It was Christmas Eve 1962 when Mom’s family had their Christmas party at our house. The reason was because mom had a broken ankle from an automobile wreck and was in a wheel chair. Before that we always had it at Aunt Odell’s house. I don’t know why, she didn’t live in the biggest house; she just had the most children. Aunt Odell had ten children and, also baby sat about half of Moccasin Gap. Uncle Clyde loved Aunt Odell and apparently he stayed out of work a lot.
The Christmas at our house was the best ever. Everyone was there except Uncle Nelson. We didn’t know where he was. Nobody knew. We figured he was on one of his drinking binges and out partying with his friends.
Grandma Carver was there too. She was old, like ninety seven, and very religious. She once claimed she saw the face of Christ in a Domino’s Pizza. She had it hanging on her living room wall and it was really strange. I was noticing one day that no matter where you stand in that room those two pepperonis were staring right at you. It will freak you out.
Uncle Mike always played Santa Clause because he had the biggest belly. It came from drinking all that beer. There’s nothing better than a Santa Claus with alcohol on his breath. And instead of “ho, ho, ho” he always went “he, he, he.” I don’t know to this day why he did that.
It was Christmas at our house that Uncle Gerald showed up with fireworks. Believe me, there is nothing more fun than a redneck with fireworks at Christmas time. Of course, Uncle Gerald used to drink like a fish too, he drinked moonshine. In fact, he got so drunk at our house that Christmas Eve he accidentally ate a whole box of Roman Candles. Then he lit a cigarette and shot off for about two hours. Parts of him went all over the back yard - a finger here, a toe there, we still haven’t found his nose. We think it flew into the dog house and the dog ate it. We pieced him back together the best way we could. He looks sort of like a Picasso now. We hung him on the living room wall at Grandma Carver’s house next to that Domino’s Pizza. Grandma Carver’s living room is becoming quite the art museum.
And we found out what happened to Uncle Nelson. The night before Christmas he got drunk, laid down, passed out, fell out of bed and rolled up under it. And he lay there all Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, sleeping like a baby.
The lesson to be learned here is, don’t drink on Christmas or any other day for that matter. And always remember, alcohol and fireworks don’t go together.
Friday, December 9, 2011
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Moccasin Gap at Thanksgiving Time by Brad (BC) Carver
Greetings from Moccasin Gap where the weather is refined the women are alluring, the men are wholesome and the “children are so endearing you could just eat them, and about twelve to fifteen years later you will wish you had.” I remember hearing that old joke a long time ago, back when the Dead Sea was only sick. Yes, it’s been that long. Then I had my little boys, now nine and five years old, and I love them so much. Oh, my lord, I’m so glad I didn’t eat them. And I miss not being with them every day. You see, I’m going through hymeneal problems right now. And the future doesn’t look too bright. In situations like this, everything always falls in favor of the woman. In my case it was worth it, but I know of several good daddies who cannot see their children because of conjugal problems. It isn’t fair. Believe it or not, we daddies really do miss our children’s soccer games and scout meetings. We miss not hearing them say they love us and hug us good night every night, and we miss just watching them sleep. You have the luxury of that, we don’t. Just give us a break, that’s all I’m saying.
There’s not much action around here, at least not for someone my age. I’m 61-years old. And I’m living in a little one horse town called Moccasin Gap - for the second time. Why twice, you may ask? Well, the first time I was here is when I was born until I was eighteen. The hospital I was born in later became a hotel and then a shelter for the homeless and now it’s all boarded and about to be torn down, another landmark in Moccasin Gap gone with the wind.
I graduated in 1968 and immediately moved away. I couldn’t wait to get out of this little one horse town. Besides, I found out that the main road went beyond the county line. It’s amazing how we think when we’re young and how our thoughts change as we grow older. When I was eighteen, I wanted to absquatulate this place, couldn’t wait to get out. When I was fifty I couldn’t wait to move back. This is God’s Country, who knew? In between I spent fifteen years in radio and twenty-five years as a stand-up comic. It was a wild ride but I survived it.
