Well, another year is coming to an end. And what a year it has been in the lives of our families, communities and nation.
Once again, for the 8th season, I am sharing a family recipe with my friends… and all of those who have mattered to me over the past year.
This year, I’ve been thinking over, since Thanksgiving, the old dog-eared index cards with the hand writings of recipes from my mom, aunts, grandmothers and others. For some reason it’s been a challenge to pick the dish I want to share as 2008 comes to a close.
In past years I’ve shared family dishes such as corn chowder, coconut cake, potato candy and hoe cakes.
This year: Mississippi Mud Pie
This is a rich, thick pie… much like the muddy banks of the River itself. But, the pie taste mighty fine.
It’s so good it will make a puppy pull a freight train…
a bird dog climb a sweet gum tree…
a beagle wallow down 3 acres of kudzu.
Yeah, it’s good.
Many of my family recipes are so old no one really knows who first started them. Many go back through my family to the early days of our Democracy. That doesn’t seem true of the Mississippi Mud Pie.
In fact, it’s largely believed this pie was created by home cooks after World War II as millions of GI’s returned home from war. Schooling and new homes were possible through the GI Bill.
The great American middle class stood tall.
American automakers prospered, suburbs sprouted up everywhere and our nation’s vision for the future was limitless. And because of its simple ingredients easily found at the supermarket and no need for any special cooking tools the Mississippi Mud Pie was there, in kitchens and on dinner tables across the South.
So, make this pie, enjoy its richness and let’s lift up our nation in the new-year, creating a place where our vision for the future is limitless in potential.
I wish you are a very Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. I thank you for your friendship and support. God is good!
Making a Mississippi Mud Pie:
Use a chocolate or vanilla wafer crust, or graham cracker works, to make this pie.
Ingredients:
1/4 lb. butter (1 stick)
2 (1 oz. each) squares unsweetened chocolate
3 eggs
3 tablespoons white corn syrup
1 1/3 cups sugar
1 tsp. vanilla
9 inch graham cracker, chocolate or vanilla wafer pie shell
Preparation:
In a saucepan, heat butter and chocolate, stir often, until melted and well blended. Beat eggs; stir in the corn syrup, sugar and vanilla. Add the chocolate mixture to egg and sugar mixture, stirring well. Preheat oven to 350°. Pour filling into pie shell. Bake 35 to 40 minutes, or until top is slightly crunchy and filling is set (toothpick test).
Serve warm with a scoop of vanilla ice cream or dollop of whipped cream.
Enjoy!!
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Monday, November 17, 2008
Mamma Hattie and Annie Bell... Southern Belles and Patron Saints to Guide Us
(Writer's Note: This is a journal entry I made in late 2001. I ran across it over the weekend and thought it worth sharing. I hope you enjoy.)
“And they themselves were a part of the confluence. Their own joint act of faith had brought them here at the very moment and matched its occurrence, and proceeded as it proceeded.” from The Optimist’s Daughter, by Eudora Welty
My Grandmamma was Hattie Ross Mitchell. My nanny was an African American by the name of Annie Bell, Annie Bell O’Bannon. They were both of the same generation, born in the first decade of the 1900’s. They were both from the back roads of Mississippi. Both of them were Southern Belles.
Annie Bell was barely removed from the institution of slavery; yet the unpainted shack of the cotton field where she was born and raised, the dependence on white landowners, and a life never existing above the poverty line sustained a different form of slavery. She was in her sixties before she ever had the right to vote. And she lived in a place that flew a flag that had flown over the people who enslaved her ancestors, the Stars and Bars. A flag that stood for a heritage that was hard, disenfranchising and racist.
Mamma Hattie grew up in the home of a sharecropper. She also spent her life under the poverty line, and under the same flag that represented Annie Bell. She was white so her family voted and could get jobs that paid marginally better than black jobs. She grew up picking cotton by hand and washing clothes in a tub in the yard. Mamma Hattie, by thousands of standards, had a hard life. There was no moonlight and magnolias in her heritage. Mamma Hattie’s front porch wasn’t for Mint Julep sipping. Her heritage was not glossed over in myth; it was one of hard work and meager means.
I was present during the confluence of their lives. Maybe I was the reason for this confluence. Annie Bell came on as my nanny in 1969 when I was three years old. We lived on Third Street in Grenada, Mississippi. My father was a cotton planter and the county Sheriff. I called him what everyone else did, Big Daddy. My mamma ran my father’s office. Mamma Hattie lived next door to our home, in a house also owned by Big Daddy.
So there I was growing up with a nanny and a Grandmamma at my convenience. My heritage comes from their existence.
Annie Bell and Mamma Hattie read their Bibles feverishly. Their faith led them to pray whenever storm clouds came near.
Their literal view of the Bible gave me a simple lineage dating back to Adam.
I shelled peas at their feet during thick August afternoons from the front porch. Annie Bell taught me how to clean a fish with a spoon and Mamma Hattie coached me on how to play baseball. She always told me that my grandfather would have been a professional baseball player had the opportunity existed out in Beat 4, Grenada County during the 20’s and 30’s. I have no reason to doubt her to this day.
For purposes of correction when I did wrong, like sneaking off to the train tracks two blocks to the east to watch the massive Illinois Central trains rumble past, Mamma Hattie used the basic switch cut from a bush. Annie Bell used a hairbrush on the up-turned palm of my hand. She believed a young boy’s kidneys could be injured by traditional spanking methods. Annie Bell would hold my hand still and pop it a time or two while the rest of my body danced and twirled, trying to gain freedom.
In the mornings, by the time I was usually roused from sleep, Mamma Hattie and my mamma would be out in the yard watering flowers and looking at blossoms in the cool of the early hours. Annie Bell and Big Daddy would be in the kitchen. Annie Bell still cooking breakfast, Big Daddy eating and both of them having a shared morning Bible-study. If the Bible said the moon turned to blood, well, for Annie Bell, it did! Big Daddy would laugh and tease Annie Bell. And Annie Bell: “Now Sheriff Strider, that’s just what the Holy Bible says.” They always prayed before Big Daddy headed off to fight crime and look at his cotton.
Mamma Hattie came from a huge family. The Ross family dominated our corner of Grenada County in population where our family’s farm was located. I got to know Uncle JD and Aunt Sarah Lee, and Aunt Ruby and Uncle Tom James and countless others by often traveling out to the country. Mamma Hattie never drove a car, but mamma would take her, I would ride in the back seat. Mamma Hattie wore a big, floppy straw hat and plastic shades affixed over her regular eyeglasses.
