February 23 '02
Volume 296
Showtime Confessions Of A Backslider
It takes a lot for
me Our church adopted a type of promotional service last year and conducted it quarterly. It does not conform to my sense of worship. In fact, the following excerpt is something I wrote to a friend recently, explaining my absence at church. "…I realize there's a trend among all churches, not just Baptists, to become more informal in worship. I don't think that's a good thing, but I'm in the minority. Heck, if I needed to be entertained, I could watch a TV evangelist on Sunday morning, and wouldn't have to leave the house. Call me an old fuddy-duddy, but I like a structured worship service that's geared toward "worship" not theater…" I figure the day will come when the fads of today will have fallen by the way, giving rise to newer ones. I even figure the day will come when folks will long for a traditional worship service, but I'm afraid I'll be in my grave by then. Shucks, we sang the Doxology a few weeks ago, and the Minister of Music apologetically stated that it had been quite some time since we had sung it and that some folks might not be familiar with the tune. So, with me being at home, instead of at church, I prepared dinner (lunch for those not from the Deep South). Many readers may remember an article in which I mentioned wanting a Rotisserie Oven for Christmas but did not get one. Bob Jackson, an old friend who harks back to my meat cutting days of 1963, read of my plight and sent a note to my wife stating, "Go out and buy Wayne a Showtime Rotisserie. You can find them at QVC and several other places now. You will actually get him to do a lot of the cooking with one. Besides that, he seems so deprived by not having one. When you taste all those wonderful flavors, you want be sorry." I don't know if Bob's note sent Barbara shopping or if she had already determined to purchase one, but regardless, she soon informed me that one was on its way. When the oven arrived, I noticed it was a "compact" model. I don't remember the one I saw being a compact, but the compact model appears to be big enough for our needs. Since thinking of how good those barbecue chickens tasted on the Barbecue King oven that I once operated at my dad's grocery store, I couldn't wait to try rotisserie chicken. I bound the legs of two three-pound fryers, tucked their wings behind their backs, and mounted them on the rotisserie. I remembered basting the chickens on the Barbecue King with cooking oil, then sprinkling them in an orderly fashion, first with salt, then with black pepper, and finally with paprika, so I did the same in preparing my two chickens for the Showtime Rotisserie. Once inside the rotisserie, the chickens were pretty snugly trussed in the elasticized string that kept their legs and wings from drooping. Even so, they barely cleared the heating element at the top back portion of the oven, and the drip pan in the bottom. Once satisfied I had everything safely operating, I left the rotisserie to self-baste the chickens. Touted as "Set It and Forget It" in the infomercials, I was amused to find a bright yellow sticker on the oven's glass door. It warned, "Do not take Set It and Forget It literally." These days, with everyone "lawsuit happy" I figured the manufacturer needed the disclaimer to protect the company from the "idiots among us." To be really good, barbecued chicken needs a good barbecue sauce. The recipe suggested by the salesman that sold my dad the Barbecue King oven called for mixing a gallon of Kraft Barbecue Sauce with a half-gallon of hot water, then stirring in a pound of dark brown sugar, followed by the juice of three lemons. Thus, for the 18-oz. bottle of Kraft Original Barbecue Sauce that I had, I emptied its contents into a plastic container and filled the empty bottle half full of hot water. I didn't measure the brown sugar, but I needed 2.25 ounces, so I dumped in more than half a cup and less than a whole cup. There wasn't a lemon in the house, but I substituted a tablespoon of ReaLemon. Once all ingredients were mixed, it tasted pretty close to how I remembered it should. After cooking for slightly more than one hour, the chickens looked perfect. I took them out of the oven about the same time everyone got in from church. Having sloshed the outsides of both chickens generously with the barbecue sauce, I quartered them but left them soaking in a bowl of sauce and set them on the table to await consumption. I don't know if they were as delicious as were those I once cooked on the Barbecue King, but they were close enough to satisfy me. The meat was moist and tender, and the sauce was as good as I would have wanted it to be. No one complained. Sarah and Felicia ate like there would be no tomorrow. Jason, who dislikes most forms of chicken, even fried chicken, commented that the chicken was tasty. Barbara enjoyed the portion she had, and anyone looking at the pile of bones on my plate would have concluded that I ate my fill. I think it fair to say, I won't wait for the next non-traditional church service to find an excuse to have more rotisserie chicken, made at home.
