November Lifestyles Article

"Let's Go Octobering".

I had a friend when I was younger who loved autumn. She would
call and say, "Let's go Octobering." It meant she wanted to go for a
walk somewhere she could kick leaves. Or even roll in them. That was
50 years ago but I'm sure she is still "Octobering". She's probably
given up rolling in the leaves.

The other day my friend and neighbor Bandon Reynolds at Lake
Sheila arrived at my house in her golf cart, She insisted that I
needed a ride to the top of the world...or at least the top out this
way.

I'm not too mobile since I had a stroke a while back, but she
managed to get me stuffed into the golf cart. She said it was going
to be cold, and it was. You could feel the temperature dropping as we
went higher and higher up Tanglewood Drive.

We parked when we got to the top because you have a panoramic view of Lake
Sheila below and the countryside. It was a blaze of color and a
magnificent view.
I decided years ago that I was the kind of person who wanted to live
down below by the lake looking up and not the kind who wanted to live
high up, looking down.

I was happy to get my "Octobering" in before I had to turn the
calendar page

I usually have a few pumpkins around to remind me of the season.
But since I have to walk with the aid of a cane now, I still have not
figured out how to carry a pumpkin and walk with my cane. I can
barely get my groceries from the car into the house.

I remember fondly taking my children---and then my
grandchildren---to the pumpkin patch to get our Halloween pumpkins.
The first year I took my two granddaughters, Michelle who was five
said, "These pumpkins don't have faces."
I had to explain that the faces didn't grow on them,,,you had to take
a knife and cut the eyes, nose and a toothy smile.

She was quick to answer, "Our Mom doesn't allow us to have
knives." Her sister said, "We can draw faces on them with Magic
Makers. So that's how we did it. The pumpins weren't nearly as scary
but there's enough scary stuff in the world already. Don't you agree?

Fwd: October LIfestyles Article

---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Joe Adams <americaohyes@gmail.com>
Date: Sun, 20 Sep 2009 17:55:36 -0400
Subject: October LIfestyles Article
To: Cathy Jackson <cathy@cathyjacksonrealty.com>

SOMEBODY LOVES YOU.

I am deaf so I am very, very dependent upon e-mail and my computer for
communications. It's my primary way of staying in touch with friends,
family members, etc. Of course I'm not always that happy to be in
touch with the "etc.'s"

If you've got a computer, you know that people send some very strange
things I have 218 e-mails right now that Google thinks are SPAM. Or
the computer version of Junk Mail.

But every once in a while I get an e-mail forwarded to me that is
absolutely priceless. I want to share one with you. I'll have to
paraphrase it but it was from a guy in Atlanta who
said:

I was watching television on Sunday morning...a church
service...thought it would save me from having to go out to church.
They had a guest speaker, a 93 year old former pastor
who had retired. He was asked to come back so they could honor him.
They asked him to tell the congregation about the most important
lessons he had learned over the years. They were expecting a
full-blown sermon.

When he was introduced, he got up from his high-backed chair and
walked slowly to the pulpit. He carried no notes or papers. As the
applause died down, he held onto the pulpit with both hands to steady
himself. Here's what he said.

"Jesus loves me. This I know. For the Bible tells me so. Little
ones to him belong. They are weak, but He is strong. Yes...Jesus
loves me. Yes...Jesus loves me. For the Bible tells me so."

With that, he turned to walk away. The congregation was so quiet, you
could hear his shoes move on the carpet as he shuffled back to his
chair.

It's a great story. I don't know if it actually happened but I hope it did.

We have to remember that even in our darkest hours and in our deepest
periods of loneliness, we always have a friend. YES, JESUS LOVES
US! We are never truly alone.

Bless you all.

