2016 Florida Reading Challenge

     I find myself finishing up my 2015 reading challenge. To be honest, many books were types I didn't want to read. Graphic novel? Isn't that just a comic book? Young adult fiction? Not really my interest.  One category that I am disappointed that I didn't read was a book set in my hometown. In my case, Miami. That made me think, what if I put together a list of books that were solely about Florida? And I did. I tried to cover most of Florida's distinct areas. I've included a little humor, some non-fiction, a children's book, and some books that I think are the best ever written about Florida. Will you take my challenge and read one book a month? I have read most of these; some I included from others' recommendations. I will be taking the challenge myself and will give updates and reviews throughout the year. Happy Reading!

2016 Florida Reading Challenge

The Shepherd, the Angel, and Walter the Christmas Miracle Dog  by Dave Barry

The Corpse Had a Familiar Face: Covering Miami, America's Hottest Beat by Edna Buchanan (non-fiction)

Because of Winn Dixie by Kate DiCamillo

The Everglades: River of Grass by Marjory Stoneman Douglas (non-fiction)

Alas, Babylon by Pat Frank

Hoot by Carl Hiaasen

Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston

Strawberry Girl by Lois Lenski

The Orchid Theif: a True Story of Beauty and Obsession by Susan Orlean (non-fiction)

The Barefoot Mailman by Theodore Pratt

The Yearling by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings

A Land Remembered by Patrick D. Smith

The Poetry of Wallace Stevens   (I included Stevens's poetry because some people like poetry; he was one of the best, if not THE best, twentieth century poets; and he loved Florida.)

The Christmas Dime

 The Christmas of 1969 is one that I will never forget. My family had been through a terrible year--my mother died, and my father remarried very quickly. I was just barely fourteen and felt confused, depressed, and isolated. My daddy seemed to love my new stepmother and her daughter more than he did me.

Christmas Day was a disaster. My stack of presents was small compared to my stepsister's. My stepmother was "ill," so I had to cook chili for Christmas supper, instead of our usual ham and all the fixings.

     But then, a bright spot. Usually, we went visiting on Christmas Day--traveling around Miami to see my grandmother, aunts, uncles, various cousins, and, especially, my Great-grandma Crenshaw. This year, it was decided that we would stay at home, but Grandmother and Grandma came to see US. 

     Grandma was an amazing woman. She had experienced so much--from Dixieland to Rock and Roll; from the birth of flight to the moon landing; from the mule wagon to the Model T to the Camero; two World Wars, the Korean War, the Viet Nam War, and the Depression. Births and deaths; gain and loss. Faith and loss of faith. Grandma was barely literate, but she was so wise about life.

    Grandma was poor, so she didn't give us presents. But that year, as she left, she slipped me an envelope. "Shhh, don't tell the others," she said. I took that envelope to my room and opened it. Inside I found a recycled Christmas card with "I love you, from Grandma" laboriously written in pencil. And included in that card was a dime. One dime. I began crying because that small gift, that dime, that widow's mite, showed me that I was still loved by someone. That dime was the most precious gift I have ever received for Christmas.

A Huntin' We Will Go?~

 Florida Pine Scrub

     First, an admission. I am a True Florida Cracker; however, I'm more of a "Sand Cracker." I was born and raised in Miami. My mom's family was from North Florida, but her daddy moved to South Florida to work for McArthur's Dairy. Daddy's family moved to Miami from Georgia. Being a Sand Cracker means that I'm much more comfortable swimming at the beach, snorkeling, shaking Sargasso seaweed to find the critters which hide there, and fishing--saltwater, fresh water, and brackish water. Daddy wasn't a hunter. Yeah, my brother got the requisite BB gun one Christmas, but he never graduated to a 22. The most he shot at was targets and roaches, I believe. Being raised in a suburban environment, added to Daddy's absolute phobia of snakes, meant that we pretty much stayed out of any woods.The closest we got to proper woods were the mangrove swamps where Daddy would take us fishing.

     That said, I did spent my summers up in Okeechobee County, and my Uncle Larry did like to hunt. One day, he took us out in his truck to some old dirt roads that wound through the woods. I was to sit on the hood of the truck and keep watch for rabbits' ears. When I saw one, I knocked on the windshield; Larry jumped out and would take a shot. I would cower with hands over my ears because I was, and still am, afraid of guns. He missed--a lot--and I was glad for that because I didn't want to see any bunnies get shot. Sometimes, Larry and Granddaddy would take us out to an area where there was a hunting camp set up and we'd walk through the woods. There was a little lean-to by a pond, which was beautiful, and I enjoyed walking in the woods. This was in the summer, so not really hunting season, but Larry always took his gun. Once, Granddaddy's little Chihuahua, Tinkerbell, jumped over a large rattlesnake. That snake coiled up to strike, but Granddaddy just scooped up Tinkerbell, told us to stay still, and called over Larry to shoot the snake. I'm not especially afraid of snakes, but I sure did have more respect for them after he shot the snake once, and it didn't die. Instead, it struck the barrel of the gun. I could see the venom dripping down the barrel. **BOOM** A second shot, and the snake was neatly dispatched.
                                                                                                                  

A real snipe

                                                                           

My idea of a snipe

     However, that same summer, I did go on a snipe hunt. Larry and our cousin Maynard decided to take me and the boys (my brother Billy and my cousins Clint and Stevie) on a walk in the pine scrub. My cousins grew up in the country, and they       were used to walking in the woods. We meandered through the cow pastures and all the way back to where the pasture ended and the scrub began. We walked until we found a little "island" (a mound of dirt, really) which was surrounded by ditches. It needed exploring, so we all crossed over to poke around. It was then that Larry and Maynard pulled their first trick. They jumped back over the ditch and took off running--followed by me and then the boys, with Stevie pulling up the rear. He was yelling, "Don't leave me, Uncle Larry! Wait for me!" 

      Larry, Maynard, and I were laughing because the boys were all so slow. Then, they came up with an idea. We'd hunt for snipe. They told the three boys to get some sticks, and then to wait and squat down near some bushes to hide from the snipe. Larry, Maynard, and I were going to go a little ways off to shoo the snipe toward the boys. Larry told them to beat the bushes with the sticks and make a hooting call to lure the snipe over. I was really excited. I didn't know what a snipe was, but I thought maybe it would be a cute furry animal. I willingly went with the guys. Then, Larry told me the secret of a snipe hunt. There were not snipe in the woods. We were just going to shake the bushes a bit and tell the boys to keep calling and that the snipe were coming. While the boys were hooting, we'd take off and leave them there in the woods. I can't lie. I was disappointed that there were no snipe. However, the fun of scaring the boys more than made up for that disappointment. Billy, Clint, and Stevie were hooting for all they were worth. We shook the bushes and called out that the snipe were coming. We sneaked off a little ways, really quietly, and then took off as fast as we could run. It was hard to run because I was laughing so hard because I could hear one of the boys say, "Hey, I think it's a trick!" They all started yelling for us and running after us. We didn't stop until we reached the cow pasture where the boys caught up. They were so mad (make that frightened); we were bent over double with laughter. My last, and best, hunting trip. 

