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Southern Observations

   

Like a sexy woman, the South has always held a fascination for much of the rest of the nation. People have always tried to identify the South but without very much success, I believe. 

Outsiders have termed Southerners many different things but none have completely identified what it means to be Southern.  Southerners themselves have been unable to adequately describe themselves.  There is no consensus about the South even though much of American history has been entangled in dealing with things Southern. 

Some from without our borders confuse the Southland with our urban centers. A visit to places like Atlanta, Charlotte or Miami does not reflect the real South.  To base opinion on such limited exposure is as shallow as judging a person by the clothes on his back or the vehicle he drives.  You have to live among us in the real South to even attempt to fully comprehend our culture. 

We can make fun of ourselves and often do, but others do so in our presence at their own peril.  In my newspaper columns, I sometimes give non-Southerners a hard time but it is done mostly with tongue-in-cheek.  In fact, many are among my staunchest readers.  They tell me that they often Email or clip and mail my columns to the folks back home.  Most understand the good nature of my jabs but sometimes others are offended – something Southerners are never comfortable with doing.

In actuality, the South is many things, many people and many cultures. 

W. J. Cash set out in the late 1930s to explore the essence of the South. His efforts resulted in the publication of his well-known book, Mind of the South, whereupon; he went to Mexico and hung himself after a much-chronicled episode of depression, paranoia and dementia. 

Had the fact that his book suggested the South had no mind at all affected his demise?  Probably not.  But he certainly found that the South had many minds.  In fact, there is no single South but a myriad of Souths - Coastal/Tidewater South, Delta South, Upcountry South, and Appalachian South, not to mention a diversified Black South. What would he think today! 

John Shelton Reed, the noted University of North Carolina professor and author, makes an argument for adoption of the idea that Southerners constitute a race separate and apart from the rest of the nation. This thing called “Southerness” is in our genes? 

There are other theories regarding the South.  Perhaps one of the most astounding is the thesis that the South is not melting into the American culture but quite conversely, the South is shaping America.  America is becoming more Southern rather than the other way around.  Proponents of this view point to politics and religion in the last fifty or so years.  Both have been dominated by Southerners. 

Others point to the Celtic genes that flow thickly through Southern souls.  They claim that Southerners are bi-polar in nature – extremely well satisfied or abundantly agitated.  Statistics induce the belief that this Celtic inheritance is manifested in the greater causalities among the Confederates during the War of Northern Aggression (1861-1865).  It can also be noticed that the battlefields of America’s other wars are disproportionately littered with the bodies of fallen Southern soldiers.  The war of 1812 would have been impossible to fight if it were not for Southern volunteers. Medal of Honor winners are represented in unbalanced numbers by Southerners. 

Whatever your conclusions, the fact remains that the South and Southerners have always marched to their own drummer.  To surmise otherwise would be folly. 

Along With the Industrial Revolution, Post Modernism and its precursor Age of Reason never took firm hold in the South.  Southerners just have not been able to grasp the idea that there are no universal truths - no absolutes because to us there still exist eternal values - inhaled with our mother's milk that we just cannot turn our back on.

To us the New Age is just the same old paganism that has been around from time immemorial. 

We know that we cannot be spiritual without knowing the truth.  And we are convinced we know truth and that truth has made us free in spirit if not in body. 

So, journey with me through the following pages as we take a look at the Southern mentality through the eyes of the writer, who has lived his three score and ten completely surrounded by the South and Southerners. 

For those of us who are Southern by birth and those who would live among us, this book is dedicated to helping us understand each other. 

This book makes no attempt to place definitive attributes to the South, but it does present a down-home reflection of one Southerner’s experiences – mine.  It is a reality check – a slice of life look at Southern culture. Nothing more. 

As you read, please keep in mind that to us, our Southland, is where life flows like a slow, deep river; the rhythm of conversation pours like honey and the air is filled with fragrant scents from God.  Life is comfortable and sweet with the acknowledgement that whatever happens - happens.   Eternity is now!  

I have lived my entire life in the South and although I ventured into other parts of the nation and world, I rejoice whenever I return to my Southern home. Join me now in my musings from my life that hopefully will share first-person experiences in our beloved Southland - its places and people. And, for non-Southerners, perhaps, help you to understand the uniqueness of our culture and why we are like we are. 

John Brock

 

 

 

 

 

Is it true what they say about Dixie?

 

 

Through the years, just about everybody has expressed their opinion about our Southland and its people – some complimentary but often times not.

 I thought I would look through the pages of history and modern commentary to find representative quotes from the famous and the infamous regarding their impressions of the South and Southerners.

 Here is what I found:

 “Southerners have a genius for psychological alchemy…. If something intolerable simply cannot be changed, driven away or shot, they will not only tolerate it but take pride in it as well.” – Florence King.

***

“Because I was born in the South, I’m a Southerner. If I had been born in the North, the West or the Central Plains, I would be just a human being.” – Clyde Edgerton.

***

In the South, “The past is not dead.  It isn’t even past.” – William Faulkner.

 

“I suggest that the true Southland is that territory within which, when asked by an outsider whether he is a Southerner, the reply almost invariably if ‘Hell yes!” – Hamilton C. Horton, Jr.

***

“The young bloods of the South; sons of planters, lawyers about towns, good billiard players and sportsmen, men who never did any work and never will. War suits them.  They are splendid riders, first-rate shots and utterly reckless.  These men must all be killed or employed by us before we can hope for peace.”  General W. T. Sherman.

***

“…In the Civil War the North reaped the victory and the South the glory” – Richard Weaver.

***

“Every time I look at Atlanta, I see what a quarter of million Confederate soldiers died to prevent.” – John Shelton Reed.

***

“Southern Women see no contradiction in mixing strength with gentleness.” – Rosemary Daniel

***

“We went across the South…without a single catcall or boo, without a single ugly sign.  Not until we got to New York and the North did the litmus test of race and religion spout from the mouths of public officials.” – Jesse Jackson.

***

“The only place in the world that nothing has to be explained to me is the South.” – Woodrow Wilson. 

