EVERYTHING IS MADE EASIER WITH LAUGHTER

My Daddy said one time there was a very optimistic feller living here about. Seems a neighbor had a newborn baby to die and the optimist decided to try and cheer him up, “Well, my dear friend, it could have been worse,” he offered. This shocked the grieving father. “Well, I don't know how. The baby died,” he responded sadly. The optimist thought it over a minute, “Well, don't forget. It could have been twins,” he answered.

The great part of growing up in our family was the stories My Daddy would tell us. We knew they really weren't all that funny but it didn’t matter. There wasn’t any television or any stand-up comics in those days. The General wouldn’t have approved of all that nasty talk anyway. She had trouble as it was with some of My Daddy’s tales. She’d always be very serious with her poetry of people dying and going to heaven. Then, there would come the earthy reaction from My Daddy. I think we liked both responses, as it gave us balance. A good laugh is good for the soul, they say. I’ve decided to include some of our favorite yarns here for you. There are hundreds, so if you know a Messer personally, maybe he or she will tell you one.

My Daddy loved people. When we had company, he loved to tell his tales of mirth and show off what a great cook the General was. We had a dear friend, thereabouts in the community, by the name of Brashears. He was a tenant cotton farmer just like we were. His life was no better than ours and we all lived with the knowledge we might not get the crop loan paid off in any given year. My Daddy delighted in making light of the economic conditions that we all lived under. It seemed to help him to laugh and make light of it.

On this certain Sunday, our dear friend came to our house with his bride of twelve years and his handsome son, Huey for dinner. The General had cooked three beautiful chocolate pies. She had separated the whites of some eggs and beat them into beautiful white meringue. She then poured it over the chocolate pies and baked them in the oven. The slightly browned egg whites on top of the rich golden crust made one’s mouth water.

At mealtime, we proceeded to eat our way through a delicious maze of homemade foods. When we finished eating, the pies were cut into quarters and passed out to everyone. When Huey finished his piece, the General asked him if he’d like another. His daddy looked at him, hoping no one would notice, and shook his head no. Huey pretended not to see him. My Daddy had taken this all in and was delighted at his friend's discomfort. “Have another piece of pie, Huey,” he suggested. Huey was more than happy to comply. The more Huey ate pie, the more he seemed to like it. Soon, the second piece of pie was gone. “Have another piece, Huey. There’s plenty of it,” My Daddy encouraged.

“Want another one, Son?” the General, asked.

Huey nodded his head yes. Huey's daddy commenced to squirm and tried once again to catch his young son's eye. Huey was soon polishing off his third piece. Feeling humiliated at his young son's lack of manners, our neighbor insisted that they had to leave.

“What’s your hurry?” My Daddy asked.

“We are going home so Nettie can cook THIS HUEY A DAMN PIE,” he replied. We all had a great laugh that day, and we’re laughing still.

The General told us one day about a hired hand they’d had once when she was a young girl. She said, “One time all the kids were down on the floor stretching their legs out and putting their feet behind their heads to show how limber they were. We had this sixty-year-old man living with us. He’d been hired to help out your Granddaddy with his farm work. After watching us kids for a little while the old man jumped down on the floor to show off his youthfulness. Well, he got his leg over his head alright but then a problem developed. He began to poot very loudly. Now, no one laughed, but the poor feller left the room humiliated. He gathered up his few belongings and left that very night. A few days later, we got the word that he’d died. The best anyone could tell, he’d died from pooting himself to death,” the General concluded her story with a good laugh. Then she took on a very serious look, and said, “Poor old thing.” The General’s Aide cracked up when she heard that tale. She figured it was alright to laugh since the General had. We all joined her.

This one My Daddy told for the truth. He said, “A few years back there was a feller working at the cotton gin. He worked putting the big net on the bale and buckling it in place. Now, this feller was always complaining about Arkansas and how he hated Light. This one-day he told everyone if he had $100.00 he’d leave the country and never come back. Now, everyone knows if you’ve ever lived at Light, Arkansas, you can't just leave and never come back. It being the fall of the year, people had a few dollars and felt like having some fun out of this feller. They talked it over among themselves and collected the $100.00. Four or five of them went together to give him the money. They thought this would embarrass him into keeping his mouth shut in the future. The agreement was made that if he took the money, he was to never return. If he did, he’d have to pay’em back double. He accepted the money and left straightaway and no one has ever heard from him since.” Now, it being over fifty years, I think if he does comes back he can just keep the money. I think all them ol’ boys are probably dead now anyway.

