By Otis Griffin
How many times have you just sat and wondered how is it that I’m still in one piece? Did you ever fall out of a hayloft accidentally or maybe you had a little assistance from one of your dear friends? We were so small the ground seemed like it was a million miles away. Maybe we put Sky King to shame flailing through the air. Friends, for you folks that have been under a root cellar all yo’ life at one time there were barns that stored hay, corn that had to be shucked, milking stalls, farrowing pens, barrels of ‘shorts’ (heh, heh let some them Harvard city slickers ‘figger’ that’un out). Tell that to some of today’s modernization and watch ’em look at you just like you just slapped them in the noggin with bowl of boiled, dehydrated chit’lins. Remember how the landing-pad when diving out of the loft, would be harder than an ex-mother-in-law’s heart? Or possibly kind of messy as we say in the South, caused by the rains mixed in what you find in a barnyard. Only my Country brethren can relate. Either way, you done had a Bad Day at Black Rock.
I guess it was ‘pert nigh’ a miracle all of us didn’t have more broken bones and skint split hides than we might admit.
