If I Had A Say, I'd Borrow It

All day I have been pondering what I would tell graduates this spring, in the season of graduation.

And the best I could come up with is this, a favorite quote from loose-wire Edward Abbey. Boy, can I see the looks on faces of the moms and dads. LOL!


"One final paragraph of advice: Do not burn yourself out. Be as I am-a reluctant enthusiast... a part time crusader, a half-hearted fanatic. Save the other half of yourselves and your lives for pleasure and adventure. It is not enough to fight for the land; it is even more important to enjoy it. While you can. While it is still there. So get out there and mess around with your friends, ramble out yonder and explore the forests, encounter the grizz, climb the mountains. Run the rivers, breathe deep of that yet sweet and lucid air, sit quietly for a while and contemplate the precious stillness, that lovely, mysterious and awesome space. Enjoy yourselves, keep your brain in your head and your head firmly attached to your body, the body active and alive, and I promise you this much: I promise you this one sweet victory over our enemies, over those deskbound people with their hearts in a safe deposit box and their eyes hypnotized by desk calculators. I promise you this: you will outlive the bastards." — Edward Abbey

Some Friends Are Extra Special

Special friends.
Who doesn’t need a special friend?
I am fortunate to have one such friend through a program in my home county of Haywood (Tenn.). The program originates through the University of Tennessee Extension Service and it is simply called the Special Friends Program.
A mentoring program, the way it works is we lucky adults are paired with some really special kids that might need some added attention and direction.
We go to lunch with them at school (Haywood County School System) from time to time. We talk about grades. We read books. We work on things they might be having problems with.
We become special friends.
My special friend and I have been meeting since he was in kindergarten. He is about to go in the sixth grade now.
The first time I met him. He told me, “my daddy is in jail.”
I told him I knew that. I had read about it in the paper, and then I went on to stretch the truth a bit, perhaps, about the unknown. “It will be alright,” I said.
What else could I say?
Then I told him a truth that I believed with all my heart to be true: “Life is about choices. We have always got to try and make good ones.”
We have gotten along rather well in the years that have followed. We laugh a lot, but the best times we have had together have been when we have gone fishing.
Such was the case when he and I recently took part in the Special Friends annual group-fishing trip to the home of Nan and Steve Darnaby. About 30 or so folks gathered together, baited hooks, caught fish, ate hot dogs and laughed—a lot.
Some kids caught their first fish and that is a treat in itself.
(I think those that don’t believe in magic have simply never seen a kid catch their first fish, but that is for another column.)
Now, I don’t mean to brag, but my special friend caught the biggest catfish of the day! (So what if it was the only catfish?) We secretly celebrated that, just me and him.
I know I am supposed to be teaching my special friend something, but sometimes I wonder if I have taught him anything other than to be goofy; which he probably has picked up mostly by association with me (bless his heart).
But I do know he has taught me a lot, my special friend.
And I am grateful.
We should all be so lucky as to have a special friend to go fishing with, to read a book or to share a life lesson now and then.

To learn more about the Special Friends in Haywood County contact Peggy Jackson at The Haywood County Family Resource Center (731) 772-2861.

Ode To Pickup Trucks

By Taylor Wilson

There have been times in my life when I have been caught without a pickup truck and, looking back on it, I kind of remember feeling naked.
Well, heck, I might have very well been naked, for that matter; after all, that was during a couple of my wild and crazy college years (that everyone should be legally allotted, by the way).
It was when commuting and gas mileage were much more important than hauling boats and dead critters around. Thank goodness, I got my priorities straight.

