SOMETIMES A THING CAN BE TOO BIG!

                               

                    

Yes, dear readers in a man's world it's about size. His motorcycle, the caliber of his gun, his dog, and countless other things.

Sometimes size is not a good thing. Take Saturday, September 4th, 2010. I was doing a sale on Hwy. 34 in conjunction the with Labor Day Weekend Powers Crossroads Arts and Crafts Festival. Things were going well. People were feeling good, buying their little hearts out, a sunny sky, not too hot.

Yeah, nice weather, except for that one damn little down-draft, a rouge breeze, called a funnel-gunnel by air traffic controllers. It took Li'l Rufus(the 8ft. rooster) completely by surprise! Before he could crow a warning, a strong, concentrated gust came up on his left side/wing and ever so slightly lifted him up and pushed him to the right. As he toppled to the ground, his over sized and pronounced pecker/beak caught the right quarter panel of a brand new car. A very deep scratch on a brand new car.

A fellow vendor and close personal friend of mine, who also happens to be an appraiser for auto damage, estimated that the damage would in the $1000 range. That particular day Nationwide was indeed 'on my side'. I found it odd that my homeowners insurance would pay off when I was 20 miles from home, but they know what they are doing(?).

As luck would have it, the car belonged to the wife of one of Janice's cousins. He knew me, but she did not. She came running up mad as a wet hen. That Dodge was less than two weeks old and she was as proud of it as a new puppy!

She: YOU JUST PUT A DEEP SCRATCH IN MY NEW CAR!

Me: No ma'am, I didn't do it the Rooster did.

She: (Getting louder and trying to catch her breath) WELL, IT'S YOUR ROOSTER! WHAT DO YOU PLAN TO DO ABOUT IT?

Me: If you would be kind enough to turn your car around the other way, I'll push the Rooster over again and you will have matching scratches, no one will notice, besides you live in Heard County, it's kinda the law to beat up a new car to break it in.

At this point she was to the point of passing out from lack of oxygen, when Ronnie, her husband stepped up,holding back the tears as best he could and said, "Larry I don't think she can take much more."

She:(To Ronnie) You know this guy?
Ronnie: Yeah, you know, it's Janice, our cousin's husband, the woman that passed away after Christmas, we went to the funeral.
Her tone changed, but before she could continue, I gave her all the information she needed and told her to have it fixed and I would send her a check. 

We parted as friends and several weeks later settled the matter.

Owning Ol' Rufus added another chapter to my life. During our travels, a thousand people must have posed to have their picture taken with this big bird. I eventually traded him for 2 cigar store Indians, but I still miss him.

CROW ON AMERICA!   

MAN OVERBOARD!

S

Somehow, being told, "this is good", on my second foray into painting, by someone that is paid, is not the strongest encouragement I could have received. Cheryl, my art instructor, is a nice lady, and maybe she was looking more at my potential than my canvas. At any rate, I took the shot and painted this masterpiece. I wonder where the unlucky recipient is going to hang it. That will teach my facebook fans not to shower me with false praise. 


Although I found this painting to be very taxing (I felt like I had run a marathon afterwards), I still enjoyed the class. There is nothing better for you than going outside your comfort zone. I was way out on this one. The fact that I don't like night scenes in artwork has a great deal to do with it. Sunny, light, airy, all are words that I like to associate with my view of art.

The whole point of this posting is to tell my readers that if you have ever, even once, wanted to paint something, then take the plunge. That brings up the question of how to get started. My situation is that Cheryl teaches art in public school and has a studio on the side. I have listed some options to try so that you can find some affordable instructions yourself.

1. Chamber of Commerce or city clerks office will know who has a business license for a studio.
2. Public libraries usually have a room for instruction of various art forms.
3. Local art and craft store will know who may be offering classes.
4. Community colleges have adult education classes that usually have art classes from time to time.
5. Your local school system art instructor may be offering courses or know someone who is.
6. Senior Centers, if you qualify, are a good source reference. The director probably knows someone even if they are not offering at the center.
7. Local newspapers, shoppers, free press, etc. are worth looking into.
8. Look on line. "Googling" is a great way to find almost anything.

I hope this information is helpful and I hope you will at least try one class. You have to try once before you can honestly say whether or not  it was worth the effort. If you are fortunate enough to find a good instructor like I have, you will get the bug and look forward to each class you attend. I am not interested in some of the subject matter that is offered at time, but it is the different skills you learn that is important.

So go find a class, pick up a brush and attack a canvas! Best of luck! 

Update: since I first posted this, I have married and moved in with my wife in Sugar Hill, Ga. One of the things that she fell in love with at my old house was this picture. Her master bath had/has a nautical theme and so she seized this canvas to go in that bathroom. I now see it everyday and smile, it brings back good memories.

WE COULD HOLD OUR LIQUOR BACK THEN, WELL, MAYBE NOT?

HOW ABOUT WAKING UP IN A MOTEL 6 WITH HER?

When I was coming of age, what ever that means, in the '60's, the drinking age was 21 as it is now. At one time, when the government was shipping our youth to their death as fast as they could, the drinking age dropped to 18.

All of this about age mattered little to me, as I had several sources of supply. This should seem strange in a county that was legally "DRY!" Dry in name only. People have always consumed alcohol since the dawn of time. Hogansville was certainly not back in the dark ages as far as consumption went. There has always been as much beer, moonshine, or any brand of whiskey as a body could want.

Growing up here, we had two white cabs and two black cabs. I never understood how these guys made a living "driving a cab", until I took my first cab ride. My boyhood friend, Johnny Harris' daddy was one of the white cab driver. To my great amazement, I found my first source of alcohol. 

Here's how it worked. First, you have to know that we were blessed with a local American Legion just outside of town. Now the rules were as I understand them was that members could bring their own alcohol, have it labeled and imbibe whenever they want. No other alcohol was supposed to be in the building. Yeah right! They were well stocked! I never saw a problem with that. As a matter of fact, years latter when I worked on the Hogansville Police Dept., I never had to answer an alcohol related call to the Legion. We did raid it several times and seize the slot machines (sometimes the same machines--now how did that happen?).

OK, now the good part. Paul Harris, our cab driver and guide to manhood, would take you to the parking lot of the Legion. You told him what you wanted, gave him the money, and he went in and bought. When he got back in the cab, he put the bottle on the seat beside him. He then took you back to where he picked you up, charged you double cab fare, and as you slid out, you grabbed your bottle. For guys underage, Paul would only do this for the ones Johnny ok'd. Of course Johnny was always with us, so he got his share. Still not a bad deal. Now don't get the idea that we were constantly on the road to the Legion and back. I personally only made half dozen trips. I was the fact that I had a "guy" when I needed one.

