Day: August 8, 2024

Dining With Mr. Floyd

Daddy had always wanted a place in the country, but was overwhelmed at the magnitude of work facing him on that totally undeveloped acreage.  It had been homesteaded and farmed shortly after the Civil War, but hadn’t been under production for many years, long enough that most of it was covered in mature timber.  A tangle of locust trees was matted over the old homeplace beneath three huge oaks.  Though we worked hard at clearing  and burning the growth, locust thorns worked up through the ground and pierced our feet for years to come, even through our shoes.

There was more work than one man could do so Daddy hired Mr. Floyd to help harvest the timber and clear the land for pasture. All that timber would finance the payments on the place and make improvements.  Mr. Floyd lived on the fringes of society getting by on odd jobs.  Mr. Floyd was unkempt, rarely bathed, and kept to himself, but had a reputation as a hard worker, He lived in a shack in the woods with his brother, who was not so successful.

Daddy couldn’t afford to pay Mr. Floyd much, so they worked out a deal on a small wage, meals, and lodging in our fine school bus camper. When Mother got a whiff of Mr. Floyd, she told Daddy the camper was dead to her after that. So, Daddy set the camper up on the far edge of his place.  Mr. Floyd moved in with instructions to leave propane off since there might be a leak.  There shouldn’t be a problem anyway, since he’d be taking his meals with us.  

Mother put some old bedding in the camper and Mr. Floyd moved in.  The next morning, he showed up for breakfast before daylight. He didn’t wash his hands, just dove in to the biscuits, grits, and eggs.  His manners served as lessons, thereafter.  “You’re eating like Mr. Floyd.”  He didn’t hog the conversation.  He was too busy with biscuits.

The men and Billy went to work right after breakfast.  It was early summer, but hot as blazes.  When they came in for lunch, Daddy pointed out the bathroom so Mr. Floyd could wash up.  He wasn’t worried about that.  He took the the chair nearest the window Mother had offered him at the breakfast table.  Daddy always sat at the opposite end of the table, the one that got the best breeze from the attic fan.  He sat downwind of Mr. Floyd just long enough to get a whiff of seasoned body odor marinated with the piquant aroma of fresh morning sweat the fan pulled over our guest before jumping up.  “Here Floyd.  Sit here.  It’s the coolest spot.”

Mr. Floyd also taught Mother to cut the cornbread before putting it on the table when he reached for the plate and broke off a big piece before passing it. Phyllis and I both declined cornbread and passed it right along.  I didn’t keep up with who else was feeling picky, but there was a lot of cornbread left after lunch.  None of us kids ever learned to enjoy Mr. Floyd’s company, but he was a necessary evil.

One night, over in the winter, long after work was finished, we heard what sounded like a sonic boom, which was surprising to hear at night.  A few minutes later, Mr. Floyd knocked on the door.  The boom had come from the camper. Mr. Floyd had run low on wood for the heater and opted to use the propane stove, instead, the very same stove Daddy had warned him not to use because he suspected a leak.  Mr. Floyd had lit up a cigarette before bed and came near burning himself up.  It’s bad he got some burns, but good he didn’t gas himself. He was done with the camper after that, so that’s when Daddy let him work out a deal for a 1953 Chevy Sedan Daddy could spare.

The camper was deemed unfit, not only because Mr. Floyd blew it up, but because his strong smell lingered.  You can’t get rid of a fifty dollar just because of that.  A farm can always use storage. Daddy pulled the camper up behind the house to use for feed storage and a place for the dogs to sleep. Mother was furious to have it so near her new house.  From that time on, whenever Daddy had no particular place to store something, it went in the camper. It wasn’t long before the dogs were crowded out of the nice smelly bunks.  Whenever they could, the chickens slipped in and helped themselves to the chicken feed and tried to set up housekeeping.  Rats also liked chicken feed.  Black snakes love eggs, so between the smell, spooked chickens, rats, and snakes it was fairly unappealing.

Have you heard of the film constipated? No because it never came out.

Humour that’ll have everyone laughing out loud.

There are two reasons you shouldn’t drink from the toilet. Number 1 and Number 2.

Why did the toilet paper roll down the hill? To get to the bottom

Why do people take naps on the toilet? Because it’s the rest room

Why didn’t the toilet paper make it across the road? It got stuck in the crack.

What does one toilet say to the other? You’re looking a little flushed.

Rascal Boy

Charley’s appearance was deceptive. A slow-speaking, stodgy little guy, you could have been forgiven for thinking him unobservant. He used this to his advantage, taking in everything around him.

