Percy Sledge, best known for his original rendition of "When A Man Loves A Woman" passed away in Baton Rouge, on April 14th, from complications of liver cancer.
Click Here for a remembrance of Percy's great recording from 1966
$ $ ? Vote for me!
I was thinking the other night about all this machination regarding presidential candidates, money raised, how raised, and the morality of fund raising and the candidate's motives for seeking office. The long and the short of “it” is who cares, after the fact?
In parallel to the political seasons, I’ve gone through my personal debate about national politics for at least twenty years. I seriously doubt that my opinions have influenced more than five people, at best. That includes me, myself & I! Never once have I received a “Thank You” note from a candidate of choice unless it was mimeographed. Never have I been invited to an inaugural event or an audience with a newly elected and anointed public servant. And God knows, never has a candidate asked my opinion for anything more important that directions to the men’s room.
I’ve done a lot of things in my life. I’ve done a lot of journalistic things in my writing career. Fortunately, I have garnered plaudits – awards for my writing efforts from my peers. I qualify for sagedom. And even though, there has been no tangible pay off, I wouldn’t change a thing except, of course, a turn of phrase or the dramatic tone of criticism in equal measure to the subject’s transgression.
I’m concerned about the Republican party’s inability to understand that spending billions to get elected does not equate to being qualified to run the country. Also, just a side note – food for thought – If getting into the White House is the justification for spending obscene amounts of private money, what’s so different about public money being frittered away? And what makes us think that the “big spender” gets an epiphany at the swearing in and becomes miraculously frugal? ?
Rubio has a “rep” for spending large amounts of money that aren’t his to spend. See the Florida GOP credit card caper from 2010 reported by the Tampa Bay Times in February 2010. He stumped for the Senate, claiming Tea Party affiliation and talking up conservative budget and economic policies along the way. His political stand doesn’t support his personal approach to spending, though.
Finally, Rubio has flipped several times on immigration, while touting his immigrant roots. He went so far as to abandon his Tea Party partnership to cotton to popularity poll results. Recently, it has been pointed out that if he loses the presidential nomination, he’ll have time to run for his expiring Senate seat. It has also been suggested that he really just wants to be governor, which then might place him in a better position experience-wise to run for president again. Pretty clever/tricky, don’t you think? And think of all that free money spent on the red ball while angling for the black. Spin that wheel. The drinks are free.
Last, but not least, sadly, he bears a striking resemblance to our present emperor. He’s never introduced a single original piece of legislation that he didn’t sign on for, or endorse/co-sponsor. Not to be redundant, but Jeb Bush is a money player, and he has party connections. His results will rival Mr. Romney’s, also, for the same reasons Romney didn’t win. Out of touch, elitist, Bozo who travels with his family dog tied to the top of his vehicle. How many thousands of votes do you think he lost over that revelation?
Here at home in Inglis, I know that everyone is tired of hearing about the Recall petition. You probably thought that the entire issue was settled and gone. I sure wish that it was. Unfortunately, that ill advised, judiciously insufficient, fraudulent & defaming piece of community “action” is still alive and reeking ever more dramatically like a fine bottle of aged vinegar.
The leader of the Gibson cabal, told Judge Griffis that she had no money to pursue or defend the action she originated. Then a few days later, she showed up with counsel who then pled an argument based on Malfeasance. This was interesting, but the grounds for the recall petition was chosen as “Misfeasance” by the petition brain trust. Didn’t really matter much anyway. The judge ruled that the recall petition had no merit, was baseless, and has no grounds for recall.
So, now we’re on Chapter Three. The same attorney noted, has filed an appeal. This action was promptly ruled against by The Appeal Court and the lawyer was given an opportunity to come back with a pertinent law brief that might be applicable to this case. However, there seems to be a pattern here. This lawyer uses the “reach” theory for her litigation efforts. And there are no limits as to how far she will “reach” for an argument no matter how far fetched. We can safely assume, I think, that Gibson has paid this person more money. I only point this out because I find it really hard to imagine anyone else, with a lick of sense, would be contributing, good money after bad, to promote the expulsion of a commissioner, whose remaining term won’t be long enough for the matter to be adjudicated. After months of filing briefs and answers eats up the calendar it seems rather moronic to waste time and more money on a “dead as a door nail” purpose. You can bet that the lawyer is not about to tell the California Dreamers that fact. Oh, but silly me. This is Inglis. Can’t help thinking this is a bad dream instead.
