The Right Wrong Word #2

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Of Mittie, Mattie, Ressie, Jessie, Annie Mae, Wade, Gene and Jamie, I probably knew your triple-great uncle Wade the least.  He served as a Baptist minister who, after leaving the pulpit, taught at the seminary in Richmond.  Unlike his siblings, he didn’t have a lot of children – just one adopted daughter who became estranged in her early adulthood.  That’s probably why I don’t have many personal recollections.  He and his wife, Lillian, didn’t contribute to the cousin pool in which each generation swam with great delight growing up and from which much of our folklore springs.

That doesn’t mean Uncle Wade went without legend. 

When he was just out of seminary himself and wet behind the ears as the pastor of his very first church, he was solicited to perform the wedding ceremony for the daughter of one of his most substantial members.  Unbeknown to the family, this was Wade’s first wedding and he felt great pressure that everything go not only well, but perfectly.

He practiced diligently all of the standard parts to the service trying to commit them to memory.  For safety, he penned his lines in large letters on paper and strategically taped them into the Bible where he could clandestinely glance at them, if need be, without appearing too obvious to the congregation.

The evening of the wedding finally arrived.  Wade donned his robes and secured the Bible.  He was ready.

Exquisite flower arrangements garnished the sanctuary and dais.  The candles from strategically placed multi-stemmed candelabra gave off a warm glow that created an ethereal atmosphere worthy of the occasion’s holiness. Guests filled every pew, end to end.  Everything certainly suited the stature of the influential man paying for it all.

When the organist concluded her prelude, she chimed the hour to alert all that the ceremony was beginning.  Wade, the groom and best man entered into the sanctuary.  To Trumpets Voluntary, the bridal procession began.  Groomsmen, bridesmaids and the maid of honor all took their places.  At which point, the organist paused strategically before diving with intended vigor into Wagner’s Bridal Chorus.  The bride entered the sanctuary on the arm of her father, whose beaming face signaled his pleasure at the scene.

They marched down the aisle and joined the wedding party.  The congregation quieted.

“Dear Beloved, we are gathered here today ……..” Uncle Wade began.

Things went along without a hitch.  Uncle Wade delivered an inspiring prayer and remarks about the sanctity of marriage as underscored by Jesus turning water into wine at the marriage feast in Cana.  The request for any objections met with everyone holding their peace.  Vows were made and rings exchanged to seal them. 

At this point, Wade began to relax.  Only the concluding prayer and final charge remained.  He raised his hands to signal for everyone to bow their heads and led them in the benediction. 

Sensing that he had indeed managed to orchestrate the ceremony to perfection, he closed his Bible confidently and in a booming, self-assured voice spoke not only to the newlyweds, but to all who could hear.

“By the authority vested in me both by this state and the holy church of Christ our Savior, I now pronounce you...... joyfully loined together.”

The Right Wrong Word - #1

Dear Boo and Bubble,

In 1883, your quadruple-great grandfather, Joseph Benson Cottrell, penned the following:

“Dictionaries define a word by other words, and then in their definition use the word they have defined; so words reciprocate in defining themselves and one another.

Enslavement to words is only to be escaped by the use of language as it is accommodated to the exigencies of the evolution of thought.  Logicians reprobate what is termed a play upon words; and justly.  Lovers of the truth abhor quite as much having their minds played upon by words.” 

To me, this reflects his understanding of the power of words and how those who study them can master not only the expression of their own thoughts but also how those thoughts influence others.

Being a self-fancied writer of sorts, I’ve always had a great deal of respect for words – they are, after all, the one constant in mankind’s development.  Our modes of transportation, our types of shelter, our creature comforts, our methods of communication all change and advance with each generation.  But words remain the foundation upon which we share our ideas and concepts on a regular basis.   

Can you imagine going through the day and not saying a word?  I certainly can’t….and the people who know me best can’t either!  

We receive all sorts of advice about words.  Choose your words carefully.

There are rhymes.  Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.  (Quite frankly, I’ve never believed this…words can cut as sharply as the sharpest knife or sting as easily as a bee.) 

I’m fascinated with how innocuous words can be until we assign them an owner.  We might agree with the thoughts they express until we find out who’s expressing them.  Seems like any more, it’s not what’s being said that matters, but the person saying it.

Words are interchangeable, of course, but sometimes people can get them confused like the lady who, when asked to describe her son’s appearance, said “Well, he’s pretty big and has blue eyes with blonde hair, but his hairline is secreting.”

Sometimes, though, a wrong word in just the right spot can create a more vivid and lively image. 

Years ago, when I was 6 and your great Uncle Bryant was 8, Mamaw Mary found a bargain on some T-Bone steaks at the grocery store.  Our family budget at the time inclined more towards hamburger, so this was a real treat.  As we sat around the small dining table in our apartment at University Ridge enjoying the meal, Bryant became pensive.

“Daddy, did this steak come from a bull or a steer?” he asked.

“Son, I don’t know, but whatever it came from, it sure is good,” Grandaddy Schaefer replied.

Bryant mulled that answer over, but didn’t seemed satisfied.

