As American as...PB and J sandwiches

Like me, a lot of you were surprised to learn that sliced bread didn't exist until just a few years before we were born. 

That got me to thinking how difficult it must have been to spread peanut butter on hand sliced bread.

A little research turned up some pretty interesting facts. It seems that before sliced bread, peanut butter was mainly spread on crackers.  After having been a hit during the 1904 World's Fair, peanut better became an "elegant food" served in Manhattan tea rooms usually paired with pimento cheese, celery and watercress piled on crackers. 

Peanut butter sandwiches became very popular during the depression mainly because it was so cheap,

nutritious and good as well as the fact that the new fangled invention sliced bread had been introduced.

But how, and when, was jelly added to make what many people consider to be the world's most perfect sandwich?

Apparently it was World War 2 that brought it to us.  Peanut butter, bread and jelly was on the US Military's ration list and the soldiers discovered it was a great combination.  So, as with their taste for Pizza they discovered in Italy, they introduced it to the civilian population when they got home.

Facts from the Internet:

• There are five cities in the U.S. named Peanut: Peanut, California; Lower Peanut, Pennsylvania; Upper Peanut, Pennsylvania; Peanut, Pennsylvania, and Peanut West Virginia.

• Rumor says that there’s enough mental stimulation in one peanut to produce 30 minutes of serious thinking. That may or may not be true, but peanuts are a good source of protein and the B vitamins, nutrients that help prevent “brain fatigue”

• There are over 700 known phobias. Archibutyrophobia (pronounced A’-ra-kid-bu-ti-ro-pho-bi-a) is the fear of getting peanut butter stuck to the roof of your mouth.
• It takes about 540 peanuts to make a 12-ounce jar of peanut butter.

I detest calling a peanut butter and jelly a PB and J almost as much as I hate the word "veggies."

-Ed

Depression Babies

That was us.

(Those who were born between 1929 and 1945.)

We came into this world in the middle of a depression, and, Lord help us, I hope we don't "go out" in the middle of one.

But I think most of us will agree that we've lived in perhaps the best time in American history.

I just learned of a book written a number of years ago that talks about that and calls us "the luckiest Americans ever."  It's titled, "The Lucky Few."

It claims that,

"These Lucky Few became the first American generation smaller than the one before them, and the luckiest generation of Americans ever. As children they experienced the most stable intact parental families in the nation’s history. Lucky Few women married earlier than any other generation of the century and helped give birth to the Baby Boom, yet also gained in education compared to earlier generations. Lucky Few men made the greatest gains of the century in schooling, earned veterans benefits like the Greatest Generation but served mostly in peacetime with only a fraction of the casualties, came closest to full employment, and spearheaded the trend toward earlier retirement. Even in retirement/old age the Lucky Few remain in the right place at the right time."

Sounds right to me.

I also came across a list of "Depression" food:

Milk toast

Chipped beef on toast

Cucumber and mustard sandwiches

Mayonnaise sandwiches

Ketchup sandwiches

Hot milk and rice

Potato soup – water base, not milk

Dandelion salad

Lard sandwiches

Bacon grease sandwiches

Sugar sandwiches

One eyed Sam – piece of bread with an easy over egg in the centerHot dogs and baked beans

Oatmeal mixed with lard

Fried potatoes and hot dogs

Onion sandwich – slices of onion between bread

Tomato gravy and biscuits

Deep fried chicken skin

Cornbread in Milk

Cornbread in milk

Gravy and bread – as a main dish

Toast with mashed potatoes on top with gravy

Creamed corn on toast

Corn mush with milk for breakfast, fried corn mush for dinner

Rice in milk with some sugar

Beans

Fried potato peel sandwiches

Banana slices with powdered sugar and milk

Boiled cabbage

i

Tomato gravy on rice

Toast with milk gravy

Water fried pancakes

Chicken feet in broth

Fried bologna

Warm canned tomatoes with bread

Butter and sugar sandwiches

Fried potato and bread cubes

Bean soup

Runny eggs with grits

Butter and grits with sugar and milk

Baked apples

Sliced boiled pork liver on buttered toast (slice liver with potato peeler)

Corn meal mush

Spaghetti with tomato juice and navy beans

Whatever fish or game you could catch/hunt

Tomato sandwiches

Hard boiled eggs in white sauce over rice

Spam and noodles with cream of mushroom soup

Rag soup: spinach, broth and lots of macaroni

Garbanzo beans fried in chicken fat or lard, salted, and eaten cold

Popcorn with milk and sugar – ate it like cereal

Company Chicken

Frankly, some of my favorite dishes are listed here! With the possible exception of Chicken Feet in broth.

