"Schoolin' Shitheels Since 1957" ...
Posted: 21 Jan 2010 02:26
When I was ten year old, I was sent to spend a part of the summer
with my Aunt Alma in Northeast Arkansas, on the flatlands up near
the Mississippi River. My Uncle Ed had recently suffered a stroke,
and while he had maintained his speech and motor control for the
most part, he was still doin poorly, and my momma thought he'd
most likely work hisself into another spell trying to keep up their
summer garden. So I pretty much just got indentured.
They lived "in town" back then, meaning they resided in a small
collection of houses, as opposed to deep in the woods somewheres,
and there was a church and a general store and a Phillips66 gasoline
station and everything.
But like most folks back then, my Uncle Ed & Aunt Alma maintained
a large vegetable garden in the lot next to their little house. I
later found out that this garden had been started during the war as
a "Victory Garden", and kept up year after year. (After Aunt Alma
passed away, one of her ungrateful children sold the lot for development,
and the historic garden was buried under the foundation of a new
big house. Later, all that property was sold; Aunt Alma's Victory
Garden now lies under a Wal-mart parking lot.)
That summer, as it was my whole childhood, the garden was almost half
okra, which we pronounced "O-kree", but I'll spare y'all the colloquial
spellings, quaint tho they may be.
The reason for this over-specialization in this one garden vegetable was
simply that my Uncle Ed loved him some okra. I mean loved that shit.
Now, as a boy, I could fair-well tolerate some fried okra, but that ain't
sayin much; hell, everythin's good fried. But Uncle Ed loved that
boiled okra; that slimey, slippery, chewy nasty-ass boiled
okra.
And I ain't just sayin he liked it well & good, and enjoyed it when Aunt
Alma would serve him it, I mean he ate that boiled okra all the damn
time, and I ain't kiddin. Sumbitch actually would eat up a bowl of
boiled okra for breakfast, cold, straight out of the pot still
a-sittin on the stove from supper the night before.
For years & years, Ed would take a goddamn thermos of boiled okra to
work with him, or sitting up in a deer stand, or floating in the back
waters in his flat-bottom boat. Man loved his okra.
I got to likin it too, after a while, especially when my momma or Aunt
Alma would dose it with a few table spoons of pepper juice. Didn't care as
much for boiled okra with just vinegar, then or now, but that pepper
juice that had that bite to it, like fryin up stuff, made just
about everything better. (My favorite is still that stinging-hot pepper
juice in black-eyed peas.)(Uncle Ed hated black-eyed peas, and I never
did understand that...)
Uncle Ed, like most folks around there, kept a pack of mean wild dogs
around his place. Mebbe "kept" is a strong word, as nobody would actually
lay claim to ownership of this collection of vicious, undisciplined mess
of mixed-breed mongrels, and they roamed the town from house to house,
living off whatever scraps the kind-hearted townsfolk'd toss from their
back porches.
Now one morning, after my Uncle Ed had wandered off where-ever it was he
had a mind to wander off to, Aunt Alma told me to toss them dogs that
left-over okra; and I gave her the Hairy Eyeball, cause I didn't know
much at ten year old, but I sure knew enough not to fuck with Ed's okra.
But Alma said she was cookin him up a fresh mess of okra and to quit looking
at her that-a-way, and get on and do what I was told. So I did.
Now them dogs were right in-between being dogs and feral monsters - they
understood they was just too stupid to fend much for themselves and had to
depend on people for their meager grub, but they weren't too happy about
waitin around for their issue.
So when they seen me steppin off the porch a-holding that pot, they came
rushin at me like Whore to the River on Judgment Day, all snappin and
snarlin and slobberin, and me bein just a ten year old boy, I wasn't
in no mood to fool with them so I just held the pot up as high as I could
and poured that mess of cold, slimey okra out.
Now the first dog that had gotten to me was already a-yelpin and snarlin
and snappin, and that mess of slimey boiled okra slid out the pot and
straight into his gaping mouth.
And bein slippery, slimey boiled okra, it just slid right down his throat
and between the snarlin and snappin, he done swallowed up that shit and
didn't even realize it.
Now, that dog knew he had seen me hold that pot up and he knew he'd smelt
somethin and he mighta thought he'd seen that old food comin out of the
pot, but where it mighta went, well, he didn't have a clue, and he kinda
looked around confused for a second and them other dogs were all a-snarlin
and a-snappin and a-jumpin and howlin, too.
Well, right then, that dog decided that he had seen that food and it
had been comin right at him and just up and disappeared. So in his dog's
brain, he came up with the notion the dog next to him must've
snatched that food right from his mouth, so he turned and bit that dog
hard, hard now, right on the head.
well, that dog didn't know what the fuck was going on, he had
just come up to the porch with the rest of 'em to see what was to eat, and he'd
never seen nothin to eat atall, and now this sumbitch done bit him on the head,
so he turned and bit the dog next to him.