“Daddy, what’s the difference between a bull and a steer?”

This question took Granddaddy a little aback.  He certainly didn’t want to ruin the evening’s special meal by going into the details about the emasculation of male cattle, but he knew he couldn’t avoid an answer.  With what he thought was a stroke of genius, he responded – “Son, a steer is a bull that’s lost his ambition.”

At which point, I piped up, eager to comment on something about which I knew nothing. 

“That’s right, Bryant.  A steer is a bull that’s lost his ammunition!”

We're Gonna Starve To Death

Dear Boo and Bubble,

One of the fun things about The Bridge Project is that, from time to time, family members respond and share tales that I have never heard before.  Frank Bryant, your second cousin twice removed (and one of the great turkey chasers in the previous post), sent me another example of Uncle Dick folklore. 

You had a first cousin thrice removed named Wade Bryant.  Like so many of your kin about whom I’ve written, Wade left this world way too soon.  The son of your great, great, great Uncle Gene and Aunt Harriett, Wade was the one who scared all of us girls to death at The Blues as we came down the path to the river butt naked for a skinny dip. (See January 18 entry entitled “Skinny Dip.”)

When Wade was around 10, he visited Uncle Dick and Aunt Annie Mae at Hamelfields.  One morning, he came down for breakfast to find Dick in the kitchen.

“What’s for breakfast?” Wade inquired with a positive hope for something legendary.

“Wade, I’m sorry to tell you this, but we don’t have a thing in this house for breakfast,” Dick said incredulously.  “Looks like you’re going to have to go out and kill something for us to eat.”

“Uh…..okay….but”

Ignoring Wade’s hesitation, Dick gave him a light-gauge shotgun and sent him out the back door to hunt something down.  Wade walked around Lake Ressielona behind the house, hoping to flush or stalk something edible, but to no avail.  He came back into the kitchen with the dismal news.

Uncle Dick put his hands on Wade’s shoulder and looked him in the eye.  “Son, I’m telling you, if you don’t go back out there and get something, we’re going to starve.”

Wade’s crystal blue eyes grew large at that prospect.  With the weight of the world on his back, he struck out again.  About half-way around the lake the second time, something rustled in the bushes, fluttered and flew up right in front of him.  Wade raised his gun, closed his eyes and fired a blind shot. 

When he dared open his eyes, there lay - mortally wounded at his feet - a Robin Redbreast.  Knowing that his family depended on this catch for their very survival, he picked up the bird and raced back to the house where Uncle Dick had been watching the whole scene from the kitchen window.

“You’ve saved us, Wade!” Dick exuded as he tossled his nephew’s hair.

Wade beamed. 

Nothing would do but Dick plucked the Robin, cleaned it and cooked it in a pan…………and served it to Wade

Then……….. he fixed him some bacon and eggs.

I Think I've Lost My Appetite

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Just when you think the well of family stories might be running dry, somebody kin to you offers up tales you’ve never heard before.  The other day, when all of us were visiting your cousin Jamie Bryant and his wife Lisa at their home in Linville, we were reminiscing about Hamelfields.  When Jamie was 12 and his younger brother, Frank, was 10, their family started the tradition of leaving their home in Charlotte, NC, and visiting Uncle Dick and Aunt Annie Mae for the week of Thanksgiving.

On this first occasion, the two boys thought they had literally found paradise.  The thousands of acres offered unfettered exploration.  At any moment, one might spot a deer or rattlesnake or possibly a gator.  Never one to let rules and regulations get in the way of fun, Uncle Dick plopped license-less Jamie down in the driver’s seat of his stick-shift Jeep and let him use the entire property to learn the hard way how to tame the car’s bucking and choking. 

The day before Thanksgiving, Uncle Dick approached the boys with a serious proposition.

“I need you two to go wrestle the turkey for Clem,” he said.  Clem was the maid and cook at Hamelfields.

“Sure,” Jamie and Frank nodded in unison.  How could they refuse? 

“Just go in the kitchen and get with Clem.  She’ll tell you what to do.”

The boys found Clem and she took them out to a pen back behind the house.  Sure enough, a turkey unassumingly roamed around in the space, fattened by effortless eating from several months prior. 

“You boys git in dat pen now and chase dat turkey ‘til you catches him,”  Clem instructed.  “When you catches him, you gots to hold him down.  Understand?”

Jamie and Frank looked at each other a little bewildered, but it sounded like it might be fun.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Clem opened the pen.  When Jamie and Frank set foot inside, the turkey spooked and started racing from one corner to the next.  They chased him around and around, diving and missing, grabbing and losing, sliding headfirst into the dirt.  Finally, after what seemed an eon, the two collided on the turkey at the same time and dragged him to the ground.

…..at which point, to their citified horror, Clem pulled out an axe and chopped the turkey’s head off.   The boys’ arms flew back.

…..at which point, to their further citified horror-stricken eyes, the turkey (sans head) began to run around the pen frantically, just like that proverbial chicken.