The next source was a rite of passage as well. I was not wildly searching for alcohol anywhere I could find it, I just knew where I could. My friend since before 1st grade was one Dwayne Robinson, better known as "COON" to his friends. This nickname was given to him by his employer and supplier of our after-hours drink--Jap Keith.

Jap was the owner of the Johnson Street grocery store known as Keith Bros. Grocery. There is a complete blog about this store, Jap, and Coon coming latter. For now, let me just say that Coon was the delivery boy almost as soon a he got his first driver's license. When I got off work with my Dad, I would go to Jap's as he and Coon were closing.

Jap's last chore every evening was to clean the meat saw, cases, and the floor. This was a job he performed with great detail. When finished, he announced, "That's it!", signaling it was time for our little meeting with "Jack". Jack being Jack Daniels Old #7. He would get out 3 glasses, wipe them out with the same apron he had worn all day, and then pour the golden liquid. He poured himself a good "three fingers", while Coon and I each got half as much. It could have well just had been 3 drops. The fact that I was trusted to have a glass with them said volumes towards growing up. The amount was insignificant, the fact that I was included meant the most to me. 


Of course, I knew most of the local boot-leggers. I always chose not to visit them. Some of them were a tad shady. If I was going to drink something that strong, I wanted to know what was in it.

Strange thing, when I became old enough to drink legally, it really didn't appeal to me that much.

SOMETHING TO CROW ABOUT!

I took my first art lesson last Tuesday night in West Point, Georgia, of all places. The studio is on Third Ave. which, since I have been driving, had always thought of as Main St. It is upstairs in a spacious loft style room. My instructor is a veteran art teacher and you can read her credentials on her web site that follows. Cheryl must be good, as this is one of 7 roosters that she coaxed out of 7 novice wantabe artists. Please don't get me wrong, there were far better examples, but I am proud of "Rufus" if I do say so.


Go ahead and admit it out loud, you have always wanted to try your hand at this. Well here is your chance. All the information you need is in the web link at the end. There are no long term contracts, you can do 1 and never pick up another brush if you like. You can see the paintings that are coming up as posted on the calender. You can wait until the one you like the best is being offered. There is no "beginning" of the class, just jump in and get better as you go. I can't not think of a reason that you could not do this, only excuses.


Cheryl is an art teacher to children, so she is used to questions ranging from silly to serious. E-mail or call her for any unanswered questions that you still have after reading this and her web site.


If you live within drivable distance to West Point and have always wanted to paint, then do it!


www.studioonthirdavenue.com 
706-518-6371 or 706-518-9453

B.O.L.O. (Be On the Look Out)!

As I am sure that everybody knows, B.O.L.O. is police terminology when you are looking for a missing or dangerous person. It also a good way to train a rookie police officer at Newnan Police Department.

Way back in the 1970's, when I worked there, the veteran officers had many ways to train the new guys without having to tell them repeatedly. They also had an endless supply of practical jokes. For me, it was impossible to tell one from another, as each accomplished the same thing.

I guess it has always been that police officers almost always have to have a second job to make ends meet. I could do a whole blog on the low pay in law enforcement, but that would just be preaching and not appropriate here. Just know that I had several jobs on the side that ate into my sleep time.

Knowing this,a senior officer could hardly wait until we rotated the midnight-8am shift. The senior officer in this case was Lt. David Smith, a bigger practical joker was not to be found on the N.P.D.

We were well into the middle of the week on third shift when Lt. Smith sprung his trap on me. He waited until about 3am, when it was getting hard to hold my eyes open, and my alertness was at zero.

I should have known something was afoot when the shift started and he offered to drive. Trust me, this did not happen with Smith. He thoroughly enjoyed being chauffeured around like the dignitary that he thought he was. And I guess to some degree he and the other commanding officers deserved the treatment, thou David enjoyed it way too much it seemed. 

Anyway, David waited until Tuesday night, a time when less than nothing was going on. If you follow my blogs, you know that in Newnan, Georgia, in the 1970's, they "rolled up the sidewalks" at dark. You could shoot a gun on Court Square and not draw attention. I know this for a fact, but I will tell that story later.

My prankster Lt. had pre-arranged with the dispatcher, upon signal, to put out a B.O.L.O. that would raise the hair on the back of the neck of even a seasoned officer. He had secretly told the others in our crew to stay off the radio, as they knew what he was up to and what fate awaited me.

At the appointed time, David set the plan into action. As the dispatcher came on the air, David flipped on the overhead light and ordered, "Write this down Officer Cook", which I dutifully did. "Sounds like a bad Mother ......", my tormentor responded with a dry wit and straight face.

After a few minutes of silence, I fell back into the stupor that I had been in before the radio blared with announcement. My fate was drawing near.

The road makes a sharp bend to the left in front of the hospital on Hospital Road. It also drops sharply about 10 feet at the shoulder. As I had been sitting there oblivious to the world, the Lt. had been maneuvering the police car into position. In front of the hospital, he suddenly pulled onto the shoulder of the road, slammed the car into park causing it to rock violently (and waking me in the process), he jumped out of the car, ran forward illuminated by the headlights, gun drawn and shouting, "There goes the son-of-a-bitch we're looking for!"

Adrenalin, fear and a slight desire to wet my pants all kicked in at the same time. Without hesitation, I opened the passenger side door, determined to follow my Lt. to death or glory. What I got was the surprise of  a lifetime. Instead of hitting the ground running, there was not ground at all. I dropped what seemed like in a nightmare, forever. In reality it was only a few feet. 

Confused, dazed, disoriented, and a little scratched up, I was clueless as what to do until I heard David and the rest of our crew laughing for all they were worth. As I crawled up the bank into the beam of the headlight and started a new round of laughter, I could see across the road, in the hospital parking lot, all the city police cars. They had raced to the site and sat there in darkness and silence waiting for my performance. They were not disappointed.

This hazing had been going on for as long a most older officers could remember so who was I not to take my turn. I limped over the the crowd and took good natured slaps on the back. I had to, these were the same guys that would come to save my life if the situation called for it. As the laughter continued, I pointed at each one, as if counting them, and said, "O.K., O.K., Just so you know, what goes around comes around." As the years past, I returned the favor in one way or another to each and every one of them.

To this day when I hear the phrase, B.O.L.O., I still think of that night and grin. 

CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?