***

“O magnet-South! O glistening perfumed South! My South! O quick mettle, rich blood, impulse, and love!  Good and evil! O all dear to me!” – Walt Whitman.

***

“Southerners can never resist a lost cause.” – Margaret Mitchell.

***

“Southerners make such good novelists; they have so many good stories because they have so much family.” – Gore Vidal.

***

“I’m Southern and I know neurotic behavior.” – Faye Dunaway.

***

“My mother’s people, who captured my imagination when I was growing up, were of the Deep South – emotional, changeable, touched with charisma and given to histrionic flourishes.  They were courageous under tension and unexpectedly tough beneath their wild eccentricities, for they had an unusually close working agreement with God.  They also had an unusually high quota of B… S… .”
 – Willie Morris.

***

“Next to fried food, the South has suffered most from oratory.” – William Hines Page.

***

“True grits, more grits, fish, grits, and collards.  Life is good where grits are swallered.” – Roy Blount, Jr.

***

“In the South ‘the war’ is what A.D. is elsewhere; they date from it.” – Mark Twain.

***

“Anyone with a lick of sense knows that (in the South) you can’t make good barbeque and comply with the health code.” – John Edgerton.

***

I could go on but, finally, I offer the words of my old schoolmate, Charles Kuralt who sums it all up with: 

“What you need for breakfast they say … is a jug of good corn liquor, a thick steak and a hound dog.  Then you feed the steak to the dog.”

John Brock

 

 

 

Southerners verbose? Why say only “blah” when you can say, “blah, blah, blah”?

 

 

My mother, a typical Southern woman, is living proof that Southerners love to talk. I don’t think she has ever met a stranger and I know for a fact that she is never lost for words.  Many times I have seen her meet a stranger and talk at length with them as if she had known them all of her life.

 She was raised in the Southern tradition of believing that it was not only necessary but also polite to extend the discussion.  All of her family were proponents of saying “blah, blah, blah” when “blah” would have sufficed.  I have spent many hours in long, extended conversations with my grandmother and aunts that should have ended long before they did.  They were always willing to inform me beyond my interest.  But I loved them dearly and now realize they were merely perpetuating a cultural habit.

 Some non-Southerners may not recognize this Southern trait because most Southerners (both black and white) often engage in this extended communication only with members of their own Southern culture – in other words, those who understand and appreciate the practice. Our speech (once again, both black and white) has been ridiculed for so long by non-Southerners that we are inclined to let them speak among themselves and not with us.  As a result, non-Southerners sometimes refer to us as “stand-offish” when in fact we just prefer not to expand our conversations with an unappreciative audience.  Their loss.

 I have always considered Southerners verbose, so, it was quite surprising when my friend, Rolfe Neill, retired publisher of the Charlotte Observer, informed us one day that of the more than 600,000 words in the English language, only 43 words constitute 50 per cent of everything we say or write! This is not limited to Southerners but applies to the rest of Americans as well.

 In fact, only nine words make up 25 per cent of all that we communicate. These words are: and, be, have, it, of, the, to, will and you.  In this self-centered world, it is surprising that “I” is not in there somewhere.

 Check it out.  The frequency of the nine words in the following documents is: The Boy Scout oath, 25%; the Marines Hymn, 35.4%; The Miranda rights, 32.1%; the first five verses of St. Paul’s letter to the Galatians, 23.2%. You get the idea.

 Sentences can be structured using only the nine words.  Here’s one: “And have you the will to be of it”?  Can you design others?

 If you add the following 34 words you have accounted for over one-half of everything we utter or write: “about, all, as, at, but, can, come, day, dear, for, get, go, hear, her, if, in, me, much, not, on, one, say, she, so, that, these, they, this, though, time, we, with, write,” and “your”. Surprisingly, “I” didn’t make it this time either. Neither did “y’all”

 You would think that it wouldn’t be too hard for children or foreigners to learn English.  It seems the other 599,957 words in the English language present the problem because we use them in varying degrees.

 Once when I was a professor at Gardner-Webb University, I had the unique experience of teaching a group of Japanese students who spoke some English. I, on the other hand, could not understand one word of Japanese.  The University had an exchange program with a Japanese university and each year a new group of students enrolled.  I taught a course entitled Introduction to American Culture in the early years of the program.

 My Japanese students’ mastery of the English language was only rudimentary and one day as we struggled to communicate with each other I decided to teach them one half of English language usage!  I introduced them to the 43 words mentioned above and proudly announced with tongue in cheek, “Now, I have taught you half of the words you need to know to speak or write English.  It is up to you to learn the others”.  I later learned that one of the students had written home with the startling news that he had that day conquered one-half of the English language and credit was due Professor Brock.  I undeservedly stood tall in those parent’s eyes.

 Why is there such a paucity of word usage among Americans?  Could it be that we are just too lazy?  I don’t know but I am certain that our communication with each other would be better if we utilized the wonderful range of language available to us. Until a generation ago, (before American culture was dumbed-down by television - most of which is designed for the fifth-grade mind), people were more expansive in their use of the language.  Television certainly played a part in the demise of the English language but I am afraid that much of the blame resides in our “modern” educational process.

 Skills in language and mathematics used to encompass most of the day’s schoolwork but today we have a wide variety of subjects we feel we just must expose the kids to at a very early age.  I won’t argue the point at this time but I suspect that we are trying to teach them too much, too early in an elusive quest for a shadowy diversity.  By so doing, we are robbing them of the basics.

 We have even advocated in many cases teaching them another language before they have mastered the basics of their own native tongue. This makes no sense at all!  It is the same as trying to teach kids how to ride a bicycle at the same time the little darlings are learning to walk. “Progressive” educators will, of course, speak differently.  The major blame for this problem can be laid on the backs of school administrators – not teachers.

 “Vocabulary words” used to be an important part of the curriculum.  I can remember in the early grades we were given a list of words every day or two and we were expected to learn their meaning as well as how to spell and to use them correctly.