Annie Bell lived on the other side of town. Sometimes I would ride with my mom real early in the mornings to pick her up. The houses would turn from large, painted show places to dingy unpainted shacks. Annie Bell was always on the front porch of her shack, waiting. The lady who lived next door to her was Magnolia. I couldn’t understand Magnolia to save my life. I would look at her as only a little boy could, with turned head and big eyes. I thought she spoke a foreign language. I would mimic her sometimes with a quick retort of sounds and noises.
Annie Bell would throw her head back and laugh so loud some dog off on the side walk would bark.
Whenever I cut myself, or a bee stung me or I fell from a tree I would run to the nearest one of the two for help, Mamma Hattie or Annie Bell. Either would do because their open arms were full of love and care. Their soft words were full of comfort and ease. They were saints and I had all their patronage. Once, I fell through the front door window because I was playing where I had been told not to. I was so startled and upset that Annie Bell hugged me and said all would be fine; she didn’t even reach for the hairbrush. And she called my mom and told her it was an accident. Mamma Hattie loved to clip the end off Aloe Vera plants whenever I burned myself. She would coat the burn and soothe my cries.
Mamma Hattie died in 1984 when I was a senior in High School. She had had a stroke several months before and even though Annie Bell had been retired for a few years she came everyday and sat in a bedroom of our home we had fixed up for Mamma Hattie... she couldn’t get out of the bed; she couldn’t talk. Annie Bell would read her the Bible and sit calmly and tell her stories. She’d hold Mamma Hattie’s hand and pray.
They were friends in their twilight. The confluence of their lives created a bond and a familiarity that is rarely encountered. Their experiences were much more common than different. They prayed, they planted the same vegetables, they both knew that if you killed a snake with your garden ho make sure you don’t leave it belly-up or it would come back to life at sundown; that’s what they told me. Nothing really made them different from one another. I can’t imagine anyone trying to tell me one should matter more because of skin color.
Annie Bell looked like the singer Leontyne Price and Mamma Hattie look like Miss Clara on Andy Griffith. Mamma Hattie made the best biscuits and gravy, while Annie Bell made the best-fried chicken. Annie Bell was partial to the soap opera called Dark Shadows and Mamma Hattie watched General Hospital.
They both knew God and God knew each one of them, by name.
Being present during the confluence of their lives forever convinced me that skin color doesn’t matter. A great hoax has been played on way too many people; a great hoax that says skin pigment defines people. It doesn’t. I have Mamma Hattie and Annie Bell to prove any such argument blatantly without merit.
When debates arise over symbols and heritage and identification I am infuriated that the great hoax seems so alive. We can’t have one nation when we embrace symbols that reflect a tense and asymmetrical heritage. It’s a false heritage we seek to elevate when our symbols divide rather than include. Our energy and spirits are washed down into the gutter when we fight to uphold a heritage that seeks to alienate rather than embrace. Some of our heritage belongs in museums. We have plenty of nobility and decency to embrace and stand on, stand on together without the insecurities and ignorance of racism.
Annie Bell passed away in 2001. I was driving down Connecticut Avenue in Washington, DC when I got the news over my cell phone. I was headed home from my job on Capitol Hill. Annie Bell never drove down Connecticut Avenue or visited Capitol Hill.
I’ve worked with many great leaders, elected Members of Congress and the Senate being a few. Anne Bell never met a Congressman or Senator.
But when Annie Bell died, I knew that I would never again meet a person as great.
When Annie Bell died I knew that the confluence of two great saints had once again occurred. Mamma Hattie and Annie Bell were once again somewhere on a front porch shelling peas, and talking about the flowers, and the windows that needed washing and maybe doing a little grocery shopping later in the day. When Annie Bell died I cried a river of tears because the last of my two saints had crossed over Jordan to their place in Glory.
Everyone needs an Annie Bell and a Mamma Hattie. Everyone needs a heritage that is real, and true and personal; for me, it was the confluence of Southern Belles – my patron Saints.
“And they themselves were a part of the confluence. Their own joint act of faith had brought them here at the very moment and matched its occurrence, and proceeded as it proceeded.” from The Optimist’s Daughter, by Eudora Welty
My Grandmamma was Hattie Ross Mitchell. My nanny was an African American by the name of Annie Bell, Annie Bell O’Bannon. They were both of the same generation, born in the first decade of the 1900’s. They were both from the back roads of Mississippi. Both of them were Southern Belles.
Annie Bell was barely removed from the institution of slavery; yet the unpainted shack of the cotton field where she was born and raised, the dependence on white landowners, and a life never existing above the poverty line sustained a different form of slavery. She was in her sixties before she ever had the right to vote. And she lived in a place that flew a flag that had flown over the people who enslaved her ancestors, the Stars and Bars. A flag that stood for a heritage that was hard, disenfranchising and racist.
Mamma Hattie grew up in the home of a sharecropper. She also spent her life under the poverty line, and under the same flag that represented Annie Bell. She was white so her family voted and could get jobs that paid marginally better than black jobs. She grew up picking cotton by hand and washing clothes in a tub in the yard. Mamma Hattie, by thousands of standards, had a hard life. There was no moonlight and magnolias in her heritage. Mamma Hattie’s front porch wasn’t for Mint Julep sipping. Her heritage was not glossed over in myth; it was one of hard work and meager means.
I was present during the confluence of their lives. Maybe I was the reason for this confluence. Annie Bell came on as my nanny in 1969 when I was three years old. We lived on Third Street in Grenada, Mississippi. My father was a cotton planter and the county Sheriff. I called him what everyone else did, Big Daddy. My mamma ran my father’s office. Mamma Hattie lived next door to our home, in a house also owned by Big Daddy.
So there I was growing up with a nanny and a Grandmamma at my convenience. My heritage comes from their existence.
Annie Bell and Mamma Hattie read their Bibles feverishly. Their faith led them to pray whenever storm clouds came near.
Their literal view of the Bible gave me a simple lineage dating back to Adam.
I shelled peas at their feet during thick August afternoons from the front porch. Annie Bell taught me how to clean a fish with a spoon and Mamma Hattie coached me on how to play baseball. She always told me that my grandfather would have been a professional baseball player had the opportunity existed out in Beat 4, Grenada County during the 20’s and 30’s. I have no reason to doubt her to this day.
