The Pentecostal Peeper Prayer Meeting of 1975.

This is a story that some of you may have read before, as I have posted it on my Facebook page, but wanted to share it with a broader audience here.  Plus, it's illustrated this time!  Hope you will enjoy it, and it gives you many laughs.

Some of you may have remembered that Ray Stevens song that came out in the late 1980's called "The Mississippi Squirrel Revival," but about 12 years or so before that song hit the airwaves, a real-life story that was even more hilarious happened in the small town of Bedington, WV,  and this one involved tiny frogs and a 6-year-old kid with a fascination for catching a menagerie of critters, as well as a bunch of glorybun-crowned Pentecostal church ladies.   Although little humor was seen by the ladies, and the frogs were just relieved to taste freedom again, it now provides a great family legend that makes relatives chuckle.

My grandfather and my late stepgrandmother Goldie lived at the time in a double-wide mobile home they owned on a meadow-adorned plot of land just east of the town of Bedington off Scrabble Road.  Mom and I stayed with them at the time, as we often lived a semi-nomadic existence between relatives then.   Goldie was a very devout Christian, and was active in a tiny independent Full Gospel church just to the north in the town of Falling Waters.  It was an old-fashioned little church, but also a lively bunch, pastored by a demure balding man by the name of Claude "Jeff" Carbaugh and his wife Altha.   The Carbaughs had pioneered a number of those little Full Gospel churches around the region, which encompassed the far eastern panhandle of West Virginia as well as north-central Virginia and west-central Maryland.  And, he was a conservative, old-time Holiness-Pentecostal minister who could preach passionately and also had gained a great deal of love and respect from his parishioners.   Being churches then actually believed in prayer meetings, the congregation had an active prayer group that met at the homes of its members on a rotating basis each week, and that particular week was our house.  As the group - mostly old Pentecostal ladies who dressed modestly and lived their faith sincerely - assembled in my grandfather's living room, they began a spontaneous prayer meeting that was emotional, vocal, and intense; these people really did know the power of prayer, and they practiced what they preached.  There was a comfort about that too which I didn't understand then, but nowadays I really miss, as many churches don't believe in this like they used to.  Church felt like church, and you knew when you were in God's house or among his people.  Nowadays, no one knows the difference between a church and a nightclub, and now "self-esteem" seminars have replaced prayer meetings, which is truly tragic.  However, I digress, so let's get to the story.

It was the late spring, and earlier that day there was a rainstorm.  Near the house was Hoke Run, a tiny stream that cut across the edge of the meadow on Grandad's property.  There were some wooded groves near the edge of the meadow where Hoke Run meandered through, and in those meadows was a cornucopia of wildlife that I liked to capture.  So, on one of those invasions of the grove, the fresh rains had brought out literally dozens of these tiny little frogs called spring peepers. If you have ever seen one, they are roughly the size of a grown man's thumbnail, and they make a little chirping sound that gives them their name.  And, if you knew where to look, you could find them in great abundance.  And, I had a keen eye for those things, and armed with a large Maxwell House coffee can, I went a-huntin'!  After an hour or two, when my active 6-year-old mind began to lose interest, I headed back to the house with a canful of tiny amphibians, and being proud of my catch I bolted into the door.  What happened next was classic, and it was something probably some of the people in Grandad's living room never forgot until their dying day.

The prayer meeting was in full swing by this time, and people were really intense in their prayers - they were crying, praying in tongues, shouting, etc., and some real intercession was happening.  Then, I come in the door, and anxious to proudly show off the day's catch, I popped open the lid to that coffee can, and tiny frogs exploded everywhere!  As the women bolted up on chairs, their frantic screams brought their glorybuns down, and the frogs were going up dresses, getting stuck in pantyhose, and some managed to achieve such a height that they landed on top of a couple of buns on the ladies' heads.   Mom had to act fast to restrain me - she had gotten used to doing that a lot! - and in due course of time we managed to round up the majority of the peepers and safely incarcerated the little critters back into the Maxwell House can.  I am pretty sure I got into trouble, but am a little young to remember the punishment.  Definitely a prayer meeting to remember!

This is one of several stories of my childhood adventures I will share from time to time, because in many cases truth can be more entertaining than fiction.  Therefore, feel free to visit again, and we'll share some more stories in the future.

The Legend of Uncle Bonzo

Every family has their share of eccentrics, but it seems like we West Virginians have more than our fair share of them at times.   A family eccentric not only becomes a source of many amusing tales at family get-togethers, but can even become something of a local legend.  Southern humorist Louis Grizzard said once, "Southerners don't hide their crazy family members; we put them on display for all to see."  That rings even more so true with us Appalachian families.  One of my late uncles in particular personifies this sentiment perfectly, and I want to talk about him today.

