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.