By Otis Griffin
Folks are so busy nowadays, they actually forget where they’re from, where they’re going and in some cases what in the world are they gonna’ do when they get there.
When is the last moment you had time, or even thought about reflecting on the notion of where you come up? If you can get someone slowed down long enough, well just hit ’em with, “where were you raised at?” They will probably just gaze at you as if you just transcended from a half filled hay loft without a parachute.
In many cases, today’s society would have to stop and think about the beautiful, rich sounding, high falooting, aristocratic, invented high dollar name. See, some folks want this title of the former cotton field, or possibly a white faced milk cow pasture before it was blade graded down to construct as a dwelling location, to sound important and distinguished. Us ole pore rednecks didn’t need no fancy name.
Neighbor, most of the older generation can look back and proudly relate to where and why they resided at certain locations. I was so young when Momma and Daddy bought the house in Rosemark that it made no difference to me as long as I could play ball, eat and sleep. Life was simple at one time.
Ever heard, “do the days get longer and the years shorter?” Only several decades ago each schoolmate I grew up with proudly expounded their respected home place. We never stopped and thought about it, but we left the nest mostly due to jobs and charged into the big ole world. While the parents finally set up housekeeping and most would remain entrenched. Joyfully I can say I always had a place to come home to as did Arvis, Emerson, Phil, Tommy, Charlotte Faye, Claire and Andra.
Reminisce under the shady Maple tree in the front yard and most likely each have visited and in many occasions spent the night (no sleep) in your fellow friends dwelling. Sad to say, but it’s not often when you congregate with your previous school mates but when you happenstance it won’t be long before the past will be generated.
Tales are spun and embarrassment begins especially if the grandkids are eavesdropping. Remember when you busted me with that soaked corn cob and gave me a wep? You held the elm limbs back and slapped me in the face. Yo’ Momma had to sew ’em britches you snagged on the warped nail in the stall. How about the bent rusty nail in yo’ bare foot and you were scared to get a jaw (tetanus but we afraid we would get lock jaw) shot?
Yep, the big ole mean boys hid our clothes while we were skinny dipping at Mud Hollow. The past is very heartwarming to all my dear friends as the occurrences took place at our respective home places.
The proof is in the puddin’. Just ask a young person where he grew up and mostly likely he’ll have to study on it for a few minutes. In most cases it really doesn’t really seem to matter. However our generation has extremely strong ties to our heritage and coming up. We hear things have changed for the better. But some things never change and that is the yard dirt under a Southerners’ tootsies they treaded on many years ago. Just take a redneck back home where he belongs…Glory!
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