Storytelling

BERTHY HOPS A TRAIN(God’s Hillbilly Warrior Goes Yondering, Part 3 of 9)© Harvey Hughett

(This is a guest post by my friend Harvey Hughett. Please visit his facebook site, Musing Appalachia)

It was late spring of 1965 when my great-aunt Berthy embarked on her most daring adventure yet. She had always been a woman of action, never one to sit idly by when there was excitement to be had. So, when she heard the distant whistle of the train approaching Bulls Gap, she knew it was calling her name.

As part of her strategy to conserve money on the trip to Chattanooga, she planned on boondocking rather than paying for motels. She didn’t have relatives to stay with where she was going. She didn’t know it at the time, but this journey would be filled with unexpected challenges and enough mishaps to dissuade her from taking any other trips for a long time. But she did pick up new experiences, change some lives for the better, saw new scenery, and collected on the debt owed to her by Mrs. Gooch.

Shortly after her daughter, Nova, had joined the WACs and left home, she packed her bag, kissed her cats goodbye, and started walking towards where the train had to slow down near Whitesburg. She knew the train schedule and had two hours to get settled into place.

She hid in some bushes, and when she saw the train slowing down enough for her to make a move, she ran out from her hiding place and, with a deep breath and a quick prayer, leaped onto the moving train, her heart pounding with excitement. And so began the adventure of a lifetime, one that would take her from the quiet hills of East Tennessee to the bustling streets of Chattanooga. God’s Warrior was on her way to see Rock City!

Bertha’s trip wasn’t without some close calls. As she made her daring leap onto the moving train, her foot slipped on the gravel, and she almost lost her grip on the grab iron or handhold. For a heart-stopping moment, she dangled precariously, her legs flailing as she struggled to pull herself up and into the boxcar.
Just as she thought she might fall off; she managed to hook her arm around another metal rung and haul herself aboard the moving train. Her heart was pounding, and she could feel the adrenaline coursing through her veins. Once she was safely aboard, she let out a breathless laugh, realizing just how close she had come to a very different ending to her adventure.

She laughed and waved when she saw two of Bryant Gulley’s boys throwing rocks by the railroad. They’d seen a figure jump onto the boxcar, but when Berthy waved at them, their eyes about jumped out of their heads in disbelief. They’d watched her near-miss and frantic scramble to climb onto the train but didn’t have a clue the crazy person was Aint Berthy until she waved. She knew the boys would tell their parents, and she’d have a lot of explaining to do.

The Southern Railway route from Bulls Gap to Chattanooga included several major stops. The train traveled through Morristown and Knoxville, a major hub, before continuing on to Chattanooga. The journey was very scenic, with landscapes parallel to the valleys and rivers of the Appalachian Mountains. Along the way, she made note of all the stops and slowdown areas for the train. She kept those in mind for the return trip.
After hopping the first train of her life, Berthy was energized to finally be off and adventuring again. She was a total mountain woman infused with mountain ways and a streak of wanderlust in her blood that most didn’t have. She was self-confident and afraid of nothing. Since she had been released from Knoxville’s Lions View Hospital, she was careful to keep a low profile and, for a while, backed off a bit on her preachings against sinning.

Nevertheless, because Berthy was convinced that she was a Warrior for God, she was obligated to move out of the shadows from time to time and do something more constructive than just sit in her mountain cabin and crochet and paint scriptural warnings on the backs of turtles and turn them loose in sinner’s yards. She loved “yondering.” Life was always more interesting when she was traveling.

The clackety-clack of the train soothed her in a way she didn’t think possible. Life was good!

Berthy was surprised to find two people in a corner inside the train car. At first, she was alarmed and grasped her petticoat to make sure that her sidearm, Hercules, was still within easy reach. It was a young couple huddled together. They looked up, startled, as Berthy settled herself on a crate. The girl, with tear-streaked cheeks, clutched her boyfriend’s hand tightly.

“We’re from Greeneville,” the boy explained. “We’re running away to Knoxville to git married. Her stepfather… he’s a bad man. He’s been trying to make her do things the preacher said she shouldn’t do.”
Berthy asked, “What are yore plans when you git to Knoxville?” The boy responded, “First, I gotta git a job so we can buy a marriage license and find a place to stay. Then, we’ll see what happens from there.” Berthy recommended that they change their plans and get married by a preacher first, then look for a job before they got into trouble.

