those days. One of my favorite memories is my Uncle Lamar MacDaniel who was neat, seemingly without effort. Uncle Lamar could put on a white shirt, starched pressed khaki pants, spit polished black patent leather shoes, go fishing (from the hill) on Okeewalkee Creek all day, then wear the same clothes on a date that night. His pants would still have a crease, shirt without a stain on it, shoes would not be muddy, and he would not even smell like fish or bait. How I wish I had such a skill/trait? If I did my bathing routine would change significantly.

Although I can’t remember people having body odor in the old days, surely they must have. I suppose we were all just used to each other and were not at all bothered by any odor there was.

Baths Only When Absolutely Necessarys

37

My mother-in-law, Virginia Sikes, tells me that a ten cents bottle of Hurts Cologne was popular when she was young (she’s ninety-four), a bird bath (spit bath they called it) followed by Hort’s Cologne often substituted for a good bath, especially when someone went out on a special date. She says they had no deodorant, paper towels, and certainly not the big luxurious towels we take for granted today. Bathing was not something to be enjoyed but tolerated. Bathing was not an everyday event.

It is my understanding that there are cultures today where people are not at all offended by body odors, and indeed, consider Americans to be obsessed with obliterating natural body odors and replacing them with artificial fragrances and perfumes. Natural body odor in some cultures is not viewed negatively; although in our culture their odor would definitely set them apart and make most of us think negatively of them. There are a number of things about body odor that is interesting, not the least of which is the fact that our odor is to some extent a product of what we eat (remember I am not talking here about breath odor). A memory I have is when Dr. Van Dyke, from the Netherlands and a world renowned expert on the development of Multiply Handicapped Blind Children, visited the university and made the comment that he recognized one of the passengers on the plane as being Dutch due to their odor, he himself was Dutch. When asked how he knew, he

said we Americans smell so sanitized. I want to point out that this part of the world is very sophisticated and certainly not a society that does not conform to what we Americans consider cleanliness. He seemed pleased to get a whiff of someone from his home country. I suppose what we consider offensive body odor wouldn’t bother us if everyone around us smelled the same.

There are times when I find myself wishing to have remained living in the past when once-a week baths were acceptable, or to live in a culture where ridding the body of odor is not necessary or even seen as appealing.

Until my recent retirement from teaching, I had two occupations that necessitated regular baths. Teaching obviously necessitated bathing because it was a professional job and even though no one broke a sweat and no one had an odor (except possibly from mental stress) everyone took a bath. Odorlessness was a requirement and expectation of this job and a bath was necessary, dirty or not. My other part-time occupation was and still is quite different. This job, growing vegetables to sell at a roadside stand, requires hard manual labor. Labor produces sweat and I tend to sweat profusely. In addition to this, I’ve never been afraid of a little grease and dirt. In fact, the clothes I peel off after a day of such labor require soaking and a prewash, and fill an entire washer load. My

38

wife, who is not too happy with this gift I present her with, would certainly have been unhappy in the old days without modern conveniences. I also have to admit, even our cat, Buttercup, feels the urge to protest my obvious foot odor after a day of work in the field. Several times when my dirty socks were dropped on the floor in what she considers her area, she has attempted to neutralize the odor the only way she knew how I’m sure you know what I mean. However, a bath to me, after working in the field and becoming very sweaty and dirty is more tolerable than a bath after day behind a desk because I, at least, feel I am accomplishing something. I enter the shower smelly and dirty and emerge smelling like a rose quite a contrast from most folks who enter clean and emerge clean.

Yes, modern advances have drastically changed the bath experience. So much so that some people, can you imagine, actually enjoy the experience so much that they take two or even three baths a day, lathering with gels and lingering under a stream of soothing hot water. I guess I have just never learned to appreciate the appeal, for I still avoid baths except when absolutely necessary and of course the word necessary can be interpreted different ways. But for me, baths when one is not dirty or smelly is a complete a waste of time, water, soap and energy (my energy and the energy necessary to reheat the water).If the truth be known, my real reason for disliking

baths may be that I like to come home late in the afternoon, eat, sit on the couch read the paper, watch TV, fall asleep, and then get up and go to bed. Bathing interferes with my routine!