We had a very strong feller that grew up near Light. I’ll call him Hank. Now, Hank was a powerful man, and he liked to wrestle. He plowed with his horses in a field next to another big ol’ boy by the name of Talmadge. Now, Talmadge was also very strong. They’d often get into discussions over who was the stoutest. Seemed sensible to these fellers to just have a go at it and find out. They decided against hitting each other with their fists as they might do serious harm to one another. They loved to just wrestle. They could be seen tearing up an acre of cotton as they tossed each other around. I’m amazed they ever got any cottonseed in the ground, much less make a crop. Last time I talked to Hank he said his old friend Talmadge had gotten the gout, and he didn't allow they’d be doing any more wrestling. Well, at least now the mules will have a break, as it was told around that old Talmadge would wrestle a mule if he could find one willing to have a go at it.

In 1950 the Korean War broke out. The draft was in full swing. The draft board would call up young men in the community for a physical exam to see if they were healthy. Provided they were found to be 1-A, the Army would send them a greeting when they needed them. The ol’ free-spirited boys from Light were always looking for ways to escape this injustice, though few did. This one Monday morning my friend Hank reported to Little Rock as directed. Upon his arrival at the Armed Force’s Examination Center they gave him several papers to fill out. He informed them he couldn’t read or write. The medic became very disgusted with Hank and grabbed the papers out of his hand and started asking questions.

“Anything ever been wrong with you at all? If not, I'll just have you sign this.”

“Well, when I was a real little kid, I couldn't walk.”

“At what age? Do you think it was Polio?”

Oh, from my birth to about nine months. But no one ever said nothing about no polio.”

Well, we never knew why he got marked 4-F. This meant he was declared unfit to serve in the U. S. Army. Seemed strange to us, him being such a good wrestler and all.

Now, the General had two brothers. My Daddy got along with them okay on most things. He had a little resentment because my Granddaddy had given them forty acres of land when they got married. He was always going to give the General some land, too. But as I told you before, his investments went sour and it never worked out. Anyway, my uncles seemed to have this little rivalry going on all the time when they were younger. Waye, he was the younger one, he was quite handsome and very dapper. Cleo was a regular looking guy, however, he was the older and out ranked Waye in the family. The story goes that Cleo was dating this young lady and was very much in love with her. Waye had bought a fancy new car and had taken a liken to her himself. One day when Cleo had a date with her Waye beat him to her house, picked her up, and they went to a movie.

When Cleo arrived, the girl’s daddy explained she had already left with Waye. Cleo, not being a good sport about this at all, decided he’d get revenge. He went and picked up My Daddy to discuss this betrayal and the two of them worked out a scheme for retribution. They hit on a plan that seemed quite ingenious. They got an ol’ billy goat that was owned by a neighbor thereabouts. They took the ol’ boy and put him inside Waye's brand new car. Now, when Waye returned with his date to drive her home, he was quite surprised. The goat had made several very personal deposits and had eaten a good deal of the seat cushions and overhead upholstery.

After that, the young lady decided she didn’t want anything to do with a bunch of fellers so hateful and refused to see either one of them again. There was never any proof of who did this terrible deed. Lucky for My Daddy and Cleo, they escaped with their lives. Now, there was some discussion about who climbed in Cleo's truck at a later date. Whoever it was took a nice poop right in the seat on the driver's side. My Daddy said that it might’ve been Waye. There was really no way to determine at that time. As you probably know, that was before DNA testing.

Mac Wilson was a funny feller, and I loved him and his wife, Flossie. They had a parcel of kids and my favorite was Mark. I used to hang around their house a great deal. Now, there were times that Mac could compete with my Granddaddy Poe in the cussing department. One day I heard him really going at it.

“What's a going on with Mac,” I asked Mark.

“Let's go find out,” he answered

“Mac,” I was allowed to call him that, “What's the matter?”

“Well, the preacher done sold me a milk cow and a calf. Problem is, when I took them off the truck, the calf went to one side of the lot and the cow to the other. I went to talk to the preacher about it and I told him he done skint me with that trade and I needed that milk from the cow for my family. The preacher started a crying, and told me, ‘You're right, Mac. Please forgive me. I'll take the cow back and return your money.’ I told him, hell, no. I'll have a great time telling everybody what a son-of-a-bitch you turned out to be.”

I sure hated to see Mac get skint that away. But knowing a preacher did such a dastardly deed sure gave the rest of us ol’ boys a little hope for salvation.

