Whoever it wuz that said you git smarter as you git older hit it right on tha button. I make a lot less tom-fool mistakes than when I wuz a youngun, ‘course I ain’t doin’ as much as I use to — that might account fer my better record. But anyhow, you do git smarter and ought to have a lot to say to tha young folks, but tha thang is there ain’t nobody wants to listen to you when you git old. And I reckin that’s alright ’cause I found out that silence is sometimes tha best answer you can give these younguns today. And along them lines, I found that life can be a whole lot simpler when you learn to plow around stumps. And tha Lord knows there’s plenty of two-legged stumps walkin’ ’round out there.
Lately, there’s been-a lot of talk about tha economy. I’m telling you, tha way some folks is having to live, they ain’t got no economy — all they’s got is po’. Well, like Grandpappy always said, “Yer finances ought to be like your fences — horse-high, pig tight, and bull strong,” and I’m telling ya that that’s a good thang to remember when you thanking about borrowing money — ya do good if’n you keep pole cats, buzzards, bankers, and lawyers on one side and you on tha other.
Jes tha other day, Jim Bob came by and got to talking about them fellers up there in Washington and how they’s gonna git this country outa tha hole. I sure hope that’s tha case, but you know, it jes seems that if’n you find yourself in a hole, tha first thang you ought to do is to quit digging. Now ain’t that common sense? But then hit do seem to be too common up there in Congress. Now, I tell you tha truth, you don’t have to live to be an old codger to learn that sometimes you git and sometimes you git got. I don’t mind it too bad. I reck’n it’s a fair way to do thangs. But it jes seems to me like Congress gits a lot of gittin and tha rest of us git a lot of got.
This latest cold spell got me to thanking that there ain’t as much hog killing goin’ on as it use to be. Back when I was a boy, everybody in tha county was killin’ their hog at tha first good cold spell in November. I can tell you right now, there ain’t nothing like fresh, home-grown pork chops, sausage, and cracklin’. Yep, a good handful of cracklin’ can sure dress up a cake of cornbread.
My Grandpappy use to say, “When you waller with a pig, ya got to ‘spect to get up nasty.” Come to thank of it, evry time I ever heard him say that, he was referring to Mama’s brother, Cletus. Lord knows he wallered with his share of hogs and usually got up pretty nasty on most occasions. In tha most broadest terms you might say Uncle Cletus was a ladie’s man. He didn’t look like one, and for sure he didn’t smell like one, ‘specially when he finished work — he drove tha honey-pot wagon down at tha mill. His job was to dip tha sewage outa tha outhouses and haul it off. But after he washed up with some Octagon soap, slicked down his hair witha ample amount of Vitalis hair oil, and splashed on some green toilet water from tha drugstore, he cud pretty well pass muster.
Uncle Cletus had strong ‘version to marryin’. Ever time he gotta hint his lady friend got marryin’ on her mind, he hit tha road. Uncle was a real marathon runner and could do his best runnin’ when he wuz bare-footed. He cud outrun tha best runner in tha county, and him well shod. Miss Julie said that wuz ’cause he had plenty of practice running down dirt roads at night after climbing out some neighbor’s back window. And it didn’t hurt his pace none when a load of buckshot wuz in tha race. Like I said, he had-a strong ‘version to marriage, an’ he went through women like Sherman through Georgie.
My grand pappy once told me that years ago tha county was undergoin’ a dry spell that seemed like it’d never end. Tha drought got real bad and folks wuza worryin’ ’bout their crops, an a rainmaker came inta town and offered his services for a tidy fee. Most folks in town didn’t put no stock in such, but tha mayor got to thinkin’ he might do right well in tha fall election if’n he could work this to his advantage. Well, it seem tha mayor met with tha old rainmaker that night and contracted for his services for tha right dollar amount, agreeing neither would make their meetin’ public ’til tha rain came.
Tha next day tha old rainmaker wuz sittin’ on tha most public corner in town and began a-drummin’ and chantin’. After an hour or so, a couple boys stood around, but most walked by and scoffed. Rain didn’t come that night, an’ tha next day tha old man was at it again. He apparently saw a chance to make a little on tha side, and he put in a bit a drama to his act and put a bowl out for contributions. He would drum and chant and suddenly stop, as though he might be gettin’ some feelin’ or message about rain. He would remain silent until he saw out of tha corner of his eye that tha people was beginnin’ to leave and he’d start up again. He kept this up for several days when he got to thinkin’ he might up tha ante a bit.
Him and tha mayor had another nighttime meetin’ at which time tha rainmaker told him he come to get tha second installment. Tha mayor protested he didn’t know nothin’ ’bout installments, but he seed he was in that hole I wuz talkin’ ’bout and had to keepa diggin’. Drummin’ and chantin’ went on for a couple weeks with a dance or two thrown in; but tha mayor got put out with tha installment plan. ‘Bout tha time tha mayor was ’bout to do tha rainmaker some mischief, clouds formed and rain came. Tha same time tha drought was broke, tha mayor’s patience and pocket book went bust. Timin’ is everthang.
Thar’s been big happenin’s round here this week — Crazy Cal Norton had his semi-annual date. Somebody said tha mystery woman was Zeb Pettigrew’s daughter, Gertie Mae, from ’cross tha river. Gertie Mae’s right pretty in a strange kinda way, even if all she’s gots her eye teeth. She’s a bit light in tha head — but then she would have to be to hang ’round Cal — even once a year. Cal didn’t say nothin’ about his date, but when he showed up at John Hardin’s store all dressed up in a brown plaid coat and oxford saddle shoes, it was a dead giveaway. Now, I have to say that it ain’t so much his clothes that evidenced he was off to see Gertie Mae, as he wuz wearin’ his glass eye that he got at tha flea market. Personally, I think he got gypped. It looked more like a large cat-eye marble with a couple of nicks and chips. It has to be a special occasion for him to put in his eye.
One day when Cal went down to Hardin’s for a plug a tobacca, little Davey Hardin was in his daddy’s store. When Cal walked in, Davey immediately come up to Cal without a word, justa peering into his face. Every time Cal would take a step, Davey was right under his feet just a-staring at Cal. Cal went over to tha heater where a couple of bone-idle farmers was passin’ tha day an Davey was right there looking at ol’ Cal. If Cal weaved a bit to tha right, Davey went to tha right. If Cal stepped to tha left, Davey was right there with him, trying to discern something in Cal’s face. It was obvious Cal was a gettin’ irritated, and finally he barked, “Boy, what th’ devil you doin’ under my feet — and whatcha looking at?”
Davey, never once quittin’ his staring at Cal, said, “I’m trying to see if I can see your brain. Maybe if you hold up yore eyelid, I might be able to see it.”
Cal snapped back, “Boy, what put such a dang fool idea in yore head?”
“Well,” said Davey, still straining to see tha brain, “Tha other day I heard my Daddy say you didn’t have a brain in your head, and I jes thought I’d like to see fer myself.” Dead silence fell over tha store while tha old farmers stared at tha floor and Davey’s daddy buried his head in his account book.
Well, I heard tha diner bell a-ringin’, and I reckon I’d better get a move on ‘fore she throws it to tha hawg. See ya next time.
Plug Garrett is a longtime resident and storyteller of York County.
J.L. West – Author
This article and many others found on the pages of Roots and Recall, were written by author J.L. West, for the YC Magazine and have been reprinted on R&R, with full permission – not for distribution or reprint!
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