Cozen Chicane stuck his nose out the crack and said, “Who’s there?”
“It’s me, BeeBeeBumpkin.”
“How are you, BeeBeeBumpkin?”
“Fair to middling. I walked to town and saw it all and then walked back here again. Forty miles and across two counties, both ways. Don’t never want to roam no more. I’m satisfied now.”
Cozen Chicane started shutting the door. “Glad to hear it, BeeBeeBumpkin. Next time you come down to the crossroads, drop in and say hello. Any time, just any time, BeeBeeBumpkin.”
“Hold it right there! Wait a cotton-pickin’ minute!” said BeeBeeBumpkin, putting his foot in the door.
“I’m busy,” said the old man.
But BeeBeeBumpkin kept his foot in the door. “How about Chipper, Cozen Chicane? How about him?”
Cozen Chicane kept trying to shut the door and BeeBeeBumpkin kept shoving his foot in to prevent him from doing it. “See here!” said BeeBeeBumpkin, “I’m here to get my coonhound.”
“Oh, him? Why, I declare to my soul, I’d almost forgot about that hound dog, BeeBeeBumpkin, I sure almost had.”
“Where’s he at?” asked BeeBeeBumpkin, still keeping the old man from closing the door.
“I’ll tell you,” said Cozen Chicane, still trying to shut the door, “I feel mighty bad about it, BeeBeeBumpkin, but your Chipper is no more.”
“What do you mean he is no more? How come?”
“Jest that he’s perished and gone, BeeBeeBumpkin. The first night after you left I sort of locked him up in that little busted-down house over in the Old Ground. Just to keep him safe, you know? Well, sir, BeeBeeBumpkin, those last renters of mine that lived there was powerful dirty folks. They left the place just lousy with chinch bugs. Them bugs was mortal hungry by this time. So they just et that dog of yours alive. Et all but the poor thing’s bones by morning—and even the bones was purty well gnawed.
“It was my fault in one way. I ought to known better than to put your dog in there, BeeBeeBumpkin. But I done it, believin’ it wus the right thing ter do. But I’m not goin’ to charge you a penny for his keep the night I had him. I aim to do the fair thing.”
Well, Cozen Chicane stuck his sly eye to the crack of the door to see how BeeBeeBumpkin was taking it. He knew the boy was simple-minded. He figured he had him. Cozen Chicane had Chipper hid out, and he aimed to swap him to a man he knew in the next county.
BeeBeeBumpkin had learned to accept death when he had done all he could to keep it from happening, but now he blamed himself for leaving Chipper. He stood there, his heart wrenched. Tears came in his eyes and he sleeved his nose. “That dog was folks to me,” he said. “Them chinch bugs don’t know what they done to me.” He pulled his foot out of the door and backed down the steps and started towards home. Cozen Chicane eased out onto the porch to watch him go.
About this time, BeeBeeBumpkin turned around. “Cozen Chicane,” he said, with tears still in his voice, “my place is over the hill and a good piece further on. I’m plum tired out and beat. Wonder if you’d loan me your mule to ride on. I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”
The old man was tickled with how he’d got him a good hound to swap without it costing him anything, and he knew BeeBeeBumpkin was honest as the livelong day, so he just called across the way to the crossroads store and got a witness to the loan and let BeeBeeBumpkin take the mule.
Next morning, BeeBeeBumpkin never showed up and Cozen Chicane got worried. He got worrieder still in the middle of the day when no sign of BeeBeeBumpkin did he see. But along about afternoon he saw BeeBeeBumpkin come walking over the hill and down towards the crossroads. Cozen Chicane ran out onto his porch and yelled, “Hey, BeeBeeBumpkin, where’s my mule?”
BeeBeeBumpkin just shook his head and kept walkin’. “I feel mighty bad about that mule, Cozen Chicane,” he called. “I sure do.”
“Hey! Wait there!”
But BeeBeeBumpkin went on, heading for the store at the crossroads.