For purposes of correction when I did wrong, like sneaking off to the train tracks two blocks to the east to watch the massive Illinois Central trains rumble past, Mamma Hattie used the basic switch cut from a bush. Annie Bell used a hairbrush on the up-turned palm of my hand. She believed a young boy’s kidneys could be injured by traditional spanking methods. Annie Bell would hold my hand still and pop it a time or two while the rest of my body danced and twirled, trying to gain freedom.
In the mornings, by the time I was usually roused from sleep, Mamma Hattie and my mamma would be out in the yard watering flowers and looking at blossoms in the cool of the early hours. Annie Bell and Big Daddy would be in the kitchen. Annie Bell still cooking breakfast, Big Daddy eating and both of them having a shared morning Bible-study. If the Bible said the moon turned to blood, well, for Annie Bell, it did! Big Daddy would laugh and tease Annie Bell. And Annie Bell: “Now Sheriff Strider, that’s just what the Holy Bible says.” They always prayed before Big Daddy headed off to fight crime and look at his cotton.
Mamma Hattie came from a huge family. The Ross family dominated our corner of Grenada County in population where our family’s farm was located. I got to know Uncle JD and Aunt Sarah Lee, and Aunt Ruby and Uncle Tom James and countless others by often traveling out to the country. Mamma Hattie never drove a car, but mamma would take her, I would ride in the back seat. Mamma Hattie wore a big, floppy straw hat and plastic shades affixed over her regular eyeglasses.
Annie Bell lived on the other side of town. Sometimes I would ride with my mom real early in the mornings to pick her up. The houses would turn from large, painted show places to dingy unpainted shacks. Annie Bell was always on the front porch of her shack, waiting. The lady who lived next door to her was Magnolia. I couldn’t understand Magnolia to save my life. I would look at her as only a little boy could, with turned head and big eyes. I thought she spoke a foreign language. I would mimic her sometimes with a quick retort of sounds and noises.
Annie Bell would throw her head back and laugh so loud some dog off on the side walk would bark.
Whenever I cut myself, or a bee stung me or I fell from a tree I would run to the nearest one of the two for help, Mamma Hattie or Annie Bell. Either would do because their open arms were full of love and care. Their soft words were full of comfort and ease. They were saints and I had all their patronage. Once, I fell through the front door window because I was playing where I had been told not to. I was so startled and upset that Annie Bell hugged me and said all would be fine; she didn’t even reach for the hairbrush. And she called my mom and told her it was an accident. Mamma Hattie loved to clip the end off Aloe Vera plants whenever I burned myself. She would coat the burn and soothe my cries.
Mamma Hattie died in 1984 when I was a senior in High School. She had had a stroke several months before and even though Annie Bell had been retired for a few years she came everyday and sat in a bedroom of our home we had fixed up for Mamma Hattie... she couldn’t get out of the bed; she couldn’t talk. Annie Bell would read her the Bible and sit calmly and tell her stories. She’d hold Mamma Hattie’s hand and pray.
They were friends in their twilight. The confluence of their lives created a bond and a familiarity that is rarely encountered. Their experiences were much more common than different. They prayed, they planted the same vegetables, they both knew that if you killed a snake with your garden ho make sure you don’t leave it belly-up or it would come back to life at sundown; that’s what they told me. Nothing really made them different from one another. I can’t imagine anyone trying to tell me one should matter more because of skin color.
Annie Bell looked like the singer Leontyne Price and Mamma Hattie look like Miss Clara on Andy Griffith. Mamma Hattie made the best biscuits and gravy, while Annie Bell made the best-fried chicken. Annie Bell was partial to the soap opera called Dark Shadows and Mamma Hattie watched General Hospital.
They both knew God and God knew each one of them, by name.
Being present during the confluence of their lives forever convinced me that skin color doesn’t matter. A great hoax has been played on way too many people; a great hoax that says skin pigment defines people. It doesn’t. I have Mamma Hattie and Annie Bell to prove any such argument blatantly without merit.
When debates arise over symbols and heritage and identification I am infuriated that the great hoax seems so alive. We can’t have one nation when we embrace symbols that reflect a tense and asymmetrical heritage. It’s a false heritage we seek to elevate when our symbols divide rather than include. Our energy and spirits are washed down into the gutter when we fight to uphold a heritage that seeks to alienate rather than embrace. Some of our heritage belongs in museums. We have plenty of nobility and decency to embrace and stand on, stand on together without the insecurities and ignorance of racism.
Annie Bell passed away in 2001. I was driving down Connecticut Avenue in Washington, DC when I got the news over my cell phone. I was headed home from my job on Capitol Hill. Annie Bell never drove down Connecticut Avenue or visited Capitol Hill.
I’ve worked with many great leaders, elected Members of Congress and the Senate being a few. Anne Bell never met a Congressman or Senator.
But when Annie Bell died, I knew that I would never again meet a person as great.
When Annie Bell died I knew that the confluence of two great saints had once again occurred. Mamma Hattie and Annie Bell were once again somewhere on a front porch shelling peas, and talking about the flowers, and the windows that needed washing and maybe doing a little grocery shopping later in the day. When Annie Bell died I cried a river of tears because the last of my two saints had crossed over Jordan to their place in Glory.
Everyone needs an Annie Bell and a Mamma Hattie. Everyone needs a heritage that is real, and true and personal; for me, it was the confluence of Southern Belles – my patron Saints.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Happy Veterans Day
Click Here to View:
REMEMBER ME Tribute to Our Troops and Veterans (Youtube)
Two years ago 15 year-old Lizzie Palmer from Columbus, Ohio, felt compelled to do her part to remind people of our troops and veterans… and the sacrifices they make.
To date, more than 25 million people have viewed "Remember Me" on YouTube with its haunting music and moving images of Americans at war.
Regardless of where one stands on the war, Lizzie Palmer has reminded us to always remember and to never forget our troops and veterans.
Happy Veterans Day.
REMEMBER ME Tribute to Our Troops and Veterans (Youtube)
Two years ago 15 year-old Lizzie Palmer from Columbus, Ohio, felt compelled to do her part to remind people of our troops and veterans… and the sacrifices they make.
To date, more than 25 million people have viewed "Remember Me" on YouTube with its haunting music and moving images of Americans at war.