Two Richards A Gentleman & A Marine It should be enough of a reward in life to know one outstanding individual named Richard, but to know two is a double blessing. Richard Pennington and I established a friendship when he was working in Indianola. Richard and his wife Jane lived at Refuge, an old plantation home very close to the Mississippi River. Richard is the sort of person who can be a friend to anyone. He's extremely likeable, and if he's ever made an enemy I've not heard of it. Neither have I ever heard anyone say an unkind word about Richard. The Penningtons now live near Tuscaloosa, AL, in another antebellum home. My family visited them there in late 1997, and have been threatening to go back ever since. My sister fell in love with the house and can't wait to see it again. These days, I do well to see Richard twice a year, but recently we were able to work together for a couple of days on a project. I recognized the Cadillac when it pulled along side the Taurus I had just exited. I knew the driver was Danny McDonald, and the big fellow on the passenger side had to be Richard. Richard was grinning from ear to ear when he got out of the car. "We were just talking about you," he boomed as we shook hands and hugged one another. I soon learned that Richard had shared a joke with Danny that was in the then current newsletter. Richard loved the joke so much that he had to tell it again, and we all laughed about the newscaster's comment regarding the lack of snow the evening before. It was a little suggestive for a family newsletter, but I didn't say anything to Bodock Beau about his selection, so if anyone was offended by the joke, blame me, not Beau. "We keep the Ridge Rider to read at a special time at our house," Richard exclaimed. "We save it for bedtime." I said nothing but considered the millions of fans of Johnny Carson who once made love while watching the Tonight Show and concluded the Penningtons just read the newsletter. "Yes, we save the best for last," Richard grinned. "When I got through reading it last night, I passed it over to Jane. When she read the joke, she said, 'Can he really say that?' I told her, 'I guess so. It's his newspaper.'" Richard and others may wish to pay close attention to Beau's comments in this issue regarding the "snow" joke. I thoroughly enjoyed the chance to visit with Richard. He has a great sense of humor and has a spirit of good will that was most likely fostered on him by his grandfather who was a "rolling store" peddler from the old days. I often heard Richard speak of his love and respect for the man who helped mold Richard's life with admonitions such as, "treat everyone, like you'd want to be treated." I never knew the grandfather, but I've a feeling he'd be a lot like the Richard Pennington I know. There's a second Richard that I don't often see, but whenever I do, it too is a pleasurable experience. This Richard is best known as Rick…Rick Greene. It's hard to say which one is the bigger fan of this newsletter. I've known Richard Pennington to ask retailers at regional gatherings if they are on the mail list of RRN and if not, try to proselytize them on site. Richard also tells me he gets mad at the Post Office if his newsletter doesn't arrive on the day it's supposed to. Rick Greene is similarly addicted and sometimes becomes so anxious to read the next issue that he goes online to my website, knowing the current issue will be posted a day or two before the mail arrives at his house in Brandon, MS. I met Rick a few years ago when Rayanne wanted to take her family and us to visit the Jackson Zoo. She also had promised Rick, who worked for Havertys at the time, that when she was near his company's warehouse in Madison, MS, she would stop by to meet him. Part of Rick's responsibilities for Havertys involved coordinating the receipt of furniture from plants such as the Schnadig facility in Belmont where Rayanne worked. Rick and I hit it off, instantly. I left a "proof" copy of the Ridge Rider with him that day, and he soon asked for a subscription. Rick no longer works for Havertys, but he continues to keep tabs on Rayanne and remains a faithful reader of this newsletter. Rick's name should be familiar to long-time readers, as he has contributed an article or two, and I've written of our first meeting a few years ago. A couple of weeks ago, I checked the voice mail on my cell phone and learned that Rick wanted to have lunch with me that day. He had talked to Rayanne that morning and assumed I'd be driving through Jackson on my way to or from Hattiesburg. I phoned him to let him know I could not meet him that day and promised to contact him the following week when I planned to be in Jackson for a business meeting. When I arrived in Jackson on the afternoon before the day of the meeting, I saw that I had enough time to stop by Hesselbein Tires in Jackson and say hello to Rick. Of course, he wanted me to tour the facility that supplies a single product in just about every shape and size imaginable. I expected to see automotive and truck tires, but I also saw tractor tires and lawnmower tires. They even carry inflatable tires for two-wheeled dollies like bread and chip vendors use to wheel product into retail stores. Near the end of the tour, Rick asked, "What are your plans for dinner?" "I plan to eat," I