Cozen Chicane was so mad he didn’t wait to put on his shoes. He just jumped off the porch and ran to that good old man’s house up the road a-ways.
“Squire,” he said, “I want you to handle BeeBeeBumpkin. He stole my mule.”
The Squire waked up his deputy and the deputy went down and brought in BeeBeeBumpkin. Everybody at the crossroads come tagging along behind.
Squire said, “Son, they tell me you stole a mule.”
“No, sir, Squire, I never done it,” said BeeBeeBumpkin.
Cozen Chicane stomped his bare feet, shook his fists, and yelled, “He’s a bald-faced liar!”
“Calm down, Cozen Chicane,” said the Squire, “and let the boy tell his side. Go ahead, BeeBeeBumpkin.”
So BeeBeeBumpkin told how he borrowed the mule and started for home. “Well,” he said, “you know I live over the hill and a good piece further. I rode that mule to the top of the hill. I was minding my own business and not giving nobody any trouble. Then, all of a sudden, I see a turkey buzzard dropping down outen the sky. Here it come, dropping fast and crowing like a game rooster.
“First thing I knew that old buzzard just grabbed Cozen Chicane’s mule by the tail and gave it a hard yank and that mule’s hind legs lifted off the ground, and I went flying over his head and hit a rock head-on. I failed in my senses for a minute. When I could see straight, I saw that buzzard sailing away with the mule, ’most a mile high and getting littler all the time. And that’s how it happened. I sure am sorry, but there ain’t much you can do with a thing like that, Squire.”
“Hold on there!” said Squire Jowers, that good old man. “I’ve seen many a turkey buzzard in my time, BeeBeeBumpkin, but never have I seen one that could crow.”
“Well,” said BeeBeeBumpkin, “it surprised me some too. But in a county where chinch bugs can eat up a full-grown hound dog in one night, why, I just reckon a turkey buzzard has a right to crow and fly off with a mule if he wants to.”
So it all come out and Squire Jowers, that good old man, made Cozen Chicane fork up Chipper and then BeeBeeBumpkin gave back the mule. Cozen Chicane was mocked and branded. He was so ashamed that he grieved and pined away, and it weren’t no more than fifteen or twenty years before he was taken sick and died.
Telling time: 18–20 Minutes
Audience: 4th grade–adult
I hope this story will whet the appetite of every reader to learn more about Florida’s mystery city. As Gene Burnett recalls in Volume 2 of Florida’s Past, “St. Joseph mushroomed overnight—booming, flamboyant, and wicked—and for several years it remained the metropolis queen of Florida. But almost as suddenly, the thriving seaport town of St. Joseph disappeared from the face of the earth, obliterated by yellow fever, fire, and a hurricane.”
The long, descriptive names and repetition in this story give it a certain rhythm and down-home charm, which will be lost if you shorten or replace the names with pronouns.
Introduction
Stories for Special Days
Stories are such an integral part of a celebration that even though there is a large supply of holiday stories, there is an even larger demand for them. A story that a Cracker can relate to, enjoy, and share for the celebration of each of three major holidays—Christmas, Thanksgiving and Halloween—is included as well as one for the lesser-observed April Fool’s Day. Stories nurture appreciation and understanding so enjoy and share these and other stories. Celebrate special days with thankful hearts and appreciative spirits.
Do Tell!
First, Consider the Cost
Some sage from age: Jokes are best talked about but never carried out.
Recently, on the evening news, I heard that a man lost his job because he played a practical joke on his supervisor. I was filled with empathy for the culprit. As one of seven children who created most of their own entertainment, I was often either the perpetrator or the butt of a practical joke. I learned early to give and take, but it wasn’t until I was a sophomore in high school that a practical joke b
ackfired and I learned that not all givers are takers and that a practical joke can have costly repercussions.
It was Sunday afternoon, the last day of March, when my sister made some caramel-coconut kisses and brought them out to the porch to treat the family. As we savored the candy, Daddy asked, “Did you know that if you add sugar to Octagon laundry soap, it will take away the odor?”