Joe Adams

Fwd: John 3:16

---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Joe Adams <americaohyes@gmail.com>
Date: Jul 22, 2009 4:45 PM
Subject: John 3:16
To: Roff Graves <graves@gravescountry.com>

We've been Presbyterians for hundreds of years on my Father's side so
my first experiences with church was at a nearby Presbyterian place.
The woman next door to us would take me to church. She had a Ford
Coupe Convertible with a rumble seat which she would unfold and where
I would ride. I have to admit that the ride to and from church was
the most exciting part of Sunday mornings.

One Sunday we studied John 3:16. As an only child, I tended to talk
more than I listened. When the lesson was over, the Sunday
school teacher looked at me and said, "Joe, why don't you tell us what
you have to do to go to Heaven?" I was stunned into silence.

I gave it some thought as she impatiently waited for an answer.
Finally I said, "Love Jesus."

She went nuts! "No, no," she screamed, "You don't have to love Jesus.
That's not what John 3:16 teaches us. You do NOT have to love Jesus.
You have to believe. That's what it says."

I truly wanted to cry. She was so mean. But finally, with my lips
trembling, I said, "Well I don't think it would hurt to love Jesus a
little bit."

She threw her Bible on the table and ran out of the room. Some people
shouldn't be kindergarten teachers.

I got my first Bible by learning to say John 3:16 by heart. But it's
not me that's writing John 3:l6 on walls all over America.

Momma's Doughnut Hole

Once or twice a year --- but never in the summer when it was hot ---my
Momma would find her special pot that she used for cooking doughnuts.
It had a wide open mouth and was fairly deep. She would put a whole
can of fresh lard into the pot and melt it. She saved used lard in a
jar, but she never used this to cook doughnuts.

"You don't want doughnuts that taste like fish," she would say. And
that's true. We didn't want hamburgers that tasted like fish either,
but that didn't seem to bother her.

Doughnut making time meant that I got to go in the kitchen to help.
We would roll out the dough and then cut the doughnuts out. We used a
biscuit cutter but it had a special little center piece that you could
attach that automatically made it into a doughnut cutter. Or if you
left it in, as we sometimes did, you had biscuits with holes in the
middle.

One of my jobs was to cut the doughnuts out. I had to cut as close as
possible to each doughnut so we didn't waste any dough. Then I would
pick out the dough from the hole cutter. I would collect the pieces
of dough (not the doughnut part) and the holes, wad them up and roll
the dough out again. I kept repeating the process until there was
practically no dough left. I would try to make the smallest doughnut
in the world with the final leftovers. I thought people might pay me
to see something like that but apparently people weren't as curious as
I was.

My other job was to carefully put the doughnut dough into the sizzling
lard. The doughnuts cooked fast and the lard could pop up on you. We
had some chopsticks from a Chinese restaurant that we had gone to once
(nobody in our family could eat with two skinny sticks) and the
chopstick was perfect for flipping the doughnuts when they were done
on one side. Then I used them to pick up the
doughnuts and put them on a large platter.

One they had cooled a little, I took the sifter full of powdered sugar
and would cover the doughnuts with a snowstorm of sugar.

These were cake doughnuts...nothing like those air-filled things you
could get at the Krispy Kreme shop. "Sweet air!" my Daddy called
those.

He soaked his doughnut in his coffee. And one doughnut could easily
suck up half a cup of coffee. I soaked mine in milk.

We made little plates of doughnuts to deliver to the neighbors. This
was done mainly so if they made doughnuts, they would share with you.

May Article for Saluda Lifestyles

CHICKEN EVERY SUNDAY

I love chickens. I always have. When I was a kid, we had chicken
every Sunday. Other
than fat back and other pig parts, it was about the only meat we ate.

I had two pet chickens. The first one was a hen. I used to hypnotize
her all the time. They are very vulnerable to hypnotists. You just
pick them up, put them above your head and swirl them around a few
times. Set them down and they are in a trance. Unfortrunately, they
are not under your command. One, they are fairly stupid. Then the
other thing is, they don't talk our language. You have to talk
Chicken Talk if you want them to do anything. But, still, it was a
hoot to have a hen in a trance.