joked, then continued, "I don't know, maybe drive to Pocahontas and eat catfish, but since the Piccadilly is just down the street, I might eat there." "Why don't you come eat with us at the Piccadilly. I'm supposed to meet my girlfriend and her mother over there at six o'clock," Rick replied. "If it's not an imposition, I'd be happy to join your group," I responded, "I'll meet you out front." Rick got to Piccadilly about ten minutes late. His girlfriend met us in the long line of persons ready for a quick meal. However, she and her sister (not mother) were finished eating and were about to head out for an evening of shopping. I found it difficult to converse with Leslie and deal with servers asking what I would like from their stations. Nonetheless, I learned that Leslie worked for Equipment Supply Co. in Jackson and had met Rick through a work relationship. Rayanne had told me Rick was dating a twenty-two year old belly dancer, or that's what I thought she told me. I later learned they were not the same individual, the 22 year old and the belly dancer were not the same person. Leslie is taking belly-dancing lessons (trying to strengthen a weak back muscle) but is not a performer. I was somewhat disappointed to learn that Leslie is not a professional belly dancer, as I've never met a belly dancer. Rick and I dined unaccompanied, but our table conversation was not dull. We talked about family members and what they were doing, and we talked about my favorite subject, this newsletter. Rick's a military guy who carries a cigarette lighter that pretty much describes his attitude. Above the head of an English bulldog on the lighter's front side is the inscription, "Once A Marine, Always A Marine." Whatever was instilled in Rick during basic training and subsequent duty must have "took." Rick's first marriage ended a few years ago. A second marriage was short lived, lasting only a few weeks. Though I felt sorry for his circumstances, I kidded him for putting marriage ahead of last year's RRN cookout (remarried that same weekend) and pointed out that if he'd been at the cookout, he'd have been better off. He took my teasing well. He promises to be at the cookout this year. Richard "Rick" Greene and Richard Pennington are unique individuals. Like the rest of us, they're subject to the same trials that beset everyone. How they have dealt with their respective adversities and successes sets them apart from the average "Joe." I'm proud to know both of them and to call each one a friend.
Bodock Beau Brains Needed Remember the joke about the predicted amount of snow that didn't materialize, and the resultant embarrassing and sexually suggestive remark made by a newscaster? Well, as it turns out, there was no truth to the story, though it was widely circulated as true. I discovered the truth while reading about other "urban legends" on the website www.snopes2.com. Once again, the adage "If it sounds too good to be true, then it probably is," proves its value. Okay, true or not, it's still a cute joke. Female Brain In the hospital the relatives gathered in the waiting room, where their family member lay gravely ill. Finally, the doctor came in looking tired and somber. "I'm afraid I'm the bearer of bad news," he said as he surveyed their worried faces. "The only hope left for your loved one at this time is a brain transplant. It's an experimental procedure, very risky, but it is the only hope. You will have to pay for the brain yourselves."
The doctor quickly responded, "$5,000 for a male brain, and $200 for a female brain."
The moment turned awkward. Men in the room tried not to smile, avoiding eye
contact with the women, but some actually smirked. A man, unable to control
his curiosity, blurted out the question everyone The doctor smiled at the childish innocence and explained to the entire group, "It's just standard pricing procedure. We have to mark down the price of the female brains, because they've actually been used. Submitted by Ed Dandridge The Firefighter A fire fighter is working on the engine outside the station when he notices a little girl next door in a little red wagon with little ladders hung on the side and a garden hose tightly coiled in the middle. The girl is wearing a fire fighter's helmet and has the wagon tied to a dog and cat. The fire fighter walks over to take a closer look. "That sure is a nice fire truck," the fire fighter says, with admiration. "Thanks," the girl says. The fire fighter looks a little closer and notices the girl has tied the wagon to the dog's collar and to the cat's testicles. "Little partner," the fire fighter says, "I don't want to tell you how to run your fire truck, but if you were to tie that rope around the cat's collar, I think you could go faster." The little girl replied, "You're probably right, but then I wouldn't have a siren." Submitted by Ed Dandridge Copyright © 2000 - 2002 RRN Online.
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to miss church, especially church on Sunday morning. Occasionally,
Supervalu has prevented me from finding my favorite pew at First Baptist
Pontotoc, and there've been a handful or so of times that sickness on my
part or that of family member kept me at home, but it's a rare thing for
me to purposefully miss a Sunday morning service. Yet, two weeks ago, I chose
to stay home.