The Last Christmas Tree - Part I

Walt pulled a medium sized pocketknife out of his trousers pocket and
opened the small blade. Then he pulled an un-opened bar of Red Man
from the pocket of his mechanic’s overcoat and cut off a plug of
chewing tobacco. He began to talk after he had laid down the bar of
chewing tobacco on his left knee. "Old man Lucas told me this story a
year before he died." Walt spoke with a soft slow cadence in his deep
bass voice.

"This is a true story that happened to Ms. Lilly and old man Lucas. He
told me this story a couple of years ago. Harry, you know Ms. Lilly,
she died last year, and you have drank old man Lucas' moonshine. She
raised three of the finest kids around here." Walt spoke, looking at
Harry who was setting out four seats around the circle that had formed
around the pot-bellied stove located in the rear of the Smoke House.
Harry nodded while he held the small-bowled pipe in his mouth.

"This is my Christmas story. Well, old man Lucas told it to me, when I
bought my Christmas tree from him. Believe it or not the old man was
still sober. Anyway, it was after the war. Harry, you know, Ms. Lilly
lost her husband in the war. She was having a rough time of it with the
three kids and all. Old Pete at the diner had given her a waitress job,
while she went to night school to learn to be a secretary. She was a
lousy waitress. She only made fifty cents an hour plus tips at the
diner. Old Pete would slip her some food on the side to take home to
the kids. She barely had enough money even with the small veterans
check she received every month to keep up the kids and to manage
things." Walt stopped speaking and threw a half-dollar size plug of
what he had cut off into his mouth.

"One cold December night at Lucas' tree lot at the Farmer’s Market, old
man Lucas told me this story.

"Ms. Lilly drove up in her old Falcon four door car a week before
Christmas. The old car was sold to her by my father. My old man was the
best-used car salesman in South Georgia. She made weekly payments that
were always late until she got the job at the bakery. She bought a used
Fairlane station wagon from him after she got that job." Old man Walt
stopped speaking and grabbed the medium sized peach can that was
sitting next to him. After spiting the brown liquid from chewing the
Red Man into the can, Walt started to talk again - the large wad of
chewing tobacco tucked inside the right cheek of his mouth. His right
cheek protruded outwardly at least an inch or more.

"She had Larry, Taylor, and Lynn in the back seat jumping around. The
kids were excited about getting a Christmas tree and hoping Santa Claus
would be coming to see them in the next week. After going around
several times and asking prices, Ms. Lilly stopped at Lucas' lot."

"Mr. Lucas do you have a small tree for around five dollars? Things
haven't been going too well since Ed died. I can barely find the money
to buy clothes for the kids this year. They grow so fast. I promised
them a tree this year, even if we didn't have any presents." Ms. Lilly
spoke from the rough running car with the kids jumping around in the
back seat.

"Well, Ms. Lilly, most of ours run around ten to thirty dollars and
that doesn't count the cost of the stand." Old man Lucas said quickly
placing the small pint bottle with his brew in his back pocket out of
view from her. With his left hand he placed the half-burned cigar back
in his mouth. He had been holding it in his left hand with his thumb
and index finger. Lucas knew that the foul cigar smell could only
partially hide the smell of the moonshine, but at least the smell of
his drinking would not be detected on his breath.

Both individuals paused for several moments looking at each other, and
then Ms. Lilly started to let the old Falcon move forward, a large
amount of white smoke from the tail pipe of the Falcon spewing forth.

"Wait! Ma'am!” Lucas called out. The old Falcon came to an abrupt halt
with the motor still running and a small amount of white smoke still
escaping from the tail pipe. "I tell you what I'll do," he paused again
catching his breath. "I tell you. After I close up I'll bring you a
tree with a stand and lights for five dollars. You can pay me the five
when I deliver the tree. It'll be the best and differentest tree that
you will ever have." Lucas spoke very rapidly, hoping she could not
understand. "I'll even flock it for you, even if it’s a year old."
Lucas cried out at the old Falcon while she drove from the lot, leaving
a trail of white smoke behind. Lucas pulled out the flat clear pint out
of his back pocket and took a long drink, almost draining the bottle
dry.

“At first I thought old Lucas was tight, but to sell a widowed woman a
year old tree was the ultimate insult." Walt stopped speaking and spit
into the metal can again. Walt chewed for several minutes, surveying
the men who were sitting around the stove to see if they were listening
to his story. "But I was wrong."

