This Week's Picture

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Wash Day

Northeastern North Carolina, early 1900s
Library of Congress photo, American Memory Collection

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This Week's Story

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AWAY BACK YONDER

© 2003 Ron Lupton

My father, O. R. "Jake" Lupton, had an automobile repair business in Portsmouth, Va., for many years, beginning as "Lupton's," and ending in the mid-50s, I believe, as "Turnpike Auto Service." His partner was called "Shorty" Ferguson, and at one time their motto was "Don't wait, call Shorty and Jake!"

One of his employees, aptly called "Heavy," was with my Dad having a sack lunch one day, when Dad pulled out a wonderful, ripe banana. Heavy looked at it and said, "Cap'n Jake, gimmie one bite o' that banana, won't you?"

Dad knew Heavy wanted it all, and had pulled this kind of thing before, not only with Dad, but with fellow employees. The affable giant would hold back until the last moment, then lunge forward to take the biggest gobble of food he could. Dad was as quick and wiry as Heavy was heavy, and began a well-considered plan. He edged ever so slightly closer to his worker and began slowly, ever so slowly, to peel the banana. "Heavy, you already had your lunch," he said.

"Yeah, but Cap'n, that is a wonderful banana, and I ain't full. Jus' gimmie one little taste. I don't want much."

Dad continued to peel the banana as slowly as possible. "Now, Heavy," he said, "I think you want ALL of my banana." Heavy denied such a thing as Dad continued to peel the fruit until only an inch or so was left to go.

"All right, Heavy," he said, pulling the banana away slightly and raising a cautionary finger. "Remember now, only one little bite."

Heavy nodded, grinning, and Dad brought the fruit closer. As expected, Heavy opened up and lunged forward, but Dad was ready for him. He gave him the whole thing. He shoved the banana into Heavy's mouth and throat as fast as he could. Heavy had 'way too much banana 'way too soon and jumped up, trying to chew, trying to clear his throat and spit out the peel all at once. The sounds he began to make were incredible. A little shy of human. The other mechanics had been watching the antics and began to bray, remembering their own Heavy ambushes. At last, though, and for once, the tables had been turned.

When the laughter had died down and the big man was wiping tears from his eyes and able to speak again, he said, "That wasn't no fair, Cap'n Jake! I couldn't enjoy it at all, and I cut it in two with my swaller!"

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In younger years, Dad received only frugal gifts at Christmas time. There was no "extra" to fill stockings AND hungry mouths on the Weatherly farm at Columbia, N.C., in the Nineteen-Teens, especially with the breadwinner providing for the children of two families. An orange was a rare, exotic, magical treat; yearned-for but by no means guaranteed, even once a year at Christmas.

Dad accompanied his older brother, Oliver Cromwell Lupton, all the way to Florida one year when both boys were teenagers. This auspicious trip was taken by train, and arriving at one of the southernmost depots along the way they noticed a fruit stand. One of the bins was filled to overflowing with the largest, most luscious oranges either young man had seen. Why, the occasional ones they'd been given by Santa from time to time looked like midget fare compared with these beauties. And they were cheap, too!

Cromwell pulled out the necessary few cents for one, as did Dad, and they peeled their fruit in the shade of a nearby tree. They ate in silence for a long time, juice running down their faces, but strangely avoiding each other's eyes. At last, "Mine's delicious! How's yours?" Cromwell asked with a somewhat strained voice. In just as strained a reply, Dad managed, "Mine's real good, too!"

They ate the whole fruit, down to the peel, grunting and saying very little. Neither one would admit the entire thing was a ghastly ordeal, or that the fruit was absolutely tongue-withering bitter and not fit for hogs to eat. They had to prove their pride and display no weakness, especially to each other.

It was not until several long months later that the boys learned from a stranger about the differences between oranges and grapefruits.

