More Tellable Cracker Tales

by Annette J. Bruce

  Saturday morning, Henry and MaryBeth were up early—cookin’, feedin’ up, and milkin’. They had a young cow that had never been to the pail before, and, when MaryBeth tried to milk her, she started kicking.

  MaryBeth called, “Henry, come here quick, and help me with this here crazy cow. I need the milk fer the cookin’ today.”

  Henry came to the cow lot and tried to hold the cow, but she kept on rearin’ and a-pitchin’ and kickin’ over the milk pail. Henry said to MaryBeth, “We don’t need to strain and struggle with this here cow. We got a son inside that’s been off to school fer seven years and done learnt everything. He’ll know just what to do with a kickin’ cow. Ah’ll go call him.” He called Hank and told him their problem.

  The boy came out to the cow lot and looked everything over good. Then he said, “Mama, cow kickin’ is all a matter of scientific principle. You see, before a cow can kick she has to hump herself up in the back. So all we need to do is to take the hump out of the cow’s back.”

  “But, son, ah don’t see how you’re goin’ ter do that. But ’course you been off to college, and you know a heap more than me and yore pa will ever know. We’ll be mighty ’bliged to ye if you can take the hump out of the heifer.”

  Hank put on his gold-rimmed eyeglasses and studied the cow from head to foot. Then he said, “All we need to keep this animal from humping is a weight on her back.”

  “What kinda weight, son?” Henry asked

  “Oh, any kind of weight, just so it’s heavy enough, Papa,” said Hank. “It’s just plain mathematics.”

  “Where we goin’ ter git any mathematic weight like that, son?”

  “Why don’t you get up there, Papa? You’re just about the weight we need.”

  “Son, you’ve been off to school a long time, and maybe you done forgot how hard it is for a body—anybody—to sit on a cow! And ah’m gittin’ old, you know.”

  “But, Papa, I can fix that too. I’ll tie your feet together under her belly so she can’t throw you. You just get on up there.”

  “All right, son, if you say so, ah’ll get straddle of this here cow. You know more’n ah do, ah reckon.”

  So they tied the cow up short to a tree, and, after an agonizing struggle, Henry managed to get on. Hank passed the rope under the cow’s belly and tied his papa’s feet together. Again, MaryBeth tried to milk the cow, but that cow had other notions. She kept buckin’ and rearin’ so till Henry felt he couldn’t stand it no more.

  He hollered to Hank, “Cut the rope, son, cut the rope! Ah wants to

  Hank started trying to cut the rope, but the cow was acting up so that instead of cutting the rope that tied his papa’s feet, he cut the rope that tied the cow-brute to the tree, and she lit out across the weeds with Henry on her back with his feet tied under her belly.

  The cow and Henry went bustin’ on down the back road till they met a neighbor. She was surprised to see Henry ridin’ a cow.

  She called out, “My Lawd, Brother Henry, where are you goin’?”

  “Sister Bidell, not even mah book-learnt son knows the answer to that question. For only God and this crazy cow knows where ah’m a-goin’.”

  At last the cow was hemmed up and Hank managed to cut the rope and get his papa on his feet. Although Henry was pretty shook up, he moved around as naturally as possible with no complaints. He didn’t want to remind anyone of this happening. The incident tended to tarnish his pride.

  On Sunday, tables were set up under the Chinaberry trees and loaded with mouthwatering victuals. Folk buzzed around like flies around a molasses barrel. When the parson put an “Amen” on the food blessin’, everyone started feedin’ his face, and there was a lull in conversation.

  Henry said, “Son, why don’t you say somethin’ in al-gee-bra for us?”

  “Papa, let’s just enjoy all this good-tastin’ food?”

  “We can enjoy the food while you say somethin’ in al-gee-bra.”

  “I’m sure, Papa, that these folks would rather hear one of your stories than my algebra.”

  “Son, ah’m not one bit slow to admit that ah’m mighty proud of what you’ve done—showin’ them college professors that yore head ain’t jest a knot to keep yore spinal cord from unravelin’—so go ahead and say somethin’ in al-gee-bra for all of us.”

  Hank didn’t want to disappoint or embarrass his papa. He racked his brain as to what to say. At last he was inspired and said, “Pi r square, pi r square, pi r square.” Pleased with how he had risen to the occasion, he looked at his papa for his approval, but Henry had a long face and downcast eyes.