Occasionally, I now visit my farm in Wheeler county and often while there I have very limited contact with people, spending most of my time in the woods or in my canoe. On these visits my bathing schedule is determined by odor: when I climb into the bed or sleeping bag and can no longer tolerate putting my head under the cover it’s then I know it’s time to take a bath.

Some people somehow, like my Uncle Lamar, just seem to know how to stay clean. If I could do this I would probably revert back to the Saturday bath schedule ... and then only where absolutely necessary.

39

W hen the last bell of the school year rang, as quickly as we forgot the rigors of the school

year, we remembered to take our shoes off for a full summer of barefoot fun. The skin on the bottoms of our feet had already begun to toughen, for we had been shedding our shoes after school and on weekends since the first warm days of spring. Now, during the hot days of June, July, and August, full time foot freedom was to be enjoyed. For some visits to church on Sunday mornings and MYF or BTU on Sunday evenings necessitated wearing shoes. Only a brief confinement of feet that had to be tolerated but not enjoyed.

Going barefoot was not only a pleasure for us kids, but probably an economic saving for our parents for I am sure that the number of steps we made each summer would have worn out two pairs of shoes. For this reason, if for no other, parents were probably glad to see summer come. We sure were.

Summer holidays - oh what pleasures lay ahead: Walking the banks of Okeewalkee (Walkee) and

Peterson Creeks, swimming and fishing on these wonderful streams. Fishing with poles cut on the spot, using a line made from my grandmother’s (Mama’s) toughest sewing thread, a hook fashioned from a straight pin, and a cork whittled from a dried sweet gum root. Switching to root fishing, seining and muddying when the creek got low during the long, hot, dry summer days - mud squishing between our toes. Walking the railroad tracks, trying to be the last to lose your balance. Scratching off with your bare feet, sending sand and rocks flying behind you. Dancing across a hot sandy road, trying to reach the cool grass on the other side. Older boys using their toes to discreetly pick up cigarette butts dropped by adults, to be smoked later behind the stores lining Main Street.

Such pleasures, however, were not without hazards. Stumped toes and torn toenails were common. There were briars, splinters, nails, and glass to be dealt with, and the spot where I once stepped on the extended fin of a catfish while mudding Peterson Creek still hurts when I think about it. Mama’s standard treatment for

Summer Was A Time To Run Barefoots

40

wounds was to pour kerosene on them and wrap them tightly with bandages made from old sheets, petticoats, or flour sacks. Ground itch and ringworm were always problems too. Mishaps occasionally necessitated a trip to see Dr. Colson. If you were not already limping when you got to Dr. Colson’s office, you were when you left. Such types of mishaps as these required a period of hobbling around, and watching from the creek bank while the other boys had all the fun.

By the end of the summer, the bottoms of our feet were as tough as the bottoms of the sneakers kids wear today. School and cold weather brought an end to the

pleasures of going barefoot for most although a few of my schoolmates attended school barefooted, again probably for reasons of economy.

I have few memories of Mama getting angry with me, but one is the time I took off my shoes on the first day of school and was running around the playground barefooted when she came to get me. (My feet were feeling cramped after a full summer of freedom). Looking back, I think she was more embarrassed than angry ™ she probably didn’t want other people to think we couldn’t afford shoes.

41

I n the past, I have written about some of the changes I have observed in Wheeler County since my

youth. Probably none are more disturbing to me than what I perceive as a lack of work ethic being instilled in our young people, and the lack of enjoyment for the simple pleasures of life. Neither of which seem to be the fault of the younger generation or their parents but simply due to changes in economics and social factors: the lack of what I call seasonal jobs for young people today; the seeming changes in social values brought about by the automobile and television; and an increase in the amount of disposable income by their parents.