 Even in college, I had an English professor who gave us two or three new words to learn each class.  I still remember and use most of them. When I was teaching in college, I followed the same practice.  But, alas, in spite of all my efforts you might want to count the usage of these basic 43 words in this column and find that I have exceeded even the 50 percent usage.  Try it if you wish. I have neither the time nor inclination.

 English is a complicated but a beautiful and rich language – a hybrid or bastard language - made up of many languages. It is a shame that we are destined to lose much of it by the lack of utilization.

 It is becoming more and more difficult to communicate using a wide array of words with more than a couple of syllables.  I have to admit that even while teaching, I was tempted often and succumbed upon occasion to dumbing down my vocabulary rather that spend time defining my words to a freshman class.

 What a shame!

John Brock

 

The South finally got even with Snake Farms, Speed Traps and Time-shares!

 

 

It took a while but Southerners finally found ways to extract their just desserts from Northerners. 

South Carolinians never labored much under the concept that we seceded from the Union. 

In our minds, it was more like we kicked everybody else out.  After all, wasn't that what Ft. Sumter was all about?   

South Carolinians, past and present, believe that if you join something - you can un-join and that is exactly the rationale that led to secession and escalated into the War of Northern Aggression. It’s sometimes called the “Civil War” in other parts of the nation.  

Whatever you have been taught, the war wasn't initially about slavery although it should have been.  Instead, the Yankee troops in Charleston Harbor had been ordered to extract unjust taxes from already overburdened Southerners. But that's a story for a future column. 

The only real lesson learned as a result of this war was that if you try to un-join something and the US Army doesn't want you to, you might as well expect six decades or more of depredation called “Reconstruction.”  Union General Sherman burned our homes, barns, fields, courthouses, etc. and it took a couple of generations to get back on our feet. 

Non-Southerners really should not find it very hard to fathom that Southerners are still a little sore about this unnecessary destruction. 

Many years later, Southerners finally got their chance for retribution but it was not until the roads were paved in the South and people from New York, New Jersey, etc., discovered wintertime in Florida.  

We vowed that Sherman would be the last Yankee to pass through the Southland unencumbered.  So, we invented speed traps.  Yankee motorists have supported untold numbers of Southern villages ever since. 

Speed traps were not the only device we concocted to extract fiscal retribution from the Yankees on their way to or from Florida.  Snake Farms flourished because we discovered that Northerners would stop and pay good money to see a real, live alligator, a few harmless snakes and perhaps a hoppy-toad or two.   Snake and Reptile Farms became familiar roadside Mom and Pop ventures up and down the North/South highways of Dixie.  Pop would regale the tourists with "demonstrations" of snake handling, reptile fables, etc., and Mom would prepare treats (fried port skins and the like) to sell the Yankee tourists at the close of their "tour" through Snake City. 

Most of the Snake Farms were stocked with harmless Black or King Snakes but what Yankee knew the difference?  At least one Southern entrepreneur actually glued Rattlesnake rattles onto a Black Snake's tail and treated his Northern audiences to some real, live, down-home, death-defying "snake handling" as he convinced his fleeced audience of the dangers lurking in every Southern brush pile.  The non-Southern tourists ate it up. The king of the reptilian ruse was the Ross Allen Reptile Farm in Silver Springs Florida. 

One Snake Farm operator even painted racing stripes and affixed numerals to several Land Terrapins and his place became the site of the first Turtle races - all for the enjoyment of the Yankee passers-through. Hey! Fifty-cents a head admission was good money for that day. 

Some of the Carolina Reptile Farms would throw in a possum or two and tell the unsuspecting Yankees that they were "Carolina Rats".  A few years ago, my youngest son, who is in the motion picture business, was filming at a wharf late one night on the waterfront in Wilmington, NC.  Two young New York City lads were regaling him with stories about the giant sewer rats of Gotham.  My son, wryly retorted, you Yankees don't know what a real rat is.  Whereupon, he focused his flashlight on two giant possums rollicking on the riverbank.  The city boys' eyes popped as they got their first glimpse of "Carolina Rats."  I imagine the young chaps wrote home that night about the pituitary enhanced Southern rodents. 

Places with huge lighted "Eats" signs sprung up all along the highways to entice the Florida bound traffic to "Southern Cooking".  Many a Yankee encountered Grits for the first time at one of these establishments.  One restaurateur was serving "Rabbit Stew" until the Health Department people got suspicious of his ingredients.  It seems the Carolina entrepreneur had to insert a little horsemeat to stretch the depleted rabbit supply.  When asked what ratio he was using. (a small amount horsemeat never hurt anybody the health folk reckoned).  He replied, "About half- and- half".  Upon further questioning, it was learned that half- and- half to this farmer-turned-chef was actually, "one horse to every one rabbit".  The Health folks saw to it that Rabbit Stew became scarce in that neck of the woods. 

About this time, the Hush-Puppy myth was invented. Southerners had always eaten cornbread prepared in various and sundry ways because cornmeal was cheap and we just couldn't often afford much else.  Some enterprising Southerner spawned the tale that the cook would toss a morsel of fried cornbread to the howling dogs in the back yard with the admonition, "Hush, Puppy!"   What a lot of hokum.  Can you imagine a Southerner saying, "Hush, Puppy".   It would have been more likely, "Shet-up you damn dog".   But we had sense enough to know that not even a Northerner would ever be likely to order "Shet-up Damn Dogs" with his fish or barbecue platter. 

The piece de resistance of Yankee fleecing came about with the establishment of worldwide television program PTL in northern South Carolina by Jimmy and Tammy Bakker.  Things were going along fairly well for PTL with people coming and sending money from throughout non-Southern states.  But the Bakkers apparently got a little greedy and started selling life-time "PTL Vacations" until the federal government discovered they were selling more than they had room for.  Jim went to Jail and Tammy went back to the Mall. But the Yankees kept coming. 

The demise of PTL didn't stop the next non-Southern fleecing device - "Time Share!"   Some Southern good old boy discovered that you could build a condominium complex on or near the mountains or ocean and sell each unit for, say, $100,000 to an individual. Or you could build the same complex and sell the single unit for $400,000 to 16 Yankees; by giving them several week’s occupancy a year. So, guess which route he chose? 