"Old Lucas was a booze hound. He could out drink any man in the county.
He made the best moonshine in a three state area. The stuff could take
the paint off a new car, but it had a kick and the stuff would stay
with you, but old Lucas was a sharp old cuss. The old guy took a Nobel
Fir from the year before and made a beautiful tree for Ms. Lilly. First
he shook the tree with one swift motion. Every single needle that had
been on the tree fell to the ground. The tree was really ready for
kindling instead of becoming a Christmas tree. The old man flocked the
bare tree twice from every angle. After the flock dried, he placed the
tree in a stand that he had painted red and green the night before. He
took this strange looking white tree to Ms. Lilly’s house around
mid-night. The old man wasn't feeling any pain by then.

Anyway, the old man woke up everyone in the household. He dragged the
bare, white-flocked tree into the front living room of the small
five-roomed house. Ms. Lilly’s face was snowy white with embarrassment
from the strange looking tree and from Lucas’ inability to stand up
straight. The three children thought the tree was the greatest tree
that they had ever seen. Everyone was suddenly quiet while they starred
at the six-foot bare white tree. Each individual had come to the
realization that this tree was no ordinary Christmas tree. It was
different. Old man Lucas gave two strands of lights to Taylor, while he
fell down into the sheet-covered armchair next to where he had placed
the needle-less tree.

----------------------------------------------------------

Written By Franklin P. Smith @ Tales from the Smokehouse

Part 2 Next Week!

Boiled Peanuts

It was before we got the big silver Impala. Actually, all of my father’s “demonstrators”, those nice cars the dealership let him drive, were silver. No, this was in my mother’s old beat up blue station wagon. It was the car she drove to work as an elementary school and art teacher. It was always strewn with the detritus from the ghosts of first graders past and the paper mache dreams of high school art students. Those dreams would later be squandered in the oyster shucking profession. That car smelled of boiled peanuts and paste and old conch egg casings picked up on the shorelines of St. Simon’s Island.

I would sit with my chubby knees on the edge of the seat in my navy blue stretch shorts, usually purchased at Punch and Judy’s “Husky” department, and my blue boat shoes would kick the dashboard. We could have been traveling anywhere, perhaps to Savannah, perhaps to St. Simons, or maybe to Beaufort. She would cut her eyes at me, as we would approach those roadside stands. She was intimately acquainted with each of these places. Suddenly, she’d veer off and you knew it was time to get some boiled peanuts.

The best ones were still warm in their soggy paper bags. They would be salty and slightly smoky and you would pop them in your mouth to pop the shell and suck the juices out of them before eating the peanuts. Then we’d try to put the shells back in the little bag, but most often they’d end up on the floor with the roasted peanut shells we had gotten on the last outing. That’s why my mother’s cars always had the aroma of boiled peanuts. That smell reminds me of her every bit as much as the Chanel #5 that she always wore.

The pronunciation of “Boiled Peanuts” in the South sounds like “Balled Peanuts”. Except you draw out the short “a” a bit. Perhaps you are not familiar with them, or perhaps you saw them when you visited here and thought it a strange idea. But they are really wonderful, and you should give them a try.

This is the season when the new crop of raw peanuts is available. It’s the best time to fix them. It’s fairly straightforward. Just get a big pot of salted water, some raw peanuts and boil them for a few hours.

Now, the best ones that you find on the roadside are usually boiled in an open kettle over a wood fire. They often have just a hint of smoky flavor. You can add that by putting a dash of liquid smoke in your pot while you are boiling them. I also like to throw in a little smoked fatback. That’s sort of my personal secret ingredient for my boiled peanuts.

You can tell when they are done when the peanuts no longer have that crunchy raw texture and taste. They should be sort of mushy and not crunchy at all. The shells should be sort of soft. It depends on the variety of peanut that you buy. Both sorts are good boiled.

When they are done, strain them out in a colander and put them in brown paper lunch bags. You do need to refrigerate them.

I’ve got a big mess on the stove right now. I’m gonna make a huge mess eating them too. I’ll hear my mother's laughter, I’m sure. I always do.

Written by: Rosie at Smoky Mountain Breakdown

The Color of Fall in the Smoky Mountains

I recently journeyed to the Smoky Mountains and was lucky enough to arrive during the changing of the colors.

It was just stunning and my photos do not do justice to the true beauty of the region.

Masterpiece

Come lounge with me on wicker chaise 'midst fall's grand panoply,
obliviously nonchalant to winter's looming fray.

Immersed within a palette strewn with hues of red and gold;
brown, yellow, green and orange in this masterpiece we're shown.

Crisp foliated blends disperse an aromatic gale.
Autumnal equinox displayed on nature's grandest scale!

***
jaheitmueller

Southern gothic Thanksgiving story

I know that by the time you're reading this most of you have already had your Thanksgiving dinner. But if you've been blessed (or burdened) with relatives, you're probably still enjoying their company throughout the weekend.

And sometimes, the presence of your relatives makes you realize that Thanksgiving, which is supposed to unite us as a nation, actually divides us regionally more than any other holiday.