  “No, son, you’ve been off to school so long and worried yore head over that al-gee-bra so much that you’ve done plum forgot—pie are round, cornbread are square!”

  Telling time: 9–10 minutes

  Audience: 4th grade–adult

  Historical notes for this story were taken from Volume 1 of Gene Burnett’s Florida’s Past (Pineapple Press, 1996).

  Dogbone

  You know, my Uncle Orson is usually as warm and friendly as a little hound puppy and as invitin’ as a cup of coffee when it’s been saucered and blowed, but I was by his place a few days ago and found him as standoffish as a sore-tail cat at a rockin’ chair convention. But Uncle Orson is always up front and lets you know what’s ailin’ him.

  He spoke right up. “Sanky, Tildie tells me that you’re jest a runnin’ all over the place tellin’ stories these days.”

  “Actually, Uncle Orson, I didn’t seek any gigs for this spring so I have less storytelling to do than usual.”

  “I understood Tildie to say that you were telling at the Ocala Storytelling Festival and Gamble Rogers Folk Festival and you always go up to White Springs to tell for the State Folk Festival. Sounds to me like you are crackin’ pretty good.”

  “I always look forward to each one of the festivals.”

  Unc’s gray eyes turned steel blue and his long beard started bobbin’ up and down like it does when he gets upset about something. “Tildie says you’re not sayin’ a word about Dogbone.”

  “No! Uncle Orson, you’ve convinced me not to say anything about Dogbone.”

  “I don’t want you gettin’ a bunch of drifters or developers in here, but when you get a nice audience, you could tell ’em a little bit about Dogbone.”

  Since you are such a nice audience and I need to keep peace in the family, let me tell you a little bit about Dogbone. I can’t tell you much for there jest ain’t much to tell, ’cause Dogbone is jest a wide spot on Sandspur Road in what used to be Mosquito County. Uncle Orson says that changing that county’s name to Orange was the biggest whitewash job the Florida politicians ever pulled off. They do have mosquitoes there. Uncle Orson says that they can sing louder and harmonize better than the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Aunt Matilda says that Orson makes too much of a to-do about the mosquitoes for she hasn’t had a single mosquito at her place in months. When Uncle Orson heard her say that he said that he hadn’t had a single one at his place either—every one of them is married and has dozens of kids! Of course, Aunt Matilda declares that even the mosquitoes in Dogbone are religious, and Uncle Orson agrees with her. He says, “They’re religious, all right. They sing over you and prey on you!”

  I mustn’t get started telling you Uncle Orson’s mosquito stories because I must tell you about Dogbone. It has a few houses in it, a bar-B-Q stand with a gas pump out front, a beer joint, and a Methodist Church. My Aunt Matilda lives right there in Dogbone, and after you pass her house the road starts up a hill—a rather steep one for Florida. The first house on your right belongs to Ed Grady, the town drunk. At least, he was until about a month ago, when he was converted. Uncle Orson says that now they don’t have a town drunk—everyone just has to take his turn. As you go on up the road, on your left is the Williams place. They have an old rusted-out pickup truck on cement blocks out in their front yard and a parcel of dogs that like to chase cars. Right at the top of the hill is Uncle Orson’s mailbox. Actuall
y he lives about two miles off the road on a nice little muck farm. It’s a small farm but it is all paid for, and, gals, Uncle Orson is not married. I’m not sure just how old he is—he won’t say—but he declares he’s going to live another hundred years. And, you know, he might do it, because he eats the right food, gets plenty of exercise and sleep, and recently he stumbled on a guard against the mosquitoes. It was right after Halloween when Uncle Orson stopped in at the Cheapo Depot. Among their many big sale items was fluorescent body lotion. Because of his curiosity and weakness for bargain, Uncle Orson bought a couple of bottles. That night he rubbed some of the lotion on his arms and hands before going out to sit in his porch swing and discovered that, although it only glowed a little in the dark, it kept the mosquitoes at bay. He went back the next day and bought the six cases that the Cheapo Depot had. Uncle Orson prefers to sleep in the nude, and this lotion gave him the chance to not be bothered with cumbersome nightclothes and still not be bitten by mosquitoes.

