Category Archives: editorials

But, wait a minute…

I plumb forgot the resippie, didn’t I?  Hold yer horses. The resippie……..

will remain a secret fur now. Until I’ve perfected it, that is. You see, I made it directly as soon as we arrived home from Floridy and it sent RP and Grizelda to they sick beds for quite a while, so I really must do some major tweakin’ on it.

Also, the good pastor has agreed to write a column this afternoon after church on the efficiency of his power pulpit and how it improves the overall atmosphere of the church.

Maybe a little later on this week, I’ll have some serious additions to the paper as Scout will be writin’ about her experience in her friend’s wedding and the cascade of emotions she felt in bein’ a part of it. And mebbe, just mebbe, she might get brave and share some quite excitin’ information that should make all the readers happy.

Like I said, though, jest hold on about the resippie. Gotta work out the bugs. Those danged Japanese beetles….


What I done on my summer vacation

Now that my personal computer which doubles as my printing press for this here publication is back up and running proper again I can inform all you wonderful mass of readers of my trials and tribulations in the great state of Florida. Or I can scream like a mindless banshee into an empty room and tell my story. Either way, it’ll get told.

As I said before, my faithful assistant Rendered Posterior was gettin’ feedback from subscribers who said they’d like to see me leave the great area of Bell Bottom Creek and take on the wilds of somewhere else and if I lived to tell the tale, well then so be it. I gladly accepted the offer and waggoned myself, RP and Grizelda Jane out to the Sunshine State in search of the elusive and insidious rabid wrasslin’ croc. After much speculatin’ and arguin’ over where to set up camp, we picked a spot close to Disneyworld, a place Grizelda got all teary about seein’, and planned to go there to find our crocs.

Though it managed to rain everyday, we trudged through it and kept our eyes on the prize. The first day, we took the bus over to a Epcot. We found no crocs there, but managed to sink our teeth into some good eatin’ and visited many different places in the world within the walls of that one little park. Rendered Posterior gobbled up so many lime margaritas in Mexico, though, that he climbed all the palm trees and flung his extry large self down on poor, unsuspectin’ visitors, so we was throwed out with no success.

The second day, we headed over to the Magic Kingdom and Lord, did we ever hit paydirt with all those rides. For jest a moment, those rides took our minds off our main goal, but only for jest a moment. We saw many animals in the wilds of Africa, but still no crocs.

The next day brought us our biggest chance yet to spot the crocs — Animal Kingdom! We found a map and quickly pointed our areas that seemed like they’d give us the best chance to spot one of them fightin’ large lizards, so we split up and promised to meet back and share info if we found anything. Rendered Posterior quickly forgot his goal and beelined straight for the info desk to inquire about whiskey and goat cheese vendors, but Grizelda proved to be a little more helpful. She got sidetracked by several rides, but quickly hurried to my side when she spotted some evil lookin’ creatures confined up in little incubators. At first, she scared half the park when she claimed she’d spotted belly-crawlin’ dinos over at the north gate, but when I came over to investigate, I found the actual culprit to be not crocs, but gators. That figgers. Only in Floridy.



After three long days of adventure plus two more of drivin’, the weary travelers headed back to the Creek, bearin’ no real stories of croc wrasslin’, but plenty of other things to tell and memories that’ll last for a lifetime. Of course, fur yer delicate ears, I only included all the good parts and left out the many evils of three cantankerous old crazies travelin together in the small space of a wagon and needin’ to go the bathrooms at jest about every rest stop on the path.

On an unrelated note, I was so ahopin’ that Pastor Red J. Plumwood could be entertainin’ all of you with his sermons on his new revolutionary power pulpit he purchased so recently, but as our press has been down for so long, that didn’t happen.

I’ll open the opportunity back up to him real soon.

In the meantime, keep your eyes out for wrasslin’ crocs and if you ever need to reach me, jest drop a line.

On a more serious note: A guest column

Hi again, everyone.  Scout here.  First of all, thanks to Editor Hogenswallow for allowing me to interrupt the news of Bell Bottom Creek to do a little explaining as to why I pretty much dropped off the map.  Let me try to start where I left off when I ended Scout About.

As you know, I had a full plate of monstrosities and wasn’t dealing well with any of them. In the middle of the deaths and neverending suffocation from growing pains, I lost all motivation to write and just up and quit my blog. Just like that.

But now, I have to tell you about something that happened recently and though I took it the hardest of any of the bad news I’d experienced this year, it ultimately motivated me to start blogging again.

It all started with a few notes and ended with a complete song. Or, at least, I have to make myself believe that it will.


I never really wanted to take lessons from her. Never had the desire to start back with piano. So, when it was time to go over to her house, I ran away and climbed a tree. I thought I’d learned all I’d ever need. As luck would have it, I got tired and came down.

Mrs. P wasn’t the most traditional of piano teachers. Her stubby fingers looked better suited for the constant baking she did rather than the running over of the ivories, but she had been making magic on the keyboard for years. I came to her small house on Etheridge Street expecting a review of  the usual chords and measures and left with the knowledge that I’d gained a grandmother.

