I think it will be nice to have a thread where I canread and collect hard time stories from people that have lived the depression, or some needy times like WWII. I heard a lot of stories from my father and mother and they really helped me improve my attitude, and get me prepared for whats coming, anyway here is a nice one I found to start this thread off:
EATING POSSUM
A while back I heard a man speak just a few words in a near whisper, and convey how awful the of the Thirties was.
It happened as eight or ten of us, stood around congratulating one another on ending another work-week. Talk turned somehow to exotic game, and for a time we discussed the odd things people will or will not eat, things we ourselves had or had not consumed.
Rattlesnake and groundhog, raccoon and snapping turtle,
crawfish and I don't know what all were talked about at length. Then somebody mentioned possum. We agreed possum was a whole different deal. One youngster in his twenties flat got worked up on the subject. "I'd never put a piece of possum in my mouth," he insisted. "Not for no amount of money.
Do you know what them things eat? Anything dead is what, and I mean anything." The kid talked on and on about how he would never, ever eat possum, not even the one somebody recalled their granddad raising from a baby on the same slops the hogs got.
One old-timer in his seventies listened to the rest of us, not saying much, though he laughed at our jokes. He looked like a man who'd worked hard all his life, locked into brute labor by a lack of education. He waited till the kid hushed, and then intoned, "Son, let me tell you something. If you were hungry enough you'd eat a possum. And be happy to have it."
Something in that man's dignified voice made it clear he'd weathered monstrous hard times he wouldn't waste breath complaining about. And somewhere or other, some time or other, he'd been awfully thankful to have a chunk of possum to chew on.
I wish I knew his name, but I don't. I don't even recall ever seeing him again. But he gave me a couple of things to think about. I'm still thinking about them.
I think about whether or not my generation --or my son's-- could survive what that old man did. And if we did survive, would we still be able to laugh like he did?
And I think about how naturally eloquent the generation can be, folks who went through unbelievably hard times without flinching or complaining, without breaking. We ought to listen
to them more. They're quickly leaving us, you know. Not all that long ago, on any warm afternoon, we could have gone to one of the courthouse "liar's benches" and heard first hand accounts of World War I.
Those old warriors are gone now, almost every one. Soon the children of the will follow, taking all their stories with them.
Next time you have a few idle minutes with someone who's passed a seventieth birthday, ask what it was like back in the thirties. See what kind of tales they have yet to tell.
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Stories, poetry, "Notes From the Top of the Hill,"
and some funny stuff.
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