 I was watching a lady about my age try to explain to her 8 year old granddaughter the function of a "gossip" bench or telephone table. She went into detail how important it was for the seat to be comfortable, as you may be there for a while. The color finish, where to put the item in your house, and several other points were covered. The young child looked dutifully at her grandmother the whole time the lady spoke. When she had finished, this beautiful little child looked her squarely in the eyes and said, "Grandmother, what's the point of a cell phone if you have to stay in one place?" Out of the mouths of babes!

 For some reason known only to GOD, I drive a school bus (given my love for untrained children) and find myself doing what amounts to the same thing with my riders. Since I don't let them talk while the bus is in motion and we have several minutes to wait in the morning before unloading, they try to find a reason to ask questions, 'cause with them it is talk or explode!

You probably don't know this about me, but I like to do all the talking (insert laughter here). Our, or rather my, favorite topic is to tell them what my life was like at their age. And to think, I SWORE I would never become my father. Those of you who are "boomers" will get it, the "kids" (that's 40 and under) won't.

In the late '40's, if you could afford a telephone, you most likely were on a PARTY LINE. When I first told my students this, one young man blurted out, "Man you s....... me! What fool is going to let someone listen when he be talkin' trash?" Well, first, you didn't "talk trash" on the phone, it was for important stuff mostly. But you certainly had better not say anything you didn't want known or repeated. I think it was Southern Belle policy to put at least 3 old women on each party line to keep the conversations brief and clean! They especially were dumbfounded when I told them just because the phone rung, it did not mean that you could answer it. It might not be "your" ring. I might as well have been trying to teach them Latin by the looks on their faces.

Then I instructed them on making a long distant call. You have to first decide if you want person-to-person or a station-to-station call. The latter means that you will talk to whoever picks up and the first, of course, means you only want to talk to the person whose name you give to the operator. After giving the phone and name, if needed, to the operator, you hang up and wait for the phone to ring (your ring) and the operator will tell you that she has your party on the line. More LATIN stares 
When I told them that we once waited almost 24 hours for my Uncle Ed to call us from California, it was more than they could believe.

The looks that they gave me when I told them the joy of getting our first "push-button" phone must have been the same kind of look that I gave my folks when they told me of getting their "first" things. I had to remind the children that the phones had cords, to which one child asked why?

I took off my shoe to illustrate that it was the approximate size of the first cell phone I ever used. As you can imagine that brought a huge laugh, and I laughed too, thinking about it. My 12 to 16 students could not comprehend that those early cell phones did not have cameras, contacts, texts, MP3's, and the whole list of today's standard features. As many of you know, the DROID X just came on the market and will do everything except mow the lawn. As true as I know it is, I can not wrap my head around the fact that the DROID X will be as old fashioned as a dial phone, probably before I leave this world!

A parting thought and bit of a practical joke, if I can find one of my old dial phones, I will ask Dr. Hollis, our principal, if she will let me plug it in for the students to use. Every time they get mad, which is constantly, they say, "I'M GONNA CALL MY MOMMA ON YOU!" It would be outrageously funny to see them try to use something that they have never seen before!

THE SMOKING TREE!

Well no, the picture does not have anything to do with the story, just cheap eye-candy for the guys (and some girls).

In the year Twenty-Ten (I still can't get used to the change from Two Thousand____. I guess new president, new way of telling time, what the hell do I know?), there are many, many rules and regulations concerning who can smoke and where. And well it should be, there are few government laws these days that are beneficial, but smoking regulations are a few that I endorse.

Now let's jump into my well-used time machine and set it for the mid-1960's arriving at Hogansville High School and face to face with locally famous Principal Wheeler Bryan.

If you are familiar with Hogansville, you will know that the present Elementary School was the old High School. If you look on the back side of the campus you will see our one-of-a-kind turret water tower, a quaint point of interest in its own right. Down next to the road there used to be a very large oak tree with huge knarly,exposed roots, that are just made to sit on and tell hot rod and dating stories.

Now read the following very slowly. If you were at least 16 years of age, a male, and had a note from one of your parents giving you permission to smoke at school, you go to the Smoking Tree on break or after lunch and "light one up!" You heard me, young boys could legally smoke at school. My Lord, how times have changed! Probably no less than 14 federal and state agencies would come and lock your folks up if they did that today.

On the other hand, if you were a girl, FORGET IT! Under no circumstances were you allowed near that tree, unless of course you wanted your reputation ruined and to be branded as "easy". And it did not matter if you had a letter from the POPE or the PRESIDENT, girls were ladies and ladies did not smoke--yeah, right! They had to go to the bathroom and post a look-out, just like the boys that smoked and could not get a letter from their parents because the parents "did not know" that they smoked.

A TWO-FER

There was, however, a little known THIRD option, any my personal favorite. The younger generation will just have to bare with me for a minute as I know they do not have a clue to what a true blackboard is and the maintenance required. Chalk board erasers needed constant attention, if not "dusted" on a frequent basis, dust would get all over everything when a teacher tried to use it. A teacher would usually pick someone from the class to go somewhere outside, in an inconspicuous place, and beat the hell out of each eraser until the dust was gone (sort of like the way they used to beat rugs before vacuum cleaners). The likely candidate was someone who wasn't paying attention and would not mess out on any valuable instruction. Somehow I got picked a lot, and if not I volunteered. Here comes the tricky part. As you gather up all the erasers and try to carry them out the door without getting chalk dust from head to toe, you fumble and drop one or two. Quick as a wink, the girl sitting on the front row (girls always sat on the front row) that wanted to go smoke, would leap up and pick up the fallen erasers and a few more and volunteer to help. To avoid any more "dust bombs", the teacher would wave her/his hand with, "Go! Go!"
Off to the old water tower we would run! If you have have the good fortune to visit it, you know that you can/could walk inside of it at the base. As soon as you had sufficient dust bellowing out the doorway, you could light up and share a smoke without drawing attention to what you were doing. The TWO-FER? Being the s.o.b. that I am, I asked for a kiss just before we ran back to the classroom. Granted sometimes it was a stern NO, and most of the time it was a peck on the cheek like you aunt would give you, but if you got something, no matter what,then you were THE MAN! Now that I think back--WHAT A DORK!What the hell, we were kids and kids gotta get there kicks..

Back to the tree.

Today, if you get caught smoking at school, most often semester at Alternative School is the punishment. From 1964 until 1966, when I often got caught smoking, the punishment was swift and on the spot.
"Cookie, grab your ankles and grit your teeth," was the ever popular command of Principal Bryan. And before you could get a firm grip around your ankles, he had delivered 3 well placed, hard, blows with his trusty 1/4 inch thick yard stick, that he always carried, as both a pointer when teaching math, and an instrument of justice for unruly boys.