My Daddy said that one time my Granddaddy Messer told him this tale and it went something like this, “I was loafing around the house one day when the sheriff came by and says to me, ‘Sid. Ill give you $2.00 to help me catch these ol’ boys a gambling.’ I agreed on it and off we went. When we got to the house, he told me, ‘You go to the back door and I'll go in the front and if anyone comes out back there you catch’em.’ Well, in those days I wasn’t afraid of anybody. I went by the woodpile and got me a good piece of kitchen stove wood and stationed myself at the back door. I heard a hell’va ruckus in the house, and here a feller comes a running. I got myself ready and when he started out the screendoor, I took a swing at him. Problem was, I hit the door facing instead of the gambling man. Now, that kind of threw me off balance and before I knew what’d happened, the feller drew back and cold cocked me. Needless to say, he got clean away.” The moral of that story, according to My Daddy, is don't mess with a skeerd feller running from the law.

One of our neighbors was a gentleman by the name of Gaylom Stringer and he was known to be somewhat of a trickster. He told good stories just like My Daddy and enjoyed a good joke too. He had some higher learning as he was a coming up. For this reason, from time to time, he’d work for the county doing important government business. Now, as he didn't need the money as much as the rest of us, he wasn't too prone to keeping good clean cotton fields. This is important in cotton country as folks are judged on how well they keep their cotton crop.

The fellers got together and decided they'd play a trick on the old trickster himself. They got in his field about fifty feet from the road where everyone could see as they passed by. They mounded up dirt in a big heap to look like a grave. They took two sticks and stuck them in the ground. Then they put two old shoes, that farmers wore, on these two ol’ sticks. This gave the appearance of a feller being buried with his feet in the air. They wrote on a big cardboard placard the following message:

GAYLOM IS DEAD AND HALF ROTTEN HAD HE LIVED, HE’D HAVE HOED HIS COTTON

I’d not seen My Daddy anymore tickled than he was over that little ol’ grave. Gaylom had a nice laugh too and left it alone for several days for everyone to see. Knowing Ol’ Gaylom could take a joke sure made My Daddy smile.

The Jeaner Jackson and me always picked cotton together after she got up a few years. In the fall of 1954 My Daddy had contracted with this older couple to help out with the picking. One day we were picking along, laughing and talking. The older couple was in front of us about fifteen feet. Suddenly, the old woman takes off the strap of her picksack and commenced to run toward the road. This caught the old man by surprise and he stood up with his mouth open watching her. In less than fifteen seconds she had reached the fence. Now, in her haste to get over, she fell down. She was wallowing around trying to get up. The old feller became quite concerned for her, “WHAT IN THE WORLD IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?” he yelled

Seeing that it was to late to regain her dignity she replied very calmly but in a loud voice, “I’VE SHIT MYSELF.”

Now the poor ol’ man knowing we were watching all of this was at a total loss on how to handle this delicate matter. “AHH, it’s that damned ol’ soda water,” he finally answered.

The General said the poor old soul came up to the house and asked for a pan and some water. The General didn’t know what to make of her request but she gave it to her. She was a little puzzled why she then went into the chicken house but didn’t question her. Later on in the day we explained it to her between bouts of laughter. The General took a dim view of this kind of humor and forbid us to speak of it again.

Well, it was a disaster for the poor old lady and humiliating for the old man and we felt sorry for them. I had my own experience on the school bus as you remember, however, that didn't keep us from laughing about it. From then on, they were known to us as the, “Damned ol’ soda water couple.” Long after they were gone, we’d explain a sudden bout of diarrhea with,"AHH, it’s that damned ol’ soda water.”



People leaving for a better life in the far off North, or nearby industrial cities, was a common occurrence in the days of my youth. There were times, after a few short months they’d return talking like a Yankee from up North. We called that talking proper. To do that, after such a short stay was sacrilege as far as we were concerned. We were on the lookout for these showoffs so we could expose them. Retaining who we were, and our culture, was an obsession with the Messers.

That being understood, My Daddy told us of an old widow woman over near the river. She had one daughter who’d never attended school more than a few months. Desperation for food and the necessities of life forced the young woman to go to Little Rock to seek employment. Within a few weeks, she had landed a job as a janitor in a federal building.

My Daddy ran into the mother up at the store and decided to inquire as to her daughter’s well being.

“How’s everything going with Roberta, Mrs. Staten.

“She’s doing quite well, thank you. Got her a job with the goberment.”

“Really! Roberta must be a pretty smart girl.

“Well, if she ain’t, she’s sure got the goberment fooled.

That became an idiom in our family when one exceeded his or her importance. We’d merely say, “Well, you sure must have the goberment fooled.” That always helped us keep things in perspective.

Yeah! We Messers, we love great stories. We love to tell them and to hear’em. That’s kind of who we are. I hope if you know a good story that you’ll share it with someone.