Miscellaneous Meanderings Continued
Red Clay Hill Soap
We were so poor we didn't know about a depression. We didn't know about Wall Street, but we sure knew about living and
loving. On Sunday after church we would kill a chicken and Grandma would cook him and we, the whole Fuller clan, would get
together and eat. The kids ate last and the adults first. All the good chicken would be gone, but the food was still so good.
The old kitchen table had two chairs, one on each end of the table and two benches, one on each side of the table. On top,
collards and turnips, chicken, "tater" salad, biscuits, and iced tea. All cooked on an old wood stove. Us kids had to "tote" in the
firewood and put it in a wood box. Grandma would cook and wipe sweat with her apron, take her glasses off, wipe them and
put them back on, then cook some more. It was pure misery for her but heaven for us eaters, and we were good eaters. Did I
say we were poor? No one, not even the Rockefellers, ate like us, nor so good. Those were the good ole days.
My grandparents' house was what was known as a dogtrot, but they put doors on each end and made it a regular house. Of
course, you could see the dogs and chickens under the house through the floor cracks. In the winter the fireplace tried to keep
it warm, but the only side of us warm was the side to the fire. At night the glasses with water in them would freeze. We did have
running water, "Wesley run out to the well and draw some fresh water."
While we listened, the Lu'siana Hayride turned into the Grand Ole Opry. We lived so far out in the country, we got the Grand Old
Opry on Monday night instead of Saturday "from Carl's Record Mart in Nashville, Tennessee."
After dinner on Sundays the kids played cow pasture baseball or cowboys and Indians. The barn was the fort and our stick
horses were tied at the hitching post in case a fast get away was needed.
Seems all the roads were dirt, and dust would flow behind a car like water behind a riverboat, twisting and turning and rolling
as the car sped down the road. A Studabaker truck was the mode of travel and not over 30 miles per hour. "What is your hurry?"
they would ask, "Life is going to pass you by."
Fishing and playing, farming and listening to Grand Ole Opry were all we knew, but we knew right from wrong and good from
bad. We knew we were loved, and we knew we loved our families. Yes sir, those sure were the good ole days.
Is it near or is it far
Hear a voice on the wind,
Knowing no one is there.
I whisper are you there.
I know who you are
So close but so far.
My soul wants to shout out, but I stand still
And hear the whispers on the wind,
Some lost soul, broken or lost dreams.
I feel the breeze across my face
And I stand very still.
I can feel them very close
In this sacred place.
I listen without fear
Then I hear myself ask aloud,
Are you talking to me?
Death has taken you,
As it will me someday. Until then,
I hear the whispers in the wind.
Wesley Robinson
There was a rose that faded young;
I saw its shattered beauty hung upon a broken stem.
I heard them say, "What need to care with roses budding everywhere?"
I did not answer them.