Good Bye, Mommy, See You Again One Day.

Willene "Sissy" Crenshaw

     Sunday morning, October 27, 1968. Mommy was up early. Daddy had left very early that morning to go fishing, and she was taking care of my younger sister. I was still in bed, being quiet and as still as possible, pretending to be asleep in hopes of missing church that day.  My brother was really sleeping in his room. Just a quiet, sunny Sunday morning like so many others. Our Sundays were always the same. Breakfast together, change into our church clothes, then Mommy would drive us kids and herself to Pembrook Road Baptist Church for Sunday School and church. Then home, and Daddy would drive us down to Little River to have Sunday dinner with Grandmother and then go to my Grandma Crenshaw's house for a visit before returning home. A typical Sunday that would never happen again.

     "Donna Jo. Donna Jo, come here." I turned over and buried my face in the pillow, pretending not to hear her. "DONNA JO!! I NEED YOU NOW!" The tone of Mommy's voice was one I had never heard before. She wasn't angry; she was in a panic. I jumped up and ran into the living room. My sister was standing there, with Mommy sitting behind her, holding her in her arms. Mommy looked up at me and said, "Donna Jo, walk me over to Mrs. Enterline's, and ask her to take me to the hospital." I understood what was happening; Mommy was having a severe asthma attack. She leaned on me as we made it across the street. She was able to whisper one last instruction to me--"Take care of your sister." 

     Mrs. Enterline met me at her van; we helped Mommy up into the front seat. Mrs. Enterline got in, turned the key, and the van would not start. She tried again and again, but the van would not start. By this time, Mommy was no longer conscious. In tears, Mrs. Enterline told me that we couldn't lift Mommy out to the other car, so she would call for an ambulance. I stayed with Mommy while Mrs. Enterline ran inside to call. At twelve years old, I really didn't understand what was happening. I held Mommy's hand. I watched as her lips turned blue. I watched as a white froth came from her mouth. And I still didn't understand. When the ambulance finally came, I ran back across the street to be with my sister. I thought that when Mommy came back from the hospital, like she had always done before, I wanted her to know that I had obeyed her and had taken care of my sister. 

     Once the ambulance had gone, a police officer came to our door. I remember feeling so self-conscious because I was in my nightgown, bare-footed, and with my bangs taped down. The officer didn't tell me anything, but he wanted to know where my father was, when he was expected home, and if there was anyone I could call. The rest of the day went by in a blur. My grandmother didn't have a phone, so I had to call my Uncle Dave and have him take a message to her. My daddy's family started arriving from all over Miami. I still didn't understand what had happened. Finally, Daddy came home from his fishing trip. I was watching from the window when he was dropped off by his buddies. I saw the Enterlines and Grandmother walk up to him, speak to him, and then I watched as he turned white, started sobbing, and collapsed into their arms. And I still wasn't sure what was happening, but I knew it was hard for me to breathe and that my heart was quaking within. Finally, Daddy came into the house. He called my brother and me to him and told us, "Mommy is dead. She's gone to heaven." 

     What to do? My brother disappeared for a few hours; he climbed up in our tree and cried there, all alone. I was too stunned to cry. I felt that I had to be strong because Daddy and Billy were so upset. Dana was just too young, only two years old, to know what was happening. My neighbor Carol asked if she could call someone for me, and I asked for my best friend, Dana Jones, to be called. Dana came straight from church, and, when I saw her, I was able to let go and finally cry. 

      As that Sunday continued, family from Okeechobee and all over Florida began arriving. I went with Daddy to pick out her coffin. I went with Aunt Nancy to pick out flowers for her from us kids and  for a dress for her to wear. We shopped for new clothes for us kids. We accepted all the food people were bringing over to the house. Aunt Nancy, Granny, and Grandmother arranged for the supper after the funeral and meals during the week. So busy. Then it came time for the private family viewing. I did not want to go, but I had to. It was very hard to see my daddy so vulnerable. It was hard to see my little sister cry out, "Mommy! I sleep with her!" and try to climb next to Mommy in the coffin. I absolutely refused to go to the public viewing, until Mrs. Enterline convinced me to go. All I could think was that Mommy had her nails done--and she never had them done before.  

     Finally, the day of the funeral came. I was determined to be strong, and I was. My two uncles, James and Larry, escorted me down to the front of the church, but I was the one with the broad shoulders that they were leaning upon. Their Sissy, my mommy, had helped to raise them. She was their second mother, so they were as grief-stricken as her own children were. I don't remember much about the service, except that there were hymns and lots of tears.I remember the hundreds of flower arrangements that were in the church, and, later, at the graveside service. I remember knowing that my life was forever changed.

     Once home, there were so many people crowded into our small house. People were sitting everywhere, both inside and outside. There was plenty of food. And, as it had been at Granny Skinner's funeral, the supper was a time of fellowship, laughter, stories, and love. I realized just how much my mommy, my daddy's love, my granny and granddaddy's dear daughter, my aunts and uncles' Sissy, my cousins' Aunt Sissy, and her friends' Willene had been loved. I realized just how many people would miss her. I realized just how many lives she had touched in her short 32 years. She still is touching lives today through the influence she had on her family and friends. I will see you again, Mommy. 

Shirley Willene "Sissy"--My Mommy

     My mommy was born on December 7, 1935 in McAlpin, Florida.  My granny and granddaddy didn't even have a name picked out for her. They had lost several babies to miscarriages and had a still-birth, so they didn't expect this baby to live. In the scramble for a name, they went with the most popular girl's name in the 1930s--Shirley, after Shirley Temple. For her middle name, and the name she went by, they took Granddaddy's name "Willie" and just converted it to a feminine name by adding the "ene"--thus, "Willene." Although my daddy and the neighbors called her "Willene," her family all called her "Sissy."
     Mommy spent her childhood between McAlpin and Hollywood. She used to tell me about how she and her sisters would play at the house up in McAlpin. After they swept the yard, they'd take sticks and draw playhouses in the dirt. Then they'd go and find dog weed and make themselves "babies" so they could play house. She attended elementary school in McAlpin during WWII. If I complained about the lunch she sent to school with me, she would tell me I was lucky. Granny would make big cats' head biscuits, poke a hole in one, fill it with bacon grease or cane syrup, and that was her lunch. I knew she was born and lived in a wooden house, but I imagined a white-washed house with a fence and a green yard. The reality was that she lived in an old cypress Cracker house with just a couple of rooms. Once, she pointed out the type of house she had grown up in, and I said, "Mommy, that's a shack!" "No, Donna Jo, that was home." She often spent summers up in McAlpin, and she told me about working for Uncle Vann in his tobacco field. He would pay her a penny for every four tobacco worms she'd pick off the leaves. She often told me that seeing those worms was one of the reasons she never used tobacco. I never thought about Mommy being a Depression baby, or the hard financial times her family had. She always spoke of her childhood as being happy.