Sure, there is no doubt the possibly-waning SUV craze changed some folks' way of thinking about vehicles with cargo beds and tailgates … but just maybe they weren't brought up like me.
Man, when I was a kid and an aspiring outdoorsman, a pickup truck could be something like a treasure chest. See a group of men standing around looking in the bed of a pickup truck and who knew what wonders were likely to held within?
Depending on the season, there could be all kinds of outdoor objects of desire in the back of trucks — things like big bucks, coolers of fish or perhaps even a timber rattler that had the misfortune of receiving death by skid marks.
Why, I couldn't wait till I got old enough to haul fish and game around in a pickup truck of my very own.
And then there was the social aspect.
Back in the good, old days, you could carry a lot more people in a pickup (and that was even before crew cabs became the rage). Why after the Dixie Youth ballgame, the coach would let everybody pile in for a trip to the Dairy Queen — whether we won or not.
I never worried about a pickup not having an air conditioner back then. I always rode in the back. And I am talking about in the cargo area, not some fancy seat, like pickups have today.
And if I had a dollar for every time my parents said, "You kids can ride in the back, but you have to sit down," I'd probably be driving a much more expensive truck than the one I have today.
(All that riding in the back. Shame. Shame. Shame. By today's safety standards, it's a wonder any of us survived long enough to get driver's licenses of our own. And by the time we did, we figured out that letting kids ride in the back might not be such a good idea.)
But as kids, we didn't know any better. Even while facing dire and unknown risks, we'd all fight over the seats.
Seats?
Yep, seats. I am not going to admit to you how old I was before I realized the raised wheel wells/fenders in the bed of a pickup truck were designed for anything other than seats, but I will say this realization did come later in life. (I never made it to engineering school, by the way. Good thing, I wouldn't have been there long.)
Another unique and incredible design feature of pickups is the space left between the cab and the bed. How many hours did those designers spend trying to figure out just how wide that space needed to be to hold a pair of rubber boots?
Surely, you've seen such boots stored upside down between the cab and bed? A truck and a boot holder. Can there be a better example of US of A ingenuity? I think not.
Regardless, a pickup is a good thing — for outdoorsmen and everyone else involved.
But I will tell you this: Beware the outdoorsman who drives a clean one. It's like the person at work who has the really clean desk; sooner or later you've got to wonder if they actually use it.
No problem with my desk or my pickup, and particularly with the latter in the middle of hunting season.
Covered with mud, dust or both, strange drawings or words are apt to appear on my truck. Say during turkey season, for example, there is likely to be semblances of all kinds of things drawn with a finger in the dust — things like turkey tracks; a rough map of the whereabouts of a roosted tom; or even simply the words, "Gobble! Gobble!"
And if artistic fun on the outside isn't enough reason to own a pickup truck, you ought to look inside. Who knows the wonders (and organisms) that are likely held within?
To go through an outdoorsman's pickup, late in whatever season he happens to be taking part, has to be akin to an archeological dig. All kinds of wild and wondrous (and a few not-so wondrous things) abound.
We have to store a lot of stuff in there, right? This is simply because we never know when we are likely to need it.
Pickups, they haul it all … outdoor fun and then some.
Don't have one? Ride in the truck of a hunting or fishing buddy. Heck, rekindle some memories and ride in the back. But if you do, do so off-road and for goodness sake, "You kids sit down!"

Not-So Ninja Turtle Has Turkey Track Back

By Taylor Wilson

I was stumbling around out in the bottomland trying to turkey hunt when I came upon proof positive that a certain mindset definitely changes the way you see things.
Looking down at this box turtle I noticed something slightly different about it.
There was something about its shell markings made me want to take a closer look.
Picking the little guy up, yep, there it was as plain as day. Well, as plain as day to somebody that spends a lot of time chasing turkeys.
There on the shell was a design that mimicked a turkey track.
“How cool is that?” I thought. “I gotta have a photo of this.”
So, I carried the “turkey track” turtle home with me to take his photo and after doing so, I put him the floorboard of the truck for a return to his home.
But when I got there, I realized I couldn’t find him. And it was going to get up to 80 degrees that day. Turtle soup has always been good, but I have never had baked turtle.
I sure hoped I could find him, so I dug around a lot in the cab, loaded with mildewed camouflage and turkey decoys.
The last I saw him, he was climbing upward toward the dash, but I be darned if I could place a hand on his turkey-track back.
“Come out, come out wherever you are!” I told the turtle, but he didn’t listen.
I left the windows down, and hoped for the best, considering leaving the doors open through the night if need be. But when I returned to the truck, there he was in the floorboard and ready to go home.
But he would have to wait. We took him to a softball game that night and he seemed to have a good time, doing all his tricks for the kids, which included “stay”, “roll-over” and “play dead.”
He rode in the back of the pickup the next a.m.—no more getting lost in the vehicle.
I took him to the exact spot where I had found him. It is said that box turtles have a homing instinct and if they are not returned to their home they roam ’til they find it, or try to. And with loss of habitat this roaming usually ends badly for the turtle, via automobiles or predators.
Many states have begun protecting box turtles because of their loss of habitat and an overzealous pet trade market.
But anyway, I put him back, and said goodbye in the pre-dawn darkness, just before a longbeard sounded off in the distance.
“See ya, later little dude. That’s a cool shell you got there. Thanks for the photo!”
Who knows, our paths may cross again. If so, I’ll know him when I see him, what with me always looking for turkey tracks, anyway.

Savory Slugburgers

By Taylor Wilson

OK, try to stay in the restaurant business and sell something called a slugburger.

Can you imagine a greater marketing challenge?

Me neither.

But stranger things have happened.

And it does so with regularity at a variety of burger joints in north Mississippi.
In fact, not only are slugburgers sold in high volume, but a festival with the same name has been held in the Corinth, Mississippi since 1988.

(For those wondering, yes, according to records there is a Slugburger Queen. Just think of the possibilities if you have that on your resume? Example? OK, former Lt. Governor of Mississippi, Amy Tuck, was once named Honorary Slugburger Queen.)

