Coonrod, Coon Hounds, and the Congressman #T

Did I ever tell you about Coonrod Smithers ‘n the Congersman?  I know Coonrod when we live over to Virginny, ‘twoulda been, oh, 1888 thereabouts when I first met him.  I, a boy, ‘course was always attracted ta dogs, ‘n a' course huntin’ was a big thang, too.

Now Coonrod’s real name were Rodney Smithers.  He breed ‘n train Redbone Coonhounds,’n more, he would drop ever’thin’ to go a huntin’, so ever’one call him “Coonrod.”  He tell me one time thet he was born a couple ridges yonder, ‘n down in the holler, thet his birth name was Rodney Smith.  But he grow up to fin' thet ever’one thereabouts was name Rodney Smith, or so it seem to him.  Why, he said, I could pick up a rock, shut mah ahs, give hit a heave, ‘n hit a Rodney Smith whutever way she went.  Anyways, he think on a way to solve the prollem, make hisself more unique, ya mought say.  He first think to change his first name, but he was afeard he mought need ta pick one a them Bible names, you know, that no one else have never heard of, like Hophni, or, Zeruiah.  Nah, he din’t like thet.  Too unique, mayhap.  So then he thought, Why, I shoulda thunka this afore.  I’ll jes’ add “e-r-s” ta th’ enda mah las’ name.  Fum this day for’d I’ll be Rodney Smithers!  An’ thet work fer him.  So like I say, ever’one call him “Coonrod.”

Waal, Coonrod raise Redbone 'hounds, train ‘em, run ‘em.  An’ he hev a few other hounds aroun’, too, you know, beagles an’ the like.  Kep’ a brace a big ol’ bloodhounds, Ezra an' Nehemiah was they names.  Kep’ 'em fer the sheriff who use 'em right frequent in thet region, I mean a man could get lost an’ hid out twel the resurrection, were he a mind to.  Anyway, people come fum all over the Cumberland, even fum as far away as Washington Dee Cee.  No, really.  He one time had a senator or such-like drive all the way down to see his animals.  Man drive inta the burg an’ ask aroun’ where kin I fin’ Redbone Coonrod?  Like he think that is Smithers’ name.  Well, people thereabouts moughty suspicious people in tailor cut duds ‘n drivin’ a carriage with a pair hosses woulda cost a king’s ransom anywhere on earth.  

Waal, Ed Markham, you shoulda known Ed.  Whut a character!  Ed had been around some, an’ he not on’y had seen the elephant, he could tell the tale twel tears run out your eyes fum laughin’!  Or f'um cryin', for thet matter, if'n hit were a sad tale.  Ed Markham know this dude, re-cog-nize he is the Yewnited States Congersman fum the next district to th’ north.  So the man’s bonafides is establish.  An’ he din’t really drive thet rig all the way fum Dee Cee; he were home durin’ campaign time, take a day off fum stumpin’ to clear his mind, he tell Coonrod.

Waal, this congersman know his hounds, ‘n excited?  I guess not.  He tell Coonrod he never see purtier dogs anywhere, ‘n he been lotsa wheres.  So nothin’ would do but thet the gentleman stay over ‘n run some dogs with Coonrod thet night.

Waal, Smithers have a pair a hounds he like ta run together, on account one has the better nose, yet t'other is better at tree.  An' atween 'em, no coon gonna escape.  The sun set; darkness settle on, slow-like, then the moon rise, 'n the hunt is on!  Coonrod an' Alfred, the guest's name is Alfred, walk up the ridge 'bout a mile, Jack and Jill to leash.  Jill have the nose.  They settle aneath a huge beech tree, unclip the leashes.  Away!  Soon enough, Jill excitedly cries "Scent!" then settles into bay as she and Jack follow the quarry through the woods.  Coonrod, listenin' carefully, know ever' meanin' of ever' yip 'n beller, know right where the dogs are at ever' moment, and soon know right where they headin'.  He and Al, they are now "Al" and "Rod" to each other, begin the long night walk, knowin' that at the end the prey will be high up a tree.

Then, Jill still speakin', Jack cries, "Tree!" and the arrh! arrh! arrh! that signals the end of the chase continues until our stalwart hunters join the hounds at the base a huge sycamore.

