The Cuckleburr Times » Mike Vines

Stinky Monroe

Mike Vines — Mon, 06 Oct 2008 18:25:49 +0000

Harry couldn’t have been more than five when he and his father, Walter, visited Pug’s Country Store on a brisk Friday morning in April, 1926. His daddy usually made the ten-mile trip alone by buckboard every other week to fetch supplies and, occasionally, get something special for the boys and their mother and some tobacco for granddad. But today he wanted to introduce his oldest son to the city of Clanton, Alabama, and show him the beauty of what the changing of the season had brought to the countryside.

Young Harry sat quietly next to his father. His little body was as tightly bundled as a basket of hot biscuits and his eyes were as wide as searchlights seeking out all of the exotic colors of spring. His eager mind was captivated by the bountiful sprays of emerging flowers adorning every pasture and meadow, his soul was made tranquil by the slow, rhythmic clopping of horse hoofs and whistling Bob Whites. He knew they were nearing the end of their journey when he spotted rows of towering hollyhocks standing erect as solders trumpeting their arrival along side the old dirt road leading into town.

The city was a carnival of new sights and sounds to Harry, and a test of horsemanship to his father as he skillfully guided the buckboard around fool-hardy pedestrians and the steaming mechanical contraptions that were becoming more common around town. Walter hitched the horses in an alley along side of the Chilton County Post Office as a measure of precaution. Harry waited outside while his father collected the mail observing the amusing and daring tactics of both pedestrian and driver of horse or buggy jockeying for position on the narrow town street. When Walter returned, he lifted Harry from the wagon and took him by the hand.

“Let’s go see who’s at Pugs today, son,” He said, as they walked down the road and around the corner from Doc Grissom’s office. Harry looked closely at the hand that held his. It was strong and made course from many years of working their land. At times it held him and his younger brothers, brought food to the table and protected his family from the threat of man or beast. It was strong enough to till the hard soil all day and gentle when it held his mother at night, and it wiped the tears from his eyes and reassured him when he needed it most.

“There it is, son,” Walter said as they approached the old log cabin store. “I hope Ben Nelson is here today. He was in the war with your grandaddy, you know.”

The door to Pug’s Country Store opened-up a whole new world of sensory discovery to Harry. The intoxicating fragrance of sage, basal and sassafras emanating from a wooden spice cabinet combined with the scent of smoked ham and fried eggs overwhelmed his olfactory. The air was thick with smoke infused with the earthy aroma of fresh tobacco. The morning light glanced through the windows and illuminated parts of the store making the interior appear as spotty as an incomplete jigsaw puzzle.

Several strange men, some eating, some engaged in conversation, barely gave notice to Harry and his father. Red Wahl, owner of Red’s Livery just outside of town, stood next to a window absorbing the warmth of the sun while gnawing on a ham biscuit. Around a red hot, pot-bellied stove were Clay Nellis and Billy Joe Garmin grumbling about the price of cotton and whether it’ll rain too much or too little.

Ben Nelson and his old friend, Moses Jordan, sat in rickety, high-back rocking chairs silently taking it all in. Ben was a proud, old ex-confederate soldier who wore, along with his usual well-cleaned overalls, the same pair of Brogans issued to him during the war that he re-soled, and had re-soled, at least a dozen times. Pug Arnold, the store owner, was a tall, amiable man with dark bushy eye brows and a pushed-in nose. He always spoke out of the side of his mouth which made Walter think he was telling him secrets, and he had a sure-fire way of making everyone feel at home by treating them as kin.

“Well, hello, Cousin,” Pug cried out to Walter. “And who have ‘ya got there with ‘ya today?” Harry eagerly stepped forward and smiled.

“This is my oldest son, Harry,” his father beamed.