Regardless of where one stands on the war, Lizzie Palmer has reminded us to always remember and to never forget our troops and veterans.
Happy Veterans Day.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Happy Birthday, Miss Eudora
The Eudora Welty Foundation has put together a bang up year of concerts, parties, showings and tributes memorializing and remembering Miss Welty on the centenial year of her birth (1909.)
From her photography on display in New York City to Mary Chapin Carpenter and others in concert in Jackson to "Mississippi Reads" taking place in classrooms everywhere there is something for all lovers and would-be lovers of Miss Welty.
Events officially kicked off on November 6 with a literary symposium in NYC featuring Richard Ford, Robert MacNeil, Reynolds Price and Suzanne Marrs.
But, the fun will continue throughout 2009. Visit http://www.eudorawelty.org/ for a full rundown of events.
One of my earlier postings, here at Pea Ridge Confidential, will put you in the mood: Miss Welty Speaks ... YOU MUST HEAR MISS WELTY TELLING HER OWN STORIES! If you do, you may try to attend everything on the centenial celebration calendar.
From her photography on display in New York City to Mary Chapin Carpenter and others in concert in Jackson to "Mississippi Reads" taking place in classrooms everywhere there is something for all lovers and would-be lovers of Miss Welty.
Events officially kicked off on November 6 with a literary symposium in NYC featuring Richard Ford, Robert MacNeil, Reynolds Price and Suzanne Marrs.
But, the fun will continue throughout 2009. Visit http://www.eudorawelty.org/ for a full rundown of events.
One of my earlier postings, here at Pea Ridge Confidential, will put you in the mood: Miss Welty Speaks ... YOU MUST HEAR MISS WELTY TELLING HER OWN STORIES! If you do, you may try to attend everything on the centenial celebration calendar.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Talking Pea Ridge at Princeton
I recently gave a lecture at Princeton University (the Woodrow Wilson School.)
The lecture was on the current state of affairs concerning faith, values and politics in the 2008 election cycle. But, I found several minutes at the beginning to share with the students and faculty of Princeton some stories about Pea Ridge and Grenada, Co.
I even talked about shelling purple hull black-eyed peas on the front porch with Grandma Essie and Mamma Hattie (Rogers Bell would be mighty proud.)
I hope you enjoy:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sRAQxP5jMAA&feature=channel
The lecture was on the current state of affairs concerning faith, values and politics in the 2008 election cycle. But, I found several minutes at the beginning to share with the students and faculty of Princeton some stories about Pea Ridge and Grenada, Co.
I even talked about shelling purple hull black-eyed peas on the front porch with Grandma Essie and Mamma Hattie (Rogers Bell would be mighty proud.)
I hope you enjoy:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sRAQxP5jMAA&feature=channel
Spiritus Ferminti... Nothing Like Taking a Stand and Sticking with It!
I woke up on this fine Election Day thinking about Judge "Soggy" Sweat and his famous comments on the legal status of whiskey in Mississippi back in the 1950's.
I've heard many a politician in Mississippi (usually with a few shots of whiskey in them) take to the floor of a deer camp or the bed of a trailer at a fish fry and dramatically recite Judge Soggy's stand on whiskey to great laughter and applause.
Why was I thinking about it this morning... on this Election Day... I'm not sure... I suppose a moral in the Judge's remarks is certainly about perspective.
This is a good day for perspective.
I hope you enjoy.
Judge Noah S. “Soggy” Sweat, Jr., in the Mississippi Legislature, 1952 (circa.) His views on spiritus ferminti:
I've heard many a politician in Mississippi (usually with a few shots of whiskey in them) take to the floor of a deer camp or the bed of a trailer at a fish fry and dramatically recite Judge Soggy's stand on whiskey to great laughter and applause.
Why was I thinking about it this morning... on this Election Day... I'm not sure... I suppose a moral in the Judge's remarks is certainly about perspective.
This is a good day for perspective.
I hope you enjoy.
Judge Noah S. “Soggy” Sweat, Jr., in the Mississippi Legislature, 1952 (circa.) His views on spiritus ferminti:
You have asked me how I feel about whiskey; well, Brother, here's how I stand.If by whiskey you mean the devil's brew, the poison scourge, the bloody monster that defiles innocence, dethrones reason, destroys the home, creates misery and poverty, yea, literally takes the bread from the mouths of little children; if you mean that evil drink that
topples Christian men and women from the pinnacles of righteous and gracious living into the bottomless pits of degradation, shame, despair, helplessness, and hopelessness, then, my friend, I am opposed to it with every fiber of my being.
However, if by whiskey you mean the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the elixir of life, the ale that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean Christmas cheer, the stimulating sip that puts a little spring in the step of an elderly gentleman on a frosty morning; if you mean that drink that enables man to magnify his joy, and to forget life's great tragedies and heartbreaks and sorrow; if you mean that drink the sale of which pours into our treasuries untold millions of dollars each year, that provides tender care for our little crippled children, our blind, our deaf, our dumb, our pitifully aged and infirm, to build the finest highways, hospitals, universities, and community colleges in this
nation, then my friend, I am absolutely, unequivocally in favor of it.
This is my position, and as always, I refuse to be compromised on matters of principle.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Halloween...
We had a successful All Hallow's Eve and day here in DC (2008.) My boys, Will and Pete, brought in quite the load... so much candy (alot of it chocolate, not just hard candies)... it will be around for several weeks... probably lasting right up to Thanksgiving... which will be just in time for the next load of trans-fats.
Will and Pete were both dressed as Batman... its what they wanted. They and 4 of their friends roamed together with us parents walking along, nearby. We are all "helicopter" parents... meaning we always closely hover -- watching, protecting, intertmingling in their lives.
Our neighborhood, in Northwest DC, is full of children and the streets this year were packed with kiddies running from door to door collecting their treats... many of the parents dress up, too. Families sit outside on their lawns with drinks and snacks... waving and talking to those going door to door... frankly, a lot like Election Day at my home on Third Street in Grenada... that was always our biggest and busiest "Holiday," in the Strider household.
But, Halloween... Grenada...
Halloweens were something else in Grenada... does anyone remember Shanebergs (it was a store in the Grady Green Shopping Center.) When I was a pre-schooler and maybe into elementary school that's where mamma would take me for getting a costume... Ms. Bonnie Carroll (Ramie's grandma and the wife of Grady Carroll who was a deputy sheriff) worked there... near the back if I remember right.