During the early days of tourism in the South, most tourists were not bound for the Carolinas.  Instead, they were headed to Florida or on their way back home.  They needed a place to spend the night.  "Tourist Courts" popped up along the North/South highways with enticing names like "Florida Paradise" or "New England Villas".  Actually, the Tourist Courts or "Camps", as they were sometimes called, consisted of a row of a half-dozen or so one-room shacks with little heat and no air-conditioning and a closet that served as a "half-bath".  The tourists could wait until they got to Florida for a real bath.  Then, there were the "Tourist Homes".  These were private dwellings which had been turned into overnight stopovers for people passing through.  Most of them were a little ragged around the edges and often looked as bad as a horse that had been "rode real hard and put up wet," as we term shabbiness down here.  But yet, the tourists came and Southerners were finally extracting a little revenge for their treatment by Sherman and the ensuing turmoil of Reconstruction. 

Things began to change and economic justice finally took a turn in favor of the South.  Not only tourists, but industry as well, found a "New South" and Yankees individually and corporately found a permanent home here while leaving a rust belt throughout the Northeast. 

What goes around - comes around.  And, yes, Virginia, there is justice in this world. 

Ya'll Come back, ya' heah!

John Brock

 

 

Hoe-down, Southern Style

 

 

 You must own a garden hoe if you live in the South.  It's a rule. 

Hoes were originally intended for gardening and are still used by Southern women for weeding and such. But the most useful task in the South for a hoe is for killing snakes. And even though the tourist bureaus won't let you in on our secret, we do have snakes!  Every species of poisonous snake found in North America calls the Southland home. 

When I was growing up and someone spotted a snake, some mother or grandmother in the group instinctively ran for the garden hoe.  They developed a rather strong Southern tradition for snake killing, whereby, the reptile was not simply cut in two but was quartered at least. Most of the time they were cut into tiny pieces. 

So, the first outside utensil a newcomer to the South needs is a hoe. For weeding, it really makes no difference what kind of hoe but for snake killing the longer handled ones are preferred. 

Whenever someone kills a snake in the South, they always inform the neighbors, who upon hearing the news, always ask, "Where is it?"  The women ask in order that they might steer clear. The men folk and children ask so they might go examine it. Hanging an expired snake on a fence post is not uncommon. 

I was reminded of this yesterday when I killed a water moccasin beside the road in front of my house (with a hoe, of course).  I left it for others to enjoy.  It was a rather sizable reptile and I could easily see the carcass from my front porch.  About an hour later I thought I saw it move.  I watched carefully and sure enough it had moved a yard or more from its deathbed.  I was ready to go get the hoe again when I remembered that dead snakes wiggle until sundown in the South.  If you don't believe it just ask my grandmother. 

Several years ago, my sister was vacuuming her house when she spotted a snake on her living room floor. There was no time to get the hoe.  The serpent had invaded her household and action had to be taken immediately!  So, she did the next best thing, she flailed it with the upright vacuum cleaner, whereupon, the snake was sucked into the bag.  

I asked, "Dolly, what did you do?"  She had done what any knowledgeable Southern woman would have done.  She had taken the vacuum bag into the back yard and quartered the canvas bag and, thereby, the snake with a hoe! 

So, if you have moved recently to the South and don't yet own a garden hoe, well, I hear Wal-Mart has a special on them this week.

###

John Brock

 

 

Snakes and boys are a natural Southern combination

 

 

When my three boys were growing up, we always had a “snake cage” around the house.  It was a rather small humane creation with plenty of comfort and air circulation that we had made from mesh wire.  

The boys and I spent considerable time in the woods and it was not uncommon for our cage to contain the gleanings of a recent trip into the wilds.  These creatures fascinated the whole family (well not my wife) and we especially sought out Black Snakes and King Snakes to bring home because they were supposed to ward off the poisonous ones.  I would let the boys keep the snakes for a day or two and then turn the reptile loose in the backyard. 

Our bring-them-back-alive escapades resulted in some rather humorous experiences upon occasion and no little dismay among the neighbors. 

Once when I was bringing my wife home from the emergency room where she had just had her broken leg set, I spotted a rather long Black Snake in the road.  He was sure to be killed by some paranoid motorist, so, in spite of my ailing wife’s protestation, I stopped along side of the road. Using her new crutch to pin his head down, I picked the snake up for later release in our yard. 

So far, so good. But, my wife was not about to allow that six-foot snake in the car with her. So, I was forced to drive the short distance home with my left arm held high out of the window in order that the snake not drag the road.  All of this was done to the extreme delight of the neighborhood kids but to the disgust of their mothers. 

Just as I parked the car in our driveway, our kids had spotted Dad and the snake.  They ran out at the same time the Pharmacy delivery truck (called the Medicine Dropper) pulled up to bring the painkiller that the doctor had ordered for my wife’s broken leg. I walked over to his vehicle – snake in hand and held high again in order that the snake's tail not drag the ground.  The deliveryman was busy sorting out his packages as I approached and didn’t look up until I was right beside his truck. Whereupon, he spotted the snake and with eyes wide, exclaimed, “Oh, my gawd!” as he threw the prescription onto the ground and made a speedy exit. It was the first time I had ever witnessed a car “scratching-off” in reverse.  We all enjoyed the spectacle. 

By the time I got back to our door, the kids had already retrieved the snake cage and we put the serpent inside. 

After I got my wife settled down to nurse her broken leg, I went back downstairs to find that the snake cage and my six-year-old son were missing. His brothers, as usual, had no idea where either was.  I went outside and saw him with cage in hand walking toward the house.  I asked, “Son, where have you been?”  He replied rather matter-of-factly, “I took the snake for a walk.”  He, of course, had enjoyed the short trip immensely because he had been the center of attention as the neighbors all came out to see “the snake”. 

Fortunately, my wife’s leg gave her no extreme discomfort. She is a very resilient person and the next day she told me that she would be able to drive our six-year-old to Vacation Bible School which was going on that week at our church.  She insisted that since it was her left leg she could easily drive.  So, I did not object. 