The type of house Mommy was born in

 

Granny and the girls, a picture taken for my granddaddy during WWII

 

 

 

 

                           

     When she was a teenager, the family settled in Hollywood, Florida. Mommy was a typical teen. I was a lucky girl. Both of my parents grew up in South Florida, and they loved going to to beach! I used to look at the photo album she had when she was a teenager, and there were plenty of pictures of her posing in her swimsuit. She also liked sports and used to tell me about playing softball for the McArthur Dairy team. The girls were upset because the words "McArthur Dairy"on their uniforms went right across their bosoms.
     Mommy also told me about going to church as a child. She always liked singing hymns at our home, and she was involved in church teaching Sunday School and singing. Mommy had the gift of discernment, I believe. I know that the Spirit was working in my heart one Sunday morning, and she could see that I was struggling about the decision to accept Christ as my Savior. She took time that week and told me about when she was saved. She thought she had been saved as a little girl, and one Sunday, during the Lord's Supper, she took the cup and looked down at the grape juice. She told me that, to her, it looked just like blood. It was then that she realized that she was still lost; she wasn't covered by the Blood; and it was that day that she accepted Jesus as her Savior. I try not to live my life with regrets, but I do regret not accepting Jesus that Sunday morning because my salvation would have given her such joy.  Mommy made sure that we attended church, Sunday School, and Vacation Bible School. Her faith was real in her life, and others could see her faith in action. One of our neighbors said of her that Willene had broad shoulders that were always there for her to lean and to cry on. I saw Mommy counsel one of the young neighbors many times, and it seemed, to me, that she was ready to help anyone in need. When the whole Jones family would get together, I, being the eldest grandchild, got to sleep on the couch. I would listen the the soft, lilting voices of Mommy, Granny, and my aunts as they talked and cried together. Mommy seemed to be the voice of reason and faith.
     Mommy could be funny too. When Mountain Dew was first sold, my brother and I wanted to try it more than anything! But, Mommy wouldn't let us. Finally, the Coke gods intervened. She decided to treat us to a cold drink. She put in the dime, pushed the button for Co-Cola, and a Mountain Dew bottle popped out instead. Finally! We were getting a taste of Mountain Dew. No. Wrong. She went up to the man who worked at the gas station and pitched a true hissy fit. "Sir, I wanted a Co-Cola and this came out instead." "Ah, but....." "No. My children are not drinking Mountain Dew. I KNOW what Mountain Dew is and" "Wait, Ma'am. It's a soft drink." "No, don't tell me that. I know it is alcohol and I want my Co-Cola." By this time, Billy and I were sunk as far down in our seats as we could get. And there was no explaining to her that Mountain Dew was just Coke--not liquor. I'm so glad that I have never embarrassed my children like that.
     That wasn't the only embarrassing thing. Poor Mommy. She had problem with her fine, thin, straight hair. For Sunday church, she would roll up her hair early  on Saturday morning. Of course, one did not go out in curlers. Sometimes, she'd put a scarf on. Other times, she found, what she thought, was a better cover-up. It was a head-band with fake hair attached that she could comb over the curlers. I called it her "hair-hat." Unfortunately, the hair part looked like bozo-red Zak hair. And it never really covered all those curlers. Apparently, she was a woman of confidence, because she never seemed to notice the looks and titters. I'd just duck my head and pretend she didn't belong to me. That was hard to do because she never let us get out of her sight, or she'd yell out "DONNA JO! BILLY! Y'all get back here!"
     One of the habits that Mommy passed down to me is the love of reading. Mommy read all the time. Newspaper. Bible. Novels. Magazines. Non-fiction books. She encouraged my loved of reading from when I was a baby. She read the same books to me over and over, and, eventually, I began picking words out of the books and newspapers. And I was reading by age two or three. She knew that receiving a book for my birthday or Christmas was the gift I most wanted! She even ran interference for me with the librarian on the Book-Mobile. The librarian wouldn't let me check out anything but children's books, but Mommy went down there and talked her into letting me check out "adult" books (classics or historical novels--not trash!). She would have been so proud that I became an English teacher and also passed along her love of reading to my own children.

 Mommy, Donna Jo, Elisabeth (her granddaughter)

    

Incredible Journey--Part II

     Onward we go! After the graveside service, we were invited out to my cousin Steve's home for lunch. Now, I can't speak for other places, but the funeral meals in the South are awesome! I was looking forward to some of that delicious, home-made food. Unfortunately, right before the funeral began, my sister whispered to me that I had missed out. The "good" supper had been eaten the night before, after the viewing. So, Doc and I were getting leftovers. Still, we could eat and reminisce about our Granny.

 Just a sample of the supper I missed!

     When we got to Steve's, there were lots of hugs and kisses, and we were told to go in to the kitchen to get a little something to eat. I picked around the food, and I was a little suspicious about the meat. I finally asked the guys who were sitting in there at the kitchen table what exactly was the meat? Beef? Pork? Nope. Venison. Well, that wasn't sitting well with my tummy, so I passed on the deer meat. Got myself a Coke and plopped down to eat and talk.
     And there was a lot of talk! The homey Southern patois swirled around me. Snippets of this conversation. Snippets of that. "Do y'all remember when..." "My granddaughter calls me 'Honey.' I ain't gonna be called Granny."  "Cheryl, Cheryl!" "Donna Jo, you a teacher?" "Those are pictures of me riding a bull at the rodeo." "Cheryl!!" "Granny used to..."  "Sure miss Granddaddy!"  "They're having a great reunion in heaven!" "One night I was out on the lake and I saw me a UFO" "You kids settle down!" "Y'all get enough to eat?" "CHERYL!!!"
     I finished off my food and Coke. I could see where I could throw away the paper plate, but I was looking for where everyone had put their cans. Wandering into the kitchen, I was looking for the recycling bin. There at the table sat the men of the family--Uncle Larry, Clint, Steve, James. Finally, I asked, "Where do I put my Coke can? Where is your recycling bin?" Apparently, that was a funny question. They all snickered a bit, and Larry said, "Hey, just open the door. It's out yonder." So, I opened the door. There was just a drop off to the ground. "Hey, where....." Then I saw the "recycling" bin--it was a pyramid of cans, at least five feet high. " Donna Jo, just throw your can on top." They laughed. A lot. I swear I heard one of them say, "She's been Yankeefied!"  I was red-faced, but did as I was told.