It seems like I chose to be a skeleton more often than not.
Trick or Treating in downtown Grenada (in the 70's) would start, for me, down Kershaw Street to Donna Tartt's home (Donna is now one of our nation's finest novelist with "The Secret History" and "Little Friend" under her hat and another book on the way) and then to Cas Heath's... The Heath home -- a huge, brooding Victorian structure -- had 3 generations of Cas' living in it... Cas I, Cas II and Cas III (my age)... Cas I had been the proprietor of Heath Brothers Fine Clothing on the square (later Hankins and Penn) and Cas II was with the Grenada Banking System. Little Cas (my age) is now a doctor. They'd always have kool-aid on the front porch... I often spilled mine and cried.
We'd work our way up to Main Street... the Spains and Lillys (where the Dattels later lived), Ms. Angevine and the Hardys... then back down 3rd stopping at the Gulledges (my first grade teacher) and the Haltoms... once we'd worked that area my mom would drive me out to the Jones Road area to join my cousins (Vicki, Melanie and Keith Mitchell). This neighborhood was loaded with kids and we would work the area diligently -- it was like a job, a good job.
There were no hovering, "helicopter" parents back then. They'd stay in the house, drinking coffee and visiting -- they didn't even sit out on the lawns and watch the passersby -- we were left to figure things out on our own... I wonder if its fear for security that has us hovering today... or just changing demographics and how we do things, how we see raising kids that's different?
I learned a lot roaming Grenada on those nights... and I had a lot of fun.
Will and Pete were both dressed as Batman... its what they wanted. They and 4 of their friends roamed together with us parents walking along, nearby. We are all "helicopter" parents... meaning we always closely hover -- watching, protecting, intertmingling in their lives.
Our neighborhood, in Northwest DC, is full of children and the streets this year were packed with kiddies running from door to door collecting their treats... many of the parents dress up, too. Families sit outside on their lawns with drinks and snacks... waving and talking to those going door to door... frankly, a lot like Election Day at my home on Third Street in Grenada... that was always our biggest and busiest "Holiday," in the Strider household.
But, Halloween... Grenada...
Halloweens were something else in Grenada... does anyone remember Shanebergs (it was a store in the Grady Green Shopping Center.) When I was a pre-schooler and maybe into elementary school that's where mamma would take me for getting a costume... Ms. Bonnie Carroll (Ramie's grandma and the wife of Grady Carroll who was a deputy sheriff) worked there... near the back if I remember right.
It seems like I chose to be a skeleton more often than not.
Trick or Treating in downtown Grenada (in the 70's) would start, for me, down Kershaw Street to Donna Tartt's home (Donna is now one of our nation's finest novelist with "The Secret History" and "Little Friend" under her hat and another book on the way) and then to Cas Heath's... The Heath home -- a huge, brooding Victorian structure -- had 3 generations of Cas' living in it... Cas I, Cas II and Cas III (my age)... Cas I had been the proprietor of Heath Brothers Fine Clothing on the square (later Hankins and Penn) and Cas II was with the Grenada Banking System. Little Cas (my age) is now a doctor. They'd always have kool-aid on the front porch... I often spilled mine and cried.
We'd work our way up to Main Street... the Spains and Lillys (where the Dattels later lived), Ms. Angevine and the Hardys... then back down 3rd stopping at the Gulledges (my first grade teacher) and the Haltoms... once we'd worked that area my mom would drive me out to the Jones Road area to join my cousins (Vicki, Melanie and Keith Mitchell). This neighborhood was loaded with kids and we would work the area diligently -- it was like a job, a good job.
There were no hovering, "helicopter" parents back then. They'd stay in the house, drinking coffee and visiting -- they didn't even sit out on the lawns and watch the passersby -- we were left to figure things out on our own... I wonder if its fear for security that has us hovering today... or just changing demographics and how we do things, how we see raising kids that's different?
I learned a lot roaming Grenada on those nights... and I had a lot of fun.
*That's a photo of Will and Pete I snapped this past Friday night (Oct. 31, 2008) outside our home in DC... somewhere in my mom's photo collection is a picture of me on the Heath front porch crying because I spilled my kool-aid.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
“Comets Make Me Vomit” and Other Things I Learned in Little League (1970’s Grenada, MS Style) That My Sons Don't Learn in Today’s DC Soccer League
Little League Baseball in Grenada, MS, 1970’s:
In fact, it’s been shared with me that yelling and cheering at little league soccer is largely discouraged. The young co-ed team is focused on developing their motor skills and concentration skills… this is the logic, I think.
I’d hate to see Jerry Morgan or Ray Carroll told they shouldn’t get loud during a game.
There are snacks after each game… parents take turns and its usually a juice box, some fruit and some kind of organic cracker or cookie. No hamburgers and fries from Rudolph’s.
I’m often reminded of Gaylord’s “wall of mediocrity” in the movie “Meet the Fockers” when I’m at soccer games… it just seems so sterile.
My son, though, has a blast. And it’s not just because he’s the best player on the team… one of the best in the league based on my observations.
He loves playing… we have not had to bribe him with a hamburger. His best friend on the team is Ava. There were no Ava’s on the Cubs… but Ava is a mighty fine athlete and contributes more than most.
I’d just like to see some score keeping and win – loss columns… some coaches out to win… some parents getting down right serious… some players rallying with chants on the sidelines…
Hell, I’d settle for a good Drix fundraising campaign and a 10 cent hotdog.
But here’s the truth… my boys have great opportunities in sports… and, all joking aside, I’m sure allowing them to focus on their skills and concentration is a very good thing… I’m even sure the coach is onto something by being so happy…
But I really like yelling “just hit someone” every once in a while… yes, I know its soccer.
And I wish my sons could have experienced my little league…
(Note: That's Will and Ava and my younger son, Pete, in the photo)
Baseball ruled in little league sports back in Grenada of the 1970’s. Once a year we all showed up at the high school stadium for the “Punt, Pass and Kick” competition but in little league it was baseball.
Coach Wayne Carson ran the little league program for years and years. We sold Drix as the annual fundraiser for the little league… Drix was some kind of cleaning detergent and every household in Grenada would have several bottles due to the salesmanship of the town’s first graders.