Now, occasionally, Wheeler (we could call him that off campus or under the Smoking Tree--'cause we were men (Ha!) would spot an unauthorized smoker under the Tree. No cause of alarm here folks, he just walked up to the culprit and asked for a cigarette. When he received it, he asked the unsuspecting boy for a light. Wheeler would take a long, pleasurable "drag" off the cigarette, and then confiscate the pack of cigarettes and lighter, usually sharing the cigarettes with the other smokers, who by now were laughing their heads off. "Now git your tail end back across the road and don't come back until I get my note!"

CRIME SOLVED!

In an era where there were usually cigarettes and a lighter on most coffee tables in America, it would have been excessive to have done much more. I think the punishment fit the crime--at the time.

There are going to be readers of my blog who will think that I made up this whole story, but if you do, I can call upon many alumni to verify this. We live in a different world today folks--it's up to you to decide if it is better or worse. As for me, I want to sit on one of those old knarly oak roots one more time.

LATER DUDES AND DUDETTES!

p.s. Just a quick TEST before I go! On which breast is the mole in the above picture! NO FAIR PEEKING! Just so you know, almost every guy will get the answer right. I'm just saying......................

GROWING UP ON A DIRT ROAD!

When I was born in 1947, the Power Plant Road was a dirt road and remained so until I was around 16 or 17 years of age. Now living a on a county dirt road has many advantages as well as disadvantages. Of course these are seen from different perspectives, depending upon the age of the observer.

STICK PONIES AND OUTLAWS:
From my earliest years, I remember long flowing stalks from the cane break near the house, stripping all but the top leaves to make the tail of the "horse", putting the cane between my legs, slapping my thigh until it was cherry pink, running up and down that road stirring a cloud of red dust, and shooting and fighting outlaws, cattle rustlers, and any other varmint that I had seen at the Royal Theater the Saturday before.It would take all week to restore justice on my road until I could go sit in Air Conditioned Heaven for another installment. 

HOT RODS:
As I grew older, I became interested in cars. THUNDER ROAD, starring Robert Mitchum, man what a thrill. Every boy worth his salt wanted to be him, running from the law, driving fast, his best girl waitin' at home--the stuff that dreams are made of. "thunder was his engine and white lightning was his load"

Mind you I was still just a kid (driving fast and evading the law didn't come until 1968, when I had arguably the fastest car in town), so our motley crew had to improvise. We would scour through every personal garbage dump in the area. In those days you took care of your own trash. In our area, most folks had a deep ditch or gully somewhere on their property that they just piled the trash in, sometimes burning it, sometimes not. We did not generate near the amount of trash as we do today, so this was usually a good method. On good hunts, we could find discarded baby buggies, lawn mowers, lots of other things with wheels. We would strip off the wheels and anything else that would prove useful as part of a race car.

Back home at our barn, we would locate the lumber needed, sometimes "borrowing" planks from the stalls. attach the back wheels to a fixed board/axle and the front wheels to a movable board with a rope for steering. Those racers usually looked like something from "THE LI'L RASCALS", mostly because we both had the same budget. We always tried to get matching size wheels for each axle if possible, but you have to take what comes along.  Some of those wheels were so mismatched that it would nearly shake you to death on smooth ground.

When we had made two of these beauties, we would pull them to the top of the hill, flip to see who got which rut; one was smoother than the other depending on the weather and such. Then, like in Olympic Bob Sledding, we would push our partner to a certain point and hope the thing held together to the bottom of the hill. We would then swap riders and repeat the process. This went on until, 1.we got too tired, 2. Mother called us for supper, or 3. either or both of the racers fell apart, which was usually the case. After a good night's rest, it was back to the barn and start over.

RIDING THE SCHOOL BUS:
In my early years of going to the Hogansville Schools, I rode the school bus. Back then the drivers owned their own buses and leased them to the County, which in turn provided bus service for county children going to Hogansville. Mr Thomas Evans was our driver. A good man and friend of the family, if you got out of line, you could only hope that he would let the principal give you the paddling you had coming and not wait until he got you home and tell one of your parents. Then you got TWO! One for misbehaving and one for embarrassing your parents. My Grandfather, Papa Cook to me, and Uncle Bob to the rest of the community always call the road scrapers, Rain Crows, because almost without fail they would scrape and loosen the dirt the day before it rained.  If it came a hard rain, or rained for several days, you need not expect to see the school bus stop at your driveway. Power Plant Road would become to muddy and slippery and the bus could not make it up the hill where we raced. At my house you had to wrap yourself up to stay a dry as possible and march yourself through the cow pasture (hoping that damn bull was penned up) and catch the bus on Corinth Road, and don't dally because if you missed the bus, you walked to school. I drive a school bus now and parents pitch a fit if the bus stops at the driveway next to them and not at theirs, a distance of 20-30 feet usually. WHAT A BUNCH OF PANSIES!

HOME MADE SLING-SHOTS:
This really has nothing to do with a dirt road, but it all happened while I lived there and I get to tell it my way. In my youth all tires had to have inner tubes to keep the tires inflated. They were made out of real rubber and much like rubber bands today, you could stretch a length of tubing from here to yonder. You cut about an inch wide strip, 2 feet long. With the leather tongue from an old pair of shoes, you take some "mill string" and attach the pouch to the rubber. NOTE: I got a very memorable whipping once for cutting the tongue out of my SUNDAY shoes, who knew my mother would notice? By weaving the end of the rubber between your fingers, pulling back as far as you could, and giving your holding hand a little "flip" a just the right time, you could knock a bird or squirrel out of a tree most times. Our gang (in the Spanky and Alfalfa sense of the word) did not hold with indiscriminate killing, so we looked for other targets. Usually while we were at the local trash dumps looking for "racing parts", any type of glass bottle found would be laid aside for just such times as target practice called for them. I make semi-true claims to be in the antique business today and I can tell you from my knowledge of antique glass, we must have busted a fortune in what was then trash and now is treasure.
One parting thought, when you cut up an old inner tube, make sure that it has lots of patches on it indicating it is in fact old. In my haste on day, I cut up a brand new one that Daddy was going to install that weekend. That was the last sling shot I ever made. My butt still hurts when I think about it.

THE MILK TRUCK:
When I was 9 or 10, Mr, John Cranston drove the milk delivery truck on our route, and did he ever drive fast. I grew up to be a teenage hellun and he had me beat! It was a short wheel base, squatty little truck, made just for the job. In the back were dozens of metal crates filled with quarts, pints, and half-pints of milk. There was also a young black boy who would fill the order as John barked the order to him.