The next day, at Thanksgiving dinner, nothing – not the dressing cooked to perfection – not the beautifully bronzed skin – not the smell from the kitchen that filled the house which normally would awaken such yearning in the stomach that one could not stand it – nothing could make Jamie and Frank taste that turkey.

Be Careful What You Shake Out of a Tree

Dear Boo and Bubble,

This story may or may not be about the same friend that your great, great, great Uncle Dick saved from the Game Warden’s wrath…..but just for the sake of storytelling, let’s say he is.

Once again, this friend told Dick that he wanted to go hunting, which at Hamelfields served as a daily pastime.  Only seasonal restrictions determined whether the hunting involved deer or turkey or boar or dove or quail.  There was one reliable prey, however, for which the season remained constantly open.  When all else failed, you could hunt the lowly raccoon.

I say lowly because raccoons don’t even make it to the bottom rung of the food chain ladder.  But as hunting goes, a raccoon can provide quite an opportunity for excitement, as Dick’s friend unfortunately found out.

“I’m going to take you ‘coon hunting tonight,” Dick announced. 

“That’s great,” his friend replied.  “I’ve never been ‘coon hunting before.”

“Well, there’s a good deal to it, so I better explain.  First, we wait until it starts getting dark because that’s when the raccoons come out.”

“Okay.”

“We’ll have several dogs with us and their job is to find the ‘coon and run him up a tree.  Believe me, you’ll know when those dogs are on the scent.  They’ll start howling to high heaven.  They take off running so fast, we can’t keep up with them.”

“Okay.”

“But, don’t worry.  Once they’ve treed the ‘coon, we’ll know where they are.”

“I’m not worried,” the friend tried to reassure himself. “Sounds interesting.”

“Oh, it gets interesting all right,” Uncle Dick continued. “Once we get to the tree, and the dogs are going crazy underneath, somebody has to shinny up that tree high enough to get leverage and shake the ‘coon out.” 

“Hmmm….”

“That somebody would be you.”  Dick waited to see his friend’s reaction, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“What? You’ve got to be kidding!”

“Oh, don’t worry.  When the ‘coon hits the ground, the dogs pounce on him and we trap him.  You’re safe up in the tree.”

Uncle Dick’s voice resonated confidence.  After all, he had done this hundreds of times. 

His friend contemplated the situation.  Since he had begged the question, it would be downright unmanly of him to back out.  Dick’s reassurances made him feel a little better.

“Okay, if you say so.  I’m game.”

The afternoon passed in eager anticipation of the evening hunt.  As the sun began to set, Uncle Dick went to the kennels and prepped the dogs.  With his approach, their bodies quivered with excitement as they sensed the occasion.   He released them and the hunt began.

Darkness fell.  With flashlights spraying the foliage, Dick and his friend followed the dogs deeper and deeper into the woods.  Periods of working silence and occasional barks finally succumbed to constant howling, the signal that the dogs had found a raccoon and chased it up a tree. 

The two men tracked the sound, coming into a swampy area with water high enough to cover their hunting boots.  They finally found the dogs at the base of a medium-sized, but still young pine tree.  They shined their flashlights up into the limbs and there, hissing and spitting in total defiance, the raccoon clung to the trunk for dear life.

“Okay now,” Dick turned to his friend. “Get on up that tree until you are high enough to start making it sway.  That ‘coon won’t be bothering you.  He’ll keep right on climbing up to get away.”

The friend reluctantly handed his flashlight to Dick and waded over to the base of the tree.  He wrapped his legs and arms around the trunk and began to shinny up.  Sure enough, the higher he climbed, the higher the raccoon went. 

About half way up, Dick suggested he try to start whipping the tree.  Nothing moved.  The friend shinnied higher.  The raccoon, now almost at the top, glared downward in a rage.

Finally, the friend reached a point up the tree that it began to give.  He pulled his body from side to side until the tree followed along with him like a metronome.  Back, forth, back, forth, back, forth – the trunk swayed further and further, the raccoon holding on at the top with a vice grip, the dogs frothing at a fever pitch below.

With one pivotal thrust, the raccoon could hold no more.  His body flung to the ground and landed in a huge splash in the water.  The dogs plunged to the spot in a frantic flurry to pin down their prey. 

They missed. 

Don’t know what happened….it had never happened before….maybe it was the water…they went for the splash and the ‘coon was gone by the time they got there….doesn’t matter the reason….they missed.

The raccoon headed right back up the same tree where, having performed his task so admirably, Uncle Dick’s friend still clutched the trunk. 

He looked down at the totally upset, hysterical, probably rabid raccoon racing up the tree at him…..and he began to climb….higher, higher, higher….to a thinning trunk that couldn’t possibly hold his weight.  The raccoon, bent on revenge, continued towards him. 

Contemplating his choices, the friend decided the only thing to do was jump, which he did.  He careened down to the ground, landing on his back in the water.  The dogs, still frenzied over the whole situation, assumed another raccoon had hit the dirt and pounced again.

This time ….. they didn’t miss.

As I said in the beginning, I have no idea if the friend in this story is the same one that Uncle Dick saved from the Game Warden.  If so, I’ll bet he never asked to go hunting again!