 Florida Cracker Recycling

     Finally, it was time to drive home. Doc and I had a pretty uneventful ride home, well, except for one final incident. We pulled into the turnpike rest stop to get some gas. And, you guessed it, I went in to pay. Doc filled the pump. Before I could pay, he started to pull up for the next car to get to the pump. The lady inside got a little panicky--"Runner! We've got a runner!"  "Wait! Wait! I'm with him. I'm paying!" Poor Doc. Poor me. But, this was an incredible journey my brother and I had together. Actually, the only journey I think we've ever taken that was just us. Hey, Doc! Wanna do it again?

The Incredible Trip--Part One

 
My brother Billy and I are very different. People are surprised that we are siblings. However, we did take one incredible trip together. 

Billy, aka "Doc"

    In the fall of 1994, our Granny passed away. It was arranged that Billy would pick me up at the Christian school where I taught, and we would drive down to Okeechobee together for the funeral. Great plan, right?
I went in to teach a couple of classes before we left. I was dressed for the funeral in a suit. My brother came to the school office. I was in the back, and I heard the receptionist say, "Are you SURE you're here for Mrs. Davis?" "Yeah." I went up and told her that it was fine.I noticed that Doc had on shorts and a t-shirt. Not exactly what I expected for Granny's funeral. I signed out and got ready to leave. A student happened to come in at that moment and asked Billy where was he taking me. "Why the blank do you need to know?" And we were off.
    Our next stop was the gas station. I offered to fill up his tank before we got on the road. I went inside to pay and get him a cup of coffee. When I was paying, the attendant whispered to me, "Are you okay?" I told her that I was with my brother and I was just fine.
    Now on to the highway. We went about half-way with no AC. I was dying in my suit, so I asked if the AC was broken. "Nope," he replied, "I was just waiting for you to ask." That problem was solved, and the journey continued. Slowly. Very slowly. Finally, I asked why was he going so slow. "Well, I've got something under the seat, and I don't want to get pulled over." A gun. He had a gun under the seat. I could just see the headlines: "Christian School Teacher Arrested on Gun Charges." I was fine with his speed now.
    We finally made it to Okeechobee and decided to stop at the McD's for some lunch. By this time, I was really worried about his clothes. He told me he had a suit, so don't worry. We had our lunch, and I went and touched up my make-up. Billy was still in his shorts and t-shirt. I asked him when was he changing. His answer? "Right now." And he changed his clothes right in the parking lot of the McDonald's. Again, those headlines flashed in my mind: "Christian School Teacher Mooned In McD's Parking Lot."

Me

    We finally made it to the funeral home. We saw the family and paid our respects to our Granny. I sat with my sister, and we both teared up as we thought of how happy Granddaddy would be to see the "Old Critter" again.
    When the funeral was over, we made our way out to the cemetery for the grave-side service. We were one of the last cars to arrive. As we  drove up, we could see the family, including many girl cousins we didn't know well,  gathering around the grave. Funny thing, as different as we are, we both burst out singing, "I like my women a little on the trashy side, when they wear their clothes too tight and their hair is dyed."

To be continued...

Cracker Cures

      I've been fighting a nasty cold, and I started thinking of the different cures my Granny and my Grandmother would use for illnesses. My own mom was a big proponent of Vick's for any sign of a cold, especially if it was turning "chesty." My daddy actually ate Vick's when he had a cold--even though the jar clearly says not for oral consumption. His other cure was more to our liking. He'd take us to the beach so he could clear out his sinuses. Granny, who was a strict teetotaler, believed in the efficacy of a well-made, very strong, hot toddy.  Sugar, water, lemon, and a generous splash of bourbon, heated on the stove, and the fortunate sick family member would sip it from a coffee cup.
     But, the cures and medicines went beyond a hot toddy for a cold. Granny was a firm believer in Black Draught. You did not have to be "bound up," as she called it, to get a dose of the Black Draught. If you weren't happy, you needed some Black Draught. If you looked a little peaky, you needed a dose of Black Draught. If SHE was feeling peaky, YOU needed that Black Draught. I promise you, I learned to smile and act happy, because one dose of Black Draught was enough for a lifetime. And her bottle looked like it was bought back in the 1930s.
     Where Granny trusted Black Draught, my Grandmother Crenshaw was a Lydia Pinkham's Pink Pills supporter. I, fortunately, never took them, but Grandmother would try to get me to take them for all kinds of problems, but especially "Women's Problems."  (Of course, she asked about those in a whisper.)

     Granny had other cures for various aliments. She used Gentian Violet salve for rashes--on humans or animals.One summer I had blisters on my hands, and she went crazy with the Epsom Salts. I had to soak my hands twice a day in a hot Epsom Salt solution. Another summer I was stung by a puss caterpillar, and she had me soak the sting in a solution of aspirin and hot water. That actually helped the pain lessen.
     The most unusual cure I ever saw Granny administer was during the summer of 1969. My cousin woke up one night with a terrible earache. He was crying in pain. There was no way Granny was going to take him to the ER for just an earache. She went into the kitchen, got a little pot, and went back down to the back bedroom. I hear her tell my cousin to get up and go pee in the pot. "Why? Why? Why do I have to pee in the pot?" She just told him to do it, and, as we all did, he obeyed.
     Granny took that pot, put it on the stove, and heated the pee up. She got an eyedropper and took it and the pot back to the bedroom. I could hear her tell my cousin to lie down and put his head in her lap. He was suspicious and asked what she was going to do. "Why, put a dropper of this in your ear. It will stop the pain."  Then the wailing and complaining began, "Granny! Don't put pee-pee in my ear! I don't want no pee-pee in my ear!"  I have to admit, I was was laughing in the other room. She dropped it in his ear; the warm pee soothed the pain; and the night ended quietly. The night also ended with my personal vow never to let her know if I had an earache or anything else wrong with me because the cure had to be worse than the illness. 

Eternal Family Reunions

     Family reunions are always interesting and fun. The first one I remember was the J.L. Jones Family Reunion in 1960. I was only four years old, so I just remember running around and playing with the other kids. I was the oldest grandchild in the Willie Jones branch--so no close cousins to play with yet.
     I think my family got together more at funerals than planned reunions. Maybe it's a Southern thing, but I was taken to funerals from a very young age. I have a vague memory of going to my Uncle Gilly's funeral. Grandmother walked me up to view Uncle Gilly, and I loudly asked, "Why is he sleeping in that box?" Then, swish, Grandmother pulled me quickly down the aisle and back to our seats.I was on my way to learning proper funeral manners. Hush up during the viewing and the service, then speak when spoken to (as a child) at the dinner afterward.