“Well, proud to meet ‘ya, young man,” said Pug, reaching out to shake his hand. “That feller by the win’der there is Red Wahl; he rents horses and can spin a good tale now and then.” Red smiles at Harry in between bites of his biscuit. Harry shyly returned a smile. He noticed the slight red color left in his smoothed-back hair, and how his mouth looked like a torn pocket when he smiled. “Over by the stove is Clay and Billy Joe, and the old geezers in the rock’in chairs are Ben and Moses,” Said Pug. “Don’t get Ben started on the war unless ‘ya wanna take a long nap.” They all nod at the boy. “Now go git ‘ya a hog sandwich over yonder,” Pug said, pointing at the stove. “Throw an egg on it if ‘ya don’t care.”

Harry watched as his father walked over to the stove, cut open two biscuits and cracked a couple eggs into a hot iron skillet. His mouth began to water in anticipation of the smoky feast.

The sound of sizzling eggs, the smell and taste of smoked ham and the soothing sun rays had brought a jagged smile of content to Red’s face, until he focused on what was coming down the road. His eyebrows suddenly puckered together.

“Oh, oh.” He said, cautiously. Pug looked over at him.

“What do you mean, oh, oh?” He asked.

“I mean Stinky Monroe just came ’round the corner and he’s headed this-a-way!”

“It ain’t the weekend yet! What’s he do’in coming here?” Pug asked. The men hastily light cigars and cigarettes.

“Dunno, but…” Red said.

“But what?!” Pug shouted.

“He’s got his daddy with ‘em!”

“His daddy’s even gamier than he is!” Pug yelled. “Open the win’ders and turn on that durn fan, quick!” Harry laughed at the mens frantic attempt to aerate the store.

Red looked out the window again, frowned, then tossed his biscuit back into the pan. “Reckon I’ll postpone dinner fer a spell,” he said to himself.

Pug desperately searched the shelves of his medicinal provisions for a bottle of camphor.

“Quick, rub a dab of this under yer noses!” Pug yells.

Harry looked up at his father, puzzled.

“Boy could puke a buzzard off a gut wagon, son,” he told him. “You’ll see.”

All the men, except Moses, huddled around open windows when the Monroe’s entered the store. Walter and his son stood near the stove– the farthest point from the front door.

Harry gazed curiously at the Monroes. Stinky looked like a miniature of his father with his denim overalls, red plaid shirt and wide brimmed straw hat. They weren’t outwardly ignorant and appeared fairly clean. He overheard Clay say Stinky had to leave school at the age of ten when his mother died to help his daddy with the farm. It was an unfortunate situation that was unanimously approved of by the school board. But he couldn’t understand all the fuss made about them.

Pug took a deep breath, and then turned to the Monroes.

“Well, how ya all been doing, Thomas?” He asks, ignoring Stinky the best he could. “Haven’t seen ya around here in an age.” Harry held onto his father’s hand, not quite knowing what to expect. The men smile and quickly nod at Thomas, keeping a side of their face safely toward the open window. Moses smiled and waved to them as he rocked comfortably in his chair.

Then it hit.

“Ohhhh!” Harry bellowed. His eyes closed shut as he stumbled and hid behind his father’s legs. He cupped his little hands over his nose and mouth trying to breathe in his own air. Walter grabbed a piece of kindling and lit the small cigar Pug gave him, holding it close to his face as he smoked it.

“Jack’s been after me to hold us a little soiree like we used to when his mama was alive.” Thomas Monroe said. “They’ll be plenty a fixin’s, and Cousin Leonard said he’ll provide the fid’lin.” Everyone’s eyes closed shut. Pug’s mind raced faster than it had in years trying to think up a good excuse.

“Ya can count on all of us being there, Thomas,” Moses hollered. “Just let us know when to show up!”

If looks could kill, Moses would have been dead six and a half times over.

“Fine thing, then.” Thomas said. “Come-on by about seven next Sunday. We’ll be a look’in fer ya all!”

Pug nodded as the Monroes left. Then the entire store, windows and all, let out a big sigh of relief.

“You dern fool,” everyone yelled in unison at Moses. “Why in God’s name did ‘ya go ‘en do that fer?” Moses was taken back.