In closing, let me say this. I look forward to coming back to Levy County to participate in the “recovery” stage of this smelly drama. I am saving now, to insure that I will have the plane fare. Gibson and the players who participated with her in the petition drive will be held accountable in a court of law predicated on applicable case law by professional, practicing, attorneys. It is a shame that one player, in particular, can’t be prosecuted for violating her oath of office as an elected and sitting commissioner. One good turn, she was soundly defeated in her re-election bid. She attacked a fellow commissioner over a piece of legislation she voted in favor of. And she damaged her town to the tune of thousands!
Here’s the score. When this plays out the costs incurred by the Town of Inglis will have exceeded at least fifty thousand dollars. Common sense deems it necessary to move to recover this money. Failure to do so, should at least be answered by a public policy notice posted on the door of Town Hall: “Any interested citizen, or transient, who is pissed at an Inglis elected official or a town employee should request a copy of the Inglis Insanity Guidebook with complete instructions on how to tie up the town in feckless legal entanglement, and possibly hit the lottery at the same time. Process servers take notice. You are in the right place. Thinking about running for office? This could happen to you, and it will happen again if no response is taken.
May the Summer Solstice rain lots of sunshine on your parade.
Some Political Meandering
Our president continues his long term agenda of accommodation to the Islamic States, and their terrorist organization pals, at the price of our highly trained and selfless warriors, along with hundreds of innocent civilians. The people of the middle east don’t like America. They don’t respect America. They snicker at our accommodation and take our billions of dollars in aid/arms/technology and dole it out to their masked assassins in exchange for blood – often ours.
Our president trades a pat on the head and a new prayer rug for a backhanded slap in the face to the only democracy in the region, our allies and our watch tower, Israel.
At home, his administration works around the clock to insure that the most vulnerable portion of the Democratic voting block, the un-educated, the poor, the economically disadvantaged, experiences exponential, artificial growth by loading that segment of our society with millions of illegal immigrants. Here today, voting tomorrow, making socialist medical care and overall public welfare an American standard.
The seasoned, professional, politicians, both parties, play a dangerous game based on an artificial indicator of influence. Money. The amount of money, coupled with slick speech writers and prejudiced mass media exposure, does not make a quality leader with values and a clean heart. A person with that persuasion can’t be both good/honest versus slick/valuable in the millions. A great example of that is Dr. Ben Carson. Educated, self made, at the apex of his profession.
Carson has a rightfully earned reputation in medicine. Up from the lowest level of American poverty, he is world famous for his pediatric surgical skills – separating conjoined babies. He has developed a philosophy in regard to saving and nurturing disadvantaged bright minds. He and his wife created a foundation to benefit promising students and afford them the threshold to a successful life and freedom from cultural bondage. They have given millions in financial scholarships to thousands of deserving youths.
Many want us to believe that he doesn’t have a tinker’s chance at the presidency. They forget that this is the United States of America . . . “Only in America.” And Carson has a lot to say about that certainty.
If you’d like to know what and how, Dr. Carson is moving towards a national recognition read the New York Times article linked here. The article is long but, refreshingly candid. If you do not know about Carson this will make you want to learn more. Thanx Click Here
A blast from the past compliments of The Rednak Chronicles
Ape Man Turns Up At Springs
One of Harmo’s grandsons, Ben A., a second cousin to Milo‘s children, moved to Milo’s Sink and ended up working a steam packet down on the Ocklawaha River until the railroad took most of the freight and passenger business and the river steamers began to disappear.
Ben then went to work for Colonel Tooey, the Silver River concessionaire that operated the Jungle Cruises out of the Silver Springs outflow, just outside of Ocala. Tooey had populated one of the river’s islands with squirrel monkeys first and then Rhesus Macaques. The squirrel monkeys didn’t fair well during the winter, but the Rhesus monkeys liked the river environment so well they swam over to the banks and in a few years there were several troupes waiting daily, along the cruise’s path, for handouts of peanuts and anything else that looked edible.
The river literally teemed with wildlife. In the river which ran clear as a crystal goblet everything swimming could be plainly seen to a depth of over twenty feet. The glass bottom boats only enhanced the underwater view of a living fantasy. To be seen or encountered on a given day were huge garfish, throwbacks to the age of dinosaurs, large mullet, redfish, bass and bream, catfish, crabs, soft shell turtles the size of small wagon wheels, otters, raccoons, fox, and the occasional black bear, often sows with cubs. And of course, the greatest Florida attraction the alligator, which had been given center stage by a short barrel chested man of fearless countenance who had made himself one of the world’s experts on snakes and crocodilians.