Moccasin Gap is a political little town, and there are only a handful of last names. Gentry’s and Long’s take up about half the phone book. There are a lot of Carver’s in the Moccasin Gap Phone book, too, both black and white, and I’m related to both, and proud of it. They all show up for Thanksgiving Dinner and we all sit around that big ol’ kitchen table full of fat, unhealthy foods cooked in 100% pure animal fat and butter, and we give thanks that we all have one another and that we’re all still alive after eating this way for so long. “All for one and one for all”, said Uncle Leroy as we all turned up our shot glasses filled with “shine”.
Thanksgiving food is my favorite kind of food, the turkey, the dressing, the green beans, the cornbread, the biscuits, the punkin’ pie, the pickled pig’s feet – everything but the cranberry sauce. I never cared too much for the cranberry sauce. It looked kind of weird, like it was trying to pass itself off as jello, but it couldn’t quite make it. It couldn’t get the jello jiggle right. Then you taste it and realize it’s not Jello, it’s a devious impression of the famous Bill Cosby tasty treat, and that somewhat astringent taste sticks with you for awhile, oh, I loathe that. Cranberries aren’t made to be sauce. That’s kind of like fried Twinkies. It just don’t seem right. I cogitate the pilgrims thought of cranberry sauce. The Native Americans would never eat anything so repugnant. To us cranberry sauce ranks up there, or - down there - with Es Cargo, and Caviar; oh yeah, snails and fish eggs; yum, yum. May I please have a second helping of snail and pita bread? Those French know how to eat, don’t they? And they call us crazy for eating mountain oysters; the nerve of those French. I once knew a French guy who wouldn’t eat mountain oysters until he found out what they were. Then he couldn’t wait to try them. Now he’s hooked on mountain oysters. We gave him a new nickname; Jean Luc LaNut. (I’m sorry for that, folks. It’s all I could think of. Believe me, I’m a safe distance from genius here.)
Besides, the only sauce we ever cared about ‘round here is the kind we just drank that dear ol’ Uncle Clyde made. Everybody knows of Uncle Clyde’s “silly shine moonshine-mine-mine-mine, make me whine, down the line, I’m cryin’, made way back in the hills above the ever greens, by Uncle Clyde Carver in his bib-all jeans.” Drinking’ that stuff will make you talk like that. It’s called redneck rapping. Uncle Clyde is a legend, kind of like Rufus the catfish down in Carver’s Creek; quite an honor to be that kind of legend in these parts. And Uncle Clyde’s wife Aunt Pearl has a green thumb. In fact she has an entirely green hand. Or was it gangrene? I don’t remember. Those two are the reason things are so pleasant all the time here in Moccasin Gap. Here is to Uncle Clyde and Aunt Pearl. Thank you, thank you so much for all that you have done to keep me alive, stress free, happy, and laughing as my life became inferior. Thank you for all the good times that I will never remember and some that I’d like to forget. Thank you for all the times I woke up and asked, “What happened?” Thanks to you I now realize I can actually sleep with my head in the toilet bowl – or in the hole at the outhouse, which is really gross, but enough about that. Let’s move on.
And now, my political rant. Remember, election time is soon. Don’t forget to vote, and vote right or we will all be inferior. Uncle Clyde and Aunt Pearl can’t produce enough medication for everybody. By the way, I was wonderin’ how many zeros are there in one trillion dollars, anybody know? I’m guessing it’s a lot. We’d better find out how many there are, because at present owe about twelve of them, and us, our children, our grandchildren, our great-grandchildren, and probably children beyond that will be paying for it. And it’s only going to get worse if we don’t change it. I’ll bet the Chinese know zeroes there are; just something to think about while the Democrats are in control. Ya’ll come see us here in Moccasin Gap now, you hear? We’re about five-hundred miles from nowhere right on the state line.
There’s not much action around here, at least not for someone my age. I’m 61-years old. And I’m living in a little one horse town called Moccasin Gap - for the second time. Why twice, you may ask? Well, the first time I was here is when I was born until I was eighteen. The hospital I was born in later became a hotel and then a shelter for the homeless and now it’s all boarded and about to be torn down, another landmark in Moccasin Gap gone with the wind.