It has to do with where you were raised. I was raised in the deep South, where being southern was considered a religion.

When you're from the South, you never know what's going to come out of a family member's mouth.

My mother was raised in the funeral business. Her childhood growing up among caskets and funeral parlors in the 1930s and '40s inspired some pretty lively stories at the dinner table.

But the most memorable of them all came out one Thanksgiving when my brother Kevin brought his fiancé, Jann, home to dinner for the first time. You don't spring the unknown at your fiancé during her first family Thanksgiving dinner, and my mother is Mistress of the Unknown.

Understandably, Kevin was a bit worried.

Jann, who is not from the South, bore well the steady stream of conversation and non-sequiturs that every southern mother indulges in during a family occasion.

That is, until Mom dropped her Great Bombshell.

During one mini-second of silence, my mother said casually, "Of course, when we lived in North Carolina, on Sundays my Daddy would always take us to see Uncle Ben."

My brother perked up his ears suspiciously, and so did I. This was a relative we'd never heard of, and God only knew what HIS story was.

"Uncle Ben?" my brother asked warily. "Who was he? Do we know him?"

"No, Uncle Ben wasn't family," said my mother sweetly. "He was out at the funeral home in this little town a few hours away from Winston Salem. My Daddy would say, 'C'mon, let's go see Uncle Ben,' and we would pile in the car and go."

At the mention of the words "funeral home," Jann looked up. She didn't know Mom's history.

"What did 'Uncle Ben' do at the funeral home?" I asked.

"He didn't do anything," said my mother, with a faint sound of reproach in her voice. "He was just there, and we would go see him."

We waited for the rest of the story. And then it came.

"He dropped dead on the sidewalk in front of the funeral parlor one day, and no one ever claimed the body," said my mother matter-of-factly, taking a spoonful of stuffing. "So they embalmed him, and they propped him up in a chair, and we all used to go see him."

In the silence that followed, my brother's face had turned a shade of green that, to this day, has never been replicated.

Jann's face, on the other hand, showed undisguised horror.

Clearly, my brother thought (as he often told me later) that the wedding was off.

My mother, as befitting a true Southern Lady, was totally unaware of the commotion she had caused and kept right on eating.

It was my Dad who regained his presence of mind before any of us.

"Don't tell Jann your funeral home stories," he said, in a half-joking attempt to save the situation. "You'll scare her."

At this point I had to intervene with the one question that, to this day, Kevin and I have never gotten a satisfactory answer for.

"Mom, WHY didn't you tell us about Uncle Ben before?" (Translation: Why did you wait until your son brought home his future fiancé to tell us your Family Corpse Story?)

"You mean I never told y'all about Uncle Ben before?" she asked lazily. "Well, I guess I just forgot."

We finished our meal in silence. But then I just had to ask.

"Isn't that - well, against the law, having a dead body sitting there?"

"I don't know," she said. "It probably was. They didn't think about things like that back then."

"But Mom, why did you drive out on Sundays to visit a corpse?"

She paused.

"Well, I don't know," she said reflectively. "It was just something that everybody did."

Kevin and Jann are celebrating their 14th wedding anniversary this December - luckily Jann showed her mettle by taking the whole thing in her stride. I think she recovered from it faster than Kevin and I did.

But to this day, Kevin and I still feel the presence of Uncle Ben, hovering over our Thanksgiving table.

Happy Thanksgiving weekend, everybody. And that goes for you too, Uncle Ben, wherever you are.

BY KEELY BROWN
summit daily news
November 24, 2005

The Kudzu Bar

If ya'll ever find yourselves in the vicinity of Dyersburg, Tennessee and you like good folks and cold beer, drop on over to Bev's Place on South Main Street between the two ancient concrete bridges that span the Forked Deere river. The action begins somewhere around 1:30 PM when Becky opens up for the domino players and lasts until the last pilgrim has made his or her way home. The place has a rich history, previously owned by Sap, then Gene and presently by Beverly and Terry. Bev has a voice that she earned in church and can still make you say AMEN! when she's in the mood to belt one out karaoke style. Every day is different at Bev's Place with dollar beer for ladies on Thursdays and karoke on Friday and Saturday nights. It's a gathering place for UT Vols football fans to watch games with Tennessee and Alabama game day shirts signed by those in attendance and hanging proudly over the bar.

Bev's is frequently a stop for bikers on dice and poker runs, and many benefits are hosted there for those in need. On Sunday afternoons Becky's husband John cooks something on the grill out back while folks watch the races or ballgames on one of the three TVs. The reason it's been dubbed "The Kudzu Bar" is that it sits right close to the river and heaps and HEAPS of kudzu threaten to take over the building and parking lot if not kept in check.Contact info:
Bev's Place
575 South Main
Dyersburg, TN 38024