Just past our driveway was a section of "corduroy" road. This is dirt road that has ruts washed into it from side to side resembling an old wash board. That section was also banked and in a curve, even I had respect for that bad section. One day here comes John like the Hounds of Hell are nipping at his heels. He hit that section of road, bouncing one way, then the other. Quicker than you could say, "Oh shoot!", that little truck was on its side. My brother Billy and I were playing in front yard along with the Caldwell boys, Paul and Johnathan. We ran down to see if John was dead or alive, just as he was crawling out. From the back of the truck we could hear faintly, "Mr. John, Mr. John, don't leave me!" How that boy kept his life that day is beyond me. There were metal crates tossed everywhere,milk bottles of all sizes in a pile, some broke some not. We helped the boy out, he seemed to be able to move every joint and miraculously only had a few little cuts. We helped him to sit down at the front of the truck. John said that he was going up to the house to use the phone. As we watched John limp up the driveway, the four of us boys looked at each other all at once. Without a word we went the back of the truck and started drinking half-pints of chocolate milk as fast as we could. We tossed several cases worth in the high weeds on the side of the road, later putting them in the cool stream that ran beside our house. When things calmed down, we rationed the rest of our booty and made it last nearly a week. We justified our larceny with the fact that by the time they got back to the dairy, all that milk would have spoiled and they would have thrown it out. Besides we returned the empties!

DURING THE CUBIAN MISSLE CRISIS WE DID OUR PART---SORT OF!

October, 1962, I was just a kid in a small town in West Georgia, but we grew up fast that year. All the "Super Powers" of the world were, it seemed, intent on blowing up the world to own it?!

If you are a "baby boomer" like I am, then you no doubt remember the atomic bomb proof school desks that we used to hide under during air raid drills. Some how I could never understand why we had to go out into the hall and kneel down against the lockers during a tornado alert, as our desk would not withstand strong winds, but would shield us from gamma rays and other things scientific.
I hope those guys at the school desk company worn correct protection when they tested those desks before shipment.

I once bought several hundred surplus school desks at a county auction. For a brief moment, I thought about taking the tops off and lining my house with them to shield me from the space rays that invade my head (I found that lining a baseball cap with tin foil is just effective AND less labor intensive--always a plus for me) so I traded them for a lawn mower and 2 weed-eaters.

Back at Hogansville High School, standing between the drive and the old water tower, was the Canning Plant. I was told that back before my time local farmers could bring their produce from their gardens and can the extra. WOW! Wouldn't that be great today, what with all the "Green" markets that are held everywhere from Hogansville to Atlanta. 


The cannery is long gone now, but back in 1962, someone came up with the idea to can water for everyone to put in their fall-out shelters. Sadly I do not know the details on this project, but it sure would be a great little piece of history for our little community. 


The head of the department for developing young men was Mr. V.R. Stephens. Actually he taught Shop and Agriculture. He was the sponsor for the F.F.A. and almost single-handedly turned young boys into young men. He was one of my boyhood heroes and I hope to do him justice in a blog soon. Mr. Stephens either was asked or volunteered to head up the canning project. I choose to believe that he volunteered--that was the kind of man that he was.

Because this was such an urgent project, Mr. Stephens would have his classes go to the canning plant to run the plant instead of sitting in class. This was good character development and we didn't even know it. It was a pretty straight forward process running the plant. You just had to boil the water and keep the cans on the assembly line and the automation handled the rest.

Now we come to the "fly in the ointment" of this story. Back then smoking was a big part of everyday life. If you got caught smoking at school, you didn't get sent to alternative school (there was no such thing then), Mr. Stephens, or any of the other teachers would give you 3 licks with a heavy paddle and send you on your way. Most of the women teachers usually sent you to one of the men, because the men could more punch into it. Mr. Stephens was especially against boys smoking and was on constant patrol.

Mr. Stephens should have know better than to leave us unattended to go back into the school. There was steam swirling around and coming out every window when someone said, "We could smoke a cigarette and no one would know." So before you could say," Fidel Castro don't love his mama", everybody had lit up.   

Well that was a dumb idea from the get-go. There wasn't 3 puffs taken of those cigarettes, when the look-out said, "Put out the cigarettes, here comes Mr. Stephens!" You gotta know we didn't have a plan of what to do after we lit up. Hell, teenage boys can't think that far ahead. Something to do with undeveloped DNA or something like that. At any rate, The Hand of Justice (Mr. Stephens) was coming and we were all holding! There was only one logical solution, throw all the cigarette butts in one of the cans going down the line and seal it before we get caught.


As soon as Mr. Stephens stepped through the door, he got that look on his face. Of course he smelled the cigarette smoke, he was a non-smoker to make matters worse. He never said a word, going all about the room looking for that tell-tale cigarette butt and the guilty party involved. He never mentioned the incident, he could not find his evidence.


Years later, I used to think of all sorts of scenarios of what would have happened if someone had needed that precious can of water and to have opened it up to find nearly a pack of half-smoked cigarettes. What a bunch of dumb bunnies we were!


The only thing that saved our sorry asses was that JFK called the Soviets bluff and they backed down. I am not a Democrat, but I was for "fourteen days in October!"

"THE LIGHT"

There are certain scientific principles that have been in effect since GOD created this planet. The one that this story concerns is "SWAMP GAS". This natural phenomenon is known by different names, depending on the region of the country that you are from.

FOXFIRE is the local name most given to this stuff. WEBSTER'S LEXICON DICTIONARY defines it as, "The phosphorescent light emitted by decaying timber infested with certain fungal growths; a fungus which causes decaying timber to emit such light."

All this is well and good, if the characters in this story had ever bothered to read a dictionary, or a book for that matter. Such are the ingredients for urban legends, although this "LEGEND" happened in the woods, miles from anywhere.

Off to the side of a dirt road named PIKE ROAD, in the rural, far reaches of HEARD COUNTY, GEORGIA, the groundwork for our tale unfolds. Sometime around 1960, the stage was set; someone, either poachers or moonshiners, had hung a braided steel cable from the limb of a large oak tree. Nearby some discarded wood lay, decaying and fermenting into the ingredients needed for the swamp gas that was to appear years later.

There is no clear beginning to the sightings of the SWAMP GAS CREATURE'. It was, in all probability, first discovered and dismissed, by area "coon" hunters. This is a Southern sport and tradition that can only be conducted after dark. Many a young child earned his manhood on his first coon hunt. For you see, coon hunting in my youth was a reason for men to get together: to hunt, drink, and play practical jokes on the innocent boys that went along for the excitement.