When I got home that night, I was told clearly that I was to release the snake immediately.  I asked why and the story of the day unfolded. 

It seems that our son had convinced his Mom to let him take the snake to church.  They had been discussing the story of Adam and Eve the day before and he allowed that it would be a good show-and-tell lesson for the other kids to see a snake, real and up close. Believe it or not, she let him take the snake (in its cage of course) to church. 

She usually met the kids outside of the church after Bible School and this day she waited patiently until all of the other kids had come out to be collected by their mothers.  Ours was not in sight. In spite of the broken leg, she felt she had to go inside to find out why he was not waiting with the other kids. 

She hobbled up the steps and into his classroom, whereupon, she was met with the icy stares of the teachers, who were busy with mops, buckets and rags. One enraged teacher came over to confront her with, “Why in the name of goodness would you allow that child to bring a snake to Church Bible School?”  She then explained the events of the day. 

The snake was marveled at by the kids early in the day and was then placed on the sidelines when they went outside for recess.  When the Bible School crowd came back after their short break – the snake had escaped and was making its way around the room. You can imagine their dismay as the five-foot tall teacher and the three-foot tall students walked in upon the six-foot loose snake.  But, that was not the worst of it. 

It seems that the viper had done what captured snakes are prone to do.  They have a very slow, cold-blooded digestive tract and the snake had regurgitated three weeks worth of prey – rats, chipmunks and other smaller snakes – all in varying degrees of decomposition.  You can only imagine the mess that this can make. 

The teachers gawked and the kids gagged at the mess.  They had to send the kids to another classroom while my son recaptured the snake and the adults went about cleaning up the mess.  The snake had spewed like a loose fire hose and the products of his long-term diet were splattered across every wall and fixture in the room.  It must have been awful! 

My son was late because they had made him stay to help clean up the mess.  He was lucky to have gotten off that lightly. 

They were just finishing their clean-up when my wife arrived.  The teacher put the cage firmly into my son’s hand as she glared at my very embarrassed wife and said, “Don’t you ever let any of your boys bring any kind of animal to Bible School ever again!” 

My wife, son and snake retreated timidly to their car and the trip home. And, you can imagine what my wife’s answer was the next year when the same child wanted to take his new litter of kittens to Bible School

John Brock

 

 

"Cooter grappling", Frog gigging and "motasickling", no thanks -been there, done that!

 

 

 There are many things in this universe that I don’t understand.  For instance, I can't comprehend why someone would want to drive a luxury truck (SUV).  However, the majority of vehicles sold in America today, I am told, are SUVs. I don’t understand the game of golf and its attraction.  

 It is hard for me to fathom why anyone would want to hunt for turtles by wading waist-deep in a stream or swamp at night and reaching under snaky banks to catch a "cooter" with your bare hands.  We call it "cooter grappling" in the Southland.  But that’s the delightful thing about our nation – anyone is free to pursue whatever brings them pleasure – within the law, of course. 

I suppose the activity I have the most trouble figuring out is the practice of sitting astride a huge, powerful machine and tooling down the highway at unbelievable speeds on two wheels of potential death – the motorcycle.  Moreover, in South Carolina we cavalierly do it without helmets!  They may be known in the rest of the nation as "Bikes". "Motor Cycles", etc. but in the Palmetto state, we call them “motasickles”. 

When bikers from across the nation converge on the Lowcounty from time to time, I am reminded that I feel exactly the same way about motorcycles as I do about "Cooter Grappling" – Been there.  Done that. 

One night of "Grappling" for turtles was enough to last me a lifetime and my sole encounter riding piggyback (or whatever the biker parlance is) with a “motasickeling” maniac during my college days was enough as well.  

Frog gigging is another activity that I am done with.  It is a rite of passage in the South for young men to wade up and down a creek at night stabbing frogs with a three-pronged gig on the end of a pole. I took a Northerner with me one night and we bagged a sack full of frogs.  I forgot to warn him that frogs don't expire immediately and delectable frog legs will reflexively jump even while cooking in the frying pan. When we returned to my house to clean our catch, he dumped the entire bag out on the ground.  We had our second round of gigging as we chased frogs all over my backyard. 

But that's another story.  Back to the one at hand. 

Now, I know there or those who get their jollies from a good swift ride on a sleek two-wheeler.  I don’t begrudge them their passion. It’s just not for me.  

I know, I know.  There are lots of good people who ride motorcycles.  I suspect that most are. You can find people, who are considered straight most of the time, climbing astride their "bikes" and are transformed from their jobs as doctors, teachers, lawyers, etc. into instant "Easy Riders." Some even go by names as “Bikers for Jesus”, “Mothers Astride”,  “Geriatric Wheelies” and such but I just can’t get passionate with a machine. 

I don’t understand the obsession with two-wheeled balancing mechanisms.  There are those who are just as thrilled by collecting things - Barbie dolls, antiques, or whatever. I believe in hobbies.  They offer a good release from reality.  In fact, I have dozens of hobbies - but no obsessions. 

I can understand that for a portion of the population, motorcycling can be an enjoyable repast but not to the formation of a total sub-culture practiced by some. I understand these cultures are broken down into many components.  But it appears they remain one of the last remnants of a segregated society because there seems to be a division of the races into black and white Bike Weeks, rallies, etc. 

During one recent "Bikers Week", I decided to get better acquainted with these warriors of the hot wheels.  I visited a mall parking lot just north of here during the weeklong event.  It was a remarkable sight. 

I walked up to a group of bikers, hoping to get an interview.  I didn't have to try very hard.  They ALL wanted to show me their machines and tell me about life on the road.  This particular group was a motley bunch - hairy armpits, tattoos, hairy bodies and the aroma of someone too long absent from the shower.   

These were just the female riders! 

The male bikers showed up almost immediately - to protect the weaker sex from this old geezer, I guess, or perhaps to "show their colors."   I asked about drugs/narcotics among the biking interest.  Someone shouted, "Say NO to Crack!" and two burly male bikers pulled their pants up higher.  

