RRN Online Volume 300

March 02 '02

Volume 300

She's Eighty Aunt Jo Collins

She's outlived her husband, Special Aunt two sisters, one brother, a half-brother, and a niece. At age eighty, Jo Collins has the distinction of having lived longer than anyone has in her family or my family. To what does she attribute her long life? Sorry, I didn't ask her before I sat down to write this article. Though, I imagine she recognizes God has been gracious in granting her longevity.

I'd like to think that clean living has played a significant role, also, but I can't say "squeaky clean," because I've heard her tell of the time she and Myrtle Rogers got into the eggnog Mama Nona had prepared for someone else. Aunt Jo didn't realize the eggnog was already spiked, and she and Myrt' had a generous helping at lunch one afternoon before walking back to work. To hear Aunt Jo explain it, "the sidewalk kept rising up in my face." If she ever got into the liquid spirits after that experience, she hasn't revealed that to me.

Her association with persons met in various work environments has contributed to a broad base of friendships spanning several generations. Many of her closest friends are in varying states of poor health, as is she. Aunt Jo suffers from a faulty heart valve, hip problems and knee problems, as well as an occasional blood clot. Generally speaking she's fine every other day, but those days in between give her fits.

If hard work is a factor in longevity, then perhaps that might explain Jo reaching eighty. In her younger years she waited on tables in the café managed by her mother. Later she excelled as a seamstress in a garment factory and afterwards worked in a couple of furniture factories.

My mother was a great cook, but she never wanted to "cook for the public." Maybe, she remembered the amount of work her mother put into managing a café and decided to limit her cooking talents to the home. I need to get on tape Aunt Jo's café remembrances, as I can't do justice to the volume of work reconstructed from what I remember her telling.

Apparently, lunchtime was the busiest meal of the day at the café. Aunt Jo remembers Mama Nona buying and slaughtering twenty-six chickens every day then frying all the pieces for the lunch crowd.

"There wouldn't be a piece left by one o'clock," she recalls. "Mama would bake pies in the afternoon for the next day, and they'd all be gone by the next afternoon. There's no telling how many hamburgers, either. She'd fix a dishpan full of patties (dough burgers) one afternoon, so all she'd have to do is drop them in the hot grease the next day and sell them for a dime apiece."

Aunt Jo remembers that George Simon and his wife were faithful customers, and she'd make sure to save a chicken breast for Mrs. Simon, if it looked like the supply wouldn't last until the Simon's got there. William Jackson had a sweet tooth. He'd come over from the implement place most afternoons for a slice of one of Mama Nona's freshly baked pies and occasionally bought a whole pie to take home. Beulah Simmons was a hard woman to please, and Aunt Jo was about the only waitress that would wait on her table.

Though disinclined to cook for the public or manage a restaurant, Aunt Jo did inherit some of her mother's cooking abilities. She makes a melt-in-your-mouth good caramel iced cake, and I'd put her fried peach pies and fried apple pies up against anybody's.

Aside from "clean living" and hard work, it's also possible that God has rewarded her with a long life for her faithfulness to her paraplegic husband, Pearlie Collins. In his latter years, his body was wracked with pain so severe that most narcotics did little toward abating it. Working in a factory by day while a sitter stayed with Uncle Pearlie, Aunt Jo often made do with little or no sleep as she tended to her husband's physical ailments and hysterical railings for pain relievers.

Thus, for all of the above reasons and more, my sister and my wife and I held a birthday party to honor Aunt Jo last Saturday. Barbara did the lion's share of planning and preparations, what with me out of town much of the week and Sarah holding down both a full time job and a part time job. I did some light duty cleaning and polishing Saturday morning. I've not checked my bank account, but I have the feeling I funded much of the expenses pertaining to the food and floral decorations. Rayanne showed up on Friday night to do some last minute decorating. Sarah found the time to prepare a money tree that started out with about two hundred dollars in small bills, but by late afternoon on the day of the party the amount had grown to almost four hundred dollars. Over the years, most of us have learned that Aunt Jo prefers money to clothes, trinkets, and whatnots.

Approximately twenty people signed the guest register, as turnout was lighter than expected. Yet as mentioned earlier, a number of friends were not physically able to attend, and too, some folks forgot the date. I was amused that some folks went to the wrong house in our neighborhood. I told a couple of them, I didn’t make enough money to pay the utilities for the house adjacent to mine, let alone make the house note. They supplied me with a disbelieving "yeah, right" smile, but I know my limitations better than they do.