“I’d been there ber’fer,” Moses pleaded. “The Misses made a right fine table, even though me and the family were the only ones there.”

Pug stood in front of Moses, fists resting firmly on his waist. “Well, how in Hades did you manage to eat anything in all that stink?” Pug asked. “Food and the Monroes go together as much as earl ‘en water does, you ole goat!” Moses sat up and looked at Pug.

“I ain’t smelt nuth’in since ‘83, when a smudge pot blew-up in ‘ma face and burned-out the hairs in ‘ma nose,” Moses said. “It also stole away any chance of me growin’ a handsome mustache, too!”

Pug shook his head.

“I’m sure glad there weren’t any womenfolk in here,” Billy Joe said, “Would have had to get Doc Grissom over here.”

Pug yelled. “That’s why I started carr’in smell’in salts!”

“Good Lord, what in the world is that smell?” Ben asked, catching his breath. Clay shook his head a few times, trying to clear the fumes.

“I’ve been slopping hogs all my life,” he said, “and I ain’t smelt nuth’in like that!”

“No cow, chick’in or goat in rut can reek that bad,” Red said. “What can it be?”

Harry rubbed his eyes as he caught his breath. His fresh, young smell sensors had been plain assaulted. Billy Joe wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.

“I once stumbled head first into the belly of a long dead cow and came out smell’in better ‘en that.” Billy Joe said.

Moses smiled as he held in a tremendous chortle for his own safety. He sat helpless as the dry folds of skin in the corner of his eyes squeezed together and pinched out a big fat tear. Ben saw his old buddy in a state of fettered frustration and decided to ease his burden. He leaned forward in his rocker and made an observation.

“Some folks say it ain’t what’s on ‘em,” he said, “it’s what’s in ‘em.”

The store was silent.

“Guts are rotten!” He exclaimed.

That was all Moses could take. He worked up such a belly laugh his dentures shot clear out of his mouth and cartwheeled across the wooden plank floor. Harry laughed hysterically. He’d seen his grandpa do that before but never did they travel so far on their own.

Harry watched the men in the store laugh uncontrollably to each other. For a brief juncture, everyone seemed like family to him. It was a snapshot of warmth, understanding and comradely he wanted to share with others, and a succinct lesson in his young life that would begin to mould his character as a caring human being.

The ‘ole boys at Pug’s Country Store had little to worry themselves about. A few days after their visit the Monroes found themselves as successful bidders at a commodities auction in Sylacauga. They were visiting an ailing cousin and happened upon an auction where they were about the only participants and won several dozen bushels of corn at a very cheap price.

Their buckboard couldn’t haul that much fodder so they hired a farm wagon and a fine pair of draft horses to get it home. But there was a terrible commotion when the Monroes boarded the wagon. Witnesses say the horses violently reared up with a look of terror in their eyes as they madly galloped away for their lives. They said the wagon headed uncontrollably out of town and straight for the cliff overlooking Skaggs Creek with the Monroes helplessly trapped on board. Another witness near the incident said, “I ain’t never see’d no animals so intent on a commit’in suey-cide,” when the wagon and its occupants plunged down the steep gully and into the rocky creek below.

They were still plucking pieces of the farm wagon out of the water when the town folk of Clanton got enough money together to order a coffin and fetch the Monroes. There was a brief church service followed by an equally brief burial where both father and son were interned in a remote meadow at the far end of their granddaddy’s farm.

It is said to this day there are no flowers in the entire state of Alabama that grow more beautifully and more abundantly than those that spring up over the Monroes every single year without fail.

Mike Vines and his wife, Gay, live in the rolling hills of so-central Kentucky with several foster children, LaMancha dairy goats, chickens, guineas and just about any other critter that wanders onto their property or are given by friends.

Yard Sale Culture and the Art of Haggling

Mike Vines — Fri, 26 Sep 2008 02:37:48 +0000

Aside from mad dogs and fishermen, who else would wake up before the crack of dawn on a Saturday morning and crawl out of a warm, comfortable bed to voluntary brave the elements outside? Why, your friendly yard sale rummager, of course.