The season always kicked off with a hotdog supper at the ball field. I believe each hot dog was a dime. The bleachers would be full of hot dog eating kids with ketchup stained shirts and mouths.
I was on the Cubs and we were sponsored by Piggly Wiggly… it was right there on the back of our black with white sleeved t-shirts.
This wasn’t T-ball. We had pitchers, played a full 7 innings with no maximum run rules. So, the score might end up being 32 – 28 and none of us first graders ever really hit the ball… four balls and a walk… over and over and over.
Our coaches were a few years older… junior high guys. And I will not name any coaches in order to protect any who may be innocent of what I’m about to say. These guys were out for blood. They wanted to win. They’d throw score books in the dugout, fight with the umpire and encourage us to lean into the ball… as in lean in and get hit and take a base!
I always wanted to be a coach after that.
Our parents and siblings would all attend. We played mainly on the baseball field between the high school football field and Jones Road. Today, the massive Grenada High School Band Hall sits where this legendary field of dreams once belonged.
In reality, I didn’t care much for playing. It was so bad that my parents had to promise me a hamburger and fries after each game to make me participate. After every game we’d head over to a restaurant called Rudolph’s just down from the Monte Cristo on highway 51.
But in the rear view mirror these games were the stuff of legend. We’d play teams like the Comets. Stephen Cox was their star pitcher… it’s easy to remember because he was so tall, even then.
We’d sit in the dugout chanting “Comets make me vomit.” We’d hustle onto the field and with each batter chant “nanananananananana swing!!!” And this would go on for 7 innings while each player walked.
Our parents would yell and cheer. Dean Morgan’s dad, Jerry, would always lean on the fence near where we would warm up in the batter’s box. He’d smile and offer advice… “keep your eye on the ball… swing level… don’t listen to the hind catcher.” It was important to not listen to the hind catcher because he’d be telling each batter how terrible there were.
We practiced every Saturday morning. We kept score, maintained the win-loss record and had season champions. We competed.
Little League Soccer, Washington, DC, 2008:
This past Saturday my first grader played in his third soccer game of his first season of league play. He plays on the Cougars from Murch School. They were playing the Power Rangers… school unknown (to me, a
nyway.)
He has a wonderful coach who is always very happy. It’s a cheerful sort of endeavor.
They play an hour, no one really keeps score and there is no accounting of wins and losses.
I’m inclined to scream “hit somebody” at various stressful moments of the game. I do know hitting is discouraged in soccer, but it just comes out. When I scream the other parents will look at me. The coach will look at me.
In fact, it’s been shared with me that yelling and cheering at little league soccer is largely discouraged. The young co-ed team is focused on developing their motor skills and concentration skills… this is the logic, I think.
I’d hate to see Jerry Morgan or Ray Carroll told they shouldn’t get loud during a game.
There are snacks after each game… parents take turns and its usually a juice box, some fruit and some kind of organic cracker or cookie. No hamburgers and fries from Rudolph’s.
I’m often reminded of Gaylord’s “wall of mediocrity” in the movie “Meet the Fockers” when I’m at soccer games… it just seems so sterile.
My son, though, has a blast. And it’s not just because he’s the best player on the team… one of the best in the league based on my observations.
He loves playing… we have not had to bribe him with a hamburger. His best friend on the team is Ava. There were no Ava’s on the Cubs… but Ava is a mighty fine athlete and contributes more than most.
I’d just like to see some score keeping and win – loss columns… some coaches out to win… some parents getting down right serious… some players rallying with chants on the sidelines…
Hell, I’d settle for a good Drix fundraising campaign and a 10 cent hotdog.
But here’s the truth… my boys have great opportunities in sports… and, all joking aside, I’m sure allowing them to focus on their skills and concentration is a very good thing… I’m even sure the coach is onto something by being so happy…
But I really like yelling “just hit someone” every once in a while… yes, I know its soccer.
And I wish my sons could have experienced my little league…
(Note: That's Will and Ava and my younger son, Pete, in the photo)
Friday, October 17, 2008
130 Things You May Not Know about Mississippi... BUT SHOULD
I ran across this site earlier today while trying to find the blogging of the ubiquitous Marshall Ramsey... I love Marshall, but I'm glad I ended up at this site... 130 fascinating facts about Mississippi... Here are the first five to whet the whistle... go to the site to see them all: http://www.visitmississippi.org/secrets/facts_1.asp
130 MISSISSIPPI FACTS
"Mississippi has always been a bewitched and tragic ground, yet it's also a land of heroism and nobility; a land which has honored those of us of all our races who possess the courage and the imagination of the resources given us on this haunted terrain. I love Mississippi, and I hope the best of it will endure." Willie Morris Interview 1986
Did you know...
1. The event which led to the creation of the Teddy Bear occurred near Onward, in 1902, when President Theodore Roosevelt, acting upon the suggestion of some friends, visited the state on a hunt for wild game. A bear was located by a member of the hunting party for the President. The bear was exhausted and possibly lame, some claim it was a mere cub. In any case, Roosevelt refused to shoot the helpless bear because he found it unsporting. News of the President's refusal to shoot the bear spread far and wide. Soon after, Morris Michtom, a New York merchant, made toy history when he created a stuffed toy bear and labeled it "Teddy's Bear. " Mr. Michtom placed the bear in the window of his candy store to draw attention. His success was so great that it led to the formation of the Ideal Toy Corporation in 1903. The Teddy Bear continues to be a favorite toy of children everywhere.
2. The Blues is a music form that began in the cotton fields of the Mississippi Delta, and is considered the only music original to the United States. The University of Mississippi Blues Archive in Oxford, contains the world's largest collection of Blues music.
3. The world's first round trip transoceanic flight was performed in 1928 by H. T. Merrill, from Iuka. The flight to England was made in a plane loaded with ping pong balls.
4. Vardaman is the Sweet Potato Capital of the world. The Sweet Potato Festival is held each November to celebrate this most delectable root.
5. William Faulkner, one of the literary giants of the twentieth century, was born in New Albany. His accomplishments include winning the Nobel Prize for Literature, two Pulitzer Prizes and the National Book Award. He is considered to be the greatest writer of fiction during the first half of the 20th century. His novels include The Reivers, The Sound and The Fury, Light In August, and Absalom, Absalom. His home, Rowan Oak, in Oxford, is open to the public. At Rowan Oak, visitors may view Faulkner's room where an outline for A Fable has been scribbled on the wall by the author's own hand...