When I was young, there were always summer/seasonal jobs: suckering, cropping, grading tobacco, and then working in the tobacco warehouse in Vidalia; chopping or picking cotton; picking and loading watermelons; stacking peanuts, or working with my Uncle Jarrell as a carpenter’s helper. Small farms were scattered all around the county, many of whom needed help during certain harvest times. Most all of these small farms and the jobs they created are

now gone or have been restricted to a very few farms. Small farmers whose main source of income was the farm have almost been eliminated. They have been bought out and/or consolidated into one large farming operation and machines and chemicals have reduced the need for many of the hand-labor jobs. Machines and chemicals that, unfortunately, have become a necessary evil. Also, hand labor is no longer available, laborers drawn away by jobs that pay more, away from farmers who can’t. We cannot fault the farmer, nor can we fault the worker. The farmer has to raise and market his crop at the lowest possible cost. The worker is simply trying to get maximum return for his labor. Also, farm work has always been hot, hard and dirty, and for the young people of today, it does not compare to working in a convenience store, hamburger or pizza restaurant.

Also I think many young people do not have the motivation to seek work because their parents now have enough disposable income to share with their children, thus keeping them in spending money. When I was growing up work was a necessity if you

Work Was a Necessitys

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wanted to go to the picture show, Jay Bird Springs, buy a pair of tennis shoes, or experience the pleasures of a RC Cola and a Moon Pie. Work was not an option - it was a necessity. Our pleasures were simple, our needs small. I do not think we wanted as many “things” because we stayed home, seldom venturing further than Mt. Vernon, going then only to see the picture show. Occasionally we’d take a big trip to Vidalia. This was usually not for pleasure, but to visit the dentist. We had no television to tempt us with the pleasures of the world or make us want “things” we could not afford or need.

I remember my Mama (grandmother) saying she never wanted anything she could not have, because she knew what to want. Looking back now I would

add that what she wanted she probably always needed. Our Saturday afternoons and evenings were spent “up town” listening to the tales of the menfolk on the corner at the loafers bench, or best of all, in Uncle Jarrell’s barber shop (he cut hair and gave shaves on Saturdays), where there was always a congregation of ‘characters,’ who were anxious to share their tales. Sunday was a time to visit with close and distant family, getting together for dinner (the midday meal), with leftovers left on the table and covered with a tablecloth until supper. Grownups spent the afternoon relaxing on the front porch sharing memories and tales, while the young’uns roamed the nearby woods and streams with their slingshots, popguns, or homemade bows and arrows. Simple pleasures for a simple time.

I wonder if the young people of today feel as much a

sense of place and family, and the values of work, as the

young people of my era.

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F or this little personal observation/remembrance I ask those of you who are around my age (sixty-

five) to reflect back to the late forties up to the early sixties. This was a time that predated I-75, I-16, I-95, I-10 and many of the other Interstate Highways with which many of us are familiar. Travel was on poorly maintained two lane roads where long trips required passage through small rural towns. It predated turn signals we now have on cars so arm signals were supposed to be used to indicate your desire to turn right, left or stop. For those of you who do not remember let me tell you it was an era where the slow life of our fathers and grandfathers was coming to an end. It was the beginning of my generation referring to it as the ‘good old days’. But now as I talk to individuals of our parents’ and grandparents’ generation I am finding that they were glad to see ‘the good old days’ come to an end. I am reminded of what my Glenwood friend and one of my teenage mentors Harold ‘Pot Licker’ Clark told me the elder ‘Cob’ Johnson once said: ‘The good old days - when times were hard’. I am also reminded of what my neighbor and friend Author ‘Sport’ Spence says: ‘Anyone who

calls them the good old days didn’t have to bathe in the creek, haul water from the spring or draw it from the well, cut wood with an ax or a ‘gator tale’ saw for both heating and cooking, plow a mule, pull fodder for the cow and milk it every morning then churn your own butter, and on Saturdays drive fifteen miles in a mule drawn wagon to the market to sell peas you had picked the day before. In his words: ‘Anyone who thinks they were the good old days are welcome to them ... I’ll take today’.