 Bertha Mae and Aaron Skinner

      The funeral that seemed to be a huge reunion was that of my Great-Granny Skinner. Mommy, my brother, and I took the Greyhound bus from Miami to Jacksonville, then we were picked up and driven to McAlpin to stay until the funeral was over. During the couple of days leading up to the actual funeral, we met all kinds of family--from both the Jones and the Skinner sides. Meeting the ladies was always a little traumatic. They would swoop in for a little "sugar," and then, for the next hour,  I'd be wiping red lipstick off my cheeks. Many of my aunts and cousins were bosomy, and I feared I'd be smothered in their hugs.  We had our dinners at my Uncle Van's home, and what dinners they were! The women would start cooking right after breakfast for dinner at noon. Aunt Lucy's church ladies and friends had been dropping by food and desserts, but the women of the family always wanted to add a little special something. I think the food is why I associate funerals with family reunions. We would all come together to enjoy the best each lady had to offer. Black-eye peas,white acre peas, English peas,  butter beans, pole beans, greens of all kinds, ham, fried chicken, chicken and rice, pork chops, biscuits, cornbread--this was the first course. Then came the desserts, every kind from cobblers to pies to cakes, including a special treat--Coconut Cake. More funeral manners--adults chose their food first, then the kids could choose. The elder family member, in this case Uncle Van, would pray and then we could eat. The adults would sit and talk after dinner, and we kids got to run around outside and explore Uncle Van's farm. Of course, at the dinner after the funeral, we all sat quietly and talked. Well, the adults talked and the children were to stay quiet. There was a lot of laughter at the funeral dinner as family members told and retold stories about Granny Skinner and each other. I came to understand that the laughter after the tears was comforting to my family and an important part of both funerals and reunions.
     We were gone from home for a week for Granny Skinner's funeral. I knew much more about Granny Skinner after her funeral, because I had only seen her a handful of times in her life. From this trip, I understood that she had been Mommy's GRANNY, like my granny. And the way my granny spoiled me, hers had spoiled her. There were tears as we were driven back to Jacksonville to board that bus for home because the family didn't know when we'd all be together again. The tears were prophetic. The next time most of these aunts, uncles, and cousins were to be together again was  three years later at my mommy's funeral.  By that time, I realized why family reunions and funerals went together--my mommy was reunited with her Granny Jones, Granny Skinner, and Granddaddy Skinner in heaven. The ultimate family reunion!

Scarlett O'Hara--Part II

     Aunt Reba, Miami, c. 1975

     My Aunt Reba was a character. She wanted her picture made with the birthday hat on. It wasn't HER birthday, but she liked being the center of attention. One of the reasons she was the favored daughter of the James family was that she was musically gifted. She could play the piano by ear, and she later took lessons somewhere. I admit Aunt Reba was a  truly talented evangelical style pianist and organist. She and I had playing the piano in common. When I visited her home, I loved to sit and go through her music--she had probably a hundred sheet music songs, in addition to the many hymnals she played in various churches. On Sundays, after church, she and Uncle Frank would come for Sunday dinner. Afterwards, I'd sit and play the piano, and if my friend Patti was there, we'd practice singing the alto part of the hymns for choir. Aunt Reba had to get involved. She'd listen, and then tell us we were singing it all wrong. She'd push me off the piano bench, play, and sing. The playing was fine; the singing, not so much. It was NOT the alto part. In fact, it was amazing that she had such a good ear for the piano, but such a bad ear for singing. She was tone deaf when it came to vocal music. Patti and I would just sing along and then crack up later. Uncle Frank, well, he'd tell her to stop messing with us. When she didn't, he'd just lay low. He laid low a lot. 

     Before my mom died, the family always went down to Grandmother's for Sunday dinner. Aunt Reba and Uncle Frank would come by to visit. Aunt Reba was a flashy dresser, and she always had to check out and try the new styles. My Uncle Son lived with Grandmother, and he could never resist picking at Aunt Reba.He also had a habit of just yelling out rhymes he made up or funny comments.One of his favorites to shout out  was "Tussy Red, Knock 'em dead!"   One Sunday, she flounced in and announced, "I'm wearing the latest style. Elephant bells!"  Uncle Son couldn't resist the perfect set-up she had given him. He shouted, "Hey, Donna Jo and Billy--the circus has done come to town. See! There's the elephant and it's wearing a tent!" Poor Aunt Reba, but it was funny. And Uncle Son never gave up. No matter what kind of get-up she wore, he had a comment. She wore a loose caftan. And he screamed,  "Kids, look here come de bus, here come de bus!" Aunt Reba would just tell him he never had no sense and no style. Uncle Frank? He lay low. 

     Finally, the day came when I was engaged, and Aunt Reba had to have all of us down to her house for a good dinner (because Grandmother didn't cook fancy enough, according to her). My Rick was not used to someone so boisterous. Uncle Frank gave him the house tour, while I looked over the table and the food. I walked into the dining room and found Aunt Reba spraying Black Flag pesticide all over the top of a most delicious looking chocolate cake. "What are you doing, Aunt Reba!" She just calmly replied that she'd been having a problem with sugar ants, and the Black Flag would keep them off the cake. I had to ask what other foods she had sprayed--just the cake, she promised. I had to sneak off and tell everyone NOT to eat any of the poison cake. Poor Uncle Frank--he told us she'd been spraying everything for ants, and he'd been going to eat at the cafeteria because he was in fear for his life. Somehow, we managed to eat the other food and avoid the cake. I think we were all too full of her delicious dinner to have dessert. At least that's what we told her.

     Food was always a problem. After Grandmother came to live with us permanently, Aunt Reba and Uncle Frank always came for Thanksgiving Dinner. As soon as they would get to the house, the arguments would begin. Grandmother and Aunt Reba would argue about their cousins 'Lil Sis and Iney and someone falling, or being pushed, off the mule wagon. They would argue about the food Grandmother had been preparing. Aunt Reba always insisted that she make her apple salad for the table. Grandmother would say, "Now Reba, you know nobody wants that nasty apple salad." Aunt Reba would insist that it was everyone's favorite (it was NOT), and she'd practically push Grandmother out of the way to make it. She'd even bring her own fancy dish for the apple salad. Uncle Frank was only concerned that Dolly would be sure to get some of the best bits of the turkey to eat. Uncle Son would come in and egg on the arguments. I'd be playing the piano, to try to draw her out with me. But, she wouldn't budge until that apple salad was made and in its fancy bowl. When everything was ready, Daddy would pray, and we'd dig in. All arguments forgotten, as long as the food lasted. Afterwards, Grandmother would do the dishes while Aunt Reba laid up and rested from her labor on the apple salad. Uncle Son would be sitting on the front porch screaming out whatever was on his mind. And Uncle Frank, he just lay low.

Aunt Reba--my personal Scarlett O'Hara

“I’m saying this is the South. And we’re proud of our crazy people.

