By Otis Griffin
Ain’t it surprising how time kind of slip-slides away? No one seems to have time to enjoy life anymore as everyone seems to be in all fired hurry. For what? Please tell me as I must be missing a sackful. My country folks understand, that ain’t real good grammar, but it is redneck communicable.
Evidently I am lost as a one-eyed goose in a windy, hail storm flying back’ards. Years ago when the philosophers had control of the metropolis of Rosemark, we got quite an education in the art of medicine, curing, healing and a few other intellectual studies. Thank goodness, we were not charged outrageous prices for the profound statements.
Thinking back, I actually believe the intellectual Sages enjoyed conveying this information to us gully jumpers as the stories surely attracted our attention. We would listen for hours and try to absorb a little. I ‘suspicioned’ years later they poured it on us so thick we had to wear it! Yep, the little heathen boys were just eating this up. Similar to grabbing that crumbly Martha White cathead and sopping some sweet milk gravy out of Momma’s breakfast plate.
Mr. Bright was relaying one of his tales about a ‘carbuncle’. Relive the past and believe it or not, at one time, all grape vine swingers kept their mouth shut and listened. Don’t interrupt or question what the grown folks spit out. It was the law. If you chunked in yo’ miserable two-bits or so, there was a strong possibility yo’ adenoids would relocate close to yo’ knee caps after a back-handed attention getter. Could I hear an Amen?
Neighbor, quietly all were very attentive. We knew what a car was and Mr. Bright can’t fool us. All of us had ridden in cars, although quite possibly hunched on a floppy running board and hanging on for dear life hugging the door. Many times we navigated in a turtle-shell with both hands over our heads to keep the heavy lid from delivering knots on our young noggins. This was better than bare-footing it on the hot, bubbly, asphalt tar blacktop.
Beloved, we were just little kids trying to act like we knew what the grownups were talking about. We had ridden on, or in; tractors, cotton wagons, hay balers, turning plows, gravel dump trucks and knew their function along with appearance. But a car……buncle? What is a buncle?
We were going to ‘figger’ this new word out. Certainly we didn’t want the philosophers to know what we didn’t know, so our group held a meeting away from the store porch out under the big oak shade tree trying to decipher this high-tech question. Being the deep thinker he was noted for, Lynn thought he had the answer. “I know what it is.” Phil asked, “ just what?” With Lynn holding his hands, back then, about two feet apart said, “it’s that shiny white bar in front of Daddy’s car that sticks out.” Paul agreed, “sure is, I done seen it too.” Rabbit wanted to know, “what’s it for, if’n you so smart?”
Lynn had the podium, and replied, “Well in case a hog, cow or a stray dog runs out in the road and Daddy broadsides it real good, the car won’t get hurt.” In unison, heads nodding, we all agreed.
We were so proud and congratulated each other on our smarts. With our cotton top heads held high and I’m sure a smirk on our faces, we eased quietly back to the store porch knowing exactly what Mr. Bright was expounding to the attentive congregation.
But there was a new direction. He had extracted his ancient knife (to us) from his pants pocket, opened the razor sharp blade, and displaying the shiny small sword up high like he was going to gut a newly killed hog. Continuing his dialogue to the attentive group, Mr. Bright formed a circle with his left hand and commenced (what we assumed) to slice an invisible tube of sausage. At least, that is what we thought. Why would he slice the shiny metal on the front of the car? Is Mr. Bright Funning Us? — GLORY!
— What do you think? Send Letters to the Editor to email@example.com.