Storytelling

Pass the Chicken Please or Fowl Friends

Art by Kathleen Swain, my mother

We went places and saw people that normal people never encountered.  I think he just need a “trash fix” from time to time.  He’d heard of somebody who lived back in the woods about four miles off Tobacco Road who had something he might be interested in buying.  He had to check it out, driving forever down muddy roads that looked like they might peter off into nothing.  Finally we got back to Mr. Tucker’s shack.  The old man was wearing unbuttoned overalls and nothing else. While Daddy and Mr. Tucker disappeared into the tangle of weeds and mess of old cars, car tires, trash, dead washing machines and other refuse behind the house, Mother and the kids sat in the car.  It was hot.  Daddy was gone.  It got hotter.  Daddy was still gone.  We opened the car doors, hoping to catch a breeze. It got hotter and hotter. The baby was squalling.  Mrs. Tucker, a big woman in overalls came out in the front yard and started a fire, never even looking our way, probably thinking our car was just another junk car in the yard.  As the sun blazed overhead, we begged Mother to ask Mrs. Tucker for a drink of water.  Somewhere in the wilderness, Daddy was still admiring Mr. Tucker’s junk collection.  He could talk for hours, unconcerned that his family was waiting in misery.  It didn’t matter that he didn’t know the people he had imposed himself on.  We spent many a miserable hour waiting in the car while he “talked,” usually on the way to visit some of his relatives.

Finally, in desperation, Mother got out of the car, introduced herself to Mrs. Tucker, and asked if we could have a drink of water.  Turning without speaking, she disappeared into the house, returning with some cloudy snuff glasses.  Calling us over to the well, she drew a bucket of water, and let us drink till we were satisfied. That was the best water I ever had.  Mrs. Tucker pulled a couple of chairs under a shade tree and Mother sat down.  We all sat down in the dirt in the cool of the shade and played.  Daddy was still gone but things looked a lot better after we cooled off and had a drink.  Mrs. Tucker was interesting to look at, but didn’t have a lot to say.  She had a couple of teeth missing, greasy red hair in a bowl cut, and long scratches down both arms.

Mother tried to converse, but Mrs. Tucker didn’t have a lot to say.  I couldn’t take my eyes off the missing teeth and long scratches down her arm.  I started talking to her.  She didn’t have any kids. It didn’t take long to figure out she “wasn’t right.” I was fascinated and wanted to ask about what happened to the teeth, but knew what that would get me, so I asked instead about her scratched arms.  Mother hushed me up but that topic inspired Mrs. Tucker. It seem, she was going to put a rooster in the big pot in the front yard to scald before plucking. He scratched her and escaped before she could get the lid on.  Apparently she didn’t know she was supposed to kill him first.  Just at the point where things were getting interesting, Daddy came back and I didn’t get to hear the rest of the story.

Mrs. Tucker sent us home with a turkey that day, teaching me a valuable lesson. Don’t ever accept the gift of a turkey.  Ol’ Tom was to be the guest of honor at our Thanksgiving Dinner.  Daddy put him in the chicken yard and Tom took over, whipping the roosters, terrorizing the hens, and jumping on any kid sent to feed poultry. We hated him.  Mother brandished a stick to threaten him when she had to visit to the chicken yard.  He even flew over the fence and chased us as we played in the back yard till Daddy clipped his wings.

Before too long, we saw the Nickerson kids, the meanest kids in the neighborhood, headed for the chicken yard.  Mother couldn’t wait to see Tom get them.  Sure enough, Ol’ Devil Tom jumped out from behind a shed on jumped on the biggest boy, Clarence.  Clarence yelped and ran at Ol’ Tom, his mean brothers close on his heels, flogging Ol’ Tom mercilessly.  Unlike us, they didn’t run out with their tails tucked between their legs.  They launched an all-out attack on Tom, beating him with their jackets, sticks, and whatever they could grab.  They chased him till they tired of the game.  Tom never chased any of us again, but Mother never got around to thanking the Nickersons.

Funny Obituary

Danny Lloyd, aka Rooster, aka Winston, aka Pizza Pop, passed away on April 25th at the age of 64, “to avoid having to pay taxes for the past year and to avoid another year of his New York Yankees not winning the World Series.”  