To put Sport’s comment in proper perspective I need to give you a snapshot of this gentleman. He is a 79 year old widower who lives on a small Social Security check he earned working as a carpenter almost all of his adult life. On the side he has always operated a small 50 acre farm and maintained 15/20 head of cows, growing his own feed and selling a few vegetables from his front yard for extra income, while supplying many of his friends with fresh eggs (this on land that sells for a minimum of twenty to twenty five thousand dollars per acre. You do the math.). He does all this while taking care not to slight his love for fishing. He now

The Good Old Days?s

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cooks for himself, washes his own clothes and hangs them on the line, heats his ‘shack’ (his description - not mine) which he built himself with a wood heater. Only recently did he have installed an air conditioning window unit for his bedroom. His ‘light bill’ averages $37.00 per month - which he thinks is too high. I will say that if you were to put a marble on the floor at the front door you would have to run fast to catch it before it rolls out the back door - that is if it doesn’t fall through a crack before it gets there. He does all of this on a knee that was replaced sixteen years ago and along with the other has long since worn out.

We help each other out in our small vegetable growing operations. My planters are worn out so he plants my seed crops. I plant his cabbage and collard plants with a planter Glenwood native L.P. Avery gave me some years ago. He is a living history book of the Chaires Community just east of Tallahassee where we live. In his standard wear of overalls and his ever-present chaw of tobacco which he spices up frequently with a dip of snuff he will begin: ‘It was in 1938 when ole so-in-so built his dairy barn down where I-10 is now’. ‘In 1941 we planted watermelons on the land you now own - loaded them on the wagon and took them to the market which was located one block from the capitol - I think we brought back more than we sold - hogs were happy’.

I visit him once or twice daily and I can say I have never

heard him complain, nor have I ever heard him say an unkind word about anyone. He has a constant stream of friends dropping by to see him and his greeting is always the same: ‘Get out!’ We have heard the saying: ‘He/she is a jewel.’ Well if ever such a designation fit, it does with Sport. He is truly a ‘Jewel’ and I value him as a friend. It is nice to know there are ‘characters’ in the world other than in Glenwood.

Yes the ‘good old days’ are gone and in many ways it is for the better, and with the inevitable passing of individuals such as my friend Sport with them will go the memories of that era.

Time to end this column - time to go help Sport cut okra.

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M ost of us have, or had, someone in our lives that has made a significant impression on us

and we can remember vividly words they said or daily activities they engaged in that will live with us forever.One of the most vivid visual recollections I have of my grandmother (Mama) is when she made biscuits. For her, making biscuits was a daily event whether it was a cold winter day or a hot summer day (the inside temperature never varied much from the outside temperature). The only days she didn’t make biscuits were the days she made cornbread--egg bread cooked in the oven or cornbread patties fried on top of the stove. I suppose you could say that biscuits were a staple in our house. I remember very little store-bought bread, which we called light bread and this only later in my teen years when money must have been a little more plentiful.

Flour for biscuit making was bought in twenty-five pound cloth sacks, and the cloth from these flower-printed sacks was used to make frocks or bloomers for herself or one of my aunts. They were also used to make the aprons she always wore around the house,

especially when making biscuits. The apron was handy It kept flour from getting on her dress and also served as a rag for cleaning flour from her hands. Paper towels, I am sure, did not even exist at that time.Mama made biscuits in a large wooden dough tray. I do not know what type of wood it’s made from, but I do know it has had many a biscuit made in it. My Uncle Kelly Purvis’s daughter now has the tray so I am glad to say it is still in the family. I can only hope that her love for the tray is as great as my memory of Mama making biscuits in it.

In her homemade frock and apron with her long graying hair braided and wrapped around her head Mama’s biscuit making ritual started by putting flour, salt and baking soda into a sifter. Holding it in her right hand she then bumped it against the base of her left hand until she had a nice, cone-shaped mound of flour in the dough tray. Setting the sifter aside, she would bring the tips of the fingers and thumb of her right hand together, and make a well in the middle of the cone of flour, careful not to let her fingers go completely through the flour and come in contact

Biscuit Makings

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with the dough tray. Then, reaching into a tin of hog lard she would bring out a large glob, and place it in the bottom of the hole. Next, she poured sour milk into the well with the lard, and began to work the dough with her fingers, gradually mixing the lard, sour milk, and flour together. I never remember seeing her measure any of the ingredients. Her measuring cup was the thousands of times she had performed her ritual.