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Nearly a century ago, boys still took breaks from the endless farm chores when they could, to ride their bikes to the little country store for a sweet soda pop. What a treat. My dad and a friend were enjoying such a break one hot summer noon when they noticed a horse-and-cart plodding toward them on the cream-colored country road. A neighbor they recognized was on his way somewhere with a big basket of eggs perched in one arm. The old farm horse ambled slowly along, just this side of sleep, in the heat of the day, slowly, slowly, rhythmically. The farmer balanced the eggs silently up in the cart, the reins loose in his hand.

Well, you spoke to neighbors in those days. You just did. It was unheard of NOT to, so as the old man slowly came abreast of them, the boys greeted him. He nodded their way and gave a short reply. It was enough.

Instead of "Hello," the horse perhaps heard "Whoa," or at least heard SOMETHING from his driver. It woke the animal from his torpor. He figured he had to stop. Right then.

He did.

The old man did not.

The poor fellow toppled out of the cart, eggs, basket and all, in a complete but agonizingly slow-motion flip. A cloud of fine white dust billowed up from the crash site, and the eggs poured out their sticky viscera all over the road. Dad was reminded of his mother's pancake batter, and the farmer was sitting right in the middle of it. Now all it needed was some milk and a whole lot of stirring ......

The boys gagged back their laughter, their eyes huge and unbelieving as they stared at the sight before them. The farmer sat for a time, then bent his legs and slowly got up. He collected his hat and empty egg basket, but never said a word to the boys. He dusted himself off with his hat and looked at the mess under his feet for some little while. At last, he slowly took the old horse's bridle gently in one hand, reached down with the other to the ground, and retrieved a sizable portion of the egg-and-dust batter there. He quietly, gently proceeded to smush the handful of glop all over the horse's face. Then, just as slowly and silently, he resumed his position up in the buggy with the now-empty egg basket. He softly clucked his tongue to the animal and turned him around to head home.

Dad and his friend did their best to try to remain quiet until the old fellow was out of earshot, but it was impossible. They bolted inside the store and poured peals of muted laughter into grain bags as the tears flowed. They looked up to see the merchant giving them disapproving stares, hands on hips, until he, too, could stand it no longer, and joined them with a nasal, involuntary chortle which he tried to hide in a big cloth. After a while he was able to speak.

"Second-funniest thing I ever seen," he said to the boys.

"What was the funniest?" Dad asked, chest heaving.

"First time he done it!" replied the storekeeper.

The laughter started all over again and went on for longer than it should have.

Times were tough. And funny was really funny.

eMail Ron Lupton at Pike's Peak, Colorado

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This Week's Verse

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There's a fruit store on our street, it's run by a Greek.
And he keeps good things to eat, but you should hear him speak.
When you ask him anything, he never says "no,"
He just "yesses" you to death, and as he takes your dough
he tells you

"Yes, we have-a no bananas, we have-a no bananas today.
We have string beans, and onions, cabashes, and scallions,
and all sorts of fruit and, say,
we have an old-fashioned tomato, a Long Island potato,
but yes, we have no bananas, we have no bananas today."

Business got so good for him that he wrote home one day,
"Send me Pete and Nick and Jim; I need help right away."
When he got them in the store, there was fun, you bet.
Someone asked for "sparrow grass" and then the whole quartet
all answered,

"Yes, we have-a no bananas, we have-a no bananas today.
Just try those coconuts, those wall-nuts and doughnuts,
there ain't many nuts like they.
We sell two kinds of red herring, dark brown and ball-bearing,
but yes, we have no bananas, we have no bananas today."
~
(1923.   Irving Cohn and Frank Silver)

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DON'T STOP ME NOW

© 1999 James D. Pearce

Elmo always had liked to talk. As he gained a few years and a little self-confidence, he began to enjoy it even more. As the years mounted, he reached a point where he would go out of his way to fill other folks' ears with gleanings from what he considered to be his wide field of knowledge.

He tried not to be overbearing about it, but sometimes he ran into people who were so polite and such good listeners that he became carried away and didn't realize when it was time to quit. That was the way it was one day when he was talking to Orphelia, the much younger sister of Thelma Christine.