 A celebration of life will be held at 5:00 pm on Sunday, May 20, 2018 at Davidson Funeral Home in Lexington.  The family will receive friends following the service.  

 Danny is survived by his sons, Frank Callicutt (Beth) and Chris Lloyd; daughters, Abbie Callicutt and Heather Lloyd, all of Lexington and five grandchildren; Mary Lloyd, Annabell and Abbie Callicutt, and Liam and Charlie Blackerby.  He is also survived by three siblings; James Lloyd (Tanya), David Lloyd and Suzie Lloyd.  He was preceded in death by his parents, Charles and Barbara Kimball Lloyd.

 He was a generous man – giving away many of his possessions in the months before he died.  He even left his car to twelve different friends, depending upon who visited him last.  He was a life-long ticket scalper and broker, or as he called it “a facilitator of supply/demand economics.”  Once when asked about any regrets from his ticket sales, Danny confessed, “There was that time I told a Carolina fan that he needed to buy my ticket immediately if he wanted to hear Dean Smith sing the National Anthem.”  

 Danny was cremated – for two reasons:  There could be no viewing since his family refused to honor his request to have him standing in the corner of the room with a sign saying “Buying Tickets” in one hand, and in his other hand a sign saying “Selling Tickets” so that he would appear natural and life-like to his visitors.  

 Because his brother played football for Wake Forest University, Danny was a lifelong Demon Deacon fan, and he had respectfully requested six Wake Forest pall bearers so that the “Deacs” could “let him down” one last time.

 Danny has informed Hampton Inn that they can finally reinstate their pledge to not charge anyone who is not 100% satisfied, as he will no longer be staying there.

 For those attending his memorial service, please ignore Danny’s scalper friends who might be offering to upgrade your seat for a small price.  To any crooks reading this:  None of the family and friends attending this service have anything of value.  Remember, he gave his car to a dozen of us.  And one of his sons is Chris “Country” Lloyd, so it is certainly not worth the risk. 

 Danny Lloyd loved his siblings a little bit, and his children even more.  But those grandkids…they stole his heart.  They were the reason he lived his final 4 years with a sober mind and a giving heart.

 We loved him.  And we already miss him.

Pee pee dance

Bud has four sisters. For some reason, they are all crazy about him, though he teased them mercilessly. His favorite thing was to get all four and his poor mother laughing, knowing they’d all be about to pee their pants. Out of respect, Mom got first chance at the potty and all four girls would be lined up on the side of the bathtub. That’s when he knew he’d scored!

Aaron Purmort

Full Obituary

“Age 35, died peacefully at home on November 25 after complications from a radioactive spider bite that led to years of crime-fighting and a years long battle with a nefarious criminal named Cancer, who has plagued our society for far too long.  

Civilians will recognize him best as Spider-Man, and thank him for his many years of service protecting our city.

His family knew him only as a kind and mild-mannered Art Director, a designer of websites and t-shirts and concert posters who always had the right cardigan and the right thing to say (even if it was wildly inappropriate).  

Aaron was known for his long, entertaining stories, which he loved to repeat often.

In high school, he was in the band ‘The Asparagus Children’, which reached critical acclaim in the northern suburbs.  

As an adult, he graduated from the College of Visual Arts (which also died an untimely death recently) and worked in several agencies around Minneapolis, settling in as an Interactive Associate Creative Director at Colle + McVoy.  

Aaron was a comic book aficionado, a pop-culture encyclopedia and always the most fun person at any party.

He is survived by his parents, Bill and Kim Kuhlmeyer, father Mark Purmort (Patricia, Autumn, Aly), sisters Erika and Nicole, first wife Gwen Stefani, current wife Nora and their son Ralph, who will grow up to avenge his father’s untimely death.”

A service will be held on December 3, 2014.

Who in the Hell is Michael Jackson?

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Sometimes life serves up some incredibly sweet moments.  About twenty-five years ago, I mortally embarrassed both my high school children with no effort or planning on my part whatsoever. I was a dialysis nurse at the time and had worked all night the night before.  I had gone to bed about four that afternoon, knowing I was going to be called back.  At eight-thirty in the evening. The phone at my bedside rang, jolting me from sleep. I was sure it was my call back from the hospital, I was disoriented to hear a radio D J introduce himself. “This is ———- I am calling the Bethea Home in Greenwood, Louisiana, live.  We are on the air.  Is this Ms. Bethea?”