Now for the remaining 125 facts: http://www.visitmississippi.org/secrets/facts_1.asp
130 MISSISSIPPI FACTS
"Mississippi has always been a bewitched and tragic ground, yet it's also a land of heroism and nobility; a land which has honored those of us of all our races who possess the courage and the imagination of the resources given us on this haunted terrain. I love Mississippi, and I hope the best of it will endure." Willie Morris Interview 1986
Did you know...
1. The event which led to the creation of the Teddy Bear occurred near Onward, in 1902, when President Theodore Roosevelt, acting upon the suggestion of some friends, visited the state on a hunt for wild game. A bear was located by a member of the hunting party for the President. The bear was exhausted and possibly lame, some claim it was a mere cub. In any case, Roosevelt refused to shoot the helpless bear because he found it unsporting. News of the President's refusal to shoot the bear spread far and wide. Soon after, Morris Michtom, a New York merchant, made toy history when he created a stuffed toy bear and labeled it "Teddy's Bear. " Mr. Michtom placed the bear in the window of his candy store to draw attention. His success was so great that it led to the formation of the Ideal Toy Corporation in 1903. The Teddy Bear continues to be a favorite toy of children everywhere.
2. The Blues is a music form that began in the cotton fields of the Mississippi Delta, and is considered the only music original to the United States. The University of Mississippi Blues Archive in Oxford, contains the world's largest collection of Blues music.
3. The world's first round trip transoceanic flight was performed in 1928 by H. T. Merrill, from Iuka. The flight to England was made in a plane loaded with ping pong balls.
4. Vardaman is the Sweet Potato Capital of the world. The Sweet Potato Festival is held each November to celebrate this most delectable root.
5. William Faulkner, one of the literary giants of the twentieth century, was born in New Albany. His accomplishments include winning the Nobel Prize for Literature, two Pulitzer Prizes and the National Book Award. He is considered to be the greatest writer of fiction during the first half of the 20th century. His novels include The Reivers, The Sound and The Fury, Light In August, and Absalom, Absalom. His home, Rowan Oak, in Oxford, is open to the public. At Rowan Oak, visitors may view Faulkner's room where an outline for A Fable has been scribbled on the wall by the author's own hand...
Now for the remaining 125 facts: http://www.visitmississippi.org/secrets/facts_1.asp
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Ms. Welty Speaks
I love reading Ms. Welty's works.
Surprisingly, I never paid that much attention to the books of Ms. Welty until I was in college. It was on a rainy evening in my dorm room at Delta State. I was reading Willie Morris' "North Toward Home" and his story telling (how many wonderful places has Willie's story telling led me over the years?) led me to pick up a Welty book and truly dig in.
I was hooked. Her passion and her grace... her biting and eloquent prose... her story telling has since kept me reading till the early hours of many mornings over the past years.
What's funny is that in all the reading I never noted too much humor in her words. Then, not very long ago, I ran across some recordings of Ms. Welty reading her own books. I was on the floor in laughter. How did I miss the humor that was so obvious?
I've provided a link. Listen to Ms. Welty read some of her own works. I suggest "Why I Live at the P.O." If you are mesmerized by reading her words you will be mesmerized in stitches listening to her words.
http://www.nytimes.com/books/98/11/22/specials/welty.html?_r=1&oref=slogin
Various recordings of Ms. Eudora exist at this link. Again, I suggest listening to the Pulitzer prize winner reading her short story, "Why I Live at the P.O." Its wonderful listening to the words and humor from the great writer's mouth. These recordings are from 1953 of the Mississippian speaking at the 92nd Street Y in New York City.
Surprisingly, I never paid that much attention to the books of Ms. Welty until I was in college. It was on a rainy evening in my dorm room at Delta State. I was reading Willie Morris' "North Toward Home" and his story telling (how many wonderful places has Willie's story telling led me over the years?) led me to pick up a Welty book and truly dig in.
I was hooked. Her passion and her grace... her biting and eloquent prose... her story telling has since kept me reading till the early hours of many mornings over the past years.
What's funny is that in all the reading I never noted too much humor in her words. Then, not very long ago, I ran across some recordings of Ms. Welty reading her own books. I was on the floor in laughter. How did I miss the humor that was so obvious?
I've provided a link. Listen to Ms. Welty read some of her own works. I suggest "Why I Live at the P.O." If you are mesmerized by reading her words you will be mesmerized in stitches listening to her words.
http://www.nytimes.com/books/98/11/22/specials/welty.html?_r=1&oref=slogin
Various recordings of Ms. Eudora exist at this link. Again, I suggest listening to the Pulitzer prize winner reading her short story, "Why I Live at the P.O." Its wonderful listening to the words and humor from the great writer's mouth. These recordings are from 1953 of the Mississippian speaking at the 92nd Street Y in New York City.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Translating Big Daddy... Rules for Life
There seem to be two facts I continue to learn over and over as I go through life. One is that my Southern home and way of life is pretty unique. The second is that out of all the nuances and ways of seeing things we’re really all alike, no matter where we’re from. It’s like when the sun finally burns off a thick Delta fog and it becomes evident that the dog with you in the fishing boat looks like the dog on the shoreline doing all the barking.
Grenada, MS sits on the hills overlooking the great Delta. My folks, one can say, have put down roots there. Both sides of my family have called Grenada home for more 150 years. You could surmise that we know our neighbors. We’ve pretty much been farming and running for office the whole time. We’re from the Pea Ridge community, live on Strider Road and do our shopping at Bloodworth’s General Store (our cousins). The people of Pea Ridge work hard, play hard and pray hard. Families with names like Ingram, Ross, Winter, Mitchell, Burt, Rounsaville, Thomason, Mormon, Bloodworth and Strider have been there forever. Their farms and home places are as much a part of them as their next of kin.
I am one of the community’s prodigal sons having lived, for a few years, abroad and now for nearly a decade here in Washington, DC. I was a Baptist youth minister in Hong Kong in the mid-90’s. I would have fish-n-chips at Harry Ramsden’s restaurant on Sunday’s with the Cameron’s and giant Chinese family dinners on Tuesday night’s with the Tan’s. On Saturday mornings I’d join some of my Pakistani contemporaries at their flat in the Wan Chai neighborhood for food and fun. We’d sit on the floor and eat curries and other dishes with our hands. The meals would be so hot I’d break out in a sweat. It was like someone had taped a water hose to the top of my head and turned it on.
