TIDBITS

BY RALPH SHEALY

HOME TO ROOST?

 

　　We’ve all heard stories of cats and dogs finding their way home from miles away, but now we can add chickens to the mix!

　　Sybil Cockrell shared a remarkable story with us that began at Easter a few years ago.

　　The grandchildren of Mr. and Mrs. Mike Mitchell got a couple of those cute, pastel colored biddies for Easter.

　　All of us, who have ever gotten Easter biddies, know those cute little chicks grow up to be ugly chickens.

　　When the chickens turned into roosters, one red and one white, Mike asked Sybil and her husband Lemar if they wanted them.

　　The Cockrells accepted the offer.

　　Time passed and Sybil and Lemar decided they had too many roosters, and asked the Mitchells if they wanted them back.

　　The only stipulation was the Mitchells couldn’t have the roosters for Sunday dinner.

　　The Mitchells accepted.

　　Not too long ago, Lemar told Sybil he had seen a couple of roosters in a tree, where the old chickens used to roost.

　　Curious, Sybil called the Mitchells to see if the roosters were still there. She was told they hadn’t been seen in a while.

　　Sybil asked them to come to her house to identify the suspects..

　　Sure enough, the chickens had come home to roost, by traveling over two miles.

　　"I’ve heard of homing pigeons," Sybil said, "but I’ve never heard of homing chickens!"

　　Again, Sybil has found the roosters new homes, but this time they are in separate locations. The same "no eat" directive exists.

　　I’ll let you know if these come home.

 

WILD MAN

 

　　Horace Padgett of Spartanburg came in to renew his paper, as he does every year.

　This year he had his son Horace Jr. with him.

　　I hadn’t seen Horace Jr. in over 40 years and I had to remind him how we first met.

　　I’m related to Lewie Shealy on his father’s side, and Horace is Lewie’s cousin on his mother’s side.

　　Lewie’s dad Richard built a great camping facility for Lewie and his brother Voight behind his mother Lida’ home. It wasn’t the Biltmore House, but the shack had a roof, wood bunks, and was surrounded by screened windows.

　　One summer Horace Jr. was down visiting, so Lewie invited Jamie, Roy Kennerly Jr., and me to join Voight, Horace Jr. and him for a camp-out,

　　Roy and Horace were teenagers, Lewie and I were 11 or 12, and Jamie and Voight were eight or nine.

　　The hut was surrounded by lit tiki torches. It was the perfect environment, until the older boys started telling ghost stories.

　　That summer there was a rumor about a "wild man" being seeing in our community. We had all heard it.

　　With each ghost story, and each noise in the woods, the night got creepier and creepier.

　　Then I made a brilliant statement, "You know. If there is a wild man out there, he is going to see these lights!"

　　We had to blow out the torches, but the wiser older boys said we shouldn’t sacrifice all our lives.

　　We would draw straws to see who would extinguish the flames.

　　Of course, you know who lost.

　　Remember, the Six Million Dollar man?

　　The hut had a screen door. I dashed out blew out the flames, and was back in the hut before the door slammed shut.

　　No wild man was going to get me.

　　Of course, it was awfully dark with the torches out.

　　I don’t think any of us slept a wink.

 

THE DEACON’S HERE

 

　　In a family full of Methodists, we now have a Deacon!

　　Deacon Lane Donlon was born to Mayson and Jason on Thursday, February 25, at Lexington Medical Center.

　　He is the first "great" in our immediate family.

　　When Mayson and Jason found out they were going to have a son, and I heard they were to name him "Deacon," I said, "they are going to name him what?!!!

　　Since then, I’ve read that Reese Witherspoon and Ryan Phillippe named their son "Deacon," and the name is catching on.

　　Ironically, the Donlons did not know Mayson’s late grandfather on her daddy’s side, Paul Jones, directed a choir at a Baptist Church, and according to his daughter Sheila Shealy, was nicknamed "Deacon" Jones.

　　Of course, Deacon Jones was also a hall of fame defensive end for the Los Angeles Rams.

　　I must add, I visited Deacon Saturday, and he’s the cutest child in the world, but he didn’t talk much.

　　Deacon’s name will fit right in.

　　He has a mother named Dibbie, who everybody called Debbie while she was growing up.

　　He has a mother named Mayson and an uncle named Morgan, and as they grew up, people called Mayson "Morgan" and called Morgan "Mayson."

　　And, finally, he had a great-granddaddy named Shake!

　　Daddy would have loved little Deacon. His first great-grandchild came three days before what would have been his 84th birthday.

　　Also observing a birthday on February 28 was Heather Riley Shealy.

　　Heather gave birth to Deacon’s cousin Trisleigh about three weeks ago.

　　Little Trisleigh is home, but has been in isolation. Hopefully, she’ll be out and about soon.

　　Mayson and Trisleigh’s dad Paul Shealy are first AND third cousins. They are first cousins on the Jones side of the family and third cousins on the Shealy.

　　The makes Trisleigh and Deacon .... it’s too complicated.

　　One of my favorite lines from Trisleigh’s great uncle and Deacon’s cousin, the late Johnny Shealy, was "I am my own seventh cousin."

　　Let them figure it out.