“Duh”. This was not the call I was expecting.  I was brilliant!

“You have the chance to be entered in the Win a House Contest if you can answer one simple question.  Are you ready?”

Remember, I’d just come off a sixteen hour shift and had had four hours sleep.

“Uh. Ok”

“All Right!  Here’s your question.  It’s so simple you couldn’t miss it.  What was Michael Jackson’s first million seller?”  By this time my kids, who were both listening to the radio had burst into the room to try to get the phone away from me, knowing what was bound to happen.

They were too late.  I answered loud and clear, disgracing them in front of all their listening friends.  “Who in the Hell is Michael Jackson?”

Fortunately, I already had a house.

Kathleen Carries On or Breathing In and Out

Mother was widowed at fifty-four. A couple of widowers in their seventies called showing interest. One was an elderly Pentecostal Preacher who showed up with a three-page poem he’d penciled on pages torn from a three ring spiral binder. The kicker was, he’d admired the way she’d waited on Daddy hand and foot. He knew she’d make him a good wife, too. Hard to believe she’d turn down such an attractive offer.

After a time, Mother moved into town and developed a tepid friendship with a neighbor man, Maury. Unfortunately, Maury’s health failed, but not before Mother’s interest in him. She realized then she didn’t want another man friend. When another neighbor man, John, showed interest in Mother, intending to discourage John, she explained she had a friend, Maury, who wasn’t doing too well. Some weeks later, the Maury died. John stopped by a time or two to see how her friend was doing. Evasively, Mother told him. “He’s about the same.” I suppose he’s still “about the same.”

Afterwards, when asked if she’d ever thought of marrying again, Mother always replied,”No, the only thing wrong with men is they keep breathing in and breathing out.”

If you enjoyed Kathleen’s stories, check out her memoir on Amazon. Authored by Linda Bethea Illustrated by Kathleen Swain

Bumps in the Road Part 15

Bill was in a ebullient mood as he maneuvered Bobo’s borrowed truck off the blacktop onto the dusty red dirt road into Cuthand, Texas. His dainty bride squealed irresistibly as he centered a deep pothole, thrilling him to see her little girl reaction.

“Bill, slow down! You’re going to wreck us!” she implored.

“Hang on! I’ve driven in lots worse places than this!” He knew what he was doing.

“Bill! This dust is ruining my new dress!”Dust was fogging in the open truck windows. He looked down to see dust settling on the cuffs of the white shirt he’d just opened from the laundry.

“Oh Lordy! We can’t go to your your folks looking like this.” Enjoying her reaction, he’d not noticed the effect of the dust on their clothes. He pulled over. She took off her headscarf and they dusted each other and the truck seat. Satisfied with their appearance, he took her in his arms to kiss her.

She pushed him away. “Not here, Bill. She turned away as a car passed. “I don’t want people talking about me. I’m not that kind of girl!”

“You’re not any kind of girl,” he laughed. “You’re my wife and I want everybody to know it.”

“You’re so bad.” she giggled as her smacked her bottom, as she climbed in the truck. She felt delightfully wicked.

“You better get used to it.” he assured her.

Kathleen had butterflies in her stomach as they neared her parents home. She and Bill had been so caught up in each other they had barely touched on their families. She only knew Bill’s mother was a widow living in Louisiana with a couple of girl left at home. Her family was poor. She assumed from his looks and demeanor, she was marrying up. His family might look down on her.

Though she’d only been gone a month, she saw her home through Bill’s eyes as they pulled in. It was shabbier than she remembered. Her anxiety rose at surprising them with a husband unannounced. Mama was in the front yard working in her flowers. The hollyhocks towered over the paling fence. Rows of proud zinnias claimed dominance over the front yard. Bees buzzed around the bee balm and the sweet peas climbing the porch rails. The four o’clocks were just starting to open. Tall sunflowers nodded in the backyard. The scent of her childhood was heavenly. Daddy sat in a straight chair on the front porch, smoking and reading his Ranch Romance Magazine, just like he did every Saturday afternoon. Her throat drew tight with emotion.