As she mixed the ingredients, she would occasionally lift her hand out of the mixture, make a circle with the thumb and index finger of her left hand, and scrape all the fingers of her right hand, which were coated with the mixture of flour, lard, and buttermilk. This process continued until the mixture had become a large soft ball of dough, which could be handled easily without sticking to her fingers or hands. Coating her hands with the excess flour from the edges of the

dough tray, she would pinch off a piece of the dough, roll it around between her palms until rounded, and drop it onto the baking sheet. Then with the backs of her curled fingers, she would press down gently on each biscuit, leaving the imprint of her middle three fingers on the top of each. This imprint remained even after baking.

The leftovers from this large baking pan of golden brown biscuits made for dinner--we called the midday meal dinner, and still do, would be stored in the safe and eaten for supper, sometimes for breakfast the next morning or a hole punched in them and filled with syrup for an after school snack.

The memory of Mama making the biscuits, the feel of the heat from the wood fired stove on a cold winter day, and the sweet aroma from the baking biscuits will last me forever.

My wife or I now make biscuits occasionally,

and I must say they are good, but as I grow older,

it seems my soul needs the nourishment of my

memories as much as my body has always needed the

nourishment of biscuits.

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A s a young boy I considered anything larger than my hometown of Glenwood, Georgia, a

small city. The town of Glenwood had a population of approximately 800 people and one red light. None of this has changed. So, to me, Vidalia, McRae, Dublin, Hazelhurst, and Soperton with populations of three to five thousand were all small cities. They had a movie theater, a dentist’s office, a bank, and several red lights. A trip to one of these small cities was planned days in advance, and the excitement built as the time grew near, except when going to see Dr. Whipple or Darby, both dentists in Vidalia -- then it was fear that grew.

Just before retirement my work required that I travel through many small South Georgia cities, and I was struck by how similar many of them have become. Admittedly, each has an element of uniqueness: those that are county seats have the old court house with its high stately columns in the center of town; sometimes a small family restaurant, primarily serving breakfast and lunch for the local farmers, loggers, small business owners, government workers, and a few mill workers;

occasionally a locally owned drug store, small grocery store, and florist.

Two businesses that seem to have become most homogenized in these small cities are restaurants and service stations. Now on the edges of almost all these small cities, there are the franchised fast food restaurants: Hardee’s, McDonald’s, Huddle House, Pizza Inn, Pop Eyes, and others. Also, there are the inevitable so-called “food marts”: Flash Foods, Hurricane Foods, Pac`n’Sac, Jiffy Jim’s, Hoggly Woggly, etc. The main items for sale are snacks to go, drinks, crackers, candy, gum, chips, cigarettes, and beer. Most of these food marts also have self-service gas pumps, replacing the service stations of the past. While each may have a different color scheme, they are basically carbon copies of the one you just saw in the small city just thirty to forty miles back with their characteristic construction of concrete block, rectangular shape, and flat roof. Windows all across the front are almost completely covered with beer and cigarette advertisements. Inside the back wall is

The Homogenization of Our Small Citiess

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lined with a cooler holding soft drinks of every kind and a full assortment of beer. On the trip to and from the cooler you must walk through racks that hold the treats: Snickers, Little Debbies, Moon Pies, Honey Buns, Lay’s Potato Chips, etc. Placement designed with your wallet in mind.

As these impersonal franchises continue to pop up, hometown businesses, along with their unique qualities have become fewer and fewer. Competition with large-scale franchises has been fatal to all but a few. And these few are normally located off the beaten track, away from the main pedestrian thoroughfares, often serving small ethnic neighborhoods.

Many, if not most, of the new “cookie cutter” businesses lining either side of the street on the fringes of the small cities are not locally owned, and quite frankly care nothing about the community other than it has a low tax base and is a source of profit for the out-of-town owner or franchise.