She reached into her petticoat and pulled out a five-dollar bill. “You take this and buy yoreselves a marriage license. And make sure you get married proper with a preacher—a good one, not one of them fancy seminary-trained preachers. You gotta watch out for city preachers, they preach stuff they memorizes from books written by who knows who and preachin’ stuff they think up on their own. You need to find a good old mountain preacher, preferably one who cain’t read and ain’t very smart. When they preaches, they rely totally on God and not danged books what might be inspired by man. You shoulda have let Preacher Hughett over at Mohawk marry you up. He cain’t read, and everthing he says is inspired by the Almighty. He just repeats thoughts that God puts in his head while he’s at the pulpit. He don’t use his own words, which could mess up God’s message.”

Then, she handed the money to the boy and said, “I like you’uns ’cause you want to do the right thing, and I’m goin’ to help you sum more.” At this point, she pulled out her enchanted crystal. When the light hit it a certain way, it sparkled, and inside it were some lines that sort of looked like a cross. She’d gotten it years earlier from a granny woman who taught her how to use it to cast spells and put place hexes. She explained, “They’s bad hexes, and they’s good hexes. I call the good ones “blessing hexes.”

Berthy then extracted two gravels from a pouch in her petticoat, whispered a few words, and passed the crystal over them several times.

“Here, y’all take these,” she said, handing one to the boy. “Keep it close, and you’ll find a job. And you,” she said, giving the other to the girl, “stay true to God’s commandments, and everthang will work out well. You’ll find the happiness and peace yore looking for. But remember, no sinning before you get married, or the blessing will become a curse in yore life.”

The couple thanked her profusely, their spirits lifted by her kindness and the promise of a better future.
As the train chugged along, Berthy thought about her own journey. She was on her way to Chattanooga to collect a debt from an old neighbor and wondered what might lie in store for her on the tracks ahead.

Aunt Berthy had a secret she rarely shared because people thought she was crazy when she did. The people at the mental hospital in Knoxville didn’t believe her and kept her there an extra two years after she explained her special powers to them. She truly believed that she possessed a magical ability to see glimpses of the future. It was a talent passed to her by Granny Woman. She used it sparingly, knowing the power it held. As she gazed into her enchanted crystal, she saw a vision of the young couple, happily married and surrounded by children. Knowing she had set them on the right path brought her a sense of peace.
Aunt Berthy’s crystal had shown her many visions over the years, each one adding to her wisdom and guiding her actions. Here are a few notable ones:

During one terrible winter, Berthy saw a vision of a bountiful harvest in the coming year. She shared this vision with several local farmers, encouraging them to plant extra rows despite their doubts. Her prediction came true, and she picked up some credibility.

Berthy once saw a vision of a neighbor in distress. She went to their home and discovered they were struggling with sickness and financial troubles. She gave them some of her herbal elixirs, chopped some firewood for their stove, and fixed some cornbread and beans. When she felt they would be OK, she returned to her cabin.

In one of her more mysterious visions, Berthy saw a hidden treasure buried at the base of an old oak tree on the hillside not far from her cabin. She followed the vision and unearthed a fruit jar filled with silver dollars. She saved these to give to needy people and didn’t use the money for herself, feeling that God had directed her to the stash.

Berthy created special concoctions made of different herbs and plants that grew in the mountains and used these to help heal people. In their preparation, she used the crystal to bestow blessings on the contents of each bottle she prepared.

Another time, she was sitting in a rocking chair on her porch, holding the crystal, when it seemed to get warm. She held it to the light, peered into it, and a vision began to form. She saw a young woman, pale and weak, lying in a small, dimly lit room. The woman was coughing violently, and Berthy could feel the desperation in the air. Berthy recognized the woman as Effie Cobb, a Mountain Valley Church member known for her kindness. She had been sick for weeks, and the doctors had given up hope. Without wasting a moment, Berthy grabbed her pouch of herbs and remedies and set off towards Effie’s house.

When Berthy arrived, she found Effie’s mother sitting by her bedside, tears streaming down her face. “Berthy, I’m glad you’re here,” she whispered. “Effie’s gittin’ worse. The doctors say they ain’t no more they can do.”

Berthy nodded, her expression determined. “We’ll see about that,” she said, pulling out her enchanted crystal. She held it over the girl, whispering ancient words of healing. Then, she carefully administered the herbal remedy to Effie, who drank it trembling. It was a recipe that Granny Woman had shared with her.
“Rest now,” Berthy said softly. “And let the herbs do their work.”