We don’t hide them up in the attic.We bring ’em right down to the living room and show ’em off...

 no one in the South ever asks if you have crazy people in your family.

They just ask what side they’re on.” — Julia Sugarbaker, “Designing Women”

Aunt Reba and Uncle Frank, c. 1930

     I think that Julia Sugarbaker's remark about Southerners and their "crazy" people is funny and so accurate! Crazy isn't truly mentally ill; crazy really means eccentric. And no one need ask me what side of the family my crazy people are on--it's an easy answer, BOTH SIDES! My favorite crazy relative was my Aunt Reba,  my Grandmother Crenshaw's only sister and her complete opposite.  My grandmother was a rather taciturn person; her motto was "Pass and re-pass." Aunt Reba was loud, bossy, and very out-going. Her motto was "Any attention is good attention." Please understand; Aunt Reba would not be at all offended at my telling her tales. She would absolutely be reveling in the attention. 

    The James family was a typical farming family in rural Georgia. They lived in Perkins, no longer in existence. Perkins was near Milledgeville, where the Georgia State Institution for the Insane was located. Ironic, in my opinion. They were sharecroppers, and all the kids had to work in the fields, especially when it was time to chop cotton. All of them except Aunt Reba. Apparently, Reba was the favorite daughter, as she told me many times, and she did housework and, as Grandmother would say, she laid up while the others worked hard. Aunt Reba said she didn't have to work in the fields because she was Scarlett O'Hara, and Scarlett didn't get her hands dirty when someone else could. 

     Grandmother and Aunt Reba would argue, until they both passed, about things from their childhoods and early adulthood. Apparently, Reba was quite the flirt; Grandmother, not so much. One of the earliest stories I remember their arguing about was Aunt Reba's first marriage.  She went out on a date with her beau, and they were late returning home. So, she did what any nice Southern girl would do in that situation. She eloped. She figured her daddy wouldn't be as upset when she got home from the date married, instead of just being late. Grandmother's opinion of this story was that Reba shouldn't have been going out with boys in the first place. And this was a cautionary tale for me--don't miss curfew, or you might have to marry that boy. In fact, maybe it's just better if you don't start dating  at all. 

     Sometime in the late 1920's or early 1930's, most of the James family moved to Miami.Aunt Reba took Grandmother under her wing and introduced her to Miami's nightlife. As Aunt Reba told one story, they all went out to a speakeasy in Miami. Sometime during the night, they needed to use the ladies' room. Inside was a statue of a nearly nude man, who had a fig leaf over his unmentionables. There was a sign that said, "Don't lift the leaf." Aunt Reba swears that Grandmother lifted the leaf for a little peek, and when she did so, it set off an alarm. Everyone was looking when they made a hasty retreat back out into the speakeasy. Grandmother always maintained that Aunt Reba lifted the leaf because she would never do such a thing. It's a mystery as to who lifted the leaf, but I always wished I could have seen the two of them scurrying out of that restroom--especially my quiet Grandmother.
     Aunt Reba did divorce her late-curfew husband, and I never knew him. But I knew her second husband, my Uncle Frank, very well. He was such a nice, gentle man, except when it came to Aunt Reba. Theirs was a relationship that thrived on conflict I don't think there was one thing that they held the same opinion about. I remember their bickering a lot about the amount of shoes Aunt Reba owned. I thought Uncle Frank was exaggerating until I spent the night at their house. You literally could not get to her bed because the floor was covered in shoes. The closet was full of shoes. Uncle Frank had his own bedroom, and I think some of her shoes sneaked in there too. The other major source of conflict was Dolly, Uncle Frank's pekinese. That dog lived to be over 25 years old, and that only because Uncle Frank took her everywhere (except church). He carried her all the time, and she always sat on his lap or right next to him, bumping Aunt Reba out of her place.  He carried a little china dish so Dolly never missed a meal. When Dolly needed to go out, he carried her and just put her down to take care of business. Dolly was too precious to even walk by herself.  When Dolly passed, Uncle Frank had her buried in the pet cemetery in Miami. He told all of us that when he passed into glory, he wanted to be buried next to Dolly because he'd get no peace in the hereafter if he was buried near Aunt Reba. He said she'd be complaining, even when she was in Heaven. Uncle Frank did pass first, but the pet cemetery wasn't zoned for people. I know my long-suffering Uncle Frank just sighed and then enjoyed Heaven. And hoped it would be a long time before Aunt Reba joined him there.

   

    

My Granddaddy

    Boy, this pictures brings back so many memories! This is my Granny and Granddaddy Jones, posing outside of their dairy line house on the MacArthur Dairy in Okeechobee. Granddaddy looks exactly as I remember him. To me, he was the most handsome granddaddy any girl could have! I've been thinking a lot about him lately and how much I miss him.
    Granddaddy, Willie Jones, was born in 1914 in Jasper, Florida. He came from a large farming family. Granddaddy farmed, but he eventually went to work for MacArthur Dairy down in Hollywood, Florida. Granddaddy and Granny moved between Hollywood and McAlpin in the early years, and they eventually moved to Okeechobee when the dairy moved there.  I always found it interesting that Granddaddy and his brother, my Uncle Van, married sisters (Reatha and Lucy Skinner, respectively), so my momma had a set of "double-cousins."  
    Granddaddy was a person who was everybody's  friend. He never met a stranger, and he didn't care what place a person had in society--he approached everyone on his or her own merits. I have never heard anyone speak ill of Willie Jones. He was a man who was universally loved and respected.

Willie and Reatha Jones and unknown dairy owner ready to take a flight  c. 1933

     Granddaddy was a great story teller. I still don't know which of his stories are true and which are not. He told me about his stint in the Army. First, he never thought he'd be drafted because he was married, a farmer, and in his 30's, but he was called and he served. He described taking the train from Scotland down to Southeast England and how beautiful it was. His dream was to make that trip again one day, but he never was able to do so. As far as the fighting, it sounded like a grand adventure! He was in reconnaissance, and he said it was just like hunting squirrels. To Granny's dismay (as the Joneses were officially teetotalers), he told the kids about hiding in the cellar of an old French house and drinking up the cognac they found there. 

        It's the little things that made time with Granddaddy so special. I loved to sit at the breakfast table with him and watch him eat his breakfast. The same thing almost every day: two over-easy eggs, grits, toast, bacon, and a cup of coffee. He'd put the eggs on the grits and pop the yolks, then use the toast to sop up every bite. He "saucered" his coffee--he'd pour a little coffee into the saucer and then sip it. Granddaddy would sit in his chair to watch game shows like "Concentration," "Truth or Consequences," and "Jeopardy." I'd sit on the floor between his knees, and we'd watch and play the game shows together. He was a teaser! He'd slip his feet out of his house shoes and pinch my legs with his toes. "Jeopardy" with Art Fleming was one of his favorite shows--he knew almost all the answers. Granddaddy wasn't an educated man; he never finished high school. But, he was an intelligent man, who loved to read. He passed that love of reading to my mom, and she passed it to me, and I to my kids. 