Ross Allen created the Silver Springs Reptile Institute and occupied a section of the waterfront at the springs which during this time period was a carnival of milling tourists and local hotel guests every day of the week. Allen’s snake handlers stepped into a snake pit full of Florida rattlesnakes with only the protection of snake proof boots made from elk or moose leather and a “catch stick”. They let the snakes break balloons with strikes faster than the eye can see and milked the venom from the reptile’s fangs hung over the edge of a cordial glass. Allen was the largest producer of anti- venoms and imported exotic snake poisons from around the world for medicinal and research purposes.
Almost every day, Ross came out, at least once, to subdue a ten to twelve foot gator, riding its back and holding gaping jaws wide before letting the menacing teeth clap loudly shut and leaping to safety for the benefit of the gathered crowds. Allen was only five feet seven in boots and weighed around 160 pounds in his prime. After seeing him do these death defying things most people would swear he was six feet and two hundred pounds! Ross is credited with explaining why a gator could be put to sleep by turning him onto his back and stroking his stomach while the gator lay motionless until with a start when slapped on the stomach, the gator would flip quickly over onto its feet and hiss menacingly, mouth open and tail sweeping back and forth. Ross not only knew reptilian behavior, but he knew the anatomy too. An alligator has a very small brain. No bigger than a golf ball in a nine to ten footer. This “golf ball” floats in a chamber at the base of the gator’s skull. When the gator is rolled over the brain puts pressure on the spinal cord, paralyzing the gator until a slap shock gets the reflex reaction of making the alligator flip upright. No one knows if this gives the gator a headache or not.
Ben and Ross became friends and Ben accompanied him on many local expeditions to hunt rattlesnakes, catch gators or look for unusual specimens such as coach whips or purple/black indigos.
Like Tooey’s squirrel monkeys, a movie star turned ape man didn’t fair too well during the winter’s either. Ben was captaining one of the support boats during the filming of MGM’s 2nd movie on the Silver River, Tarzan And His Mate. He would see Johnny Weissmuller and Maureen O’Sullivan almost daily. They would generally be on the third trip to the day’s location after all the equipment, support personnel, and cameras were in place. One especially cold day Weissmuller swung from a very high cedar tree on a vine disguised rope, over a pool in the river and letting go, dove from about twenty feet up into the glassine water. At the time, steam from the cool air was wafting off the water’s surface, giving the whole scene a surreal look. Tarzan hit the water and almost immediately popped up, shaking the wet hair from his face and cursing loudly. No one would hear the tirade from the film as only dialog and some naturally occurring effects were recorded “live”. Everything else was dubbed in later. Weissmuller was obviously upset and angry. He emerged onto the bank, grabbed a bathrobe and came stomping to the boat as he violently wrapped himself in the terry cloth.
“Tarzan’s ass !” He screeched with an accent exaggerated by frustration. “Tarzan is an ape man in the jungle. Not an Eskimo with no clothes on. It is too f_ _ _ _ _ g cold for Tarzan or Johnny to be swimming here!” He looked at Ben and said in a lowered tone, “Captain take me back to the dock and don’t ever let me get on this boat again if the temperature is below 80 !”
Ben would later tell Ross Allen and a group of friends that Weissmuller had never spoken directly to him or much less acknowledged him until that incident. Ben said that listening to Weissmuller talk and say a few lines made him feel that Johnny might be a little light in the loafers. But, after hearing him cuss he was convinced that the guy just had a tenor’s voice in a baritone’s body.
It was rumored that not only did Weissmuller demand that all future Tarzan contracts specify no water scenes in temperatures below eighty, but that a bottle of brandy and a change of clothes to be kept on the utility boat whenever filming was being done on or near water.
# # # #
The swim star made 4 more Tarzan movies for MGM on the Silver River through 1942, all during much warmer times of the year, and then went to RKO with Cheeta and Boy, for 6 additional Tarzan films.
The Rhesus monkeys survive in viable numbers along the shores of the Silver and Ocklawaha Rivers and have eluded efforts to capture and move them for over seventy years. It is estimated that there are 8 to 10 family troupes totaling as many as 300 hundred Rhesus monkeys that are fifth and sixth generation descendants of Colonel Tooey’s Jungle Cruise island monkeys.
Get the book, The Rednak Chronicles on Amazon.
Its Good Friday so it's Rednak time.