I graduated in 1968 and immediately moved away. I couldn’t wait to get out of this little one horse town. Besides, I found out that the main road went beyond the county line. It’s amazing how we think when we’re young and how our thoughts change as we grow older. When I was eighteen, I wanted to absquatulate this place, couldn’t wait to get out. When I was fifty I couldn’t wait to move back. This is God’s Country, who knew? In between I spent fifteen years in radio and twenty-five years as a stand-up comic. It was a wild ride but I survived it.
Moccasin Gap is a political little town, and there are only a handful of last names. Gentry’s and Long’s take up about half the phone book. There are a lot of Carver’s in the Moccasin Gap Phone book, too, both black and white, and I’m related to both, and proud of it. They all show up for Thanksgiving Dinner and we all sit around that big ol’ kitchen table full of fat, unhealthy foods cooked in 100% pure animal fat and butter, and we give thanks that we all have one another and that we’re all still alive after eating this way for so long. “All for one and one for all”, said Uncle Leroy as we all turned up our shot glasses filled with “shine”.
Thanksgiving food is my favorite kind of food, the turkey, the dressing, the green beans, the cornbread, the biscuits, the punkin’ pie, the pickled pig’s feet – everything but the cranberry sauce. I never cared too much for the cranberry sauce. It looked kind of weird, like it was trying to pass itself off as jello, but it couldn’t quite make it. It couldn’t get the jello jiggle right. Then you taste it and realize it’s not Jello, it’s a devious impression of the famous Bill Cosby tasty treat, and that somewhat astringent taste sticks with you for awhile, oh, I loathe that. Cranberries aren’t made to be sauce. That’s kind of like fried Twinkies. It just don’t seem right. I cogitate the pilgrims thought of cranberry sauce. The Native Americans would never eat anything so repugnant. To us cranberry sauce ranks up there, or - down there - with Es Cargo, and Caviar; oh yeah, snails and fish eggs; yum, yum. May I please have a second helping of snail and pita bread? Those French know how to eat, don’t they? And they call us crazy for eating mountain oysters; the nerve of those French. I once knew a French guy who wouldn’t eat mountain oysters until he found out what they were. Then he couldn’t wait to try them. Now he’s hooked on mountain oysters. We gave him a new nickname; Jean Luc LaNut. (I’m sorry for that, folks. It’s all I could think of. Believe me, I’m a safe distance from genius here.)
Besides, the only sauce we ever cared about ‘round here is the kind we just drank that dear ol’ Uncle Clyde made. Everybody knows of Uncle Clyde’s “silly shine moonshine-mine-mine-mine, make me whine, down the line, I’m cryin’, made way back in the hills above the ever greens, by Uncle Clyde Carver in his bib-all jeans.” Drinking’ that stuff will make you talk like that. It’s called redneck rapping. Uncle Clyde is a legend, kind of like Rufus the catfish down in Carver’s Creek; quite an honor to be that kind of legend in these parts. And Uncle Clyde’s wife Aunt Pearl has a green thumb. In fact she has an entirely green hand. Or was it gangrene? I don’t remember. Those two are the reason things are so pleasant all the time here in Moccasin Gap. Here is to Uncle Clyde and Aunt Pearl. Thank you, thank you so much for all that you have done to keep me alive, stress free, happy, and laughing as my life became inferior. Thank you for all the good times that I will never remember and some that I’d like to forget. Thank you for all the times I woke up and asked, “What happened?” Thanks to you I now realize I can actually sleep with my head in the toilet bowl – or in the hole at the outhouse, which is really gross, but enough about that. Let’s move on.
And now, my political rant. Remember, election time is soon. Don’t forget to vote, and vote right or we will all be inferior. Uncle Clyde and Aunt Pearl can’t produce enough medication for everybody. By the way, I was wonderin’ how many zeros are there in one trillion dollars, anybody know? I’m guessing it’s a lot. We’d better find out how many there are, because at present owe about twelve of them, and us, our children, our grandchildren, our great-grandchildren, and probably children beyond that will be paying for it. And it’s only going to get worse if we don’t change it. I’ll bet the Chinese know zeroes there are; just something to think about while the Democrats are in control. Ya’ll come see us here in Moccasin Gap now, you hear? We’re about five-hundred miles from nowhere right on the state line.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)