But back to a slugburger. What is it? Is it some sort of gastropod sandwich served on an episode of Sponge Bob Square Pants? And if you salt your sandwich, does the “meat” sort of melt and get all gooey?

OK, now that I have grossed you out, let me mention that you CAN put salt on slugburgers with no problems and that the name has nothing to do with anything similar to a snail.

Actually, one story I was told is that the slug in slugburger came about because the sandwiches were once sold for a nickel. And in the old days a metal slug, or a counterfeit coin (maybe even a washer) was often used to fool vending machines. Likewise, nickels were sometimes referred to as slugs.

(On this line of thought, I guess slug coulda also been plug (not worth a plug nickel). If that were the case, perhaps the plugburger would sound a tad more appetizing…or maybe not? And obviously, the burgers ARE worth the money or else they would not have been around for so long.)

I got wind of these uniquely-named burgers from my friend Rita Hathcock whose husband Johnny is from the area.

She said stopping for a slugburger had been something of a family tradition of theirs for many years.

“People either like them or they don’t,” Rita told me, and admitted she did not partake when she and Johnny recently stopped in Corinth.

But she did take a few photos (thanks Rita!).

My buddy, Craig Robinson, a north Mississippi native, was not that impressed with slugburgers. “I think they just came about as a way to stretch the basics you have and make it a meal, such as adding the other ingredients with the burger. They still serve them in several places in north Mississippi.”

According to historians the Weeks family began making “Weeks Burgers” in 1917. The hamburgers were made with a mixture of beef and potato flour (used as an extender). Today soybean grits are the extender.

The slugburger moniker only came about through time with the nickel/slug apiece deal.

Today’s method of preparation calls for frying the patties in canola oil and topping them with mustard, pickles and onions — all served on a small bun.

The burgers cost closer to the $1 price range these days. And in some restaurants where they are sold, like the White Trolley in Corinth, customers are given the more traditional option of a “beef” burger, as well.

As for the Trolley name, well, the Weeks family once peddled patties out of moveable stands until the late 1940s, when an old trolley car was purchased and converted into a café. As time went on several other trolley cars were likewise converted.

Two places that sell these historical hamburgers with the unique name are the aforementioned White Trolley, 1215 Highway 72 East, Corinth, Miss. 38834 and Weeks’ Hamburgers, 100 Mill St., Boonville, Miss. 38829.

Rankin’s Grocery: Home of Green Sno Balls & Ham

By Taylor Wilson

“I am a fan of Dr. Seuss and all, but are those supposed to be green…?”

It seemed a sensible question to ask as I stood at the counter waiting to pay Mr. And Mrs. Rankin proprietors of Rankin’s
Grocery and daily purveyors of fine lunchmeats in Brownsville, Tennessee.

I mean it is not like there is a lot of green stuff sold at Rankin’s (amongst the ham, turkey, roast beef, hoop cheese, crackers, bread, chicken salad, chips, pork rinds, pickled baloney, etc.). So, when you see something green, well, it kind of stands out.

And what were the items in question. They were Hostess Sno Balls®, which are supposed to be pink — a long way from green.

Unless a food is Jell-O, a sherbet, a fruit or a veggie, shades of green aren’t often a good thing.

But no worries, Mrs. Rankin assured me all was well.

“Ah, they do that every year for St. Patrick’s Day. Yes, they are supposed to be green.”

“Thank goodness. I was a bit worried the snack cakes might have gone out of date, even though I don’t particularly care for Sno Balls, green other otherwise,” I said.

And what the heck? I bought ’em, anyway. I also told Mr. Rankin I was going to put ’em on eBay and sell ’em as a collector’s item.
He wished me good luck with the venture and then came back with a pretty good one-liner, before I exited, stage left.

As a side note, the elder sandwich seller once told me back in his high school days, he witnessed my grandfather break up a crap game.

My grandfather (Lloyd Wilson) was principal and Mr. Rankin, a student, swears he was not a participant, but rather a bystander of an entertaining game of chance.

“We were down on the floor and suddenly, these black leather shoes appeared in the game,” said Rankin who admits to saying something colorful, and it wasn’t green, either, by the way.
“I was just watching, understand? But Mr. Wilson took up the money and made us buy a new book for the library with it,” Rankin remembered.

But back to Sno-Balls. At the time of the crap game, which again, Rankin claims not to have participated in, if they had wanted to the gamblers (and bystanders) could have enjoyed a Sno Ball.

Yep, they were around way back then.

In fact, Sno Balls have been around since 1947.

According to the Hostess website, the cakes became and instant hit for Americans looking to indulge in a sweet treat during WWII, when there was a rationing of flour and sugar.
And back then, Sno Balls weren’t the pink crème-filled treats we know today (much less green).