First a little music, from three greats, that sheds some lite on these times. Earl Scruggs, Johnny Cash & Don Henley bring on Passin' Through . . .
This is a mighty world and an amazing one. Watch and listen to this special child prodigy, Joshua King. Click Here
Wake Me When It’s Over
Cousin Haddabenna Rednak - Jones passed last month and her children needed some family support for the funeral so the call went out and the Rednaks came filtering through to the low hills of southern Kentucky for the sendoff.
On the telephone one Monday night: “Uncle Alce, it wouldn’t be a rightful family remembrance without you and Daddy there to kick shit and stir up family dust,” my brother Albe’s daughter knew how to generate motivation. A little flattery and - or, a little shame if convincing’ wasn’t comin’ on quick enough!
“It’s been a while, you know, Uncle Alce, since Rednaks and kin have been reminded of how much they have in common and where we came from - - - like it or not. Clan members who know this truth always bring outsiders and it always turns out to be one of the most memorable incidents in an innocent’s lifetime. We can’t help it if we’re fun,” she cajoled.
I said, “Yes. If Albe’s goin’ I have to go to keep him straight on the lie telling!”
At the appointed weekend, we all began to fill the cut rate motels and rooming houses for miles around Stillwater, Kentucky. The Catbrier Creek Holiness Tabernacle had a bingo hall just down the road far enough to escape the limits on loud music and fraternizing through dance. The building could sit over a 150 people, had a kitchen and had a covered pavilion on the side, with picnic tables, where the hard shells could congregate and not have to look at the open bar or the dance floor.
Haddabenna had belonged to the rite of the Eastern Star for over fifty years. She knew the order’s sacred, unspoken codes, and the secret handshakes. Moors, Hottentots, and Huguenots couldn’t drag them out of her and she had reached a high enough degree to be boiling water, if needed. She had been awarded a squat little fez colored pink and adorned with two gold tassels. And she had thirty three stars embroidered on her ceremonial vest, of which she was almost as proud of as the camel tattoo on her ass she and the Longevity Committee had gone to get while celebrating her 68th birthday during an ES convention in Nashville. All of Haddabeena’s girlfriends were members of the Eastern Star in good standing.
Haddabenna Jones weighed 101 pounds and was five feet, ten inches tall. Brick Jones, her husband, looked exactly like Popeye the Sailorman and was, of course, four inches shorter. Olive Oyle had nothin’ on Haddabenna! She and several of the other girls kept their hair platinum blonde, complements of Breck’s Who’s That Girl? The startling blonde color made the super red lipstick, they loved to wear, so shiny and outrageous that you could see it on the new moon just as well as at noon.
The older she got, the more often she pointed out, “The two most important things a girl has are her face and her butt. And as we get older it gets harder and harder to keep the two separated.”
Hadda was full of all kinds of sage wisdom at 81. She told Brick the day she died that she had a notion when she woke up that she was going to feel poorly that day.
“Brick Honey, Call Gladys Markey and let her know I hear the bells tolling. They’ll all want to get their Star jackets and Salome leggings out of moth balls before the wake. And there’s serious baking to do. . . . . And the punch has to steep for at least 48 hours before the bourbon goes in! I don‘t want to hold my sisters up just cause I‘m passin‘.”
Brick, knew better than argue whether it all was wasted motion or not. “Alright, Hadda- - Alright.” He was holding his breath that she wouldn’t start a litany of things for him to accomplish. . . . . And she didn’t.
That night she stretched out on the couch as “Bonanza” re-runs started on the cable. When Brick came to sit in his recliner she shifted and looked over at him,
“Night, Brick baby, see you on the other side.” She closed her eyes, sighed quietly, and left the house - - - - - permanently.
The Tabernacle is 120 years old. The entry is crowned with a steeple that covers the bell tower and tops nearly 75 feet above ground. The years of foot stompin’, thunderous praise clapping, and unified wailing had failed to shake the steeple or the solid frame church below. Its clapboard siding gleamed white and the window and door trim was kept smart with black enamel. On the inside the church walls and ceiling are tongue and groove heart pine, painted white. The baptismal pool is at the back of the sanctuary and the pulpit is natural stained and polished wood elevated enough that the sinners below can easily imagine GOD himself pointing down to them as the preacher offers up Sunday’s fire and brimstone. Yellow pine flooring supports the bench pews.