I’ve often wondered where my father got that bit of information. My dad enjoyed a good joke as much as anyone I’ve ever known, and I am sure he was aware that the next day was April Fool’s Day, but I am doubly sure that he had no intention of getting me in trouble. What he had said was news to me, and it didn’t take me long to figure out a way to make use of this new bit of knowledge.
With my last coconut-caramel kiss wrapped in wax paper, I went looking for laundry soap. Out in the laundry shed I found some soap scraps that I knew would not be missed. I noticed that there was no noticeable difference between the color of the soap and that of the caramel candy. I made quick work of scraping the soap into a small dish and adding a bit of sugar. I was delighted to find that the sugar not only removed the soap’s odor but also gave it the right consistency to pass for candy. A sprinkling of coconut made it a bit dry so I added a drop of vanilla, then shaped three candy kisses on wax paper. I was all set for April Fool’s Day on Monday.
I thought the deception was perfect and went back to the porch swing to ponder who was worthy to be the butt of such a great practical joke. It didn’t take me long to come up with the perfect candidate, my homeroom teacher. He was popular with the student body and a close friend of my basketball coach. He helped drive the team to all out-of-town games, so I often rode in his car. He teased me relentlessly, which I accepted good-naturedly because I thought he liked me (I never teased anyone I didn’t like).
On Monday as I walked to school, I was hailed by a classmate, “Hey, wait up.” As he walked up, I nibbled on my caramel candy and offered him some of the soap candy. He took one piece, bit into it, and was immediately wise to the deception. I said, “April Fool!” We both laughed and carefully arranged the soap candy back on the wax paper for our teacher.
When we reached school, he stopped in the hall to let some of his friends in on the joke. Our teacher had already seen us walking together and started making some remarks about how spring produced strange love affairs. I interrupted his bantering to ask if he wanted a piece of candy.
“Sure,” he said and carefully scraped the wax paper clean, threw back his head, and dropped the three soap kisses into his mouth, then proceeded to lick his fingers. I could no longer keep a straight face so I turned and walked to my desk. After what seemed a very long time, I decided that he was actually going to eat the sweetened soap and the joke would be on me.
Just as I turned to see what was going on, he realized that he was the victim of a joke and rushed to the window to spit the soap out. Then he ran to the water fountain. The soap formed so many suds that he kept foaming at the mouth and the suds kept covering his face. This kept the other students in stitches until the assembly bell rang. In assembly, he started reading the morning devotions but had to stop three times to remove bits of soap from his mouth. Each time he did this, it provoked another outburst of laughter from the student body.
After the third time, he looked at me and said, “Young lady, I’m going to get even with you, and when I do even your mama won’t know you!”
Everyone, at times, wishes for hindsight wisdom. Many were the times I bemoaned the fact that I didn’t have an inkling of what shallow water I was diving into, playing a practical joke on someone who had the upper hand. For the rest of that semester and the next two, he ignored rules of ethics to make good his threat. I had to fight tooth and nail to get the grades I earned in both of his classes. But, even more devastating, I had lost a friend. For many years, I regretted that my April Fool joke had proved so costly. But in light of the evening news and the fact that years later my teacher regretted his poor sportsmanship and we became friends again, maybe it was a good long-term investment. It taught me the truth in the admonition to first consider the cost.
Telling time: 8–10 minutes
Audience: 4th grade–adult
I have found that audiences enjoy the humor of this personal, true story and the chance to use the story as a window into Florida culture more than six decades ago. If you are a young teller or a newcomer to Florida and you want to tell it in the first person, preface the story by saying, “I have a friend who has lived in Florida for a long, long time, and she shared this story with me. She gave me permission to share it with you.…”
Forever Thankful
“Today, tradition dictates that I tell the first story. If you will indulge me, I would like to preface my story with a few observations and remarks. First, I’d like to quote my PaPa and endorse his words when he said: “All of y’all are as welcomed as fresh biled coffee after it’s been saucered and blowed.” With these words my grandfather opened the storytelling session that followed our Thanksgiving dinner.