With the arrival of a more comfortable outdoor season and the memory of last year’s conquests still fresh in our minds, our thoughts turn to new found treasures waiting for their discovery by rummagers like ourselves. But, more than once I have watched in complete horror as that priceless antiquity slipped into unknowing hands simply because they were the first one there, or the first to catch the seller’s eye. What can you do to optimize your yard sale experience or, if you’re newly addicted, what are the rules of the road and some useful etiquette to practice when bargaining with potential sellers?

You play this game as the buyer or seller of orphaned goods. The buyer shuts off the alarm clock and shoves the spouse out of bed to hastily brew a pot of coffee before they hit the road. The seller prepares by placing free advertisements in the local papers and scribbling on torn-up pieces of cardboard to make the signs that guide us hapless Nimrods to our prospective treasure. Accurate interpretation of signage is necessary if you intend to beat the other guy to the booty. You begin by learning how to differentiate between a lost cat sign and a yard sale sign. And although any yard sale sign may lead to a find, you must also be able to prioritize in case of multiple targets.

“HUGE Yard Sale” usually translates into “Scant Offerings.” This is a clever ploy to get people to spend their money first at his or her place instead of the guy down the road. If you see a lot of parked cars and people walking in another direction, don’t think that someone has created a diversion just for you. They haven’t, so follow the gang and see what you can salvage from the feeding frenzy before it’s too late.

This brings up a phenomenon I have witnessed that could be interpreted as a malicious prank or strategic warfare. In a certain area we frequent that is known for good finds there is a nearby neighborhood that always seems to have yard sale signs posted that lead to nowhere. We usually succumb to curiosity after a time and follow the arrows but we always end up facing a yellow “Not a Through Street” sign. I imagine a bunch of kids peering out between drawn curtains laughing their heads off at those silly fools that followed their signs to a dead end road.

Even worse, it could be a very clever rummager who places their own signs to misguide the greedy in order to give themselves more time to shop. I don’t know which it may be, but there are a lot of people who make a living from what they find at yard sales and the rules of haggling don’t start until the chips are on the table, so drivers beware.

Once you’ve located a seller it’s time for a drive-by-a quick peek at the offerings from the comfort of your car to determine if it’s worth getting out for or not. You will, of course, have to navigate to avoid collision with not only other rummagers on foot, but also the many beat-up vans and SUV’s parked every way imaginable. So you’re out and about and mingling in with the crowd, intently searching here and there, and lo and behold in an old cardboard box tangled-up in some ancient Christmas garland is that turn-of-the-century art vase you saw just last night on the Antiques Road Show worth ten grand! You take a gulp and look for the seller and hope she’s still half asleep.

At this point there are a couple of rules that must be observed in order to assure a successful transaction. First and foremost is MOVE IT OR LOSE IT! This is where the Relinquish Rule goes into effect. In the game of chess, it’s the other guy’s turn when you let go of a moved piece. At a yard sale, if you don’t immediately pick-up the thing you can bet your life someone else will, and they will most assuredly buy it, and for half of what you had on mind.

Second most important is AVOID AN AUCTION! Don’t wave that priceless object in the air getting the attention of the seller AND the other buyers looking for the same thing. Grab it, tuck it in, and quietly walk over to the seller and say, “Hey, someone stuck a half-melted, multi-colored candle in this thing. How about a buck and a half?” Now, if you’re a seller, it’s time to practice some good old-fashioned informal economy by way of unreported income.

If you’re a buyer, this is where your bargaining skills come into play and subtlety is the key. My wife has developed a particularly effective technique (read sting) where she fills her pocket with a certain amount of change and when making an offer, pulls out the handful of coins and shows it to the victim asking, “Would you take what I have left in my pocket for it?” She then lets them pluck the coins out of her hand in total submission to the deal.