Sue Kinda Rednak - Jones - Miller, Haddabeena and Brick’s oldest daughter, arranged the funeral and was liaison to the Eastern Star ladies for the wake. The preacher was 89 year old Luke Pernicious Framer, the third. His family tree had roots to the Revolution and one unconfirmed suspicion that a Framer of his faction had disembarked from the Mayflower with the other Pilgrims.
The day before the funeral William Joseph Mindstart knocked on the front door of the Jones’ house at 10 AM sharp. Sue Kinda answered.
Now, Billy Joe (How’d you guess?) was known to be slightly touched in the head - but harmless. He played over six different stringed instruments and knew probably 1,000 songs and hymns. His mother insisted Billy Joe was a savant and no one in Stillwater ever argued that he wasn’t until one Saturday, he’d played about a hundred songs nonstop down in the town square and wouldn’t stop until it got dark and people quit walking by and dropping change in the dulcimer case laying at his feet. From that day forward he became “Crazy!”, not gifted. And no one argued about that point either!
Anyway, Billy Joe had come to offer his condolences and proffer a special request. Sue Kinda listened respectfully as Billy Joe asked if he could play at Hadda’s funeral as he loved Miss Haddabenna, and wanted to honor her memory. Hadda had given Billy a thousand cookies since he was a child and always tousled his hair and patted his head when she saw him, he explained. Sometimes she would plant one of those outrageous red lipstick kisses on his forehead and he would wear it for days before it finally washed off.
“Please, Miss Sue Kinda, I promise to be good,” he pleaded.
After a few minutes of consideration she said, “Billy Joe, I am going to have you play Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, right after Miss Mary Beth Wilson, the organist plays, Shall We Gather at the River? Yours will be the second hymn played. I want you to play the first four verses on the dulcimer, and then quit - - wrap it up - - don’t - go - any - further. Do you understand, Billy Joe?”
“Yes Mam, Sue Kinda. Swing Low, Sweet Chariot - the first four verses - then quit. And I won’t start playing ‘til Mrs. Wilson finishes Shall We Gather. And I won’t hum along. And I will play joyfully for Miss Hadda so, no one gets weepy. Is that good, Sue Kinda?”
“Yes, Billy Joe, that’s good. I’m sending you home with a note to your mother. Remember just the one hymn and just the four verses. Got it?” She was hoping, and praying, she hadn’t made a mistake.
The next day dawned and turned bright. The expanse of Kentucky sky was deep blue and laced with drifting cumulus as white and puffy as freshly ginned cotton.
At eleven, people were arriving and gathering under the huge water oak whose twenty foot limbs, covered in resurrection ferns, spread a canopy of refuge from the sun a few steps from the stairs into the church. Preacher Framer was fresh in a starched white shirt, black satin bowtie and black patent shoes that perfectly complimented his wide lapelled charcoal suit. His full head of white hair gave him the air of apparition of something angelic, come to exhort the sinners left behind and escort the departed to the path leading to the pearly gates. The bible he carried in the fold of two frail arms was as large as a cornerstone and to the preacher as heavy.
The preacher opened the front doors of the church and the music director, Olmy McGregor, started playing on the piano, Who Knows How Near My End May Be.
By 11:25 about a hundred and fifty had gathered in the old church pews. The eight sisters of the Eastern Star sat in the front row on the left and the immediate family sat in the front two rows on the right. The sisters were replete in their pink and red fezzes, white bowling shirts covered by the blazing red vests embroidered with gold stars of accomplishment and gold braided piping. Some of the ladies had on short red skirts and wore the shear Salome pants underneath, with red slippers. They were a sight that would have warmed the heart of P.T. Barnum!
Hadda was in repose two steps up on the sanctuary. Brick had refused to let the undertaker dress her in the ES regalia as she had requested, and had compromised by allowing that her fez be placed on her chest above her folded arms, never mind that when the coffin lid closed it would crush the fez unless it was laid down - - - Brick had no intention of interfering with that last little bit of symbolic finality. The gaudy vest was laid at her left side. The paleness of death’s pancake makeup made the bright red lipstick, more radiant still.
The preacher stood and extended his arms upward. Everyone in the church stood up in unison as the organist began a rousing rendition of Shall We Gather At The River?. Two of the ES girls pulled tambourines from their basket purses and joined the hyped up rhythm with clapping strokes on the tambourines held over their heads. Soon everyone was clapping and tapping their feet.