However, I once heard someone complain about a major soup company that produced so little chicken meat in its canned soup that he accused them of having a "company chicken" who Quickly ran through the warm water just before it was poured into the can and labeled Chicken Soup.

 -Ed

Who Was That Masked Man?

It was me.

I'm going to tell you about it, even though my better judgment says not to.

In fact, the subject is listed as one of the top Ten subjects that make the official "Things No One Ever Said" list each year.

Such as,

"I love being tired."

"Happy New Year! I’m going to try to put on some weight this year. Particularly in my mid-section."

"I love the smell of wet dog."

I couldn’t tell at all - that is a really natural looking toupee."

and ,

Tell me again about your hernia operation.

In my case, the operation I'm writing about had nothing to do with a hernia, the one I'm speaking of was on my nose.  I seldom  mentioned my "nose job" to people because those I did tell about it couldn't resist suggesting I demand my money back.

However, it wasn't done for cosmetic purposes. 

When I was three years old, I slipped on the icy steps of Mercy Hospital after visiting my Dad, and crushed the bridge of my nose.  As I grew, the crushed bones did as well, obstructing more and more of my nasal breathing passages.

It reached critical mass, I suppose, about 1956 and I sought help from one of the Doctors at the University of North Carolina, where I was attending school at the time. Dr. Newton D. Fischer was his name, and I got the feeling that he had recently lost patience with students coming to him wanting "cosmetic nose jobs," which he didn't do.

"So, you don't like the looks of your God given nose, eh," he said.  And he went on from there telling me how vain and foolish I was, etc.....

When he finished, I simply said. "Yes. I wish my nose was better looking, but that's not why I'm here. I'm having difficulty breathing."

After examining me, he couldn't have been more apologetic. As it turned out, he arranged for me to have a combination nasal passage correction and bridge re-construction by the leading such surgeon in the country.  Dr. Maurice Cottle was his name and he had been Dr. Fischer's teacher in medical school.

The operation normally would have cost thousands of dollars, but Dr. Fischer arranged for me to have it done for "whatever my parents could afford."

Which was $300.

I flew to Chicago for the proceedure and returned to Chapel Hill afterward where Dr. Fischer took care of my post surgery needs which consisted mainly of changing the "mask" on my face which had to remain in place for a month.

The reason was to hold my new "bridge" long enough  for it to "attach" itself to my facial bones. Dr. Cottle had carved it from a bone he had shaved from my hip. Wearing a mask for that many weeks wasn't fun, but being able to breathe through my nose was well worth it.

I frightened the daylights out of a number of Chapel Hill and Charlotte merchants during those 30 days of my one man Halloween show.
There was a dry cleaner on Pecan Avenue who had his back to me when I walked in the store and almost ran out the back door when he turned and saw me and my mask. (Actually he told me there was no back door...but said he almost made one.)

The mask itself was simply medical tape that covered my face from the hairline to the tip of my "new" nose.

Dr. Fisher has passed on now but rarely have many days gone by since 1956 when I didn't think of how kind and generous that man was to me and how fortunate I was to have walked into his office that day.

As most of you know, I missed our 60th reunion because of a conflict with some surgery that came up. In conversation with the Doctor (Alain Drooz) beforehand, I detected a Southern accent and learned that he had done his medical studies at UNC.  Of course, he's much younger than me...Hell so is the Pope...but I asked him what the town was like now, etc. 
And, not expecting a positive reply, I couldn't resist asking if he had ever known a Dr. Fischer when he was at UNC.

"Dr. Newton Fischer?" he replied. "He was my faculty advisor."

I knew then my upcoming surgery was going to be successful.