     He could frustrate us grandkids too. If any one of us would complain, "I'm thirsty!"; he'd answer, "I'm Bill Jones. Nice to meet you." Granddaddy had this whole rhyming sequence he'd have us repeat, and it ended like this: "Rooty Toot" "Rooty Toot" "Onion Soup" "Onion Soup" "Hit me" "Hit me" And then he'd tap us. "Why did you hit me?" "You just asked me to." I think he did that with every grandchild--starting with me. 

     There was another side of Granddaddy as well. He was a man of great faith. I remember his reading his Bible every day. Sometimes I'd see him napping on his bed, he had fallen asleep while reading his Bible and the Bible would be open on his chest. At meals, he would always say the prayer. We would all fold our hands, bow our heads, and wait. Granddaddy prayed so softly, it really was difficult to hear him. Someone would have to say a loud "AMEN" so we would know when to begin eating. One of my uncles asked him why did he have to pray so softly, and Granddaddy just replied, "I'm talking to God--not you. He hears me just fine."
     My most precious memory of Granddaddy was when I took my son, the first great-grandchild, down to Okeechobee to meet him and Granny.  Granny called out to him and he came shuffling as fast as he could down the hall to meet my son. The smile on his face and the tears of joy in his eyes are something I will never forget. My mommy and daddy never saw their grandchild, but Granddaddy's joy in him was all I needed.

     I miss my Granddaddy. He was the sunshine of our family--funny, smiling, gentle, faithful, kind, loving. A little piece of him and his values are in every child, grandchild, and great-grandchild.  He's been in heaven over thirty years now, and I know I will see him again one day, but I still miss him. I miss the teasing. I miss the pinches. I miss the smell of snuff on his breath. I miss his smile that reached all the way to his eyes.  I miss seeing him reading his Bible. And I miss those quiet mealtime prayers. I'll always love you, Granddaddy!

Descendents of Willie and Reatha Jones, Oct 2014

An Udder Cowtastrophe!

     And the summer of 1960-something continues. Being at Granny's for the whole summer gave me all kinds of opportunities to do and learn things that I could not in Miami. I had already learned lessons about gathering eggs, turning bulls into steers, riding, and frying chicken. During that long summer, I had more lessons to learn.

  

One of my favorite places to visit at the dairy was the calf barn.My brother and I would beg for a trip to see the calves! The barn manager was a friend of Granddaddy's, so he'd let us come in and walk up and down, looking over that summer's calves. So cute! And so noisy as they all cried for mama! The manager had us hold out our fingers, and, to our surprise, the calves would latch on and suck as hard as they could. This was one time that I didn't mind the slime from their mouths--the babies just seemed to miss their mamas, and I was giving them comfort. Lesson 5--Those calves missed their mamas as much as I missed mine.

     However, my encounters with animals were not limited to farm animals. One afternoon, my friend and I went "walking" up and down the dairy line. On each side of the road, there were drainage ditches. Most summers the ditches were filled with water, but that summer was dry, and so were the ditches. We were just about back to Granny's when we noticed something moving in the weeds in the ditch. There it was--an armadillo! Little grey-armored bundle of cuteness! We looked at each other, and I had the idea to run back to Granny's, get a bucket, and try to catch that armadillo. Imagine my surprise, and terror, when I reached down and scooped up that critter in the bucket. Once I had it, I didn't know what to do with it. My friend quickly abandoned me, running back to her own house. I ran, as fast as I could with my arm out straight out, as far from my body as I could get it, back to Granny's. Once that thing was in the bucket, I noticed that it had large, sharp claws, and I didn't want any part of it. Once again, Uncle Larry came to my rescue. First, he suggested that we could make armadillo roast for supper. Remembering that poor chicken, earlier in the summer, I quickly said no to that idea. I did NOT want a headless armadillo running around in Granny's yard. I ventured that I could keep it as a pet, but I knew Granny wouldn't let that thing live in her utility room. Finally, Larry just did what he was going to do all along--tip over the bucket and let him loose in the cow pasture. Lesson 6--Only adopt pets you're not frightened of.
     The grandchildren would be allowed to go with Granny to the barn to play while she worked. Uncle Larry worked at that same barn. Now, I just had on flip-flops this time because my feet were too large to wear Granny's cast-off work boots any more.  Larry waved me back to the milking parlor. The cowboys let the herd in. Those cows came running in--a stampede--and I tried to flatten myself against the wall and then run toward the door.Because of those flip-flops, I just slipped and slid in the water and cow droppings. To make it worse, I looked up to see the cowboys laughing at me. I finally got out the door and waited while each cow found her place along the feed trough. Larry called me back in and asked if I wanted to see something special--the stars on the cow's teats. I was a little skeptical because I was afraid of slipping and falling, but he held my hand and took me up to a cow with a huge udder. "Go on, Donna Jo, get down real close and you'll see the star." I squatted down by the cow, got as close to that udder as I could and....squirt. I got an eye-full of hot milk. Startled, I slipped and fell right on my behind. "LARRY!!!" I was mad. He apologized, "I didn't meant to pull so hard on the teat. Go on, this time I won't tug at all and you'll see that star." So, once again I squatted, got down really close to that udder. SQUIRT! Another eye-full of hot milk. Lesson 7--Ain't no star on the cow's teat. And that old adage is true: "Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me."

Summertime Lessons

    In 1960-something, I spent the whole summer with Granny and Granddaddy on the dairy line in Okeechobee. Staying at Granny's was always fun and so very different from life in Miami. And I usually learned something new each visit. However, I learned more about country living that summer than I had in the ten previous years.  This was the summer of animals.