Robert Turner was the second-youngest of my great-grandmother's children by her second marriage to the late Delbert "Mose" Turner, and he was born I'd say around 1940 or so.   As a kid, he looked like a combination of that Steve Urkel character from the old Family Matters sitcom of the early 1990's and Jar-Jar Binks from Star Wars.  His personality was such that he gained the nickname "Bonzo" in part because he reminded people of Ronald Reagan's primate co-star, the chimpanzee Bonzo, in a number of films of the late 1940's and early 1950's.   Uncle Bonzo was skinny, cocky, mouthy, and although afraid of his own shadow, it never stopped him from getting into mischief and almost getting the tar whipped out of him on several occasions - a particular target of his mischief was his older brother, my uncle Delbert "Teak" Turner Jr.  Uncle Teak taught Bonzo many a lesson, although the memory of those lessons wore off fast, as Bonzo couldn't resist the temptation to stir up trouble.  Since a lot of that happened before my time though, I am relying on the tales of family, in particular my grandfather, as reminiscing about Uncle Bonzo is a classic topic of conversation whenever we visit home. 

Although Bonzo had type 1 diabetes (called "juvenile diabetes" in those days, as it was congenital unlike the type 2 that many develop later on), when he was older that didn't stop him from having an affinity for a brew or two, which added to his goofiness.   However, much like a gander-goose, Bonzo could also be a bit cranky at times, particularly in the mornings when he would have a nice long argument at himself in the mirror when he woke up after a lively night on the town.   Despite all that though, he endeared himself to many of us.

A particular quirk - the source of much amusement too - that Bonzo had was his linguistic abilities.  I don't believe anyone could totally reconstruct the English language like he did, and some of the goodies he came up with were so hilarious that years later they still make people laugh.   My grandfather tells a story, for instance, about a time when much of our family lived in Baltimore.  On one particular night, Grandad and Bonzo had stopped off to eat at this diner-like place there in the city somewhere, and Bonzo by this time had consumed a couple of Pabst Blue Ribbons (his favorite libation then).  So, when they proceeded to order, Uncle Bonzo looks at the menu board, and tells the waitress "I'm gonna have me some of that Phillip Hancock!"   Of course, what the menu really said was "fillet of haddock," but in Bonzo's mind that took on a revolutionary new meaning.  He also had an affinity for what he called "fried polack fish" (for those of us who talk "normal," that was pollock), and his favorite phrase was "how you like them apples?"  If a dictionary could be compiled of "Bonzo-speak," I am sure it would take a doctorate-level course to figure out some of it!

Speaking of food, one of my memories of Bonzo was that he loved eating two things.  One was potato soup, which Granny had to make for him at least once a week.  The other was burnt popcorn (don't ask - can't explain that one either!), which as a kid I remember he used to pack away when he briefly stayed with Aunt Pip Schroeder (his oldest sister) when Mom took care of her.  Although he ate pretty healthy, Uncle Bonzo never weighed over 90 pounds soak-and-wet his entire life, and for some reason that endeared him to the old ladies he hung out with.  In short, it was never boring with him around, to be sure!

Bonzo was also a man of many business ventures, although many of them ended up falling flat because he either didn't see them through or they were just goofy ideas.  Getting a buck quick was like an obsession with Uncle Bonzo, and if he couldn't earn it honestly, then he would find a way to try to sue for it.  On one occasion, he came up with the brilliant idea to steal apples from an orchard in Romney, WV, which he planned on selling to people in Baltimore.  However, as he was doing his dastardly deed, he tripped in a mole hole in the orchard and sprained his ankle.  So, he planned on suing the orchard owner - mind you, he was stealing the guy's apples in the process, so keep that in mind! - for damages he "sustained" in the injury.  I was around 6 years old at the time, and remember that well- nothing came of either the apple business or the lawsuit, so the matter was dropped when the next thing caught Bonzo's interest.  Then, while living at Granny's in Hendricks, WV, back around late 1976 or so - Mom and I lived there too at the time, and I was in first grade in school - he decided to get into the chicken business.  So, he goes out and buys these chickens, locks them up in a delapidated old shed behind Granny's house that no one used for anything, and of course eventually a lot of the chickens died from either poor care or they ended up on the butcher block for supper.   Being somewhat devious myself at that age, my pursuit on one particular day was trying to come up with money to get a candy bar and a soda at Sonny Hedrick's Store up the road.   So, I decided I was going to blackmail Uncle Bonzo, who at that particular moment was somewhat hung-over from a hard night's carousing up at the old Sunset Inn bar in nearby Bretz and was miserably stretched out on the glider outside on Granny's porch.  I told him that if he didn't give me a quarter, I would let all those chickens loose.  Being he saw dollar signs with feathers rather than the clucking, noisy birds they were, that got his attention, and I got myself a Chunky Bar and a grape soda that day (Chunkies then were about a dime, and sodas were about a quarter - talk about price increases!).  When I was a kid, Bonzo and I had almost a continual battle of wits, as I was the only one then he could match them with (amusing too was that he was easy to outwit, which I did a lot, much to the amusement of the rest of the family).  And, looking back on that, I had some tremendous fun aggravating Uncle Bonzo too - it was almost an unavoidable temptation actually.