Bill took her arm as he opened the gate. Mama dropped her shovel as Daddy walked down the steps to greet them. “Mama, Daddy, I want you to meet my husband, Bill Swain.” She flushed with sudden emotion, hoping they wouldn’t think she’d had to get married.

Snotty Girls

Good baby0002

See this beautiful dead baby photographed outdoors in front of a black drape.  He was the cause of my first major social failure.  Before you get too outraged with me, bear in mind this child was my grandmother’s baby brother, stillborn in 1898.  Even she never knew him. From the time I could remember, whenever I caught Mother busy, I’d slip into her closet and rifle through a small box of pictures and letters, which I enjoyed all the more because they were forbidden.  I’d sit cross-legged on her closet floor, pouring over the taboo loot.

One day when I was in third grade, I ran up to Margaret Green, who played with me only if she didn’t have a better offer.  I was a friendly kid, the kind who’d have played with a rattlesnake if it hadn’t bitten me too much.  Today, Margaret wanted no part of me, having hit the jackpot.  She and Rita May Bowers, the snooty daughter of the principal were bonding tearfully, comparing notes upon discovering they each had a long dead stillborn baby sister in their past. They hugged each other and wept luxuriously.  Bored, I went on my way.

Determined to compete, I queried Mother that afternoon.  “Mother did you ever have a baby born dead?”  Hugely pregnant, she wasn’t partial to this question.

“No!  What an awful question!”

“Well, did you ever lose a baby?”  (I had no idea how one could be so careless, but I’d heard it whispered.)

“That’s enough of that kind of talk!  Go do your homework, now!”

Nothing was left but for me to visit the closet, slipping the dead baby picture into my Arithmetic book.  At recess the next day, Margaret and Rita May were still deep in mourning, freezing me out as I trotted up.  “I have a dead baby sister,too.”  I bragged.  I happily waved the picture.  “Looky here!”  They couldn’t deny it.  It was a dead baby, alright!

Rita May grabbed the picture, studying it, reluctant to admit me to the club, even with this proof.  She was softening when the jealous Margaret grabbed it for a gander.  She studied it before flipping it over, to find written on the back, Floyd Franklin Perkins, born and died May 3,1898.  I was out!

William Ziegler passed away on July 29, 2016 at the age of 69 “to avoid having to make a decision in the pending presidential election,” according to the obituary written by Ziegler’s four children.

Ziegler’s obituary also mentions his love for the “morons and mental patients” that he served with as a fireman, sending tasteless internet jokes, potted meat and his “alcoholic dog Judge”.

While this obituary is full of humour, Ziegler’s daughter shared with the Times-Picayune the meaning behind the hilarious obituary saying that her father would always email funny obituaries he found online so that they could have a laugh.

All jokes aside, the obituary ends with a heartfelt, “He will be greatly missed.”

Full Obituary

“William Ziegler escaped this mortal realm on Friday, July 29, 2016 at the age of 69.  We think he did it on purpose to avoid having to make a decision in the pending presidential election.

He leaves behind four children, five grand-children, and the potted meat industry, for which he was an unofficial spokesman until dietary restrictions forced him to eat real food.

William volunteered for service in the United States Navy at the ripe old age of 17 and immediately realized he didn’t much enjoy being bossed around.  He only stuck it out for one war.  Before his discharge, however, the government exchanged numerous ribbons and medals for various honorable acts.

Upon his return to the City of New Orleans in 1971, thinking it best to keep an eye on him, government officials hired William as a fireman.  After twenty-five years, he suddenly realized that running away from burning buildings made more sense than running toward them.  He promptly retired.

Looking back, William stated that there was no better group of morons and mental patients than those he had the privilege of serving with (except Bob, he never liked you, Bob).

Following his wishes, there will not be a service, but well-wishers are encouraged to write a note of farewell on a Schaefer Light beer can and drink it in his honor.

He was never one for sentiment or religiosity, but he wanted you to know that if he owes you a beer, and if you can find him in Heaven, he will gladly allow you to buy him another.  He can likely be found forwarding tasteless internet jokes (check your spam folder, but don’t open these at work).

Expect to find an alcoholic dog named Judge passed out at his feet.  Unlike previous times, this is not a ploy to avoid creditors or old girlfriends.  He assures us that he is gone. He will be greatly missed.”

Published in The Times-Picayune on Aug. 12, 2016.