The second pet chicken I had was a rooster who was half-blind. He had
a habit of wandering under the house in the middle of the day. It was
dark under there and he thought it was night time, so he would roost.
And roost. And roost. When I finally missed him, I would have to
crawl under the house and drag him out into the daylight.
Immediately he would start crowing as loudly as he could. (I told you
chickens were dumb.) He was not very reliable as a wake-up call
unless you were working on the second shift.

Once I got to a certain age, it became my responsibility to kill the
chicken for Sunday
dinner. It was a big responsibility for a 10 year old boy having to
make life and death decisions. especially when it involved some of
your friends. (I was an only child so
I befriended anything that breathed, except snakes. )

I would toss out a few pieces of dried corn and all the chickens would
come running.
They would start pecking at the corn and I would have to decide whose number was
up. Sometimes I would say "inny-menny-minny-moe" and use that method to choose.
Sometimes I would ask God to guide me in my decision. After all, he
knew which chickens had been good or bad. But usually I just had to
make a quick decision or the corn would run out and they would run
away.

I learned to grab one by the neck, grit my teeth and wring its neck.
Sometimes I wrung it so enthusiastically that the whole head would
come off in my hand and the chicken would go running around in the
yard like...well...a chicken with its head cut off. That was always
amusing to a 10-year-old boy, but not to his Momma. If we were having
people over for supper, I'd have to kill two chickens. Or if they
were big eaters on my father's side of the family, I'd have to kill
three.

Killing them was gruesome, but it was the easy part. After they had
quit running around,
I had to boil water in a big pot in the yard, then I had to dip them
in the water...get the chicken really wet and then pick the feathers
off.. There were always some small feathers left, but I could singe
them off. Again, fairly amusing for a young boy.

I had a step grandmother who lived with us from time to time. She was
Jewish, we were told. She insisted that all the blood be drained from
her chickens before they
were cooked. So I would usually have to chop the heads off of these
chickens which was more dangerous than it probably sounds. I was a
nervouse boy, you see, and
to hold a flapping chicken on a chopping block, hold an ax and swing
it at the neck of
the chicken was intimidating. I was always certain I would chop off a
few fingers for killing all those other chickens. I figured there was
a Chicken God someplace just eager
to settle the score. But it never happened. My step grandmother made
me hang her chickens upside down on the clothesline while they dripped
blood. That was a spooky
sight but, again, fairly amusing for a yung boy. And even his friends
who would come by
and say, "I see your step grandma is in town again."

I have a couple of chicken feet now, but no chickens. Chicken feet
are powerful charms
in the Voodou World. A friend and I went to a voodou shop in New
Orleans and the woman had a pile of chicken feet. I asked her how
much for two of them. She said
$10. I said, "I can buy two whole bar-b-qued chickens at Ingles for
$10." She said, "Sure, but you don't get the feet and that's where
all the power for warding off evil is." So I got two. So far, so
good.

I would have chickens here at Lake Sheila. But we have covenants that
don't allow any
undomesticated animals. I suppose if I walked my chicken on a leash,
I could claim that
it was domesticated.

Joe Adams

Re-Inventing One's Self

I've never thought that one should have the same career for 40 or 50 years.  That's why they invented retirement.  Give it up!  And then re-invent yourself, I say.

 

In fact, a guy I know up in Asheville did a movie about people who have re-invented themselves...a socialite who now does Tupperware-like parties, but she sells sex toys...a computer guy who now uses spare parts to make into artwork.  It's amazing really.

 

I personally worked very hard in my primary career in order to quit early.  I didn't want to retire.  I just wanted to try some other things without being under the pressure of making money from it.  I was eager to re-invent myself.  I became, among other things, a newspaper publisher, a custom home builder, an antiques dealer (open only on Saturday, whether I felt like it or not),  art dealer, a public speaker, a portrait photographer specializing in tongue portraits (more on this at another time), an award-winning playwright, a newspaper humor columnist, an ordained minister (so I got my ordination through the mail...so what!  I didn't have to study for 8 years...I mean, everything you need to know is in The  Book). 