-Ed

Roll Call

John Brock

I'm proud to say that three of my very favorite writers are (or were) friends of mine:
Charles Kuralt, Jan Karon, and John Brock.

John is not as famous nationally as Charles and Jan, but his book Southern Breezes Whistle Dixie flat hit the spot with this 79 year old son of Charlotte, North Carolina.

John was in the Class of '51 at Central and was the son of the owner of Brock's Barber shop, on Caswell Ave behind Stanleys Drug store. Mr. Brock gave me my first haircut and just about every one after that until I moved to Washington.

John was kind enough to pass along a lot of the old photographs of Charlotte that I used a number of years ago in the slide show that I did for our class 5 years ago.  He was one of the original producers of the great slide show for his class, which frankly was the inspiration for the one I did for our class.

He also graciously allowed me to publish several of his stories on this website.

It was with great sadness that I received this email today:

You haven’t heard much from me lately but life can change directions in a big hurry and I need to explain a couple things. I recently started having some physical problems. Just as Barbara was getting over the worst of her health problems, I suddenly developed stage 4 cancers necessitating some significant life changes. I went into the hospital a week ago and yesterday transferred to a skilled nursing facility in Pawleys Island. Barbara will move tomorrow into an adjoining assisted living facility. Unfortunately, they say I only have a few months to get things in order.

Our sons and daughters-in-law have jumped right in to help with everything. Neighbors, friends, kin folk, church members and staff and others have joined in to help make things possible. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to convey this news personally so I’ve asked our son John, Jr. to contact you folks with this explanation of what’s going on.

We will try to keep you informed. For a while we’ll keep the same phone number and address. My love to each and every one of you.   

-John Brock Jr for my Dad

For years he wrote a weekly column for several Southern newspapers. This is one he wrote in May of 2007:

When the roll is called up yonder: my Mom will be there!

All indications are my Mother, age 92, is experiencing her final days on this earth. By the time you read this, she may be gone.
We knew the day was not too far distant three years ago when she moved to a nearby nursing facility. But, I was just thankful that for the first time in many, many years we were once again in the same town. Sadly, this seems to be coming to an end. But only God knows. She is a resilient woman and has survived cancer, a mastectomy and a broken hip in the last five years.

There’s nothing I can do. The professionals are doing everything they can to give her loving care and to make her as comfortable as possible. All I can do now is just go by daily and hold her hand. The time comes to us all, if we live long enough, when there is little left in this life. But in my Mother’s case, it’s not the end. There is a more joyous life at the end of this earthly tunnel. She has always believed this — and so do I.

In the meantime, I am unable to converse with her beyond a gentle greeting on my part and a slight recognition or an occasional smile from her. Her words are all used up, but, I can, upon occasion, garner a slight sense of recognition. Two-way conversation is a thing of the past.
Today, I found another means of communication. The door to her room was closed and I impulsively broke into song. Not just any song but her favorite old-time hymns.
Those who have ever sat beside me in church know full well that I cannot sing. I often feel the need to apologize to those around me when I try. But, today, I just felt it was the proper thing to do.
I was not wrong.

For a half-hour, as I fumbled through almost every hymn I knew by heart, her spirits rose and for a short while we were communicating. A broad smile crept across her face during the first notes of “Lilly of the Valley,” and broke even wider as we segued into other hymns from her childhood and mine. Her hand, help closely in mine, grasped tighter each time I came to one of her most favorites. The old hymns were speaking to her subconscious soul.

By the time the medical personnel came in, I thought Mom was about to join with me. A false hope, I’m sure, but nevertheless, it was a glorious time for us both. Now that I have found this method of communion, I will hold her hand and sing every day just as long as life prevails. Although her voice was not added to my meager offering of song, her soul sang right along beside me. It was marvelous.
As I sang, my mind wandered into the distant past as I recalled my Mom singing these same hymns to my youthful soul. Our roles, as often happens if we live long enough, have reversed.

Mother was always able to conjure a smile even in the face of despair. And prayer was the answer to all the trials of life. She came by it honestly. Her father was a deeply religious man and Baptist to the core. Although seminary trained before his health prevented further study, he was never a preacher but he “preached” daily by his example to his family and those around him. I was one who benefited from living near him early in my life. Mom has sustained his spiritual devotion through the years. Hopefully, I enjoy some benefit as well.