  Well, that’s about all there is to tell you about Dogbone, except it wouldn’t be right to mention Ed Grady’s conversion and not tell you how it happened. There are several versions floating around Dogbone and I’ve listened to them all. My version is based both on facts and hearsay, but to the best of my knowledge and belief this is what actually happened on Friday the thirteenth.

  Uncle Orson had already applied the fluorescent skin lotion to his entire body and was about to retire for the night when he remembered that he had failed to pick up his mail that day. He thought about just leaving it until the next day, but he knew that with something like that on his mind he wouldn’t sleep a wink, so he decided to go on and get it. It was a warm night and he figured he wouldn’t see anyone and, more importantly, no one would see him, so he’d go on just as he was. He stepped into a pair of shoes and started out. The moon hadn’t come up yet and it was a dark night, so Uncle Orson went back into the house for a light. He doesn’t own a regular flashlight, but he does have a froggin’ light that works off of a battery. A froggin’ light is much like a miner’s light except it is held on your forehead with one strap over your head and one around your head.

  He got into his pickup, drove up to Sandspur Road, headed the truck toward Dogbone, pulled up his parking brake, left the motor running, and got out. He adjusted the light on his forehead and turned it on only to find that the battery was about dead and instead of the light shining it just glowed. But with the help of the truck lights, he found his mailbox, and, just as he got his hands full of all those sales papers and seed catalogs, he thought that his truck was moving. He turned around and found that he was right. He had meant to get that parking brake fixed but he hadn’t got around to it. Now all he could do was try to overtake his truck.

  He started running down the hill after it. The Williams’s dogs were surprised to see Uncle Orson out chasing cars, but they were glad enough to join him in the chase. The truck gained speed as it went down the hill, but so did Uncle Orson. In fact, he almost caught it but just then he stumbled over one of the dogs.

  Now, staggering up from the beer joint was Ed Grady—drunk again! He saw the light of the truck coming toward him and stumbled off the road to let it pass. When it went by, he wasn’t sure but he thought the cab was empty. He staggered back onto the road, trying to figure that out, when he heard the dogs barking. He turned around and saw coming toward him a tall glowing figure with a white beard bobbing in the breeze and only one eye—right in the middle of his forehead. Just that afternoon, his wife had told Ed if he didn’t mend his ways the devil was coming for him. At the time he had laughed it off, but now he reconsidered her warning, turned around and started running. The dogs were excited about someone else joining the chase and started barking louder. Ed Grady was sure they were hell hounds and figured that the only way he would ever again see the light of day was to outrun them. He increased his speed. He caught up with the truck. When he did, Orson bellowed out, “Get in the truck!” Ed Grady took one look and saw that the truck was indeed empty, and again he picked up his speed. He led the procession into Dogbone. He made a long sliding dive up under the first building that he came to, and up under that building he stayed.

  The truck slowed down when it got on level ground and came to a stop in Aunt Matilda’s compost pile. Uncle Orson was in it in a minute and drove off with the dogs following, still barking. After everything got quiet, Ed Grady cautiously crawled out and looked around. He found that he had been under the Methodist Church. Well, he took this as a sign, and the very next Sunday he joined the church and has been a faithful member ever since.

  If any of you are ever over in that neck of the woods, stop by and hear Aunt Matilda’s, Ed’s, or Uncle Orson’s version, but be sure you tell Uncle Orson that I told you a little bit about Dogbone.

  Telling time: 8–10 minutes

  Audience: adults

  BeeBeeBumpkin

  It was late summer of 1838 when his pappy passed on, leaving BeeBeeBumpkin and his coonhound, Chipper, as the lone caretakers of the homestead located near the headwaters of the Chipola River. As BeeBeeBumpkin painstakingly gathered the last scraps of cotton from the now-brown cotton bowls, he made up his mind that he was going to do a little traveling. Never in his sixteen years had he been beyond the forks in the river, and every week the copy of the St. Joseph Times arrived with its colorful descriptions of this fabulous city. According to the paper, the population of St. Joseph now numbered six thousand, making it the largest city in Florida. BeeBeeBumpkin had read every word of the St. Joseph Times to his pappy, after his eyes failed him and before he died. They enjoyed hearing how Apalachicola would not give up the county seat, so those folks in St. Joseph formed Calhoun County and made St. Joseph its county seat. But Pappy warned that the folks in Apalachicola might have some ammunition in their accusations that St. Joseph was “the wickedest city in America.”