I would  not be surprised to learn that 'THE LIGHT'  had been known for many years by the hunters and was probably one of the many scary tricks that was played on the first timers.

What is known by me is that sometime after 1962, guys started taking their dates to see "THE LIGHT" in an effort to get hugged closely by the frightened girls. I say, after 1962, because that is the year that CLAUDINE CLARK released her hit single, PARTY LIGHTS, the song that was often sung when the mysterious light of Heard County was mentioned.

Well as most innocent things usually begin, it was guys scaring their dates, as already mentioned. Then along comes the macho factor, with young men daring others to go up to the tree, etc. Young men, who by the way, carried guns (this, after all was in the 60's before gun control or registration) and moonshine, that was easier to get than whiskey. A bad trio; guns, alcohol, and fear!

Let me stop here to set the stage for one would see when visiting the "THE LIGHT" on the perfect night. I do not remember all the science behind why it worked, but several things had to come together to make this a remarkable site. One that would even make the hair on the back of the head of an informed person rise.

First, as mentioned at the beginning, decaying wood with the proper fungus had to be present.
Second, the proximity of the oak tree, oak having the best ability to attract electrons; stand next to one with "cloud lightning" around and see for yourself.
Third, the steel cable and however close to the ground it was.
Fourth, the humidity, air pressure, or whatever meteorological elements had to come together to make the "creature" come to life.
This usually happened after midnight in the summer time. I always thought that was because it took a long time for the ground to cool off and the conditions to get right.

When everything finally converged, this is what you would see; the strange formation of a pale green light or vapor at the source of the decaying wood. It would travel over the ground to the nearby oak tree (being attracted to it to be more exact), up the tree, out on the limb, and down the wire. There it would quickly dissipate while a new batch was formed and repeated the route. This would continue until conditions of the weather changed and it would suddenly stop, usually only lasting for a few minutes on the nights that it happened at all.

Like most things in life, waiting for an event to happen, whether it be good or bad, causes much anxiety. This was certainly the case when this was thought to be "supernatural". Also at this time I need to tell you that the people sitting on the hoods of their cars, drinking homemade courage, carrying guns, and without the benefit of science or common sense, are to be feared. I mean what person in their right mind would think you could shoot and kill a light, no matter what caliber weapon you used. In my opinion, the tire pressure of their pick up trucks was usually higher that the I.Q.'s of these gun totin', shine drinkin', morons waiting on the "boogy man"! 

And as would happen, the crowd would usually start to gather early, with some alcohol being consumed, followed by who has the best gun (war stories abound at such gatherings--I call them pissing contests). The mostly abandoned girls would turn to talking amongst themselves, with someone tuning in a car radio the local rock 'n roll station. The neglected girls would dance with themselves in the beam of the car headlights. Then some guy would get interested and cut-in to dance with a girl, most often the wrong girl. Then nature takes over and the when the boyfriend sees a guy with his girl, his manhood is threatened and the laws of red-neck love dictate that said boyfriend start a fight. After that the only lights seen that night are blue and attached to the Sheriff's car.

By the time I became aware of this weekly event, the crowds had grown to be rather large by Heard County standards. I do seem to recall seeing as many as 100 or so cars/trucks/pulpwood trucks stretched along that dirt road. I don't recall that many cars at our home football games and we drew the crowds back then. I guess it depends on what you have to offer the people as to whether you can get their interests.

Well, like I have said in the past, you throw a few rednecks in the stew and it will go sour quick. The Saturday Night Event (and for some reason only Saturday) soon evolved into a reason to go out on a dirt road to drink and start a fight.

Sheriff Virgil Bledsoe was as fine a sheriff and gentleman as you would ever want to meet. He knew that there was not much to keep people entertained back in those days and a little drinking and a couple of licks passed didn't amount to much. But remember I said that there were rednecks in the woodpile, and their sole purpose in life is to screw up everything for everybody else. So when there started to be gunfire at nearly every gathering, the sheriff had enough.

He ordered a local pulpwood crew to go out and cut down the 'TREE" and everything within 100 feet around it. I don't know if the sheriff knew who owned the land or even cared. He meant to put a stop to the disorderly conduct before someone got hurt. That was pretty much how things were handled back in that day.

A short time after that, someone came in and "clear-cut" the property, meaning that they cut down everything, plowed up the stumps, and had tree planters come in and replant everything. Well this plowing action naturally disrupted the swamp gas, never to rise again in that location.

I remember some 15 years later when I went to work for Franklin Police Department, I asked Sheriff Bledsoe about the LIGHT and he still cussed "them stupid s.o.b.'s".

THE LIGHT IS GONE--BUT NOT THE MEMORIES!

.

JULY 4th- BOTH A HAPPY & SAD DAY FOR ME!

July 4th has always been both a happy and a sad day for me. Of course, it is happy, for it reminds me of all the men and women who put their lives and fortune on the line for my freedom. A freedom that many take for granted, but that is part of freedom, I guess.

Then there is the sadness that comes with this day. The above photo is that of my Great-Great-Grandfather: COLONEL DAUGEREAU  BONNEFONTE COOK.  He was affectionately known as: WILD HORSE COOK by the men under his command.

On July 4th, 1863, in one of the many unnamed battles of the WAR OF NORTHERN AGGRESSION, my ancestor lost his life in a most horrific manner.

 A FOURTH OF JULY truce was thought to have been in effect. Having been surprised by the sneaky, ill-mannered, and most likely, fatherless YANKEES, the Colonel ordered the brave soldiers to advance---to the rear! Without giving thought to his own personal safety, he turned swiftly to begin the charge to the rear.

Unseen, by this the bravest of Confederate Officers, were strewn about the ground, abundant amount of bottles, once holding the night before, what can only be described as "SOUTHERN COMFORT".

Stepping upon one, then another, the hapless man of courage became a victim of physics and the laws of science. His feet flew high over his head, his head in turn knocking down the main tent pole, which fell into the the camp fire, which blazed up and set the Colonel's coat on fire.

As he was running away from the inferno, flames trailing, a wagon loaded with "ladies of the evening"(that had stopped by the night before to administer the said beverages), ran over the poor man and trampled him to death.

Not to give credit to the enemy, but that yellow dog SHERMAN was correct when he said,

WAR IS HELL!