Berthy stayed by Effie’s side for hours, watching over her as she slept. Slowly, the color began to return to her cheeks, and her breathing grew steadier. By morning, the fever had broken, and she opened her eyes, weak but alive.

“Thank you, Berthy,” Effie’s mother said, her voice choked with emotion. “You saved her.”

Berthy smiled, her heart swelling with relief and satisfaction. “Hit weren’t me,” she said. “Hit was God.”
….

Berthy hadn’t been on the train long before she needed to use an outhouse. When the train slowed on the outskirts of Morristown, she grabbed her pack and jumped out. The year before, a train had crushed a car at an intersection in downtown Morristown, and the city council passed an ordinance that required trains to slow down to 5 MPH in town.

When she hopped off, she was drawn by the colorful lights and lively sounds of a carnival. She made her way to the carnival grounds and quickly found a restroom marked for women. As she exited, she bumped into a familiar face.

“Wanda? Is that you?” Berthy exclaimed.

Wanda, a young woman who had run away from an abusive father in Bulls Gap, looked up in surprise. “Aunt Berthy! What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same,” Berthy replied, her eyes narrowing. “I heard you run away from home. What are you doing here?”

“I’m in charge of the penny toss,” Wanda said, gesturing towards a nearby booth. “It’s honest work, and it keeps me busy.”

Berthy eyed the carnival skeptically. “You staying clean in the Lord, Wanda? Carnivals are full of sinning.”
Wanda smiled reassuringly. “I am, Berthy. I even meet with a Bible study group every Wednesday, along with some of the other carneys. We keep each other on the right path.”

Berthy nodded, satisfied with Wanda’s answer. “Good. You keep it that way.”

Wanda made Berthy promise not to tell her parents where she was because she was afraid that her daddy would beat her again and, this time, might kill her.

(to be continued)

If you like this story, you should scroll down my Facebook Page. I have nearly a hundred more stories from the same crazy family this one came from. I also have books for sale on Amazon. MUSING APPALACHIA: VOLUME 2: Wrestling with Life in the Flatlands.

Valentine Failure

Bud and I are not the best at commemorating special days. Despite this, we are coming up on fifty-five years so I guess things have somehow worked out.

One year, I was feeling appreciative of our relationship and bought Bud a really beautiful card. I left the card with a box of chocolates, the memento he’d really appreciate, on his bedside table where he’d see it as he came home from his nightshift.

It happened to be my day off, so I waited for his reaction. He came in carrying a bag of Valentine treats a co-worker had gifted the staff. His cheeks were puffed out with candy, so he was obviously enjoying the holiday.

In a few minutes he came back up front with his box of chocolates under his arm and settled in his recliner to enjoy the news. When I went back to check, I noticed he’d never even opened his card. I was infuriated.

“Where’s my valentine?” I demanded.

With his mouth full of candy, he replied. “I didn’t know it was Valentine’s Day.”

Amazingly, he survived.

Reminiscing

I thought you might like to hear a story from Kathleen Swain my 96 year-old mother.

This is a guest post by my friend Harvey Hughett. I just love his stories of Appalachia. Check him out on his facebook site Musing AppalachiaBERTHY SEES A SIGNGod’s Hillbilly Warrior Goes Yondering (Part 2 of 9)© Harvey Hughett

It had been a hard winter, and cabin fever was starting to set in for Aint Berthy. It was weeks before the garden needed to be planted. And the chirping of the birds was so loud that it was starting to drive her crazy. Mockingbirds were the worst with their never-ending attempts to one-up the other birds. She was ripe for another road trip, but not on a bus this time. She had enough of bus stations.

She cut down trees, chopped her own firewood, and walked everywhere. She was in top physical shape. It was while walking to Bulls Gap to trade some free-range eggs for sugar that she stopped in the road to let a copperhead snake slither out of harm’s way and into the ditch. She liked snakes and didn’t bother them. She even had a five-year-old copperhead living under her back porch steps, and they never bothered each other. She named it Clyde after Sherriff Clyde Snowden over at Morristown because he’d once backed out on his word to her about getting rid of some prostitutes who’d moved into a house down the road from her and were attempting to set up shop. In the end, Berthy had to fix that problem herself. After that, she didn’t have much use for cops.