Another told me that bikers in the throes of divorce and hurricane victims have much in common - in both cases, someone is about to lose a trailer. I was also told that at home in a more domestic atmosphere, the expression, "loading the dishwasher", meant getting your wife drunk.

Now, before some of you readers who enjoy your bikes take personal offence let me say, I really did meet some nice folks.  In most cases, they belied their appearance and most seemed docile and genuinely kind.  It takes all kinds of people in the world, I suppose. 

I am glad that we live in a country where everyone can enjoy their particular passions in life.  And if the rest of us don't like it……well,…. it really none of our business.

Ride on, brothers….and sisters!

John Brock

 

 

Others are discovering what Southerners have always known

 

"Surprise!  Surprise! Surprise!",  to appropriate the favorite expression of that great Southern philosopher, Gomer Pyle. 

Southerners are pleased with their way of life according to a recent poll just released at the Southern Governors Conference.

 So? What else is new?  

Southerners have always known that we loved life in our homeland and in our view, no other section of this great nation compares favorably with our beloved Southland.

We were not always sure that others recognized our almost complete satisfaction.  Now, we can rest assured that the whole world knows what we have been aware of all along - we're a predominantly happy group! 

According to the survey, the vast majority of those living in the South believe that they live in safer, friendlier communities with more economic and recreational opportunities that anywhere else in the nation. 

The poll further reveals: "Southern people are highly satisfied with conditions and highly satisfied with their quality of life". 

The only disconcerting part of the report states, "There are no longer any traces of any sense of being left behind the rest of the country or a sense of inferiority." 

No true Southerner has ever felt "left behind" or "inferior".  How preposterous!  This misconception was fostered by pundits from other parts of the country who just assumed we felt that way because we did not abide in their neighborhoods.  But that was before non-Southerners found the South in droves and actually lived or retired here. 

The only people I ever hear of who move North are people from Florida.  And most of these are originally from the Northeast and are simply moving back farther north after having migrated South in the first place.  In the mountains of the Carolinas, these folk are known as "Half-backs".  The move halfway back north for retirement or vacation.  Otherwise, they are known simply as "Flor-idiots". 

The only transplants I have ever known. who were not totally thrilled with life in the South. are those who would be unhappy and complaining wherever they lived.  Other whiney transplants are those who do not live in the "real" South.  You know the ones I'm talking about.  They live in places like Charlotte, Miami, Atlanta, etc.  Atlanta is no more representative of the South than Washington, DC, is representative of life outside the beltway.  I just hate to hear those people, who move into places like Charlotte or Myrtle Beach for a year or two, claim to be "Southerners".  They really don't have a clue! 

Only two percent of those surveyed said they are very dissatisfied with life in the South. You will find more soreheads than that in just about any portion of the population. 

And in case you have ever wondered why guns are so popular in the Southland and why gun control is such a hot topic, the survey shows that about half of all Southerners hunt or fish while less than a third play golf or tennis. Virtually no native of the South eats bagels or shovels snow. 

Furthermore, the poll reports that more than two-thirds of Southerners are satisfied with their jobs, business and investment opportunities and the availability of cutting-edge technology.  Compare that to the level of satisfaction in the Rustbelt! 

Most Southerners just laugh off surveys such as this that tell us how happy we are with our homeland.  We have always known that we lived in the best part of God's world. 

Migration figures for both black and white American newcomers or returnees to the South seem to attest to the fact that we were right all along. 

Keep on coming if you wish.  But - just slow down a bit and please leave your biases at home.

John Brock

 

 

Little Lucinda's Christmas wish

 
Seven-year-old Lucinda was an insignificant, tiny, timid, sickly and unattractive little thing but she reflected love in her eyes that day in 1939 when she expressed an unusual Christmas wish. 

Lucinda sat next to me in the second grade.  She was one of those children whom you knew was not quite normal and I suppose doctors today would have a long thousand-dollar word for her condition.  However, during those days, doctors didn't have the specialized knowledge they have today and Lucinda was referred to in Southern terminology as "a little touched." We pronounced it "tetched". 

The rest of us seven-year-olds knew that Lucinda was "different" and while a few made fun of her, most of us protected her as we would an injured pet. 

We were hard into the Great Depression of the 1930s and none of us had very much in a material way, so, Lucinda's family poverty went, for the most part, unnoticed.  The only people in town who weren't cash poor were the bankers and the cotton mill owners.  Many doctors had to resort to garden produce or farm animal products as payment for their services.   Even then, I suppose, some of them were overpaid given the limited medical knowledge of the day. 

Although she was frequently absent from school, Lucinda was bright enough to learn to read a little and do simple arithmetic. She was passing in school although she remained at the bottom of the class.  She wasn't pretty by any measure of the physical word. In fact, she was not even attractive in the slightest sense.  Her elbows, knuckles and fingernails were always grimy; her hair dirty and her clothing thin and dingy but her disposition was forever sunny. In a day of almost universal economic hardship, she was not alone, so, nobody paid much attention. We did notice, however, that Lucinda was sick a lot and suffered from an irritating deep cough. 

During those years, school children in the first three grades did not stay in class all day.  Therefore, we second graders went home at 1 PM for lunch and an afternoon of play.  While we did not have a lunch period at school, we did have a 20-minute break in the middle of the morning known as "Little Recess".  The older kids called their 45- minute lunch break "Big Recess". 

Most of the kids would bring a snack from home, which oft times consisted of leftover food from last night's supper table.  Biscuits and molasses were a favorite and fried potato patties, another. Once in a great while, some of us were favored with a nickel which would buy a Moon Pie or a little bottle of real chocolate milk in the lunch room which was opened for "Little Recess". 

Lucinda rarely brought a snack but we all shared with her.  Occasionally she would bring a big, greasy, brown paper sack of homemade potato chips.  Her mother or someone would thinly slice potatoes and fry them in lard until they were a crisp, tasty delicacy. Lucinda was a popular young lady on those days.   I was no exception until one day; I bit into a hard, tough morsel of potato that had fried in the fat for far too long.  It was like gristle and firm as leather as my little incisors bit into it.  I never told anyone but I was convinced that in the making of these chips, something horrible had accidentally fallen into the vat.  I never ate any of Lucinda's homemade potato chips again. 