All-in-all, I guess that things worked out for the best. When my Great-Great-Grandmother: Mrs. HATTIE BELLE JANICE COOK, heard what had happened, they say she pitched a hissy-fit to end all hissy-fits. It was so bad in fact, the slaves were praying, "LAWD, gives us liberty or gives us death, but we'uns got to have some relief!" 

So as I sit back tonight and shoot fireworks that are illegal in Georgia, I too, like the slaves of old pray that you get the relief that you seek!

HAPPY 4th of JULY! 

 

THE VOODOO CHICKEN!

THE VOODOO CHICKEN

YOU CAN SAY THAT YOU ARE NOT SUPERSTITIOUS, BUT IF THAT WAS THE WAY YOU WERE RAISED, IT'S HARD, SO VERY HARD TO OVERCOME. IT IS A SUBCONSCIOUS REFLEX TO THE THINGS THAT "GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT". TO SOME DEGREE WE ALL ARE AFRAID OF THINGS THAT WE CAN NOT SEE OR EXPLAIN, IT IS JUST HUMAN NATURE. THEN THERE ARE THOSE THAT LET SUPERSTITION GUIDE THEIR LIVES.


IN THE EARLY 1970'S, I WORKED AT THE NEWNAN POLICE DEPARTMENT. IT WAS AT A TIME BEFORE ALL THE URBAN SPRAWL THAT IS NOW PART OF NEWNAN. BACK THEN THE SHIFT CHANGE AT THE FACTORIES WAS AT 11pm. AT THAT TIME EVERYTHING THAT HAD BEEN OPEN CLOSED; GAS STATIONS(THERE WERE NO CONVENIENCE STORES), BURGER JOINTS, BEER JOINTS, EVERYTHING. AS A MATTER OF FACT, THE DAY THE "YELLOW BOY", A STYLE OF WAFFLE HOUSE, OPENED ALL-NIGHT IN NEWNAN, WE ALL THOUGHT WE HAD COME OF AGE.

THIS STORY TAKES PLACE WHEN THINGS CLOSED AT 11pm AND THERE WAS NOT A MORSEL OF FOOD TO BE HAD BEFORE 5am THE NEXT MORNING AT HAWK'S CAFE ON JACKSON STREET.
HERE IS HOW THE HIERARCHY OF OUR POLICE DEPARTMENT WENT. THE LIEUTENANT AND WHO EVER WAS RIDING WITH HIM GOT TO GO FIRST FOR CHOW OR COFFEE BREAKS. THE SERGEANT AND WHO EVER WAS WITH HIM GOT TO TO GO NEXT AND SO ON BY SENIORITY. THE LT. WAS STICKLER FOR KEEPING WITHIN THE TIME LIMITS, AS THE DEPARTMENT WAS STRICT ABOUT THIS. OF COURSE, AS WITH ANY GROUP OF GUYS THAT WORK AND PLAY TOGETHER, YOU COULD SWAP AROUND THE BREAK ORDER IF THE LT. WAS IN A GOOD MOOD.

ONE OF THE JOBS ON THE POLICE DEPARTMENT IN NEWNAN WAS "WALKING THE SQUARE", THIS SIMPLY MEANT MAKING SEVERAL ROUNDS ON FOOT, CHECKING ALL THE WINDOWS AND DOORS IN THE DOWNTOWN AREA. MOST GUYS HATED IT AND WOULD "PIMP YOU OUT" TO GET OUT OF THEIR TURN ON THE SQUARE. I, ON THE OTHER HAND, LOOKED FORWARD TO IT AND WOULD EVEN VOLUNTEER, MAKING LT. SMITH WONDER WHAT I WAS UP TO (MORE TALES ON THAT AT A LATER DATE). STROLLING AROUND TOWN, NOT HAVING TO ANSWER STUPID CALLS OR CHECK THE HUBCAPS AT THE CAR LOTS, OR EVERY WINDOW AT EVERY SCHOOL, AND A DOZEN OTHER MUNDANE THINGS. YOU ALSO DID NOT HAVE TO WRITE TICKETS ON SQUARE DUTY. REGARDLESS OF WHAT YOU HAVE BEEN TOLD OR BELIEVE, DEPARTMENTS EXPECT EACH OFFICER TO WRITE A MINIMUM OF TICKETS-----GET IT!

ONE PARTICULARLY UNEVENTFUL SUMMER NIGHT I WAS ON THE SQUARE MAKING MY APPOINTED ROUNDS. NOW AS I HAVE SAID, THEY ROLLED UP THE SIDEWALKS BEFORE MIDNIGHT AND IT WAS UNUSUAL FOR TRAFFIC TO COME ACROSS THE SQUARE, MAKING GUARDING MY POST THAT MUCH EASIER. THE ONLY CONSTANT WERE THE CHICKEN TRUCKS, WHICH OPERATE AFTER DARK FOR SPECIAL REASONS. IF YOU ARE ON THE HIGHWAY MUCH AT ALL AND HAVE EVER NOTICED THOSE TRUCKS, YOU MIGHT HAVE OBSERVED THAT THE CHICKENS ARE ALMOST ALWAYS WHITE. SOMETHING ELSE THAT WAS CONSTANT IN THE DAYS WHEN THEY STILL USED WOODEN CRATES, YOU COULD ALWAYS SEE A STRAY BIRD OR TWO ON TOP OF THE TRUCK. AS THE TRUCK WOULD COME INTO TOWN, MAKING STOPS AT THE LIGHTS, THE BRAVEST OF THE POULTRY WOULD MAKE THEIR ESCAPE. AFTER HAVING BEEN TRANSPORTED IN A SQUATTING POSITION (THIS KEEPS THEM FROM RUNNING OFF AT THE PROCESSING PLANT), WHEN THEY MAKE THEIR JUMP IT IS HARD FOR THEM TO EVADE THE EVER WATCHFUL POLICE OFFICER THAT WANTS A FREE CHICKEN DINNER.