© 2014 David W. Lacy 41

For the Birds

I know you may find this hard to

but BBBH and I had a bit of a 

a while ago.

Come, my little

and I will tell you all about it.

Perhaps in the over all scheme of things, it is really nothing to

about; but nevertheless,

my Lady is still

.

Well, maybe a little "crow."

 We'll come back to that.

Owl, I swan, the hen is in a bonnet.

Wait.  These are not birds.

 

The drive took us through some lovely corn fields, some beautiful soybean fields.  But the drive through the small town brought us to an "antique" shoppe.  One does not pass such a place: The Gospel according to BBBH.  So stop we did.

BBBH collects cookie jars.  Now why on earth she didn't choose instead to collect hatpins or something that could easily be kept in a shoebox or a dresser drawer, I will never know.  Oh, wait a sec.  She does collect hatpins.  And hats.  But why belabor the point?  She is a collector.

The thing about cookie jars is that no matter how cute, or how grotesque, as the case may be, they take up lots of space, and require a flat surface for display.  Hence a frequent plaint is "I need more shelves."  Or worse, "It would be so simple for you to make me some shelves,"  yada, yada, yada.

So I got a bit sidetracked.  The stop in the shop is where the "lark" comes in, for She Who Must be Obeyed is in a bit of heaven when she is in such a place, and I am sure that we will spend a good bit of eternity there before departing.  Thus it is that often I will scan the entire place and exit same while she is still looking at the first display!  I am not exaggerating.  Anyway, the part that is hard to swallow is that she found not one, but two cookie jars that she had to have.  The first is the crow, the second the hen.  She already had the owl.

Pigs? you say.  Why pigs?  Well, I found those.  They are Shawnee pigs.  They are small, and the price was right.  Worn a bit?  Yes.  A blind pig and a one-eyed pig.  But they are Shawnees.  I will do that within the constricts of a very limited budget for such gew-gaws.

cf pigs and cookie jar:  pigs are 3.25  inches tall, crow is 12  inches.

Monday Morning

Did you ever just feel like slapping someone?  Then you didn't.  Then you wish you had.  Yet you are really glad you didn't.  Mixed bag.





I have heard it said that one advantage of being old is that you can say anything you want to say. Bushwaa.  If one can't be nice in his old age, what was the use of all those bitten-tongue experiences over all those previous years?

Maybe the reason so many old people are lonely is simply because they are not fit company.

Very rich famous athletes are paid to wear advertising logos.  You pay to wear them?  Are  you crazy?  (Or as someone else once said, "There is nothing wrong with a plain T-shirt.")

Which leads to this:  Perhaps your clothing is the only thing your friends read.

This is what happens when one writes down random unfiltered thoughts.  But it is not all bad.

Rubric for Living

 I hope to devote a few Sunday posts to the biblical commandments for right living.

The other day I happened upon the admonition or model for Christian living that my mother taught me when I was a wee lad.  I am sure most of you have learned it, too, or at the very least you have encountered it somewhere.  It is this:

God first, others second, self last.

I submit that Jesus was more reasonable than Mama was in this instance.  When asked, "What is the greatest commandment?" he replied, "Love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.  This is the first and great commandment."  Then he told the questioner more than he asked, for he continued, "The second is like unto it:  Love thy neighbor as thyself."

The first requires no interpretation.  It is clear.  The second, I infer, is telling us that love of others is dependent upon love of self, for you cannot love others if you lack love for yourself.  Still, the commandment is to love your neighbor.

I am thinking of the chorus of a hymn we used to sing

How beautiful to walk, In the steps of the Savior, Stepping in the light, Stepping in the light, How beautiful to walk in the steps of the Savior, Led in paths of light.

--Eliza Hewett, c. 1890 

Dick's Flowers, 2014

I like to stroll through Richard's garden several times during the summer.  Two decades ago he set out to develop a daylily garden in his yard.  There can never be too many daylilies, hence his entire yard, front, rear, sides, turned into a daylily display.

At the time he was building this, full of vim and vision, I doubt he ever realized that as an octogenarian he would have this much display to manage.  And so far, he manages.  But I hear him mutter on occasion that it is hard to keep up with it.

In any event, this is doubtless one of the premier gardens in the county!

Beauty even to the little bindweed that sneaked in under the foliage.