The weather turned cold early that fall and those of us who had coats started wearing them to school.  I was aware that Lucinda walked to school in her short-sleeved thin cotton dress - the same one that she wore most days.  We all noticed that Lucinda was coughing more than ever but she insisted that she was OK.  Cold weather meant that Christmas and the holidays were near and a new atmosphere permeated the classroom as we augmented our studies with periods of handicrafts.  Each of us made a macaroni necklace for our Mothers and a clay ashtray for our Fathers - whether they smoked or not.  For siblings or grandparents, we made splatter painted snowflakes by applying paint onto a pattern with a toothbrush over screen wire, stretched across the top of a shoebox.  It was an exciting time in those drab days. 

A short while before Christmas, the teacher asked each of us what we would like for Christmas. We were a realistic lot and each was well aware of the economic circumstances of most of our families, so, we were practical with our expectations.  We asked for simple things and, hopefully, a toy of some sort.  

Answers to the teacher's inquiry ran the usual gamut until the teacher got to Lucinda - who shocked us all.  Her heart's desire was to wish Jesus, "Happy Birthday" - in person!  Most of us were puzzled and some snickered.  The teacher glossed over her request with a somewhat embarrassed that's-a-nice-thought kind of response and we went on to other things. 

Just before the Christmas holidays began, Lucinda had been absent almost all week.  Although we had noticed that she looked pale and her cough seemed to be worse, we didn't think too much about it.  But, the teacher told us that Lucinda was very, very sick and we should all take a few minutes and make her a "Get Well" card from colored sheets of construction paper.  We did and then went about enjoying ourselves during the Christmas holidays. 

When we returned to school in the new year, our teacher met us with a sad, sullen face as she told us about Lucinda.  It was only then that we realized how very sick our little classmate had been. 

Lucinda had gotten much, much worse during the holidays and late on Christmas Eve, "the angels had taken her to heaven". 

There was a deep, deep silence as our seven-year-old minds tried to fathom this revelation.  Then, in unison, we all came to the same conclusion as we almost shouted, "Lucinda got her wish!" 

Our youthful minds conjured the image of Lucinda at the Pearly Gates on Christmas Day greeting the Lord with her cheerful, "Happy Birthday, Jesus!"  

In my own infantile mind, I even envisioned her offering Jesus some homemade potato chips from her greasy, brown bag of bounty. 

I had no doubt that Lucinda, a slow, unattractive but loving child while on this earth, had surely become one of heaven's smartest and most beautiful Angels. At that moment, the whole concept of redemption was forever tattooed across my soul

John Brock

 

 

Grandpa would be ashamed of what we use today for fertilizer

 

 

 We Southerners are always aware of what our ancestors might think of our actions today and I did something the other day that I fear would have made my granddaddy ashamed of me. 

My wife asked me to pick up five sacks of fertilizer on my trip to Home Depot. Dutiful husband that I am, I did as she asked and brought home the stuff she requested. 

So help me, I did not know where this product came from until I got home and happened to read the label with the words, “activated sewer sludge”.   

For those of you, who are squeamish and easily offended, please read no further.  But those of you with enquiring minds, who long to keep abreast of the latest modern developments, you might want to check this out. 

This product is made from human sewage!  That’s right this fertilizer that Americans are buying by the ton to spread across their property is nothing more than treated human and other waste or “treated sludge” as it says on the bag.  I don’t know what they mean by “treated” because, as we all know, this is a substance that deserves only to be treated with  complete avoidance. We teach out children and pets to “Stay away from that!” 

The processor/manufacturer admits on the packaging that nutrients are derived from sewage sludge, so, I called just to make sure that a sewage treatment plant is indeed the birthplace of this product.  It seems that they are reluctant to readily admit this fact and quickly claim that the product is actually made from the micro-organisms that feed upon sewage.  Seems like the same thing to me.  It is akin to saying a product is not made from garbage but from the maggots that feed upon the refuse. 

So, it’s true, I paid about nine bucks a bag for a product that is derived from a sewage treatment plant.  Worst of all, it is manufactured up North and shipped South.  If it has to be, we would rather it be the other way around – you know - like we do with grits, chittlin’s, hermit crabs and hog skins. 

I can just hear my Grandfather saying to me, “Son, what in the world were you thinking?  You flush it one day and buy it back the next!”

Of course, my Granddad had no knowledge of flushing, sewage treatment or the like.  He never had more than an out-house but he knew well enough that the structure was to be located far remote from the water well and vegetable garden. 

Of course, he and other farmers used natural fertilizer. They had observed what every dog owner knows and that is that grass grows taller and greener in those special “sweet” spots around the yard. Horse, cow and chicken manure were regularly recycled for crop growing purposes.  But human waste?  Never!  This would have been akin to a sort of cannibalism if they had put this stuff on the turnips. 

Another natural product in use throughout the South was Guano.  It certainly had a foul order but I didn’t know until I was grown that it was from bat manure droppings that had been raked from the floors of South American caves.  In fact, I did not know the word “Guano” started with the letter “G” because it was always pronounced, “Dew-anna” in South Carolina.  Live and learn. 

Cloth Guano sacks were an important source of clothing material once most of the stink had been boiled out of the fabric.  Going to school in a little shirt sewn from Guano sacks was the bottom of the economic heap when it came to deprivation in the Southland but necessity precipitates all kinds of practices. 

One day, somebody discovered that you could build a fertilizer factory over a natural gas well and produce chemical fertilizer that could be used to grow tomatoes and other crops (or to blow up a building in Oklahoma City). Farming was changed forever. 

It is interesting that the next step is now the utilization of human waste to grow our lawns and gardens.  Seem like regression to me. Well, at least you can’t blow up a building with it as far as I can tell. 

You have to admire the fellow who came up with the idea and thereby, I presume, made a fortune on a human by-product that municipalities spend millions each year to “treat”. I suppose his raw material is obtained free of charge since the government entities are glad to get rid of it. 

