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| Quickie Limercks .............and Puns .............or a Joke.... |
| A limerick, as each one has shown, as low humor is hardly alone, but just like a pun, you know you've won, when the audience gives out a groan. 'cause the tests show that their students lose. if the results are this bad, it won't do to get mad, at the people who give you the news.  There was a reader named Lee, Who tried hard but just couldn't see, that scoring holistic, could be so sadistic, as to give a clear 0 a 3. Limericks about test readers and and their trials and tribulations.............By Allan There once was a fellow named Jim who cooked with great vigor and vim. His cooking was great, and he so largely ate, that he just had no chance to stay slim. But Jim has a wife we'll call Rose, who is slim from her thed to her toes. She's looking so good 'cause she eats as she should, such excellent discipline shows. ..........By Dana Lowe |
| Poetry, Maybe......???? |
| The Ballad Of Jim Raffy Oh where did the good man go? To hear the preaching of Brother Kinslow. He was not a handler of snakes, nor did he get any pay for his preaching. For him it was not a job, his teaching he did it for our souls sakes. Jim and Brother Kinslow's nephew, Joe, at the church early sat on the front row, not for religious zeal nor fear of the Lord. They did not intend to miss any shaking or shouting as salvation was free for taking, when on his banjo Kinslow struck a chord. The preaching started off slow, Much to the chagrin of Jim and Joe. They were there for the action which was slow in comming Giving them no satisfaction until on the banjo he commenced struming. |
MURDER MOST FOWLWalking down the Rawls Creek Road, after passing Lee Mofield’s place on the right and Jess Poston’s place on the left, there is a long straight stretch of road ending in an ess curve near the creek. It had once been in the creek. At the end of the curve, incidentally that is where Daddy and Turner Mofield banged their cars together one time; a garage is located just barely off the road. On the hill above it is a large two-story house. I don’t remember who lived there but I never liked them.I do remember walking at a good clip as I passed that garage the first morning on my way to catch the Trailways Bus. Christopher may remember when he was four years old and we were playing hide go seek how I yelled at him when he opened the closet door where I was hiding. He said, “ Granddaddy you scared the pee out of me.” I need to explain why I am walking to catch the Trailways Bus. Daddy was a member of the County Court fighting, in support of the School Board, for school busses to transport students to and from school. Now that the war no longer prevented the production of school busses He felt it ridiculous for Smith County students not to have transport. He battled Hen Lancaster, a court member from Lancaster, and Webb Allen, a member from the Difficult and Defeated Creek area (I Think). Both had blocks of support in the court and combined they were larger than Daddy’s Block. He once said Hen Lancaster would squeeze a nickel until the buffalo shit. Daddy allowed he had no desire to drive me eight miles to Carthage High School. Wilson County had school busses. Daddy found a small farm for sale near Tucker’s Cross Roads in Wilson County; bought it and we moved. In Wilson County the schools started in August but we could not have possession of the farm until January. It was determined I would ride the Trailways Bus. I only had to walk one mile to the bus. What a lucky break. As I passed the garage there arose a great screeching, flapping of wings, and flutter of feathers. All of this occurred just over my head. Like Christopher, it scared the pee out of me. I had to go home and change my pants causing me to very nearly miss the bus. It was a flock of Guinea Fowls. Guinea Fowls are, so far as I am able to determine, totally useless and disgustingly noisy birds, especially the hens. Their screeching is intolerable. People that own them must be either deaf or crazy or both. To this day I detest Guinea Fowls. It turned out the Guinea screeching and attempting to fly was an everyday event. No matter that I knew it occurred daily and always at the garage, I could not prepare myself for its occurrence. After a few weeks the damn things grew more and more cheeky. They waited for me in the road and almost dared me to pass. Daddy suggested I take a stick with me and punch them out of the way. I tried the stick punching method and only irritated them more. Next they began to lie in wait for me in the afternoon, especially two big bitches with a real desire to attack me. Who ever the people were that lived in the big house would, quite often, sit on the porch and laugh at me. One Saturday I decided to take matters into my own hands. Using Daddy’s sharp double bladed axe I cut me a small limb off a Hickory tree. I chose one with a big joint on the end connected to the trunk of the tree. With the hawk-billed knife Uncle Charlie gave me I whittled that limb into a walking stick with a knob on the end about the size of a green apple. It was a replica of the one Wilse used. There is a bridge over Plunkett’s Creek just before it runs into Rawls Creek and both go under the bridge on highway 70N. I made me a hiding place there to leave my walking stick. I didn’t need it at school; at least I didn’t think I did. I retrieved it every afternoon and prepared to do battle with the Guinea Hens. One afternoon I noticed the old farts who usually sat on the porch and laughed at me were not there. The garage doors were open and I figured since the car was gone so were they. As I neared the garage two Guinea Hens strutted into the middle of the road screeching and flapping daring me to approach. Today, I thought, you have met your destiny. Grasping my walking stick by the bottom end I approached the hens. These are big birds, maybe ten pounds or more: Almost as big as a small turkey. Bitch number one strutted out in front of me, screeched loudly, ruffled her wings, and flapped them as if to say you will not pass today. She