 

PURPLE AND WHITE

 

　　My brother Jamie wanted to share this information with our readers:

　　"I spoke on the phone with Brant-ley Padget of Nashville, Tennessee. He said that his father Frank Padget was football coach in Saluda in the 1920s. He said that Goat McMillen played for his dad. When his dad went to Clemson as an assistant, he took three players from Saluda with him, including Goat Mc Millen. (McMillen was a long time assistant coach at Clemson under Frank Howard.)

　　He said that his father told him that Saluda wore purple and white, because he could not afford uniforms and the staff at Furman gave him a set to use and that’s how we got the purple and white.

　　His grandfather was James Man-chester Padgett, who was an attorney in Edgefield and was Strom Thurmond’s 1st partner.

　　He is trying to find out information about his father and history of Saluda football in that era."

　　If anyone who knows anything about Saluda football in the 20’s, he would like to hear from them. Just let us know and we’ll give you his phone number.

 

　

　　RYAN RAMBLES

BY RYAN DeLOACHE METTS

The Joy of Work

 

　　Last Thursday afternoon I had the unique privilege to spend time with Mr. Phil Small, a northern lobster fisherman, and his wife Mrs. Rose Ellen at the home of their family members and my friends Mrs. Leona and Mr. Frank Swanson. Visiting from Blue Hill, Maine, Mr. Phil and Mrs. Rose enthusiastically shared their many sea adventures with me. Since I knew absolutely nothing about lobster fishing, I was enthralled from the beginning.

　　Born in Searsport, Maine, Mr. Phil Small has worked as a lobster fisherman for over thirty-five years. If you think lobster fishing is a simple job, you are mistaken. Although the lobster season is only from May to November, Mr. Phil spends at least five weeks in the ocean before May setting all of his lobster traps—a huge seven hundred in total.

　　Lobster fishing is also an all-day job. Leaving around 3:30 in the morning, Mr. Phil does not return home until the afternoon. On an average day at sea, he collects lobsters from about two hundred traps. Although Mr. Phil might catch six hundred pounds of lobster in a day, he is usually only allowed to keep one-third of that amount. A captured lobster must be the perfect size, between one to four pounds, in order to be legally sold. In order to determine if a lobster is "legal," Mr. Phil uses a six-and-a-half inch gauge to measure the lobster.

　　Desiring to attract and ensnare his prey, Mr. Phil stuffs his traps with herring as bait. His traps are approximately four-foot long metal crates and can exist anywhere from fifteen to two hundred feet deep in the water. There, in the depths of the ocean, the traps (aka "pots") are connected to ropes (aka "warps"). The "warps" are then connected to brightly colored buoys, which float on top of the water. Each fisherman owns specially colored buoys to indicate which traps are his. Mr. Phil also uses a "gaft," basically a four-foot wooden pole with a hook at the end, to retrieve the buoys from the ocean. He then uses a "pot hauler" to hoist the traps onto the boat. Once Mr. Phil gathers the legal lobsters from the traps, he carefully tosses them into a fifty-five-gallon barrel of circulating salt water.

　　Although his traps are all within three miles from the coast, Mr. Phil fishes many miles down the coast of Maine and Massachusetts, sometimes traveling fifty miles. Luckily for Mr. Phil, barrier islands shield his lobster traps in the bay area; therefore, the weather and water surrounding the "pots" are usually calm and peaceful, making it much easier for Mr. Phil to navigate his boat between the submerged traps.

　　His fishing boat, Christie Rose III, is thirty-six feet long and thirteen feet wide at the stern, the back of the craft. The captain of the boat, Mr. Phil, along with his sternman, a petite Australian woman named Skip, maneuver Christie to each lobster trap throughout the day and take the day’s catch back to the dealer on the barge for a profit. In recent years, lobster fishermen received up to $4.25 per pound for their catch; unfortunately prices have signif-icantly dropped, and the fishermen are now receiving as little as $2.66 per pound.

　　I also discovered that lobster fishermen are extremely super-stitious. For example a few of the men are horrified of the color blue. They believe that if anything blue is on board the boat, they will have bad luck at sea that day. Even though Mr. Phil and Mrs. Rose are not squeamish about certain colors, they do fervently believe in one superstition: they refuse to refill the container of lobster bands, the bands that safely secure the lobster’s pinchers into place, until they have used the very last band. Once, Mrs. Rose refilled the jar before it was completely empty, and, as a result, Mr. Phil exper-ienced terrible luck that day.

　　Mr. Phil ended our conversation by sharing the many joys of his job. He expressed that every morning at the crack of dawn, he has the opportunity to witness the breath-taking sunrise and beauty of the coast. He continued to say that the waves are often dark, peaceful shades of blue, and the Maine weather is usually impeccable – light blue skies, wispy clouds, and soothing, calm breezes. Mr. Phil also confided in me that he did not see any point in individuals working at an occupation that they did not enjoy and love. His wife, Mrs. Rose, chimed in: "I never have to nag Mr. Phil to get out of bed, let’s just put it that way."

　　A few weeks ago I wanted to be a forensic anthropologist. Well, that dream has temporarily been put on hold. "Ryan – the Lobster Fisher-man" has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? Regardless of my career ambitions, however, I can only hope that I enjoy my job as much as Mr. Phil loves his.