Still Got Cotton in My Blood

Just staying alive and not starving to death during depression and World War II days was a feat. This past weekend I took my little talking dachsund to a fish fry at Elmer P. Suggins and friends Oostanaula yacht club. It’s nothing more than a shack that belongs to the State of Georgia. Elmer and his crowd borrow it from time to time.

Anyway, Lucy was sworn into the yacht club, they said she was their first talking dog. They had “Jug’s,” two pit bulls known as Bonnie and Clyde, Elmer’s one eared blue tick coon hound, Dixie Belle (lost an ear to a bobcat), and Flossie Cunningham’s (Mumbles’ one-legged wife) little one eyed three-legged chihuahua named Tripod.

This was a great day. The catfish was fresh, after all they’d been dynamited earlier that morning. We had hush puppies made from scratch, slaw and all the fixings. I loved sitting around with this crowd of miscreants, who at some time in their life just decided to check out, others had never checked in to start with.

The older folks had some old stories about life in the cotton mill villages, and I love to hear them tell them.

I had a friend who told me he went outside his house a few months back, just looking at the moon and stars. He was talking out loud to himself, using complete sentences, when this little possum walked up and sat at his feet, and stared up at him. I asked Elmer and the others if anybody had ever heard of such.

Elmer said almost all the cotton mill villages had a “possum talker” or two during the Depression years, and for a good while after the war.

“Mike,” he said, “wild game dinners back in them days weren’t just fundraisers for the church, it was the only way to keep from starving to death. We lived on rabbits, squirrels, partridges, big old river turtles, catfish and possum’s.

There weren’t no deer or turkeys in the woods back in them days. It was wild game or nothing.

“Oh, everybody had yard birds running around pecking at the ground, but they was for eggs. Now if one stopped laying, then her days were numbered. She was going to meet the preacher in the near future. In fact he would get the honor of wringing her purty little neck.”

“Tell me about the possum’s, Elmer,” I asked, “what did you do with them?”

“Mike, everybody had a possum cage in their back yard. It was up off the ground, so droppings would pass through. You’d leave them about thirty days, fattening them up. Then to the roasting pan they’d go.”

“Did you know any possum talkers?” I asked.

“Oh, I knowed a bunch,” he said, “out of all I knowed, Uncle Newt MacKenzie was the best, and he’s still alive. Uncle Newt can’t read or write a lick, but he’s memorized most of the entire Bible. Now he’d go out in the dark, and start quoting Psalms. He didn’t get far and them little possums came running. He’d bump them on the head, and put them in a tow sack. He took them home, put them in a cage, fattened them up, and sold them.

He loved the fall of the year, he’d find a ‘simmon tree thicket, and catch oodles of possums.

He said a ‘simmon thicket drawed possums like Panama City Beach drew rednecks.”

About that time Aunt Canzady Haygood walked up. “Mike, is that you?” “Yes, ma’am it is.” “I heard you talking about Uncle Newt,” she said, “There was something else he could do, too. He could look squirrels out of trees. He got so as he never carried his flip with him in the woods. I sure liked them that way too, no pellets or bashed heads from a marble. He just stared them down.

“Aunt Canzady,” I asked, “Why didn’t Uncle Newt ever teach Elmer to talk possum or look squirrels?”

“Aw, Mike, Elmer ain’t got the patience to talk possum, and he looked one squirrel down, and we made him stop.” “Just one,” I said, “why’s that?” “Elmer’s so ugly, he tore it all to pieces. I couldn’t even make dumplings from it.”

“Hey Mike,” said Elmer, “You want to hear about my flying bird dog.”

“Shut up Elmer,” Aunt Canzady said. “I hated that dog.”

What a weekend. MIKE RAGLAND