Which caused that dog to bit the next one, and so on and so on, until finally
there was just one big roiling mess of dog a-bitin and scratchin and snappin
going round and round in the yard, and not one of them dogs knew what they
was a-fightin about ....
s'anyway, I told you that story to tell you this one ....
with my Aunt Alma in Northeast Arkansas, on the flatlands up near
the Mississippi River. My Uncle Ed had recently suffered a stroke,
and while he had maintained his speech and motor control for the
most part, he was still doin poorly, and my momma thought he'd
most likely work hisself into another spell trying to keep up their
summer garden. So I pretty much just got indentured.
They lived "in town" back then, meaning they resided in a small
collection of houses, as opposed to deep in the woods somewheres,
and there was a church and a general store and a Phillips66 gasoline
station and everything.
But like most folks back then, my Uncle Ed & Aunt Alma maintained
a large vegetable garden in the lot next to their little house. I
later found out that this garden had been started during the war as
a "Victory Garden", and kept up year after year. (After Aunt Alma
passed away, one of her ungrateful children sold the lot for development,
and the historic garden was buried under the foundation of a new
big house. Later, all that property was sold; Aunt Alma's Victory
Garden now lies under a Wal-mart parking lot.)
That summer, as it was my whole childhood, the garden was almost half
okra, which we pronounced "O-kree", but I'll spare y'all the colloquial
spellings, quaint tho they may be.
The reason for this over-specialization in this one garden vegetable was
simply that my Uncle Ed loved him some okra. I mean loved that shit.
Now, as a boy, I could fair-well tolerate some fried okra, but that ain't
sayin much; hell, everythin's good fried. But Uncle Ed loved that
boiled okra; that slimey, slippery, chewy nasty-ass boiled
okra.
And I ain't just sayin he liked it well & good, and enjoyed it when Aunt
Alma would serve him it, I mean he ate that boiled okra all the damn
time, and I ain't kiddin. Sumbitch actually would eat up a bowl of
boiled okra for breakfast, cold, straight out of the pot still
a-sittin on the stove from supper the night before.
For years & years, Ed would take a goddamn thermos of boiled okra to
work with him, or sitting up in a deer stand, or floating in the back
waters in his flat-bottom boat. Man loved his okra.
I got to likin it too, after a while, especially when my momma or Aunt
Alma would dose it with a few table spoons of pepper juice. Didn't care as
much for boiled okra with just vinegar, then or now, but that pepper
juice that had that bite to it, like fryin up stuff, made just
about everything better. (My favorite is still that stinging-hot pepper
juice in black-eyed peas.)(Uncle Ed hated black-eyed peas, and I never
did understand that...)
Uncle Ed, like most folks around there, kept a pack of mean wild dogs
around his place. Mebbe "kept" is a strong word, as nobody would actually
lay claim to ownership of this collection of vicious, undisciplined mess
of mixed-breed mongrels, and they roamed the town from house to house,
living off whatever scraps the kind-hearted townsfolk'd toss from their
back porches.
Now one morning, after my Uncle Ed had wandered off where-ever it was he
had a mind to wander off to, Aunt Alma told me to toss them dogs that
left-over okra; and I gave her the Hairy Eyeball, cause I didn't know
much at ten year old, but I sure knew enough not to fuck with Ed's okra.
But Alma said she was cookin him up a fresh mess of okra and to quit looking
at her that-a-way, and get on and do what I was told. So I did.
Now them dogs were right in-between being dogs and feral monsters - they
understood they was just too stupid to fend much for themselves and had to
depend on people for their meager grub, but they weren't too happy about
waitin around for their issue.
So when they seen me steppin off the porch a-holding that pot, they came
rushin at me like Whore to the River on Judgment Day, all snappin and
snarlin and slobberin, and me bein just a ten year old boy, I wasn't
in no mood to fool with them so I just held the pot up as high as I could
and poured that mess of cold, slimey okra out.
Now the first dog that had gotten to me was already a-yelpin and snarlin
and snappin, and that mess of slimey boiled okra slid out the pot and
straight into his gaping mouth.
And bein slippery, slimey boiled okra, it just slid right down his throat
and between the snarlin and snappin, he done swallowed up that shit and
didn't even realize it.
Now, that dog knew he had seen me hold that pot up and he knew he'd smelt
somethin and he mighta thought he'd seen that old food comin out of the
pot, but where it mighta went, well, he didn't have a clue, and he kinda
looked around confused for a second and them other dogs were all a-snarlin
and a-snappin and a-jumpin and howlin, too.
Well, right then, that dog decided that he had seen that food and it
had been comin right at him and just up and disappeared. So in his dog's
brain, he came up with the notion the dog next to him must've
snatched that food right from his mouth, so he turned and bit that dog
hard, hard now, right on the head.
well, that dog didn't know what the fuck was going on, he had
just come up to the porch with the rest of 'em to see what was to eat, and he'd
never seen nothin to eat atall, and now this sumbitch done bit him on the head,
so he turned and bit the dog next to him.
Which caused that dog to bit the next one, and so on and so on, until finally
there was just one big roiling mess of dog a-bitin and scratchin and snappin
going round and round in the yard, and not one of them dogs knew what they
was a-fightin about ....
s'anyway, I told you that story to tell you this one ....