Three verses in Billy Joe had jumped to his feet and begun to stroke the dulcimer like a guitar. Every 6th or 7th stroke he would shuffle closer to the small stairs that ascended to the raised pulpit. Now, each dulcimer stroke clanged out loudly in time with Miss Mary Beth’s organ riffs. Finally with a flourish and a sweep of the organ’s keys Miss Wilson was satisfied that indeed, all present were gathered to witness the spiritual take off from the banks of this heavenly river. Preacher Framer stood and motioned that all could be seated as Billy Joe sat on the stairs, smiling out at all the Eastern Star sisters. He didn’t hesitate 5 seconds and with a string by string down stroke broke solidly into Swing Low.
It was masterfully delivered and so sweet that it sounded much like the voice of a child singing in a whisper just behind the harp like notes from the dulcimer hammers. Billy Joe played on using both the small hammers and stroking the instrument , sometimes simultaneously. He played for about seven minutes, a little longer than the agreed upon four verses and then to Sue Kinda’s relief, he struck three gentle notes to close.
Fifteen seconds of reverent silence . . . . . The preacher labored to rise but before he was completely upright Billy Joe broke out with The Old Rugged Cross. Simultaneously Mary Beth Crushed out the first few bars of Amazing Grace trying to head off Billy Joe, to no avail. The preacher looked balefully around and then slumped back down in his chair.
As Billy Joe came to the final bars of the classic, Mrs. McGregor joined in with the piano. She stopped with two bars of finish and so did Billy Joe. The preacher gripped the arms of his chair to rise and off went Billy Joe again, this time singing and hammering Tell Mother I’ll Be There. When that hymn closed Billy Joe’s concert had been going for fifteen minutes. Sue Kinda was up pulling on Billy Joe’s arm but he fended her off and began again, to play Amazing Grace. The old favorite seemed to calm the combatant’s and brought instant tears to the eyes of all those that weren’t asleep. Mrs. McGregor and Mary Beth joined in with the keyboards and the congregation sang out the time worn verses, many with their arms outstretched to the heavens. As the hymn finished Sue Kinda and Albe jumped to their feet and grabbed Billy Joe by the arm and around the neck and wrestled him out the side door of the church.
Gracie Campbell was startled awake as the door slammed and her Fez fell to the floor along with her hairpiece that normally covered her bald crown. Someone in the back of the church was giggling so hard they farted loudly.
Preacher Framer had managed to climb into the pulpit and was banging on the side like a judge trying to quiet an unruly chamber. Laughter and conversation were approaching the level of din.
Finally, quiet returned. Preacher Framer stretched his frame like a small rooster getting ready to crow at the rising sun. “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Dust to dust - - - Ashes to ashes. We trust that we will see our sister, Haddabenna, in the garden of the Lord’s house. Well, some of us sooner than later. Imagine now - - - Hadda standing at the gates to heaven. Some need to take a long look - - - - probably their only look. Alleluia!” “Amen!”
Everyone present worked their way out of the church, spilling steadily into the yard. The pallbearers, followed by the sisters of the ES walked Haddabenna out to the graveyard. Reverend Framer quoted scripture, recited the 23rd Psalm, and summarized Hadda’s long and fruitful life. Most were smiling at those recollections. The family tossed flowers, confederate roses and lilies down to the coffin. The red fez ladies flipped in fake, gold, bar tokens with crescent moons stamped on one side and “one free” on the other side. Some of the “mourners” snickered and one or two sniffled quietly.
Bystanders didn’t tarry long. Most said goodbyes as though headed home. However, each and every departing car turned left out of the church yard and rode the two-tenths of a mile to the Lucky Loo Bingo Hall parking lot.
The smoker was stoked. Bowls of potato salad and slaw, and trays of biscuits were lined up next to platters and pans full of fried chicken, pulled pork and sliced summer ham. Pitchers of tea and lemonade were dripping cool condensation. A wash tub of the Eastern Star’s punch sat on a sturdy wooden table just inside the door from the covered pavilion. A lot of folks got iced tea outside, gulped about half of it on the way in and topped it off with punch in a slick sweeping movement of carefree abandonment. Each one attempting an expression of innocence with a wry smirk.
Two hours was enough to appease the “hard shells” that an appropriate remembrance had in fact been accomplished and the last of them departed the wake about fifteen minutes before the Hayseed Boys Band struck up with a foot stompin’ opening of Dixie. Pints of Sloe Gin and bottles of beer began to appear on tables. Haddabeena’s passing and the Rednak’s celebration of same rocked on from there ‘til the wee hours.
That wake should have been noted in the huge family bible . . . Regardless it won’t be forgotten by this generation - - -
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