Dance 'n Skedaddle #T

Did I ever tell you about the time the Slonikers bust up Freddie's Oasis?  Waal, the Slonikers come out here from Omaha.  Think they get into the raisin' end a the cattle bidness, doncha know.  They had live in the city, smellin' the city smells, 'n livin' the city life.  They accume-u-late some coin, doncha know, 'n think to get into the country, raise some beef 'n live the country life.

Anyways, the Old Man Sloniker, he buy a bit a land over by Towner, 'n lease a whole gob lot more, he set to run a thousand head a Herefords, put his boy Junior to oversee th' operation.  No doubt they mought coulda done this in Wyomin', or Kansas, or could maybe even stayed in Nebrasky.  But they come to Colorado.  The thing is, Mrs. Old Man Sloniker, Rhea was her name, an' Mrs. Junior Sloniker, name of Cynthia Anne, bless their hearts, get to missin' the city life.  They both love dancin' an' music, an' the whut-not thet goes with them in the nightclubs they frequent back in Omaha.  But they truly is no such nearby.  Yet they learn a this honky tonk, plumb over to Burlington, mought nigh, where a good time of a Sattidy night was easy ta come by, 'n the booze flowed, 'n the fiddlers 'n pluckers was right pleasant ta hear.

So, a Sattidy of a July they get in Old Man's big long phaeton and head on north.  They get to the Oasis the musicians is gettin' warm up real good, 'n they start in with a couple drinks, Junior 'n Cynthia Anne test out the dance floor.  Presently, Old Man 'n Rhea cut loose, an' those cowhands 'n clod busters, not to mention even the fiddlers 'n pluckers, scarce never see anyone who kin dance the way thet ol' couple kin!  Well, I needin' to abbreviate this tale, les'n we don't finish afore bed time.

After a few more dances, an' doubtless a few more drinks, th' four Slonikers is all astandin' alongside the band, aclappin' they han's 'n stompin' they feet, whilst several other couples is whirlin' aroun' th' floor, when of a sudden, Junior  let out with a mighty "Whoo-eeee!" just as a, shall we say hefty, couple swirl apast them.  Hefty Guy turn loose his partner, turn back to Junior and say, "Whut did you say?  Soo-ey?  You callin' my gal a pig?"  An' athout awaitin' a answer, Hefty slug Junior raght in the mouth, bust out the lef' front bunny tooth.  Plumb out.  Then Old Man Sloniker grab Hefty by his lay-pel 'n holler, "Whut for did you hit mah boy?" An' athout awaitin' a answer, Old Man slug Hefty smack in his considerable nose.  Which instantly spray blood ever'where.

'N thet were the signal fer the freefrall ta commence!  Fists start a swingin' all over the room, furniture start a flyin', chairs abustin' up over tables as people dodge, 'n over heads if'n they don't.  'N the four Slonikers as a man of one mind, 'n thout  a word ta one another, decide it is time to be som'eres else.  They hit the side door, pile inna car, an' hit the road.  Not a moment too soon did they act, neither, 'cause less 'n a mile up the road 'n afore they get to the turnoff where they head back south, fum th'other direction come two po-lice cars, si-reens a blarin' 'n red lights aflashin', headin' right to th' Oasis!

Ever after thet, whenever they agoin' out, Cynthia Anne tell him, "It's 'yee-haw,'  Junior.  Yee-haw."

© 2014 David W. Lacy 40

I Hope the Balloon is Not

a Metaphor for My Life,

yet perhaps it is.

The toy my wife gave me on my 80th birthday.

It is as colorful as it ever was.

So am I.

It is as brilliant as it ever was.

Well. . .

It is not so buoyantly vigorous as it once was.
Nor am I.

The lift is not what it once was.
Tell me about it.

It is a lot more wrinkled than it once was.
And so am I.

It still represents "80".
I am already 80+.

Yet it is still tethered to its anchor.
As am I.

Still, it is not so full of gas as it once was.
But I am.

Imperfect metaphor.

Public Enemy and the Prostitute

22 July 1934 in front of the Biograph Theater in Chicago, the FBI gunned down one John Dillinger,  public enemy.

The "Woman in Red" led the Fibbies to the quarry.  The burning question:  Did she actually wear orange on that night?  And if she did, what is the significance of that fact? And was Dillinger just as dead, regardless of the hue of the attire?