As she stopped to let “Clyde’s friend” pass, she happened to glance up and saw a barn with a sign painted on the roof that said, “SEE ROCK CITY.” She took that for a message of some kind. Berthy strongly believed in signs and omens. She’d never seen Rock City, but the snake and sign on the barn probably weren’t coincidences. She paused and pondered the possible meaning of what she’d just witnessed.

It was at that precise moment she remembered that Old Lady Gooch, who used to live up the road, still owed her some money from eight years ago. She’d moved to Chattanooga and lived near Rock City (Lookout Mountain). So, that was it! She was destined to go to Chattanooga and collect on the debt while experiencing new scenery and meeting interesting people!

While in Bulls Gap, she picked up a train schedule at the depot, went across the street to Gilley’s Hotel, and bought an ice cream cone. She loved to eat ice cream and watch the trains come through. She’d imagine what the lives of the passengers arriving and departing might be like. She loved traveling and dreamed about taking a trip by rail herself someday. As she sat on a bench and studied the train destinations and fares, she noticed that a ticket to and from Chattanooga cost $28.65. She was appalled at the ridiculously high price.

As she was leaving town, she met a hobo and walked with him for a bit. She asked him about hopping trains and getting free rides. He explained that freighthopping was dangerous and illegal, but he did it all the time and had traveled as far as San Francisco several times in a boxcar. He stressed safety, timing, and location. He told her to avoid busy areas where there were bulls (rail guards) and heavy security and to look for unguarded spots where the trains had to slow down or stop. He described a curve just before Whitesburg where trains slowed to less than 5 MPH and, if one were lucky, he (or she!) could just throw their bag into the boxcar and hop on for a free ride to the next stop.

He advised her to choose an enclosed boxcar so she could hide and stay out of bad weather. He also told her how she could use an old rail spike to wedge the door partially open so she wouldn’t be locked inside. Once, he’d been locked in a week before someone heard him banging on the door and let him out. And he cautioned her to respect other travelers. He said that hobos just peed out the open doors. He remarked that he wasn’t sure how a woman would manage that but suggested that she respect the property and not mess it up because he might want to ride in that same train car someday.

During the next few weeks, Berthy practiced jumping onto the bed of a horse-drawn freight wagon in the back pasture until she could easily do it with a full pack.

She pre-loaded a WWII military surplus backpack she’d picked up at a thrift store with a change of clothes, a blanket, her bedside alarm clock (she didn’t own a watch), pokes for cornbread and venison jerky (a deer made a mistake and got in her garden), a bottle of Percy Medicine, and a few other odds and ends like her special crystal, potions, candles, matches, and…Hercules, her reliable travel companion. It was a small Harrington & Richardson snub nose revolver in the unusual .44 Bull Dog caliber. Not many stores carried ammo for the old gun, but Hasson-Bryan Hardware Store in Morristown had it. It had to have the headstamp of .44 B.D. and not .44 Magnum. But it blew a hole the same size. Berthy knew all this stuff and was a good shot.

She carried Hercules and her valuables in special pouches she’d sewed into secret pockets in her petticoat. That way, she always knew where they were. Concerning money, she devised a system of tying bills, coins, and jewelry into little pouches and attaching them to the petticoat with short pieces of string. For example, suppose she needed seven dollars and thirty-three cents to buy something. In that case, she’d excuse herself to a private place where she could lift her dress and extract a five-dollar bill from the pouch with that denomination and another small sack with other bills or coin sizes. In a way, she was a walking cash register. It was an excellent way to keep close track of her valuables and still get relatively quick access. She had a special pocket on the outside of her dress where she carried a small military-size Bible her husband had brought back from the Army.

When around her daughter, Nova, or her cute grandchild, Jan, she’d just whip up her dress and count out the money. She felt safe walking around with her treasures safely hidden in her dress. They served as a secure place to hide her precious belongings. Being a guy, she was discreet, so I never saw her lift her dress.

(to be continued)

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Don’t Bother Reaching for Your Umbrella, It’s Probably Broken!

Baby group Kids small

Top pic:  Me and the kids in baby’s first days.  Notice how I don’t appear to know how to manage.  A picture is worth a thousand words.

Bottom Pic: Children about six months later

The baby was tiny. I hadn’t seen anything but tonsils, poop, and Sesame Street in three weeks. My three-year-old-jabbered non-stop. My ears were sore. Naturally, with the clear-thinking of a woman with near terminal post-partum depression, I took full responsibility everything that went wrong.