  But the more stories BeeBeeBumpkin heard about the horse track, casino gambling in every hotel, plain and fancy houses of ill-repute, saloons, floating con games, and prizefights, the more he wanted to see it for himself. And when he read the latest copy of the St. Joseph Times, which told about St. Joseph being chosen to host the territory’s first constitutional convention and about a gala celebration that would welcome Florida’s most prominent leaders on December 3, 1838, he lost no time in getting ready to leave. He hid the ax and large skillet. He put the small skillet, some fat, sweet potatoes, meal, and salt in a croaker sack, got his fishing line, put out the fire, hung a flask of shot and his powder horn around his neck, took down Ole Sure-fire, called up Chipper, and was on his way.

  He walked over the hill and a good piece further until he came to the crossroads. He took the sack from his shoulder, got out a sweet “tater,” broke it open, put some of the hog fat in it, and gave it to Chipper, who gulped it down and begged for another one.

  “Chip, that’s ’nough for you right now. I want you to listen to me, boy. It’s not that I don’t enjoy yore company, for I do, but I think for yore sake you’d better stay with Cozen Chicane while I’m gone. I’ll stop for you on my way back home.” He and Chipper went on to Cozen Chicane’s house. He knocked on the door. Cozen Chicane came to the door and stuck his nose out the crack.

  “Who’s there?” he asked, not daring to come out for fear it was somebody he’d beat in some sorta deal.

  “It’s me, BeeBeeBumpkin. Just me and my hound dog, Chipper.”

  Cozen Chicane opened the door then and gave BeeBeeBumpkin a sly look. “Come in and rest a bit and eat a bite,” he said, although he was hoping that BeeBeeBumpkin wouldn’t. He was a fat man who was always grinning like a mule eating briars and always easy talking, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. But he was just about the slickest, double-dealingest old cooter in the country or anywhere else, for that matter. Nobody could beat him in a deal—least-wise, they never had. And when it came to lawin’, Cozen Chicane was always suing somebody.

  “Why don’t you come in, BeeBeeBump
kin?” he said.

  “Because I’m on my way, Cozen Chicane. I’m a-going to town for sure. It’s forty miles and across two counties, but I aim ter see that town. That’s why I come to see you.”

  Cozen Chicane started shutting the door. “Now, now, BeeBeeBumpkin,” he said. “I’m hard up for money right now. I couldn’t loan my sweet mother—may God rest her soul—so much as a penny.”

  “I don’t want no money,” said BeeBeeBumpkin. “I ain’t the borrowing kind.”

  So Cozen Chicane poked his head out again. “What can I do for you then?”

  “Well, it’s like this. The way Ma figured it, you’re my thirty-second cousin twice removed, my only kin in this world. I got a favor for you to do for me.”

  Cozen Chicane started pushing that door shut. “No, no favors. I make it a rule to do no favors and don’t expect none from nobody.”

  “It’s a favor I’m aiming to pay for,” said BeeBeeBumpkin.

  “Oh,” said Cozen Chicane, opening the door once more, “that’s different now. Come right in, BeeBeeBumpkin.”

  “No, sir, no need to come in, for I’d just get in my way coming out. What I want you to do is keep my coonhound, Chipper, while I’m off on my travels. I’ll pay what’s right when I come back to get him.”

  Cozen Chicane grinned all over, more than anywhere else, as he thought he saw a way to make something extra or get himself a coon-hound. Everybody knew BeeBeeBumpkin was simple-minded—honest as the day’s long but simple-minded.

  “Why, yes,” said Cozen Chicane, “I’ll keep Chipper for you, BeeBeeBumpkin, and glad to.”

  So BeeBeeBumpkin gave his hound dog over and bid Cozen Chicane farewell. “I’ll be back next week or month or sometime. I don’t know how long it’ll be, for it’s forty miles and across two counties to town.”

  Well, one day, week, or month after that, BeeBeeBumpkin reached the city of St. Joseph. It was a sight for him to see, and he looked and looked until he was plum tired of lookin’. He decided there weren’t one thing there that he couldn’t go home without. The next day, he took the same road that got him there and started back home. Sometime after that, here came BeeBeeBumpkin down the pike-road to the crossroads, limping and dusty. He went straight to Cozen Chicane’s house and knocked on the door.