EVERY SO OFTEN, LIKE THAT ONCE IN A BLUE MOON THING, THERE WILL BE A CHICKEN THAT IS NOT WHITE. ON THE NIGHT OF THIS STORY, IT WAS A BLACK CHICKEN THAT I FOUND TRYING TO START A NEW LIFE AWAY FROM THE CAMPBELL'S SOUP FACTORY. IT TOOK NO SPECIAL EFFORT TO GRAB THE BEAST. NOW I LIKE CHICKEN AS WELL AS THE NEXT PERSON, HOWEVER, I DO NOT LIKE PROCESSING THE FOWL. I CALLED LT. SMITH TO MEET ME ON THE SQUARE AND OFFERED THE BIRD TO HIM. HE HAD OTHER THINGS TO DO AFTER HE GOT OFF DUTY AND DECIDED THAT HE DID NOT NEED IT EITHER. I SAID AS HOW I HATED TO WASTE THE CHICKEN, WE SHOULD OFFER IT TO ROB (SGT. ROBERT EDGEWORTH). LT. SMITH AGREED AS A SLY SMILE CAME ACROSS HIS FACE.
"CAR 1 TO CAR 2."
"CAR2, GO AHEAD LT. SMITH."
"ROB, YOU AND GRIFFIN (OFFICER WALTER GRIFFIN) GO AHEAD TO BREAKFAST FIRST, I DON'T THINK I'M GOING TODAY."
"WELL, AH, OK, THANKS."

ALTHOUGH THIS WAS VERY OUT OF CHARACTER FOR LT. DAVID SMITH, ROB AND WALTER NONETHELESS TOOK HIM UP ON HIS OFFER AND AT 5am, WHEN THE CAFE OPENED, PULLED UP AND WENT IN. ANOTHER TRADITION THAT WE HAD WAS THAT WHOEVER DROVE FIRST WOULD SWITCH OUT AFTER CHOW. WELL THE SGT. HAD BEEN DRIVING THE FIRST LEG AS WAS HIS CUSTOM AND LT. SMITH KNEW THAT HE WOULD HAVE WALTER DRIVE AFTER THEY ATE. THE LT. AND I WERE HIDING IN THE SHADOWS WHEN THE POLICE CRUISER PULLED UP IN FRONT OF THE CAFE. WE COULD SEE THEM INSIDE AS THEY ATE, THEY COULD NOT SEE US THOUGH. WE WALKED AS QUIETLY AS POSSIBLE TO THEIR CAR AND THE LT. OPENED THE DOOR ON THE PASSENGER'S SIDE AS I PLACED THE BLACK CHICKEN ON THE BLACK FLOOR MAT AND IT SEEMED TO DISAPPEAR. WE WERE GOING TO HAVE A GREAT LAUGH WHEN ROB STEPPED ON THE CHICKEN.

THAT SON-OF-A-BITCH BIRD REGAINED ENOUGH MOBILITY TO CRAWL OVER THE TRANSMISSION HUMP AND LODGE ITSELF UNDER THE BRAKE PEDAL. ROB AND WALTER CAME OUT OF THE CAFE DEAD ON TIME, LAUGHING AT A JOKE ONE OF THEM HAD JUST TOLD. JUST AS WALTER SAT BEHIND THE STEERING WHEEL, HE DEPRESSED THE BRAKE PEDAL AS HE WAS ABOUT TO START THE CAR. THAT CHICKEN LET OUT A DEATH SQUAWK THAT COULD SURELY HAVE BEEN HEARD ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE SQUARE. AT THE SAME TIME WALTER BOLTED OUT OF THE CAR, HOPPING ON HIS LEFT LEG LIKE IT WAS A POGO STICK, DREW HIS .357 MAGNUM AND FIRED A SHOT INTO THE FLOOR BOARD. DID I FORGET TO MENTION THAT WALTER WAS WOUND A LITTLE TOO TIGHT? FOR THAT REASON ALONE WE WOULD NOT HAVE PUT THE CHICKEN ON HIS SIDE. AND THEN THERE WAS OLD ROB, FULL OF BREAKFAST, WANTING TO LIGHT UP HIS PIPE, WHEN A CRAZY ROOKIE SHOOTS A HOLE IN THE FLOOR OF A CAR ISSUED TO HIM.

OOPS! THE EVER QUICK THINKING LT. TOLD THE ONLY OTHER CUSTOMER AT THE CAFE AS HE CAME OUT TO SEE WHAT WAS GOING ON THAT THE POLICE CAR HAD JUMPED TIME AND WAS BACKFIRING. HE TOLD WALTER AND ROB TO MEET HIM AT THE OFFICE.

AT THE POLICE DEPARTMENT, LT. SMITH SWITCHED THE FLOOR MATS WITH THOSE OF ANOTHER CAR TO COVER THE BULLET HOLE. PROBLEM SOLVED! YOU MIGHT THINK THAT THIS WOULD BE A BIG DEAL, BUT BELIEVE ME, THIS WAS NOTHING COMPARED TO SOME OF THE THINGS THAT WENT ON THERE.

WELL, "DEAD-EYE" GRIFFIN AND HIS CANNON MISSED THE CHICKEN COMPLETELY AND ROB, NOT WANTING TO WASTE THE CHICKEN, TOOK IT AND PUT IN A BOX ON THE BACK OF HIS TRUCK. EVERYTHING BACK TO NORMAL, THE LT. AND I WENT TO BREAKFAST. ON THE WAY HOME, ROB GOT TO THINKING OF ALL THAT HE HAD TO DO, SO HE STOPPED AT THE TRAILER OF A GUY THAT WORKED FOR HIM SOMETIMES. SINCE IT WAS STILL EARLY, ROB JUST PUT THE CHICKEN BETWEEN THE THE SCREEN AND THE DOOR AND WENT ON HOME AND DID NOT GIVE IT ANOTHER THOUGHT, HIS GOOD DEED FOR THE DAY BEING DONE.

A FEW WEEKS LATER ROB STOPPED AT THE SAME TRAILER TO GE THE MAN TO HELP HIM DO SOME FARM WORK. THE TRAILER WAS EMPTY, DOORS STANDING OPEN, NO SIGN OF LIFE TO BE FOUND. AS ROB STOOD THERE SCRATCHING HIS HEAD, WONDERING WHAT WAS GOING ON, THE MAN NEXT DOOR CAME UP.
"HEY, WHAT HAPPENED TO OLE WALLY? I NEEDED HIM TO HELP ME PULL STUMPS TODAY."
"OH, MR. ROB, IT'S BAD, IT'S REAL BAD! SOMEBODY DONE PUT THE VOODOO CURSE ON HIM!"
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, SAM?"
"WELL, IN THE NIGHT WHILE EVERYBODY WAS SLEEPING, SOMEBODY SNEAKED UP ON THE PORCH AND PUT A BLACK CHICKEN ON HIS DOOR. THAT MEANS SOMEBODIES GONNA DIE IF THEY STAY THERE. HELL, THEY WAS PACKED UP AND GONE BY LUNCHTIME!"

AS ROB DROVE OFF, HE JUST SHOOK HIS HEAD AND MUTTERED, "THAT DAMN CHICKEN."


larrycook351@gmail.com 
706-302-8902