We were all exhausted by sundown, including the guest of honor. Yet, given the chance we'd do it all over again to wish Josephine a happy eightieth birthday, and should she one day be ninety, then we'll certainly have another celebration.

McFish No Food Fight Today

My wife tells me I'm going to get myself killed. That may be how I leave this earth, but if so, you can say I died standing firm on my convictions. I don't normally play the role of a horse's rear, but last December, one might say I did.

A year or so ago, I marked McDonalds off my list of places to eat in Indianola. The staff at most fast food places in the Delta, including Indianola, spend more time conversing with one another in Ebonics than tending to details such as cleaning tables and mopping floors. I didn't draw the line on service at McDonalds or food quality, but I got tired of eating in unsanitary conditions, so I did not eat there for quite some time.

I think it was the craving for a fish sandwich (I must have been really hungry) that compelled me to break my boycott last November. While eating the sandwich, on the premises, I noticed that some changes had taken place. The fly count was way down, but that may have been because of cool temperatures, the children's playground area had been reworked, and generally speaking, the cleanliness of the interior was satisfactory (not great, but acceptable). Thus over the next several weeks, I returned to McDonalds, primarily to eat a fish sandwich. Once, I tried a McRib sandwich, but I only needed one to know the fish sandwich suited me better.

Most McDonalds don't have a serpentine walkthrough to guide customers to an order taker, and with three or more registers on the front counter, it's pretty much every man for himself. Whoever steps up quickest is served first. In Indianola, there's no correct side or wrong side of the register for submitting an order.

Viewed from a customer's perspective, I was standing on the right side of the register at the time I placed my order. With plenty of space to my left for another person to stand and place an order, I felt okay about holding my position while waiting for the clerk to put the French fries and sandwich on my dine-in tray.

I heard the clerk ask, "May I take someone's order?" and observed she was looking in my general direction.

"Would you step aside, so I can give my order?" someone behind me asked.

I glanced over my shoulder with one of those "you talking to me?" looks to observe a young man dressed in military fatigues. I can't rule out the possibility that his being black influenced my response, but I don't think that was the guiding principle that triggered my reaction. We were not in a crowded situation, and there was plenty of counter space both to my left and to my right for him to stand, if he needed to be closer to the order taker.

Uncharacteristically, I replied, "You can step over here," while pointing to the counter space to my left.

I didn't look him directly in the eyes, as I didn't think he should see the fire in mine. It was more of an over the shoulder word-toss.

"Step over here?" he replied.

"Yeah, right here," I stated, while placing a hand on a spot on the countertop I thought would serve his purpose. "That's my tray in front of me, and I'm waiting right here."

I had no idea what he was doing or might be about to do, but the dropped jaw and wide eyes of the clerk at the register signaled she was expecting trouble. I was, too. The hair on the back of my neck felt like it stiffened. Any minute, I expected to feel a knife penetrating my back or slicing through my neck in search of the jugular vein. I'm not trained in martial arts and probably wouldn't fair well in a stand-up match against a younger man, but then I resolved not to worry about fighting fair, either.

It only took me a split second to respond to his request, but it seemed to take forever for him to move alongside me and give his food order to the clerk waiting nervously. The young man and I exchanged no other words, though our eyes met as I picked up my meal and walked over to the condiment and napkin station. I took a seat and ate my lunch, while he ordered his to go.

I thought a lot about my reaction while I ate, and I've thought a lot about it since then. In a way, I know I did a stupid thing that could have caused me bodily harm. In the context of Christian behavior, I failed to turn the other cheek. Because someone was rude to me was no reason for me to be rude to that person, but I was. I could beat myself up even more, but I won't. Instead, the next time I'm in a similar situation, I promise to be less rude and smile while dressing down the individual for treating me with less respect than I feel is deserved.

Had some harm come to me, I imagine I could have sued McDonalds. Had I not survived, my family could have sued, and probably would have won. After all, a slick lawyer could have easily shown McDonalds at fault for not having an orderly way of waiting on customers.

By failing to provide signs as simple as "Place Order Here" and "Pick Up Order Here" McDonalds was encouraging confrontation between customers. Even with me being a white guy, a Mississippi jury would likely have found the corporation guilty of gross negligence. I and/or my family would have been rich beyond our wildest dreams, and so would our lawyer.