I mentioned Bonzo's affinity for the old ladies, and that extended back to his youth.  I was told that back then there was a rather weird old woman that lived in Hendricks whom I also believe was a distant aunt of his on his Turner side of the tree.   Any rate, this old woman had this yellow cat that was causing some problems because he was having his way with a lot of the female cats and was creating an alarming population of kittens in Hendricks.  The old lady decided some action needed to be taken to keep her tomcat home, so she enlisted Bonzo, whom she called "Bobby," to assist her in neutralizing the tomcat.  The two of them came up with a technique that involved an old boot and a razorblade, and the objective was to stick the cat's head into the boot and extract his kitten-makers.  So, with the old lady's assistance, Bonzo got that cat into the boot, was holding it by its back legs, and sawing away on its cojones with this old razorblade.  The cat was not happy about this little operation, and was expressing its displeasure by making a "RRROOOWWWWLLLLL!" sound from inside the boot.   The old lady was somewhat worried, and said to Bonzo, "Awww, Bobby, don't hurt 'em!"  Apparently the cat survived Dr. Bonzo's surgical procedure, and naturally the kitten population went down afterward.  

Also when he was a teenager, he could get into some trouble, and although Granny was little and frail-looking, she could assert her authority well if she had to.  One thing she did not tolerate was any sass or backtalk (I experienced her wrath myself once when she spanked my butt with a spatula, which I called the "skillet spoon," so I can attest to that well!), but of course Bonzo had to push the issue. She had gotten onto him for something, and he sassed her back. She told him basically that if he didn't shut up, she would crown him with a bar of soap she was using to clean with (this was not bath soap, but rather a brick-sized bar that was used for household cleaning, as it really wasn't suited for hygenic purposes).   However, he did the unthinkable - he told her, point-blank, "I dare you."  Those are three words you never said in Granny's presence, and within a short time, WHAM!! - upside his noggin went that monster cake of soap, dropping him like a fat man's drawers on an anorexic acrobat!  For a time it seemed, he learned his lesson, but his instigative nature didn't allow that to last for long obviously.  

Much more could be said about Uncle Bonzo - heck, a book could be written about his exploits! - but sufficive to say, you have the general idea of the kind of person he was.  We all wanted to choke him at some point, but we also loved him too, and life definitely would not have been the same without him to be sure.  Unfortunately, due to his diabetic condition and the fact he really didn't watch his health all that well, Uncle Bonzo soon met a death long before his time should have been up.  In 1979 I believe, just shy of his 40th birthday, Uncle Bonzo was either going to bed or just waking up, and when he got up he stepped on the sharp edge of a Mason jar lid.  Now, with many of us, that's not a problem - you just disinfect the wound and bandage it up.  However, diabetics have a unique situation in which if something damages their extremities, it could be fatal  In Bonzo's case, that is what happened - gangrene set into the wound, and because somehow it wasn't caught in time, it eventually claimed his life.  Today, he rests in the Fansler Cemetery above Hendricks, near Granny's grave, and his memories live on with many of us who knew and loved him.  If you have an eccentric relative like this, I am sure you can appreciate the story, and more than likely can relate to it on some level.  Rest in peace, Uncle Bonzo, and stay out of the chicken houses and apple orchards. 

Reflections on Appalachian Roots

Have you ever, when you were a teenager getting ready to graduate high school, been anxious to leave the nest so to speak, spread your wings, and see the world?  Many of us felt that way as kids, and I remember personally when I graduated high school in Terra Alta, WV, that I wanted to get out of there fast!  So, I did, but in a short time I began to miss home.  Over the years too, I have learned to greatly appreciate and value my roots more too, and to be honest, I am very thankful I was born in West Virginia, and am an Appalachian American, and want to reflect on that some.  Sometimes, living in this crowded city, I really have those days when I miss home badly, and want to go back to simpler life.  But, reality doesn't allow that to happen so soon necessarily, but that is why we have our memories and convictions.   So, I am going to share mine with you.