This guy must be some kind of marketing genius and he certainly learned well the meaning of the term, “disposable income”.  

I’ve got fifty dollars worth of this stuff sitting in my garage while I decide if I want to spread it over my yard and garden or not.  What do you think? 

At the very least, I think I am entitled to some sort of “Lifetime Achievement” recognition like they do in Hollywood. 

Based on my many years of participation, I believe I deserve at least a couple of truckloads. 

 

 

 

Little sisters are to be loved and cherished

 

 
Thank God for little sisters.  They are to be loved and cherished.  Mine is.   

For all of our growing-up years, my sister was really my best friend and confidant.  She was only a year and a half younger than I, so, we were almost always in the same school at the same time.  We even went to college together where we both met our spouses, giving us another bond since all of us were in school together. 

My sister’s name is Mary Louise but when my mother brought her home from the hospital, I said, “She looks like a doll”.  So, she has been Dolly her entire life.  I don’t see her much anymore.  Her husband has been a professor at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville for over thirty years and it is a long way over the mountain.   

She has always been a woman of character and many times my protector.  I remember Benny, a neighborhood bully, who was fond of harassing the other kids on the block.  One day, Benny took his turn with me.  In a flash, Dolly, who could not have been more than four years old at the time, streaked by with a pop bottle raised above her head.  I will always retain the vision of Benny in full flight with my little sister at his heels.  Benny didn’t mess with me after that. Later when I grew into a six-foot, 212-pounder, guys learned in a hurry that my sister was no one to be trifled with. 

When we were in High School, There was a prestigious girl’s group that most young women would “die” to be invited to join. Dolly was asked to join but before accepting, she said, “What about my best friend, Gwen?”  She was informed that Gwen had not made the invitation list, whereupon, my sister replied that if her good friend was not included, she would just have to decline.  This left them dumbfounded because no one had ever refused membership in their exclusive group.  Dolly did.  And I was quite proud of her. 

Another time in High School, some club was holding the annual election of the Valentine’s “King and Queen” of hearts.  The election went on for about a week as students bought “votes” for their choice at a penny apiece.  About mid-way through the week, one of my friends asked if I knew that I was leading the ‘King” voting.  I was amazed because I was not then nor have I ever been exactly “King of Hearts” material.  It didn’t take me long to figure out what was going on.  Sure enough, my sister had enlisted the aid of her friends and they were spending a good portion of their allowances voting for “big brother”.  However, they soon ran out of money and I lost but I won a memory that will be with me a lot longer than the “King of Hearts” title would have lasted. 

Little sisters, unfortunately, are the brunt of a lot of teasing and probably well-intentioned mistreatment from big brothers and I am afraid mine had to endure her share and a lot more. 

I learned how trusting they are.  I was intrigued when I received my first air rifle (BB we call them in the South) and first heard the story of William Tell, simultaneously. I didn’t have a bow and arrow but I had an air rifle, an apple and a little sister who trusted her big brother so intensely that she allowed me to shoot the apple off of her head with my new air rifle.  I had the limited good sense to make her face backward and wear an old Army helmet.  This was little justification to my parents when they found out about it and needless to say I didn’t see that air rifle for many, many months. 

And then there was the shoe store episode.  Do you remember when shoe stores had those X-ray machines that allowed the salesperson to supposedey fit shoes better?  You could stick your foot in it and see the bones in your feet.  On one trip to the shoe store when my parents were busily engaged in other activities, I thought it would be nice to see a hand in the machine.  My little sister obligingly stuck both hands under the machine and I enjoyed watching her wiggling finger bones.  This was so neat that we decided that I should take a look at her brain.  My parents reappeared just as I was helping my sister stick her little head in the opening designed for feet.  Our parents put a stop to that right away even though we had not yet learned that X-rays caused permanent injury to brain cells. 

My first cigarette was procured by my little sister at the insistence of a neighborhood chum and me.  Do you remember those “scavenger hunts” in which you were given a list of objects and the one who could collect all of the items first won the game?  Well, we knew no one was going to give two little boys cigarettes, so, we talked my trusting little sister into knocking on a neighbor’s door with the believable tale that she was on a church scavenger hunt and had all the items but two cigarettes and an empty Pepsi bottle.  She threw in the Pepsi bottle story just to make it a little more believable.  Who could resist the little girl’s innocent plea? My young friend and I smoked the cigarettes, got sick and needless to say, we didn’t send my sister back on any more scavenger hunts. 

As we grew older, our relationship took on a more mutual alliance.  She could always provide me with a date with one of her friends and I could reciprocate among my buddies.  In fact, it was my sister who suggested that I ask my wife, Barbara, for our first date when we were all in college together. 

Having a sister in college was a very good thing. She could keep an eye on my behavior and straighten me out when I needed it.  We each had seventeen dollars a week to spend on food, entertainment, laundry and all other non-tuition expenses.  Toward the end of almost every week, Dolly would always slip me a couple of dollars of her allowance. 

During those days at Wake Forest University, chapel attendance was required four days a week at 10 o’clock each morning.  We all had assigned seats and monitors would check each seat against their list.  Because we were seated alphabetically, my sister and I sat next to each other.  We all had five excused “cuts” per semester.  If I had not arrived by the designated hour (which was frequently) she would slide over into my seat and the absence was assigned to her.  Each semester, I wound up the beneficiary of both her excused absences as well as mine.  God love her! 

I never once heard my sister complain severely about anything I did. (That is if you don’t count the time I flattened her cat’s tail with a hammer).  I don’t recall any jealousy between us even though she was the good student in the family and I was always being admonished to “make the Honor Roll like Dolly.” 

After college, I went into the Army, we both got married; started our families and she and I have never lived in the same town again.  Modern life is cruel that way and I have always hoped that we would be closer together someday instead of 500 miles apart.  But we will always remain close in other regards.  She has recently learned to use E-mail and we are enjoying this communication immensely. It’s not like living close by.  But we will always remain close in our hearts and memories.  I will always cherish my little sister and our special relationship through the years.  

First God made the angels and then he made little sisters.  Thank you, God!

John Brock