The amount you offer, or counter-offer, depends on the time of day. The early morning hours of fresh discoveries usually demand the highest prices, while the afternoon sun motivates the seller to consider heavy discounts verses lugging it all back into the garage. You’ll also run into sellers that are so sick and tired at looking at the same old junk that they will gladly let it go for almost nothing just for the sake of transferring ownership.

Also, if you are a seller, remember that a yard sale is not limited to mobile customers. The neighbors may also be interested in your wares so you must be careful not to put yourself into an embarrassing position by unloading something on them now that might become gossip fodder for them and everyone else later.

There is a commonality in all yard sales and that is of content. In order of preponderance you can expect to find, above all, an abundance of clothing-mounds and mounds of it. I think the economy of this entire country could exist on what people spend on clothing alone. Next is a bewildering assortment of forsaken toys and children’s furniture. I bet Toys “R” Us would double their fortune if they opened a second-hand store. Then come books and magazines, kitchen goods, sporting goods, and other miscellaneous items such as personal electronics and tools.

Interestingly, Tupperware and art are always overlooked. Sure the beauty of art is in the eye of the beholder, but yard sale Tupperware sells for a fraction of the original cost and it’s always so useful. I see large families attending yard sales and wonder why they weren’t clawing for the Tupperware until it finally hit me-they eat out more often than at home. Could eating out now cost less than preparing food at home?

You’ll also find a copious selection of nicotine-stained Robert Wood landscape reproductions still available in their original simulated wood-grained frame that will remind you of those good ole’ days when motel rooms with kitchenettes were as common as cactus.

So now that you’ve gathered a mountainous collection of the worlds finest of all sought after treasures, what do you do with it? This is the point of evolution for the rummager.

You have a yard sale.

Who the Heck is Bob Ingersol?

Mike Vines — Mon, 22 Sep 2008 04:04:26 +0000

A panicky phone call from my mother-in-law had my wife and I packing and flying out to British Columbia, Canada the next day as her elderly father had fallen and sustained a critical injury. We flew into Spokane, Washington and were picked-up by a cousin who drove us to Bonners Ferry, Idaho and across the Canadian border to the little town of Creston which we reached just before midnight.

I knew it hadn’t snowed up there yet but I still expected the temperature to be on the cool side. I didn’t expect it to be 15 degrees, which the locals said was on the warm side. When we stepped out of the car I got smacked in the face by a freezing cold that went straight through my parka and into my bones-much worse, it seemed, than the minus-eighteen degree weather that hit me when I got off the plane in Frankfurt, Germany in January several years before. We quickly unloaded the Jeep, said hasty goodbyes to our cousin and RAN into the house where a very warm fireplace and my equally warm-hearted mother-in-law greeted us.

We spent the next day at the hospital reassuring her father, and being reassured by the hospital staff, that although he had suffered a setback he was going to be fine, in time. The Creston hospital staff were quite personable and the doctor, a German import, more than capable. Feeling confident that dad was in good hands, we left the hospital to get some groceries for the week at Overweightea’s (named after the merchant who was known for adding a bit more tea to your order than you paid for) then went back to the house and cooked-up an everyday meal that seemed to taste just a little bit better up there (kinda like bacon and eggs do when cooked outside on a camp stove).

We were indulging in a bit of mom’s favorite after dinner chocolate when she up and said, “I keep Bob Ingersol in the attack!” I have heard that chocolate does make some people giddy, but I didn’t expect anything quite that off-the-wall from my darling septuagenarian mother-in-law. I took the bait, anyway.

“Who the heck is Bob Ingersol?” I asked. It was then I learned that when you ask a Canadian a question, you don’t get an answer. You get a story, and a most likely interesting one at that.