Mrs. P didn’t only teach piano. I found that out from the very first lesson. She had been successful in the business for over 40 years because she taught life and she taught it to people from all over our area. A visit to her house brought the unique mixture of Clair de Lune, homemade coconut pie, pictures of her children and grandchildren and conversations on topics ranging from church to the best place in the area to eat catfish.

The piano served as the centerpiece and learning the notes served as the driving force behind each and every Tuesday afternoon and the person I’d once dreaded meeting became the person who made my week. We began venturing out her home and on two occasions she invited me to be her “daughter” at her church’s mother/daughter banquet. I beamed at the thought that out of dozens of “pupils” (her word for “students”) I’d been picked to be her “daughter.” 

Then she moved away. She moved to Lexington to be with one of her daughters and then later moved to Cordova. Initially, I never forgot her birthday and made sure I sent regular letters. Always always at the tip of my tongue hung the phrase, “I need to go see her.” And then I missed a couple of birthdays and as I knew she was approaching 90, my phrase changed to, “I need to go see her before she dies.”


A couple of Saturdays ago, I attended the funeral of Mrs. P.  The service was long and full of wonderful piano music and was attended by many friends and family members. Mrs. P’s nephew got up to read a “work by a former student” and the work turned out to be something I’d written for Mrs. P 13 years ago.

Walking back down the street after the funeral, I was inconsolable.


Over the past few days since the funeral I’ve been reliving these overwhelming feelings of depression that come over me every time I go over those words, “I need to go see her before she dies.” I feel as though the funeral served as closure for so many people. The usual, “Oh, she’s in a better place.” But that’s not been so for me. I’ve felt nothing but regret, guilt and sadness that I didn’t act quickly enough. As I told my boyfriend, I feel like a part of me is dead. That simple yet powerful inspiration that was my guiding force for the better part of my growing years.  The hearkening back to happier days. So many thoughts, terrible thoughts, have been running through my head lately. Unspeakable thoughts.

How will I ever get over this? I have no idea. But, my dear friend  is right and I’ve been thinking about her advice a lot lately. Never ever pass up the opportunity to go see someone and tell them you love them. Please do it before it’s too late.

And Mrs. Pritchett wouldn’t want me to stop blogging. She wouldn’t want me to stop practicing. For writing. For piano. For life.

From the desk of S. Hogenswallow: An editorial about somethin’ and nothin’

Good mornin’, good afternoon’, good evenin’ or good night, dear readers, dependin’ of course upon what time of the day you happen to be a’gazin’ at this column.  Fer all of those dedicated and reglar perscribers to the Possum Gazette, thanky for takin’ the time to come over and check out our new online paper and fer all you new ‘ens, hope you like what you see and hope I’m able to deliver at least a fair to meddlin’ account of what goes on here daily in our little corner of the world.

In mah short time here a’foolin’ around with this interweb thingy I’ve already discovered somethin’ of rather large importance. There’s no way possible I can print up an entar isshoo of this paper on the web, but I can cut out porshuns of the paper and put them here as I see fit to do. And today just so happens to be the day that all you lucky ‘ens gets to read one of my loud and rambly editorials. Our beloved society columner, Jane Jones Juniper, is out all week heppin’ her grandson compete in the Mr. Sweet Potato Casserole pageant so all you hard copy perscribers will be a’missin’ out on yer daily shot of Up the Creek with the Triple J, but I’m gonna do mah best to fill in for her and tell ya a bit about what’s been happenin’.

First of all, thanky for yer pashence. Yer dear and faythful editor had herself a little ticker episode yestiddy mornin’ and our electrisitie has just now come back on. If that waren’t enough, yestiddy afternoon, we farred our copy editor, well, no, ackshully she up and killt herself. Right in front of the coffee pot too. No denyin’ she was a bit fidgety and nervous-like for our tastes, but we felt so plumb awful about it that we’s now attemptin’ to name somethin’ after her. Our sports editor suggested the copy machine because it reminds us of her, but we turned that down right quick. Then I suggested maybe we oughta just name her after the place where the doin’ was done, so if you happen to stop by our headquarters, don’t ferget to visit Betty the Editor of Copy’s Sacred Coffee. Grab a cup or two if you so desire.

Now most of you who’ve read the front page of our paper copy will know what I’m talkin’ about here.  Big doin’s in our little Creek. While plowin’ in his cabbage fields, Farmer Harve Hewens’ prized John Deere, Green Girl, done up and struck what most of us Creekians know as oil. Lots of it. And the dangdest thing is, it happened to other farmers around the area too. Jest mindin’ their own busness, they up and struck black gold. We brought in the expert and he studied our little area up and down and said somethin’ to the effect of “You people’s just a brimmin’ with this black stuff, but hold on to yer britches just a bit ’cause hit ain’t oil.” While that heavily darkened the spirits of all our good folks, we invite all of you to come out today to see our new sign bein’ put up. Come join Mayor Downin’ Dumplin’ and the rest of us as we raise “Bell Bottom Creek: A Great Place to Live and the Tar Nation of the South” up to the skies.

Whew. I’m plumb tarred. I’d like to thank my faythful assistant, Rendered Posterior, for heppin’ me with this new-fangled technology whatchacallit. Stay tuned fer more and write in to us as you see fit. And remember, we’re here to serve you, “Spoonfeedin’ the gist of what’s good to the great citizens of Bell Bottom Creek for 203.7 years!”