Another thought came to me today as I witnessed the joy in Mom’s eyes. I was reminded that every time I go into a church today, I see a sea of gray heads – other older folks harvesting the last years of life. I understand that churches want to seek younger members into the fold, but in the process, we should not miss the opportunity to speak to the souls of older members. In my view, no church service is complete without the inclusion of at least one or two of the old hymns: Old Rugged Cross, Amazing Grace, What a Friend, Living for Jesus, Rock of Ages, Bringing in the Sheaves and others of that genre. An occasional old-time gospel song wouldn’t hurt either.

The sermon tops off a perfect service where aged and youthful souls are both nourished.
I don’t fully fathom the spiritual side of death and dying but I do know one thing for certain:
“When the Roll is Called up Yonder,” — Mom, you’ll be there!
Hallelujah!

John Brock lives in Georgetown County and is a retired college professor/administrator and newspaper editor/publisher. He can be reached by mail at this newspaper or via Email: brock@johnbrock.com. His website is: www.SouthernObserver.com.

Red Ryder and his Peace Maker

House Sparrow

In the early 1890's a homesick Englishman named Nicholas Pike brought 50 House Sparrows from England and released them in Brooklyn, New York.

Today, the house sparrow is the most common bird in America and one of the meanest, aggressive and most obnoxious in the world. They have driven our native birds like the lovable, peace loving Bluebirds and Purple Martins out of house and home. The house Sparrows are ferocious fighters and will evict ANY nesting bird from a cavity and take over the site. They tear up nests, break eggs, kill and toss out nestlings and adults and then build their nest right on top of the carnage.

They are the terrorists of the bird kingdom.

The Gentle Blue Bird

I get mad just reading about those damn birds, so you  can imagine how upset our classmate, the
Reverend Don Nance felt sitting on his porch in the mountains of Virginia watching Osama Bin Sparrow and his henchmen constantly attacking the Bluebird family that had taken up residence in his backyard.

It would have been upsetting enough to make any preacher cuss, and knowing Don like I do, I'm sure he dropped at least a couple of "Dag Nabbits" that caused the chinaware to shake.

And then he acted.

He went right down to the local Walmart and purchased a...

Well, his first choice of weapons was a Cannon, but he had cooled down by the time he got to the store and bought a Red Ryder BB gun instead.

After all, he had no intention of killing the sparrows....just scaring them away from the Bluebird's nest until the Blue Bird eggs had a chance to hatch and the baby birds survive.

Ralphie from Xmas Story

Meanwhile, Letty went into her wifely/Motherly default mode and expressed her opinion that buying a BB gun was probably not a good idea. "You could put out your eye with that thing, and......and...who knows what."

Those last three words were downright prophetic.

I like stories with happy endings....and this one ended happily... for the Bluebirds. Don, and Red Ryder, kept the evil sparrows at bay while Junior and his feathered sister graduated from the nest and lived happily ever after.



And peace and tranquility returned to the sleepy community of Wytheville, Virginia.

Until that loud knock at the Nance door.

"Open up, it's the Police."

Well, they really didn't say that, but anytime you see the Police standing at your door, they might as well have announced themselves like that.  They actually said, "Reverend Nance, we are sorry to bother you but there has been some vandalism in this neighborhood lately and we wondered if you have seen any teenagers wandering around with BB guns. Your next door neighbor, had his expensive picture window shot out the other day with a BB gun.

Don realized immediately that the "jig was up" and admitted his guilt even though it was hard to believe that an errant BB shot of his would travel a distance of 300 yards, and blow out a picture window of his neighbors house. The pellet was still in the home and sure enough it was silver, just like the ones he was using.

Don paid for all the damage and the case was closed.

Nevertheless, I sure wouldn't have wanted to be in Don's shoes and have to explain to the Police that.....

"You see, officer, in 1890, a homesick Englishman named Nicholas Pike brought 50 House Sparrows to Brooklyn New York from England...."

-Ed