I don’t know if Bud was a good father or not, since he was rarely home. Just days just before the baby came, he’d been lucky enough to land a job where he worked six days on, three days off. We were ecstatic! For the first time since we got married, we were rich! Miraculously, we didn’t have to worry about getting the utilities cut off each month. There was no way either of us was about to complain about the demands of his job as long as he could stagger to work.

This time out, Bud been gone two days. The baby cried incessantly, with the exception of frequent poop breaks. Of course, I used cloth diapers since this was more than forty years ago. My son was happy as a clam, jabbering merrily behind me every step I took. All was going well till I foolishly left a poopy diaper to soak in the toilet. Of course, I knew what might happen.  Bud had pointed it out to me repeatedly when he left me to do all the rinsing! Though my son had no interest in toilet-training, toilet-flushing was high drama. The toilet plugged.

Our budget had only recently stretched to include regular utility payments. There was no way it would include a plumber. I did not look forward telling Bud what had happened when he got back.  Thank goodness, I was able to hook it with an unraveled wire coat-hanger, saving the day.

Apparently, the gods of Mayhem weren’t through with me yet! On the pre-rinse cycle, with the diapers still dirty, the washer threw a belt,  halting the first load of the morning. Still on a high from the joy of retrieving the diaper from the toilet, I thought. That’s not so bad, I can probably find enough change in the piggy bank to take a couple of loads to the laundromat. Bud would be paid in a couple of days. At least we have plenty of groceries, a roof over our heads, and all the bills paid.

Pulling the sodden, stinking mess from the washer, I wrung them out enough to get them in a plastic basket, heaving the heavy wad into the trunk of my car, along with a load of my toddler son’s essentials. Even though I put them in a plastic trash bag first, it leaked, leaving a malodorous, disgusting stream on my clean floors. I mopped the mess up with disinfectant, a pretty hefty job.

It was as cold as it gets in Louisiana, probably in the low teens. I dressed the kids warmly and strapped them in the car, dreading the trip to the laundromat. I needn’t have worried. The car wouldn’t start! I tried two or three times, hoping for magic since I’d been so blessed with the diaper in the toilet miracle. My luck was done for the day. I had also stunk up the trunk of the car for nothing.

I dragged the kids back in. By now, the baby was squawling and my son was disappointed. He’d been promised a treat! He hadn’t been out of the house in two days. I knew just how he felt! I got them settled. Brought the stinky diapers back in, did them in the bathtub, and cleaned up the floor again while they dried! Take it from me, diapers not spun in the washer take a long, long, long time to dry. So do toddler clothes.

Since my hard floors were freshly mopped and sweet-smelling, while the laundry was still drying, I reasoned it would be best to go ahead and vacuum the living-room and my bedroom, so the whole house would be clean at once! I could at least enjoy a clean house if I was stuck at home. Getting the vacuum out of the closet, I plugged it into an outlet in the living-room. Pop!! Sizzle!! Smoke and a sickening electrical smell arose as it snapped off. That was enough. I started boo-hooing then and there. Not to be outdone, both children joined in. We shared quality family time.

Finally, things settled down. I got the kids to bed. I didn’t fight the nightly battle to get my son to sleep in his own bed. I’d had enough! The baby awoke, crying for a bottle around midnight. I got up to feed her and felt a stabbing pain in my side. Oh darn it! I must have pulled a muscle dragging the sodden laundry around. Maybe it wouldn’t get too sore. My son padded in behind me to help as I fed the baby, jabbering non-stop and dragging his bunny. I sent him back to bed. I settled her and got back to bed. Later, I woke up sweltering and sweating. I felt like I was in a sweatbox and had difficulty getting a breath! I tried to sit straight up and felt an excruciating pain in my back. Was I dying alone here in the house with two helpless children? Bud wouldn’t be back for three more days! They could die, too. I had to try to save them! Only the courage of a dying mother explains what happens next. I forced myself to breathe slowly and deeply, rolling on my side. The pain was agonizing, but for the sake of my children, I pushed on. By now, I was on my stomach, slipping on my knees on the floor. I breathed shallowly through my pain, drawing in a little each time, making an effort to fill my lungs for maximum strength, not knowing what would happen when I tried to stand. My face was burning! The baby was three-weeks old. Did I have some kind of late-developing child-bed fever?

As I marshalled my strength to reach for the bed-side phone, it rang. Had Bud somehow psychically sensed my distress and called home to check on us? Gratefully, I croaked, “Thank God you called!”