Personally, I miss the Mom and Pop-owned restaurants, each unique in decor, personalities, and menus. The menu may change daily but specific days of the week were known for certain items and specific town people can be counted on for lunch on those days when their favorite is served. Depending on the day of the week the buffet may include: black-eyed peas, lima beans, okra (fried or boiled), turnips,

mustard, collards, rice, mashed potatoes, potato salad, rutabaga, fried pork chops, country fried steak, fried chicken, meat loaf, fried fat back, fish (sometimes), biscuits, corn bread, banana pudding or apple pie, and sweeeet ice tea. If you are just passing through town, as I often am, you feel somewhat isolated since it is obvious most patrons are regulars and their chatter makes it apparent that they have known each other all their lives. I worry that I may have taken their table. I do find however eavesdropping on conversations of the locals entertaining.

If you’ve been in one Hardee’s or McDonald’s you’ve been in them all with their standard menu and greetings. “Welcome to McDonald’s - How may we help you today?” There are no surprises.

The franchise food marts/filling stations can be even worse. The clerk with nametag somewhat askew on the well-worn vest that is standard wear. Often it is a person who has absolutely no interest, thus pride, in the business other than its minimum wage and it often shows in their dealings with the customer. You wonder how many times a day they say, “Have a good one!” when really, they could give a damn. The primary goal of these new businesses is to get you in and out. Also, the owner is never around, and there is no one to complain, even if you wanted to.

I have observed quite a few differences in the services

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offered by filling stations of the past and the new food marts/filling stations of today. As a young boy, I worked at Harold “Pot Licker” Clark’s filling station. Most of us have heard jokes about “filling stations.” They usually referred to the rural rundown stations and were mostly negative in tone. Well, if ever the term “filling station” fit an establishment, it fits these new ones-- the term “service station” certainly doesn’t. Pot Licker ran a service station. After we pumped your gas the oil and tire pressure were checked and windshield washed. If needed we would fix your flat tire, grease and change oil for you, and rotate your tires. The person who served you collected the money, no one was relegated to standing behind the cash register all day. Pockets were frayed and dirty from the hundreds of times our hands were thrust into them, they were

our cash register. Our hands were big and rough with fingernails and cracks in the skin outlined by the oil, grease and grime that comes with such work. These new places are truly “filling stations.” You fill your tank and pay the piece of person wearing the well-worn vest behind the counter whose hands are soft, fingers slender and nails white. I say “piece of person” since you never see the entire clerk, they never come out from behind the counter. (There is a rumor that they are naked from the waist down; there is no need to cover what’s never seen!) For me, the hands and arms may be all I see since I am tall and often the rack that holds the cigarettes hangs directly above the counter. If I want to look the person in the eye, I have to squat down.

“Pot Licker’s” filling station is gone, and I am much

older. While there lingers in me a yearning for it --at

the times I still search for it--I have slowly begun to

accept the passing of south Georgia as I once knew

it, for I have memories that help me deal with the

homogenization of our small cities.

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I n the past I have written about animal lovers and the passion with which they discuss, and actions

they will take, in their defense of the rights of animals. My knowledge of this comes from having lived with one for the past thirty-nine years and having to live life as a closet meat eater since she runs a vegetarian house. My love for her and her desired to see me live a long and healthy life has also made me at different times a closet smoker and drinker, neither of which she wished to expose our three sons. I hope that her concern has been for my health and her desire to have me around. However in the case of not wanting me to eat meat I am sure it has been for the animal’s health.

I used my knowledge of the emotions of these individuals with regard to animals to my advantage late one night just south of Tallahassee, Florida. It was

spring semester and I was teaching a course one night a week in Gainesville. I would teach my morning classes at the university, rent a car, drive down in the afternoon, teach the early evening class and return, getting home late at night. While overall it made for a very tiring day I found the drive down to be very relaxing and the spring flowers beautiful.

The lady at the rental car garage and I had become friends and on occasion she would give me a luxury car for the midsize price. On this particular day she gave me a car that talked to you: “Door is ajar”. “Fuel is low”, “Keys are in ignition” and other such important messages.

I was relaxed since it was the last class and my only function was to be a summation and an examination.