 

The list goes on.  I enjoyed all of the new careers although some of them were short-lived due mainly to a lack of interest on the part of the buying public.  It's true of most inventors. Edison invented hundreds and hundreds of items,

but we remember him most for the lightbulb and his movie projector.  (I like Edison. Although he was the first person to

have an inground swimming pool, he never exercised.  Well, he exercised his brain. He rarely slept;he would have ten minute naps on a cot in his lab.)

 

As I minister I did unusual weddings.  One in  particular was called JUMPING THE BROOM.  In early days here in the Sea Islands, black slaves weren't allowed to marry. But they did and it was signified by the couple whooping it up and then jumping across a broom.  My part of the ceremony was simply bringing The Broom.  The Broom was decorated with

various voodoo symbols.

 

For a short while I was also a pornographeer of sorts. This was way before the internet made it easy to find risque material.  I have this information by heresay understand.

My career in porno was more than 50 years ago when I was a struggling college student with a wife and child to support.

One day I was getting a haircut in a real barbershop. The barber had a couple of deer heads mounted to the wall. I

was reading a magazine for men...popular mechanics or

something similar.  I came upon the idea of advertising and selling "wild stag photos.  Send $3 cash."  I got myself a post office box and I was in business.  Money came rolling in!  I was true to my promise...I sent each respondent three

black and white photos of deer in the wild.  I never had any

complaints, although I started thinking that someone would

be at the post office waiting for me so they could beat the tar out of me.  But I stopped selling the wild stag photos for a different reason.  I was afraid St. Peter would question me about it when I got to the Pearly Gates.  I'm not sure he has a sense of humor.

 

Oh, yeah. I was a fortune teller.  And I also wrote resumes by mail.  My motto was: I Can Make Anyone Look Good. Even Attilla the Hun.  My first rule was: Never put your picture on your resume if you are ugly. Save it for the interview.

LOSE FAT WHILE YOU SLEEP

That was the headline on an advertisement I saw 55 years ago when I was a portly
young teenager. Probably the best headline I had ever read. Imagine?
Lose weight while you sleep. I try to dream of exercising now hoping
that the dream
will actually build my strength and make me lose weight.

When I saw the ad, of course I got together $12.95, bought a money order and
sent away for this miracle weight-loss product.

When it came and I unwrapped it, it looked like a bright, rose-colored shower
curtain...with arms and legs. It was plastic and had a long zipper down the
front. The whole idea was that you slept in these plastic pajamas, and since
your body is mainly made up of water, you would sleep and sweat it away.

Made sense to me. The instructions didn't say how fast this worked
but I worried
that I would wake up the next morning with a skinny body, a fat face, fat hands
and fat feet. But I could live with that. So I zippered myself into
my shower curtain suit and went to bed.

I didn't wake up skinny. But I did wake up wet. At first I thought I
might have
pee peed in my bed, but then I remembered the suit and thought, "It's working.
It's working. I'm melting away."

Every day I dried the suit out and would put it back on that night. I
was on to something here and was very excited. The fifth day,
however, when I took off
the plastic suit, I realized my skin was the same bright reddish color
all over my body as the suit was. Heat rash! Nobody said anything
about getting heat rash. But I was red all over except for my face,
hands and feet. Bright red!

I thought to myself, "How can I possibly get undressed for gym and take a shower
with this Indian-red body?" Of course everyone would want to know
what had happened to me. I couldn't think of any disease that caused
a rash on your body,
but left your feet, hands and face faultless.

Some kind soul in the gym shower solved the problem for me when he
declared: "Some bitch of a birthmark
you got buddy."

About the same time, the zipper broke on the front of my plastic suit
so I had to
decide whether to invest some more money and order another one or to trash it.
I trashed it. Now I have a suana.