      My Uncle Larry lived near Granny, and he kept chickens, cows, and a steer or two on his property. Now, Larry was a joker. And he liked to play jokes on me. I was invited to spend the day with him and his family. He wanted me to help with the chores. Number One Chore:  Gathering eggs from the barn. Now, I had seen TV shows, and the people would just go in, stick their hands under the chickens, and get the eggs.In fact, the chickens would stand up to make getting the eggs easy. So, I boldly went into the barn, armed with only an old egg carton, to gather eggs. I walked up to the first hen, stuck my hand underneath her, and promptly learned that she did NOT want me to take her eggs. She flapped. She squawked. She pecked, and pecked, and pecked at my hands and my arms and my face. Lesson One learned--don't trust cartoons or TV sitcoms for reliable information about egg production. And I failed to get the eggs.
    While I was in the barn, I noticed that there were leather sacks tacked up around the beams of the roof. Little pairs of light tan-colored leather sacks.Those little pairs of leather sacks really piqued my interest.Where did they come from? What were they used for? And could I get a pair? They reminded me of leather versions of Clackers, a toy that was popular that summer. I speculated that maybe they were bolas, like Argentinean gauchos used to capture cattle. Wow, Larry must have used those on his cows. I was impressed. Then I asked about them. Larry got this sly look on his face, "Donna Jo, don't you know what those are?" "No, Sir." He then explained how a bull became a steer and just exactly what those little leather sacks were. I wasn't so interested and, frankly, was a little nauseated by the end of his explanation. Lesson Two learned--don't ask Uncle Larry about anything in the barn. Save it for Granny to explain.
     Then Larry asked me if I wanted to go for a ride. Now, I had not seen a horse, but I just knew he used one, so I was excited. He made sure that I was willing to ride bare-back. Oh boy--I was up for that! Then he told he that he only had a halter with just one rope, could I handle that? Yes, of course. "Donna Jo, go wait out yonder by the pond and I'll bring Old Suzie out." Wow, I was going to get to ride some old mare around the pasture. Imagine my surprise when Larry leads out Old Suzie--an old black cow. Now, I do have some Cracker pride, so I was  bound and determined to get up on that cow and take a ride. She had been trained to allow riders, so up I went. Old Suzie and I were having a grand time, until she decided she needed some water and waded out into the middle of the pond with me on her back. Wouldn't have been a problem, except Old Suzie wouldn't go back to dry land, no matter how I tugged and begged. She wouldn't go when Larry whistled and cooed for her. She didn't go back out of the pond until she was good and ready. Lesson Three learned--don't trust Uncle Larry without getting all the details first.

     The last lesson of the day was the hardest.  I had been promised some fried chicken for supper. Larry said it was getting 'bout supper time, so it was time to prepare the chicken. Just imagine my horror when he just grabbed up one of the chickens which I had recently become acquainted with, quickly wrung her neck, and then let her run around with no head. I know I screamed and ran into the house. And when my aunt served up freshly killed and fried chicken, I let it pass by and stuck to the vegetables. Lesson Four learned--chicken doesn't come in a little tray, it is slaughtered and processed, and it's not an easy business.
     There was more I learned that summer, but that's for another day.

Tobacco Road

 One of the highlights of my childhood was getting to visit my Granny and Granddaddy for a couple of weeks each summer. I left behind my Miami suburb to go to the country--Okeechobee. Granny worked for McArthur Dairy, and they lived out on a dairy line. There were probably twenty houses, ten on each side of the road, and they were backed by cow pasture. My brother and I roamed and played and made up games, and we just had a great time.
There were so many things that were different from life back in Miami. One thing that Granny's house held, that ours did not, was tobacco. Now, Granny didn't use tobacco. But, my granddaddy did. My uncles did. Granddaddy smoked a few Winstons every day. However, of much more interest to me and my brother, was his use of snuff. Three Thistles snuff, specifically. We'd watch him fill the lid of the can, tap it into his mouth, and then spit it out all day. My uncles were more hard-core. They not only smoked, but they chewed Red Man plug tobacco. Again, it was fascinating to see them cut a plug of chaw, pop it into their mouths, and then chew and spit. To this day, I don't know why we were so fascinated, but we were.
 Now, there is a reason God gave me a younger brother. And it was for him to try the things I didn't want to try. In this case, the snuff. When we went to work with Granny and Grandaddy, sometimes we'd wait in the car. And there would be Granddaddy's snuff, sitting in the glove box, just asking to be used. I convinced my brother to take just a pinch and put it up his nose, and then I promised I'd do the same. So, Billy got himself a big pinch of snuff, put it up his nose, and didn't seem to enjoy it as Granddaddy did. He just began sneezing and crying that his nose was burning. I backed out of the deal. Funny thing, though, I pulled that trick on him at least three consecutive summers before he caught on and refused the snuff. As for his runny nose and red eyes, I just blamed it on allergies when Granny asked.

You would think that his experience with the snuff would have been enough, but it was not. One summer, we were at Granny's with our cousins. I noticed that Billy and Clint had disappeared for quite a while. I went to the back bedroom and peeked out the window. There I found them, hiding between the bushes and the house. They had gotten the Red Man tobacco. I watched as they pulled off pieces and put them into their mouths. Oh boy! Just what I had been waiting for--I couldn't go get Granny fast enough. If there was a time to carry tales, this was it. I ran and got her and dragged her to peek out of the window with me. There were the two of  them--green, gagging, and disgorging the half-chewed tobacco into the bushes. "Are you going to spank them? Are they in trouble?" Granny just looked at me, shook her head no, and said, "I think they've had punishment enough." They were kinda green for the rest of the day, and there was plenty of supper that night because there were two boys who didn't feel like eating. Maybe Granny was right, maybe they did get enough punishment.

Welcome to my Cracker Box

     I am a True Florida Cracker. What does that mean? Cracker is a word that is often used to denote a Florida or Georgia native who is backward, bigoted, and a braggart. I'm actually a double-Cracker; my daddy's family were Georgia Crackers; my momma's family were, and are, Florida Crackers.I will claim some braggarts and plenty of family who are Crackers in the Scottish sense of the word--chatty, gossipy, and jokers.It is a source of pride, in my family, to be able to tell a story well.One gets more respect if that story is funny.
      However,  I also think of my Cracker family in a different sense. Florida Crackers get their name from the long whips that they cracked over cattle as they drove them to market. Various members of my family have worked with cattle or farmed. It was not an easy life, and it formed my Cracker heritage.  My Crackers are resourceful; my momma made dolls from dog weed and "built" herself a play house by scratching one out in the dirt of the front yard. They are resilient. Imagine living in a hot, humid climate with no air conditioning, wearing long skirts and petticoats, They had little money for doctors and relied on home remedies. They fought rattlesnakes, bobcats, insects of all kinds and sizes, and Florida's hurricanes and thunderstorms; and they still thrived. My Crackers had, and have, a strong work ethic; they did whatever was necessary to feed, clothe, and house their families.No legal work was considered to be beneath them. I was taught from childhood that when I worked, I was to give my best--and then a little more. The pay didn't matter; it was the pride in a job well-done. They had faith. Church, prayer, and the Bible were important. Some of my ancestors were illiterate, but they still knew the Lord and Creator of the land they loved so well. I remember Granddaddy falling asleep while reading his Bible. His prayers are part of the Jones's family legend.
     This blog is about those Crackers and my experiences and stories about them. Some of the stories will be my stories; some will be family stories; some may be a bit apocryphal, but that goes with being a true Cracker. I hope that you will get to know the characters in my family: Granny (or Reatha Mae or The Old Critter), Granddaddy, Grandmother (Grammer), Daddy, Mommy, Uncle Son, Aunt Reba (Illa Eugenia), Larry, Doc, and a host of other people who inhabit my Cracker box.