Animal Lovers: Compassion Over LawAlso Known As The Raccoon Story

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The drive down was uneventful and after my responsibilities were over the students wanted to treat me to a drink at the local bar. Never being one to refuse such gestures of goodwill, especially when fruits of the hops fields are involved, we had several. Having said our goodbyes I discovered soon into my drive back that my thirst had not been satisfied and as is the case nowadays a convenience store was just up the road. I figured it to be about a six pack trip.

A section of the road from Tallahassee to Gainesville cuts through St. Joe Timber Co. land. It is a long stretch of empty four lane highway with a wide grassy median. I was about an hour into the drive and four or five deep into the six pack when I noticed a raccoon lying in the road. I knew had recently been struck by a car since I detected a slight movement as I approached. For some time I had been interested in having a fresh raccoon hide to test my hand at tanning. It was late at night, no cars were coming from either direction, and the effects of the beer were beginning to have a pleasant effect so I turned around and retrieved what seemed to be a dead raccoon. Surely my wife would mind since I had not been responsible for its death... It seemed a logical thing to do.

Never one to litter I had simply been tossing the empties into the back floorboard, and now just outside of Tallahassee as I was beginning to realize that I should not be on the road the blue lights came on

behind me. My mind raced and I realized I had been driving much too fast. Immediately upon stopping I opened the door stepped outside sucking in deep breaths of the cool night air thinking it may help clear my head, bring things into focus, and disperse the odor of my alcohol breath. As I did a female voice asked the standard question, “Where was I going in such a rush?” Somewhat startled, not expecting a female, and with the car giving me messages that the door was ajar and the keys were in the ignition, I made some remark about it being a rental car, it running smoother than my normal mode of transportation, which was an old beat up truck, and therefore not realizing how fast I was driving.

By now we were joined by a male officer who was shining his light into the back floorboard and on the front seat. The office says, “How many beers have you had?” “Whatever you see is it.” I answered. Wanting to say that had I thrown the open one on the seat out the window, which I thought about when I saw the lights, they would have gotten me for littering also, so decided against it.

They asked me to come around to the back of the car where I think they were going to put me through the routine of touching my nose and walking the white line when I remembered the raccoon. I said, “Let me show you all something.” Who but a person in an alcohol induced haze would want to show two police

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One of these days I’ll tell her the full story...

officers a dead raccoon they had found on the road. Upon opening the trunk much to my surprise the raccoon, although there was blood on his head, was very much alive and from his posture obviously ready to do battle. The female office gave out an “oooh” which gave a hint that she was an animal lover. The male officer said, “Close it fellow or he’s going to get all of us.” Upon closing the trunk the female officer in a tone of voice that gave out further evidence that she was an animal lover said, “What are you going to do with him?” It was then I thought I had a chance. I said, “I was going to take him to St. Francis Wildlife Hospital”. Not really what I had planned but not really a lie since conditions had changed from when I found him. The female officer then asked in a true animal loving tone, “Do you know the address?” When I said I didn’t and without hesitation she told me, I knew for sure I had a chance.

She then says, “Wait here.” and motions her partner to come with her. They huddle up and talk for a few minutes and upon returning the male officers says, “You don’t seem drunk so we are going to let you go but I want you to pour out that beer on the front seat and you’re not to stop for more.” The animal loving officer says, “Now be sure you take the raccoon straight to St. Francis’s.”

I did, and the next day received a call that they had treated him and were going to release him in a local wooded area if I cared to come watch. My wife and I attended the release and I made a contribution to St. Francis. I am sure the fine for a DUI would have been considerably more than the contribution I made but my animal loving wife in her ignorance of events of the night before thought I was wonderful.

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This memoir was produced by the Florida State University College of Education for the Visual Disabilities 50th Reunion

Celebration on September 20-21, 2013.

y y

M any of my friends say that there was a turning

point in their lives. They can remember a time, incident, scene, moment that changed their lives or taught them a valuable lesson and has guided them through life. Lately I have been searching for that moment in my life, but I have come to realize it doesn’t exist. The small degree of success I have enjoyed is a series of lucky events that has culminated in a lucky life.

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