When he was about three, he noticed his dad emptying his pockets one day after work. “What’s that, Daddy?”

Daddy worked for the telephone company and often had to go in yards to do work when customers weren’t home. “That’s dog repellent. I use it if a dog gets after me. Don’t mess with it.” Both went on their merry way.

It just happens, Charley had history with Granny’s mean little dog. Boochie snapped at Charley every time Charley got close. I expect, not without cause. The next time Charley went to Granny’s, Boochie came after Charley, who was armed and ready. Boochie was heard squealing and made a hasty retreat out the doggy door.

Stodgy little Charley trudged out behind him. In a minute, Boochie was heard squealing a couple of more times in rapid succession. That got dad up to investigate. It seems young Charley had appropriated Dad’s dog repellent and was putting it to good use. He had poor Boochie on the run. All’s well that ends well. Dad confiscated the dog repellent. Boochie never interacted with Charley again.

Change in the World

What change, big or small, would you like your blog to make in the world?

We all crave inclusion. As I blog, I speak from the heart. Every heart needs understanding and encouragement. Initially, I wondered if the amusing, humorous, or poignant things I voiced would find a response in anyone. Perhaps my remarks were mere foolishness. My life has been so enriched by the conversations and connections I’ve made. I believe most people want friends and understanding. I hope others find a kindred spirit in me. We needn’t be similar, just accepting.

A Hog a Day Part 4

With Billy asleep under the porch, I was bored.  I noticed the toilet sitting down  the trail from the house.  “I need to use the bathroom.”  I told Mother. This needed investigation.  I knew what a toilet was, but had never gotten to investigate one to my satisfaction.  Mother had always rushed me through the process on the few occasions I gotten to use one.

”You’re going to have to wait.  I can’t go with you right now.  I’m in the middle of putting this permanent in,” Mother replied.  That fit in nicely with my plans.

”I can go by myself.  I’m a big girl.  I’ll be careful and not fall in.” I asserted.

”If you do, we’re just going to leave you,” laughed Miss Bessie.  “You’ll be too nasty to save.  She ought to be okay.  My younguns went by themselves all the time.”  I admired her good opinion of me as I sauntered off, though I had to wonder if that was where the lost little girl had gotten off to.

“Okay, but don’t fall in and come right back.” Mother looked a little worried as I left them to their project.

I considered myself a bit of an authority on toilets since we had an abandoned toilet in our chicken yard put there by the previous owners.  Mother had always threatened us away from it, but I had bragged about it to a couple of Mother’s coffee-drinking friends once, much to her horror.  As long as I could remember, she’d been after Daddy to pull it down, but he never found the time.  Not only that, I’d been lucky enough to visit a couple of toilets when we visited some of Daddy’s backwoodsy friends.

I was completely surprised at the daintiness of Miss Bessie’s toilet.  In contrast to her rustic house, it was a showplace.  The walls were beautifully decorated with remnants of ornate wallpaper.  Though the numerous patterns varied widely, they were all right side up, unlike the magazine pictures and newspapers tacked to the walls of her house.  My favorite print was of little fat men in rainboots and top hats holding umbrellas. Clearly, Miss Bessie had had control of this operation and was a high-class lady.  Bright floral linoleum graced the floor.  Wonders of wonders, a toilet seat covered the open hole I’d expected to see.  A toilet paper holder held a full roll, instead of the Sears and Roebuck catalog I’d been forward to perusing.  I never felt brave enough to look at women’s underwear unless I was assured of privacy, a rare situation in our busy house.  This expertly decorated toilet far surpassed our poor bathroom at home, a very utilitarian one with the usual drab features.

Naturally, once I’d completed my business, I raised the toilet seat to inspect the quagmire beneath, interested to know whether Miss Bessie had managed any improvements on the usual situation.  She hadn’t. The stench was overwhelming. Fat maggots squirmed in the disgusting mess, just like every other toilet I’d ever seen.  If the little lost girl was in there, the maggots could have her.
I was repulsed to see a big red rooster stretch his neck to peck out a maggot.  It was thrillingly disgusting!

“You took long enough,” Mother said when I got back.

“That toilet smells even worse than Miss Bessie’s hair,” I informed the two on the porch.  “I sure am glad I ain’t a rooster!”

”Linda!” Mother chided.  “You watch your smart mouth or “I’ll warm your britches up for you!”

Miss Bessie laughed and spewed coffee out her nose.  I knew I wouldn’t get a spanking this time.