I was born in a town - Parsons, WV - that in its entire history never had more than a population of 2,000 people at any given time.  In recent years, with the economy as it's been as well as some major changes to the area brought about by a devastating flood in November 1985, that population is less as people make an exodus for points elsewhere to find good jobs and attend good colleges.  The town I graduated high school in - Terra Alta, WV - is smaller still.  However, there is a charm and drawing with these places that many of us from there cannot resist, and although some of us were restless to leave and explore the wider world in our youth, our hometowns still exert a magnetism over us that draws us back to them, and that is something that is a blessing rather than a curse.  West Virginians even have a term for that, as we call it a "sense of place."  "Place" means something to Appalachian people, and it is something that I can't quite describe in writing - you just have to be one of us to understand it I guess.  I feel it when I visit certain places back home, and to be honest our part of the state has some very nice areas.  The way the roads are constructed, the stair-step houses on the sides of the hills that often it takes a flight of 20 steps to get up to, and the delapidated old barns and other landmarks give the place an atmosphere.   Even the roadsigns have significance to me personally - in West Virginia, there are these green county road signs that designate a certain rural route, and something about those signs is just familiar and somewhat comforting.  Some of the people I grew up or went to school with would probably not notice that until it was pointed out, but the look of "oh yeah, I see what you mean..." tells you they understand where you are coming from with that.

This is a newer version of one of the "guide signs" I am talking about, although in another county in WV.

And, this is the classic sign like the ones that were around when I was growing up - this one is from Pendleton County.

It is just hard to imagine for some - and hard to explain for me - why something as mundane and insignificant as a road sign would have such a meaning to it, but they do for some reason.  As a kid, I would have taken that for granted, as many others back home may have, but now it signifies something to me personally.  But, it isn't just road signs, but other things too.

The "place" you grow up in is part of your identity, and it says a lot about who you are too.  But, there is more to it than that.  You see, I grew up a significant part of my childhood poor - my parents divorced when I was quite young, and my mother raised me, although we spent a lot of time at relatives too.  Living with my maternal grandmother and step-grandfather just south of Augusta, WV, for many a year was a particular learning experience for me.  My grandparents were what you would call real mountain people - their house didn't have running water, bathrooms, or any type of air conditioning or central heating.   If you wanted a bath, you heated up the water on a wood stove in their house and bathed in a large metal tub.  If you had to go to the bathroom, you used either an outhouse in good weather or a contraption my step-grandfather rigged with an old kitchen chair, a toilet seat, and a 50-gallon lard bucket in inclement weather.  To heat the house in the winter (and also to cook) there was a wood stove in the living room, and although my folks had electricity, things were still pretty primitive.  Also, we grew, hunted, and foraged for a lot of the stuff we ate - although there is a mandatory hunting season there, often out of necessity my step-grandfather would shoot deer even in the summer months, and we also ate a lot of groundhogs, snapping turtles, and other creatures too.  Another rustic culinary delight I loved gathering but was not thrilled about eating was poke greens.  These were the young tops of the pokeweed plant that were harvested in the summer months and cooked fresh like spinach as a vegetable.  The adult plants were poisonous, and had long stalks of black berries that were also highly toxic.   And, of course, there were a wide variety of berries available throughout the year - tiny wild strawberries in June, huckleberries and serviceberries in July, mountain rasberries and blackberries in late July, elderberries in September, and wild grapes (those were bitter and nasty to eat though!) in late September.   Naturally too, there were in late March the ramps to harvest as well.  Although this stuff was not exactly gourmet fare, with a little creativity you could survive well on it.  We were also a gardening people too, and in the summer months there were always abundant supplies of tomatoes, squash, cukes, and other vegetables, sometimes so much that people gave them away to friends and neighbors.  It was not uncommon, for instance, to step out on your porch some morning and see a big bag of zucchinis or tomatoes sitting at your door.  People got creative with garden produce too - we fried a lot of stuff, but with zucchini it seemed like anything could be done; people baked with it even (one girl I went to grade school with even has a recipe for zucchini brownies!  Imagine that).  Besides food though, there were also other ways we "made do."  Many times, clothing was handmade, and contraptions abounded as innovative mountain folks came up with things that would make a nuclear physicist envious.  Although rough at times for me growing up - it didn't help that my mother also drank a lot too - I learned much from the experience, and as a result it made me work my butt off to assure I got a college education, good work, etc.  



A young pokeweed plant, about the right size for harvesting.

Sometimes a little adversity can be a good thing, as I found out the hard way growing up, and it tends to build character in people.  Too many kids today are so spoiled and disrespectful that it is frightening, and if only they had to "rough it" like I had to do when I was their age, they might build the character many of them so sorely lack.  Just a casual observation...

Well, I hope you enjoyed this article, and will hopefully return soon to share some more of my life with you.