It took the caller a moment to recover from the warm reception. “I’m beatin’ my meat!”

“What?” I wasn’t prepared for this, as I was expecting salvation.

“I’m beatin’ my meat!”

I hung up.  The diversion did get my mind off my troubles for a moment, till I remembered the agony of a pulled muscle. My son woke up and said, “Mommy, I’m hot!” Surely he didn’t have child-bed fever, too! Making my way down the hall to check the thermostat, I found his bunny hanging where he’d pushed the thermostat to max before heading off to bed. That explained my fever.

Some aspirin and a few miserable days took care of the pulled muscle. A new car battery and washer belt fixed things right up when Bud got back in three days later. The vacuum was toast. I had plenty to tell Bud when he asked, “What went on while I was gone?”

Wrong Averted

I am so grateful I avoided committing an injustice against an innocent person recently. This bicycle adapted as a flower cart was parked next to a dumpster on trash pickup day so I inferred it was discarded. I pulled up next to it, prepared to load it in my truck. I was totally focused on my treasure when I heard a cough, I was disturb to notice a person wrapped in a tarp against the damp. I scurried away, ashamed, grateful I had hadn’t awakened the sleeper. It would have been so wrong of me to worry them. Only then did I notice the buggy was filled with a great deal of chicken and rolls discarded from a local grocery store.

The Rumbles of Our Appalachian School Bus Journey

Mr. Holliman, our schoolbus driver was deaf as a post. He couldn’t have heard a cannon fired directly behind him which probably made driving a schoolbus much more pleasant. Unless he was hit in the head by a flying object, he never acknowledged the mayhem in progress behind him. When he could no longer ignore aggressive behavior, he looked in the rearview mirror, took off his dirty old cap, and swatted his knee. He’d mumble “rumble, grumble, mumble,” in the manner of old deaf men. A time or two he became overwrought enough to look in the mirror and shake his finger at anyone who was interested. Of course his own three boys were the worst of the lot, in close competition with his many nieces and nephews. It was up to older riders to ensure their younger siblings survived the ride.

My family was the first to board at six forty-five and last dropped off at four fifteen giving us plenty of time to critique Mr. Holliman’s techniques. We took a long rambling route through the woods and hills to the tiny rural school deep in the Appalachian hills.

Though Mr. Holliman was able to overlook agressive behavior among his riders, he did notice buxom young ladies, a habit which didn’t enhance his driving skills. One day, lovely Mabel Barton wore a highwater, button-popping dress which should have already been handed down to her Irish twin Bessie. She sat next to the aisle in the third seat on the left.

Like us, Mabel had a long ride. Exhausted, she leaned back and sprawled out. Her legs splayed and arms opened wide, her nubile charm was on display for all. She certainly caught Mr. Holliman’s attention. He ran the bus off on the muddy shoulder as we approached the narrow bridge crossing Revar Lake. The shrieks of terrified kids changed tenor and caught his attention just in time for him to jerk the wheel and right the bus.

“I just did that to scare ‘y’all and make you behave.” He grunted.

We all knew better.

A Rose by Any Other Name

Mother was born at home in 1928 four miles outside the tiny town of Cuthand, Texas. The irascible old doctor who was summoned to attend her delivery arrived after she did. He hastily checked out mother and baby and headed to his next call.

Kathleen’s impoverished parents didn’t send for a copy of Kathleen’s birth certificate till she was thirteen and neede it to qualify her for an allotment as a military dependent during World War II. To their surprise, after a lengthy investigation, they found out the ancient doctor had forgotten the information he’d been given and randomly filed Kathleen’s name as Bessie May Rosie Holdaway.

Kathleen had never been particularly been fond of her given name until she found she could have been laboring under the burdensome name of Bessie May Rosie.

Banana Pudding Bowl Blasphemy

imageSee this innocuous-looking dish.  It doesn’t look like it could break up a marriage, but you just wait. Bud chose this dish when he and his sisters divided his mother’s belongings shortly after her death.  He brought it home, showed it to me, and told it was what she’d always made banana pudding in.  Not realizing the significance of that statement, I callously baked a chicken in it less than a week later..  He came in, was delighted to see “The Banana Pudding Bowl” sitting on the stove.  He attempted to lift the lid to admire the pudding and burned his fingers.  I never heard such howling and deprecations before or since. I came to understand that bowl was only for banana pudding