The original Sno Balls were white marshmallow and shredded coconut covered chocolate cakes. In 1950, the crème filling was added, and not long after, in an effort to add a little pizzazz to the humble white Sno Ball, Hostess decided to tint the shredded coconut pink. And for added effect, each Sno Ball package included one white and one pink Sno Ball. Later, for efficiency’s sake, two of the same color were coupled.

Today, over 25 million are sold each year.

Hostess mostly produces the original white-colored Sno Balls around the winter holidays, with other colors appearing for different seasons.

You’ll find “Scary Cakes” and “Glo Balls” (orange and glow-in-the-dark Sno Balls) during Halloween, “Lucky Puffs” (the aforementioned green Sno Balls) for St. Patrick’s Day and Hoppers (lavender colored Sno Balls) in the spring for Easter.

Also, according to the Hostess website, you might be surprised to know that Sno Balls have also made celebrity appearances, with “supporting roles” in episodes of The X-Files and Gilmore Girls as well as in the film The Mirror Has Two Faces.
All that, of course, enough to make all the other snack cakes green too, but only with envy.

Taylor Wilson has been writing for newspapers, magazines and websites for more than 20 years. He can be reached via e-mail at taylor65@bellsouth.net.

Just Say Snow (Cream)

By Taylor Wilson

Some days, I figure Al “Greenhouse” Gore is right. Say in December, when it gets in the 70s, but then, then we have a Snow Cream Snow at the tail end of February. And I have some doubts. I have to think the “inventor” of the Internet and Nobel Prize winner might have been in the greenhouse too long (inhaling plant carbon dioxide emissions or something?).
The day we got a Snow Cream Snow was one of those days where I figure Greenhouse was wrong.
But enough politics, gloom, doom and saving the world via “going green” talk.
What you really want to know is what is a Snow Cream Snow, right?
OK, that’s easy enough. It is a snowfall deep enough to gather a bowl of snow.
Sure, if you get out in the yard and work at it, you can gather a bowl of snow after a “dusting.” But then, what you have to work with when it comes to making snow cream might not be desired — leaves, grass, pebbles, disease agents, etc.
You really need a good drift, a definite rarity in West Tennessee (Greenhouse Effect or not) to make high-quality snow cream.
You need to be able to jab a bowl down in the snow and scoop up all you want before you put the vanilla extract, the sugar and the milk to it.
So there you have it — a Snow Cream Snow is one that leaves actual snowdrifts deep enough to dip snow. (Well, by Taylor’s definition, anyway.)
The other day, we had such a phenomenon, and there I was, bowl in hand, dipping snow.
Prepping to make it, though, I couldn’t help but ponder: “Wonder if there is some kind of law against feeding kids snow cream these days? Is, or would, the Food and Drug Administration be involved? What about the risks of eating something that falls from our skies? We certainly can’t sterilize it in the microwave — kind of defeats the purpose you know?”
Oh, the random thoughts that go through Taylor’s head. With such empty space, I guess there is a lot of room for such?
But I got down to the business of making it anyway and realized I had limited sugar.
So, I made my son a batch. (Oh, the sacrifices we parents make.)
Then I turned to my own serving, but with no sugar left, what to do?
I had no choice but to use artificial sweeteners and that opened up an whole new can of misguided reasoning: Can you make snow cream with artificial sweeteners? If so, is it officially snow cream?
I asked some friends and they all doubted my reasoning, but then most know I’m several flakes shy of a snowball anyway, so they accepted my reasoning or lack thereof.
“What did it taste like?” one asked.
“Oh, I could stand to eat it, enough to get a brain freeze, anyway,” I said. “But if it had been one of those cooking reality shows like “Iron Chef,” the judges would have fried me.”
Truth be known, putting artificial sweetener in snow cream snow (so rarely granted as it is) was sacrilegious and deep down, I knew it.
That night I dreamed I went to heaven (yeah, I know, but again, remember, I was dreaming).
St. Peter was there at the Golden Gate of course.
“Well, hey there, Taylor,” St. Pete greeted me, obviously surprised to see me. “You know you are not getting in, right?”
“Well, I kinda figured I wouldn’t, sins against nature and all,” I replied.
“Yep, you didn’t have a snowball’s chance in… well, you know. That time you put the Sweet and Low in snow cream did you in, all right. We have ninth ring of the inferno, built especially for people like you, and well… the people that claimed to have invented the Internet.”
“Oh SNOOOOOWWWWW!” I said, just before waking up.
So, repent now, I am telling you. NEVER, EVER put artificial sweetener in snow cream.
Snow Cream Snows are gifts not to be granulated for granted with anything other than pure cane sugar.


Taylor Wilson is an editor and freelance writer that contributed to newspapers, magazines and websites for nearly 20 years. He can be reached via e-mail at taylor65@bellsouth.net.