“As long as my grandparents lived here on the west bank of the Kissimmee River,” he continued, “each member of their extended family was devoted to being here every Thanksgiving at high noon. It was then that the dinner bell was rung twelve gongs, one for each month of the year, and PaPa, with his powerful voice, said, ‘Let’s again give thanks.’
“If there are any of you who have never been a participant in an old-time Southern family gathering, it is hard for you to imagine the camaraderie engendered, the number of people, or the amount and variety of food involved. From the time I was old enough to gather buttonwood and cut and weave moonvine, I’ve felt like an integral part of these annual celebrations, and the fondest memories of my life are centered around them.
“The old home-place burned, and for three years now we have failed to observe this family’s old tradition. I don’t know about you, but for three years I have felt that a light in my life has been snuffed out. But as each of you arrived at our new home this year, you helped rekindle that light. It is now burning brightly, and I thank you for that.
“But you’ve asked me to tell you about my most memorable Thanksgiving celebration. I had no trouble deciding which one that was. It had to be the one we observed the year that I was sixteen. That was the year I met the love of my life and also learned that I should not only be thankful for the fortunate things that come my way but be truly grateful for being spared the destructive ones, which, but for the grace of God, might have been my lot in life.
“I am sure that some of you are giving thought to some of PaPa’s stories, trying to recall one that would have taught a lovesick teenager such a spiritual truth. Like most of you, I learned many lessons from PaPa’s stories, but this lesson I learned from Uncle Si.
“For the benefit of the youngsters in our midst and any of you who never knew him, let me introduce you to Uncle Si. I think his name was Silas, but I never heard him called anything but Uncle Si. As far as I know, he was not a bona fide member of our family, but PaPa was known for his hospitality to family, friends, and strangers, so, for as many years as I can remember, as long as he lived, Uncle Si, with his fiddle, was a regular participant at our family celebrations.
“It seems that before Uncle Si had sprouted his pin feathers, his father was killed during a fracas while he was fiddling in the DoseDo Sisters’ newly constructed dance hall. It was the consensus that it was an accident—just a stray bullet—but he was just as dead as if someone had been gunning for him.
“His grieving mother did not want Si to play the fiddle so she sold the instrument to the DoseDo Sisters. They paid her top dollar, although neither of them could play a lick. This transaction helped convince folks of the truth in the scuttlebutt—that they often sampled their supply of medicinal moonshine.
“When the flu took Si’s mother, the sisters took Si. I don’t think they even considered adopting him, but they gave him a foster home and let him practice on t
he fiddle. It was not long before he was known as the best fiddler in that neck of the woods. Of course, I don’t know that he had much competition. But if you ever heard Uncle Si play, you knew that fiddle was in the hands of its master.
“But times got hard. Folks still said, ‘The fiddler must be paid,’ but the pine-needle basket no longer harvested a handful of dimes and a quarter or two. Si’s evening of playing would yield only a nickel or maybe two and a few pennies.
“When Si was twelve years old, he was tall for his age, and, although he didn’t have enough fat on his bones to grease a one-egg skillet, he was strong and willing to work. He got a job with one of the many seining crews fishing Lake Okeechobee. He didn’t mind the work, and he was one more happy kid when he got his first pay. The first thing he did was to buy back his father’s fiddle. Once the fiddle was his, the two seemed to meld and his playing was better than ever. His music reflected his joy for he was happier than he could remember ever being, but his happiness was not to last long. He came down with the chills and fever. The men liked the kid, so when they were in Tantie they asked Doc Anner for some medicine for him. She gave them some calomel with instructions that he should be given all of the white powder that could be stacked on a dime, followed by a good dose of Epsom salts or castor oil, and then nothing to eat or drink till the chills and fever were gone.
“She handed them a little sack of white powder and added, ‘Be sure you tell the sisters that it is very important that they give him the right amount,’ and added, ‘The first time I’m out that way I’ll stop by and check on him.’
More Tellable Cracker Tales Page 8