Prior to being hitched to my father-in-law, mom had been married to a man who was the son of Alta Day. Alta Day was the granddaughter of John Day Jr. (founder of the fossil beds in Oregon and to whom John Day, Oregon was named). His father, John Day Sr., Lew Wallace and Robert Greene Ingersol were 19th century politicians who held various positions in government and were known to be great friends. It was Bob Ingersol, who was called, “The Great Agnostic,” that challenged Lew Wallace to write a book proving Jesus Christ was anything other than the Son of God. Wallace accepted the challenge and traveled to Jerusalem for his research, but instead of disproving Christ, he penned the classic novel, “Ben Hur,” and himself, converted to Christianity.

John Day Sr. was not only a politician but also an artist. He so admired Bob Ingersol that he carved a wooden statue depicting the controversial politician in one of the characteristically relaxed stances he favored while addressing congress. When John Day Sr. left Washington to settle in Idaho, the statue went along with him, occupying a prominent position on the buckboard of his covered wagon during the long and arduous trek west.

It was customary, when traveling by wagon train, for the front wagon to move to the rear of the assemblage at the beginning of a new day. The daily cycling of wagons would eventually give everyone a chance to travel in the front for a time without “eating someone’s dust.” That is unless you could afford to purchase a position up front, and since John Day Sr. was a wealthy politician, he was able to buy not only a lead spot but the best string of horses and the best wagon available.

The Indian tribes that tracked the wagon train from state to state noticed the cycling of wagons each day, and how they all seemed to be following the one prominent wagon in the lead position.

They also noticed the statue of Bob Ingersol on the wagon’s buckboard and believed it to be a powerful God that protected the White Man during his journey. Just when the Day family reached Twin Falls and set-up camp the Nez Perce Indians raided them. Northwestern settlers shared an anxious relationship with the Indians in the late 1800′s as the Nez Perce, led by Chief Joseph, were about to go to war with the U.S. Army in an attempt to thwart the push to wipe the Indians off the land (Chief Joseph was later pursued into Montana where he gathered all the Nez Perce Chiefs together and delivered one of the most famous quotes of American history, “Hear me my Chiefs. I am tired; my heart is sick and sad. From where the sun now stands I will fight no more forever.”). Expecting the worse, the Day family was puzzled when the only aggression the Indians inflicted upon their camp was the abduction of the Bob Ingersol statue. They took it, and left them alone.

Years later, when John Day Jr. was clearing the land on his own settlement his plow hit a rock. To his astonishment, when he reached down into the soil to remove the obstruction he pulled out the Bob Ingersol statue! By then the Nez Perce had accepted the settlers into the area and a certain Brave (name forgotten) who befriended John Day Jr. informed him that the Indians who followed his father’s wagon train believed the statue to be a God, and the worst denigration they could do to the effigy was to bury it-an action that would also remove its power to protect the White Man and leave him vulnerable to an attack. According to Alta Day, this was also the same Indian that showed John Day Jr. the location of the fossil beds in Oregon-a fact missing from the history books.

After I heard this story I just had to see that statue. I ran up to the attic and after shuffling around boxes of family pictures, old coats and trunks filled with ancient memorabilia, I spotted the whitewashed form of Bob Ingersol standing there proudly and looking right up at me as if to say, “Now that you’ve found me, Honorable Sir, you will have the courtesy to sit quietly and listen to exactly what I have to say!”

The statue stands almost two-feet tall and is covered with a thick white paint that has cracked over time and which was probably applied within the last 80 years or so ago, according to mom. She was told the statue originally sported a black suit, gray vest and a white shirt, and that it was a very good likeness since people that knew Bob Ingersol back then would say that it indeed looked just like the Senator.

“The irony of the story,” as mom put it, “is how that great agnostic, Bob Ingersol, was himself mistaken for a God.”

I love small towns and the folks that live in them. I once thought the people there aren’t that much different from us city dwellers and that it was only the country atmosphere that influenced our perception of them. Who was I kidding? These folks are not only vast storage banks of usable wisdom, but are exceedingly unpretentious and openly friendly to anyone who cares to say, “Hello,” or rather, “eh?”

I came away from our week stay in Canada feeling the old adage that says everyone has a book contained within them is quite wrong when applied to Canadians-they have volumes.