was wrong. I held my walking stick much as your daddy holds his golf club just before making his tee shot. I swung it just as viscously at the hen’s evil lemon shaped head. Unlike your daddy I made a hole in one. The Guinea Hen’s head received the full force of my swing and sailed five or six feet through the air dragging her body behind it until settling and flopping just inside the garage. I turned to face the other hen that was strangely silent as were the spectators. Screech at this you bitch was my thought as I took a mighty swing at her. The knot on the end of my stick cracked her head like Mama cracked an egg against the old black cast iron skillet. No hole in one this time. This one went into a water hazard, a dried up ditch by the road. My cup overflowed with joy for a short time, and then came the realization of what I had done. I killed someone’s Guinea Fowls. As soon as they found the hens they would know who did it. From listening to Mr. District Attorney on the radio I knew I must dispose of the evidence. Fortunately Harrington, the DA’s investigator was not here to investigate me. By the time the hens stopped flopping I had a plan. ................Continued on next page |
- Page 2 |
| The other birds sensing a possible attack launched them selves into a sort of running flight, partly in the air and partly on the ground, amid a flurry of white-spotted black-gray feathers. After reaching what they considered a safe distance, they settled in a huddle and remained strangely quite. After hanging my book satchel over my shoulder and putting the stick under my arm I picked up the hens by their feet and headed home. The cracked and damaged heads drug and bounced along the road. I hoped I would not meet anyone on the balance of my trip home. I did not. Mama is dead and gone now and I can tell her part in this sordid deed without embarrassment or shame. Mama became a witting accomplice in this evil deed. As I lumbered along the old road up to our house I met Mama on her way down to Mammy’s place. What a surprise I was to her, my satchel slung over my back, a walking stick under my arm, a dead Guinea Hen in each hand. Additionally I was hot and sweating and my arms ached from the weight of the hens. Just as George Washington, when caught with an axe in his hand standing next to a freshly cut cherry tree, could not lie neither could I. “James Lofton, what have you got in your hands?” Today you might consider that a rhetorical question since my Mother saw clearly the Guinea Hen in each of my hands. I planned to throw them in the sinkhole to the left of the road and about another 50 yards from where we stood. I had complained enough about the Guinea Fowls to preclude anything but the truth. “I killed two of those damned Guineas, Mama. I am tired of them bothering me and those old farts laughing at me.” “That is no way to talk James Lofton; Your Daddy won’t like that. What were you planning to do with the Guineas?” “Throw them in the sinkhole.” She took the hens from me and said, “lets go home and think about this.” We did but I did not do much thinking. After all I got up at five o’clock AM to start my day and now it was after six PM. I need a rest. Mama fired up the stove and filled a big galvanized bucket with water from the cistern and put it on the stove to boil. Then she hunted up her Fannie Farmer Cookbook. It was the 4th Revised Edition Published in 1923. Hers was a 1924 reprint. I stood there in amazement shifting from one foot to the other. Sure enough somewhere about page 400 appeared an entry “Guinea Hen”. The instructions were ‘Roast Like a Chicken’. Mama closed the book. She knew how to cook chicken. The water began to boil rapidly. Mama plunged one Guinea Hen into the boiling water and left it for a few minutes. Soon she removed it and when the water returned to a rapid boil she plunged the other fowl into the boiling water. Now she tested the first one and easily removed a few feathers. She removed the second hen from the boiling water and took both out onto the back porch and hooked their feet in a wire hanging from a rafter for that purpose. She proceeded to pluck the fowls until they were clean. On an oak cutting board Daddy made for her she gutted and cleaned the hens then washed them thoroughly and cut each into 8 to 10 pieces. She wrapped the pieces of one Guinea Hen in waxed paper and put it in the icebox. During this entire procedure Mama quizzed me about school, the bus ride and what I ate for breakfast at Hundley’s Motel. Dumfounded described me best. I expected a good raking over the coals. She moved the pieces of the hen into the kitchen and seasoned them with salt and pepper. Next she placed then in a brown paper bag with a cup of flour and gave them a vigorous shake then set the bag aside. “Stoke the stove James.” I did and she brought out the old black cast iron skillet, set it on the stove, dumped a cup of lard in it and while the lard was melting she chopped two onions. The onions went into the skillet and when they were frying in very hot lard she shook off the excess flour and added the Guinea-Fowl pieces to the onions in the skillet. As the pieces fried Mama sliced three carrots, good for your eyes, and added to the skillet. She sprinkled rosemary, sage and thyme over the skillet and added a couple of laurel leaves along with a two cups of chicken juice she always had in the warmer or the icebox. “We will let this simmer for half an hour then bake it until C S gets home. He went to Charlie’s for something and took Geraldine and Joe with him. Florence wanted to see them. C S said he would be back about dark. If he asks about what we are eating I will answer him. You keep your mouth shut. Like they say on Mr. District Attorney, we will dispose of the evidence before anyone knows murder has been committed. Those old farts should not have laughed at you.” I grinned from ear to ear and that was the best dinner I ever ate. Never again did the Guinea Fowls attack me, neither did they screech at me. A few days later I observed one of the old farts counting the Guineas. I smiled. |
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