Orphelia, who was of a religious bent and well qualified herself to talk on that subject, was also a good listener.

As time ticked on, the subject began to drift from religion more into the direction of the world at large, and here Elmo was in his element.

The conversation moved from the stories of the Bible to World War II, the troubles in Ireland and the Civil War situation in Hertford County. Elmo steadily grew more wordy and colorful in his commentary until after a while nobody was saying anything but him.

Suddenly becoming aware of what he was doing, he turned to Orphelia to apologize.

He noticed her eyes were glazed, and her head seemed to be nodding slightly.

"Orphelia," said Elmo. "I'm so sorry. I've been talking too much. I know I've been boring you out of your skull."

Orphelia stopped nodding and blinked, trying to clear the glaze from her eyes.

"Oh, no, Elmo, this has been so interesting. I have really enjoyed it and I feel like I'm learning so much. Please keep on. You really do seem to know a lot of history."

So Elmo was opening his mouth getting ready to expound again, when Orphelia leaned over and touched him gently on the arm.

"But, Elmo," she said, "if you ever do reach a good stopping place ~ please stop."

Elmo Parker, right, relaxes with younger brother Gary
after a hard day talking (c. 1919)

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This Week's Mailbox

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...... Just a note to say thanks for the great article on my grandfather (The Poor Town News No. 56). My dad hopes to find the pictures of the old bus soon ...... He was really impressed with the article and The Poor Town News itself. He sent it to a lot of his friends and I sent it to several of my friends, and now they are reading (it) as well. They like it as much as I do. Keep up the great work. ~ Susan Johnson, Winterhaven, Florida.

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...... The tale about Stanley wrecking the Model A (The Poor Town News No. 57) was very funny. In high school, in Murfreesboro, Stanley had a Cushman motor scooter. Riding on the back seat of that thing ~ with Stanley driving ~ taught me that I never wanted to own a two-wheel motorized vehicle. I love doing 500 MPH at 50 feet off the ground, but I've never ridden a motorcycle and never will, thanks to Stanley. ~ Charles Read Vincent, Kinston, North Carolina.

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...... The sketch and story featuring the hospital are priceless (The Poor Town News No. 58). Thanks ...... I have a dear friend who with her husband will be moving down your way sometime next month, or the month after. She has promised me to make a point of meeting you after they settle in. They even heard of Poor Town, and tell me that the city to which they are moving (Edenton) is about 40 miles from you. I have been forwarding the last five or six letters to them, and they have been enjoying them very much. ~ Aggie Green, Traverse City, Michigan.

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Arthur D. Pearce, c. 1900

Arthur Pearce and Anna, c. 1930

...... My dad, John Walter Pearce, and his dad, Arthur Dolly Pearce, were in the real estate business in the late 1920s in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. They built homes and rented them out. By 1930, after the great Wall Street crash, they had lost everything and the banks owned all their houses. Granddad Arthur became very depressed. At the beginning of 1932, he and his wife of 30 years, Anna Bell Clark, were divorced ...... Granddad returned to Northeastern North Carolina, where he was born and raised, and later remarried and settled in Gates County ...... My dad, John, tried to work on at the building trades here, but soon suffered another tragedy. His wife of 10 years, Monica Rita Smith, died in 1932, leaving him with a nine-year-old daughter, Rita, and a three-year-old son, John Jr. (Dad's mother, Anna, lived nearby and helped the best she could) ...... At a 1933 New Year's Eve get-together my dad met my mother, Emma Marie Uselin, and after a 13-day courtship they were married in Elkton, Maryland. Their marriage lasted 56 years, until my dad passed away in February of 1989. The results of this commitment were me, in 1938, and my sister Lorraine in 1947. ~ Joe Pearce, Collingswood, New Jersey.

Emma Uselin and John Pearce

Short courtship, long marriage
New Jersey, 1982

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POOR RICHARD'S ALMANACK
Having been poor is no shame;
but being ashamed of it is.
(Benjamin Franklin)

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