I don't think I deserve any credit for the recent changes in operations at the McDonalds restaurant in Indianola, but when I was there last week (a fish sandwich craving again), they had roped off all access to the front counter and installed a couple of those traffic control fences like the airlines have at the ticket counters. Additionally, brightly colored mats had been placed on top of the counter with arrows and words indicating where to place an order and where to pick it up. I don't know how well it works during peak hours, but it worked fine for me at 2:00 p.m. (You don't suppose they videotape everything with hidden cameras do you?)

Note: McFish is not a legitimate name, but it fits the McDonalds' mold of linking names of food items with Mac or Mc.

Bodock Beau Praise Songs Or Hymns

There must be something about birthing in general, that lends itself to provide a comical setting for many a joke. I've seen several on this theme and recently heard Ken Hester of FBC, Pontotoc render a variation on a similar theme.

In the backwoods of Tennessee, a redneck's wife went into labor in the middle of the night, and the doctor was called out to assist in the delivery.

Since there was no electricity, the doctor handed the father-to-be a lantern and said, "Here, you hold this high so I can see what I am doing."

Soon, a baby boy was brought into the world.

"Whoa there," said the doctor, "Don't be in such a rush to put that lantern down. I think there's another one coming".

Sure enough, within minutes, he had delivered a baby girl. "Hold that lantern up, don't set it down, there's another one!" said the doctor.

Within a few minutes he had delivered another baby girl.

"No, no, don't be in a hurry to put down that lantern...it seems there's yet another one coming!" cried the doctor.

The redneck scratched his head in bewilderment, and asked the doctor, "You reckon it might be the light that's attractin' em.

Contributed by Ed Dandridge

The editor gets a little bent out of shape when it comes to changes relating to worship at the local church. Maybe, this will help his perspective.

Praise Songs vs. Hymns

A farmer who was a member of a country church went to the city to visit relatives. A businessman who was a member of an urban church happened to be passing through the first man's town. Each man worshiped at the other's home congregation. When they returned to their respective abodes, their wives asked them how they enjoyed church.

"Well," said the farmer, "it was good. They did something different, however. They sang praise songs instead of hymns.

"Praise songs?" said the wife. "What are those?"

They're sort of like hymns only different," said the farmer.

"What's the difference?" asked the wife.

"Well, if I said "Martha, the cows are in the corn," that would be a hymn, but if I said, "Martha, Martha, Oh Martha, Martha, Martha, the cows, Oh the cows, Oh the big cows, the brown cows, the black cows, the white cows, and black and white cows, Oh, the cows, cows, cows, are in the corn, are in the corn. Oh the cows, they are in the corn, the sweet precious corn," that would be a praise chorus," he stated.

Meanwhile the urban church member said to his wife, "Well, honey, it was good but they did something different. They sang hymns instead of regular songs."

"Hymns?" said his wife. "What are those?"

"Oh, they're okay. They're sort of like regular songs only different," said the farmer.

"What's the difference?" asked the wife.

The man replied, "Well, it's like this. If I were to say to you, "Martha, the cows are in the corn," that would be a regular song. If, on the other hand, I were to say to you, "Oh Martha, dear Martha, hear thou my cry. Inclinest thine ear to the words of my mouth. Turn thy whole wondrous ear by and by to the righteous, inimitable, glorious truth. For the way of the animals who can explain. There in their heads is no shadow of sense. Hearkenest they in God's sun or His rain, unless from the mild, tempting corn they are fenced. Yea thy cows in glad bovine, rebellious delight, unless from the mild, tempting corn they are fenced. Then goaded by minions of darkness and night, they all my mild Chilliwack sweet corn have chewed. So look to that bright shining day by and by, where no foul corruptions of earth are reborn, where no vicious animal makes my soul cry, and I no longer see those foul cows in the corn." Then, if I were to do only verses one, three, and four, and a key change on the last verse, well that would be a hymn," He responded.

Contributed by Anson Adams

Editor's Note: Having seen the humor in the "songs vs. hymns" piece, I would point out that while it is quite possible the farmer could readily describe the basic differences in hymns and choruses, it is ridiculous to suppose someone weaned on choruses and subjected to a steady diet of the same could comprehend the complex majesty of hymns to the depths which the illustration mockingly seeks to portray.

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