They’d talk about the game of cricket and Pakistani players who were hot or cold just like my friends and me sitting in a rib shack down in Starkville, MS, drinking sweet tea and talking SEC football. I didn’t know cricket, they didn’t know SEC football but we knew the value of a good game. We knew the difference between work horses and show horses on the battlefield of sports.
Today, I live and work in Washington. I’m raising, along with my wife, Karen, two nearly perfect little boys – my little old aunts and other relatives back home pray every night I’ll get those boys home to Mississippi where they can be raised right. Sometimes I can see their point. But I love Washington and am glad to be here. The fact, though, is that Mississippi is home and Truman Capote once remarked that Southerners go home sooner or later, even if it’s in a box. That is indeed true.
There is one constant that stands out, one continuous thread of continuity and perspective that helps bring connectivity and meaning to all that I do – my father and the examples he provided and the lessons he taught. This old cotton farmer and politician, God rest his soul, had as strong an impact on people as anyone I’ve ever met. Possibly the strongest impact was on me.
He was known as Big Daddy by nearly everyone in Mississippi. He stood at 6'7", weighed in at over 330 pounds and wore a suit, cowboy hat and cowboy boots 7 days a week. Jesse A. “Big Daddy” Strider was Sheriff of Grenada County for 24 years. My uncle has since been sheriff and now my oldest brother is sheriff. When my father died in the late 1980’s the Governor appointed my mom to finish the last months of his 5th term. I'm pretty sure that's when I decided to move out of Grenada County. By no means did I desire to be in a county where my mom had the legal authority to carry a side arm and arrest me.
We, and it is a family affair, have to get elected every four years. With my brother currently in the Sheriff's office we're still getting elected – he’s up this year and looking pretty good. I spent my entire life since birth going door to door asking for votes. By the time I was a teenager I knew everyone in Grenada. I knew who was kin and who had marriage plans. Heck, I knew those getting divorced and usually why. That’s what happens when you sit each morning at the breakfast table of the county Sheriff. You know things.
Mostly, I learned respect for folks. I learned about listening to people and taking them seriously. Big Daddy took people seriously. No one failed to meet the importance test in his book. Everyone was valid. Everyone mattered. Everyone had intrinsic value. And he expected no less from the family he raised, the deputies he employed and the county and state he helped lead.
David Hampton, a current editor at the Clarion Ledger, Mississippi’s statewide daily, came out of Ole Miss journalism school in the 70’s and got his start at the daily newspaper in my hometown. He said this, last year in a column, about Big Daddy, “I worked in Grenada as a cub reporter and was given some lessons in Mississippi politics by Sheriff Strider. While he looked every bit the stereotypical Southern sheriff, he was one of the most progressive, open-minded and smart politicians I have ever known.
When I think about Big Daddy’s greatness I realize that is a word he would have never honestly applied to himself. He was, though, very good at bringing out and recognizing the greatness in others, be it the cashier at the little grocery at Gore Springs, the guys who cut the grass along the highway, the waitresses at the Hill Top Restaurant, the people serving a little time in his jail or the retired farming couple at Hardy he saw their greatness, their ability to love, and smile and give to others. And he celebrated that greatness with laughs, and hugs and prayers on front porches and praising the homemade ice cream he never turned down.
Big Daddy taught me a lot. I realize sometimes, at strange moments, how universal his lessons were. I’ve come to recognize this amazing progressive streak that he played out in his politics and everyday life that impacted so many people. And he knew what he was doing. He held a Mississippi county together in the post- civil rights movement. But he also moved it forward. It wasn’t about keeping the old lines drawn as a way to maintain peace, it was about getting the new integrated schools up and running, getting everyone registered to vote, bringing everyone together at the Chamber of Commerce, running the Klan out of the county.
It was also about joining in all community celebrations such as the annual NAACP Freedom Banquet. I always went with him to that banquet as I grew up. I didn’t know at the time that we were breaking new ground by being there – doesn’t that seem ridiculous in 2007? I just knew I looked forward to the end of the evening when we all stood, joined hands and sang “We Shall Overcome.” I have 3 versions of that song today on my Ipod. My love for that song and what it means to my homeland has everything to do with that county Sheriff taking me to the county Freedom banquets.
Big Daddy lived out and taught a progressive brand of politics that was about doing and not talking. It was about simply taking the right reality and putting it into action. And you know what? When I worked for Nancy Pelosi, I saw my father’s politics in her politics all the time. I certainly saw it in Jim Clyburn’s. And when Senator Clinton says that the best rule of politics is following the Golden Rule then I hear Big Daddy all over again. A San Francisco liberal, a South Carolina African American, a New York Senator with mid-west sensibilities and a Mississippi Sheriff born in the 1920’s all getting elected in their corners of the nation, speaking out from their perspectives but advocating the same hope and vision and progressive principles about our nation and world.
Now that’s a thread of continuity and commonality our nation needs to reconnect too. When partisanship takes the place of progress and ideology becomes an obstacle instead of table to sit around we’ve lost our way. Our nation needs hope and vision and know-how. We need doers, not talkers. We need to stand on that common ground, there’s room for everyone, where Californians, New Yorkers, South Carolinians and Mississippians can all agree and then agree to find solutions where we don’t agree.
We also need good politics. That’s how we choose our leaders and set our course. We need good politics where people engage, and not leave it up to others. We need Politics that are tough and fair, strong and caring, competitive and contemplative, about winning and coming together. I campaigned all the time with Big Daddy. I learned mainly by watching but he also had some favorite sayings that are worth sharing, but they must be translated or explained for full impact. He loved a good political race, he played hardball, and homeruns he hit were always fair.
So, here it is, translating Big Daddy, rules for life and the campaign trail:
“A pick up truck beats a Cadillac every day of the week out here in real America.”
TRANSLATION: Don't get fancy. Don't get fancy with your words, with your plan or with your attitude. Folks are looking for one of them to lead.
“Every tub has got to sit on its own bottom.”
TRANSLATION: In the final analysis the candidate has to carry the day. The candidate is who the voters want to hear from. Only the candidate can ultimately speak for the candidate.
“If you're driving down the highway and see a car coming toward you in your lane then you're going to change lanes.”
TRANSLATION: Don't get in the way of your friends. Stay out of other people's races. Stay in your lane and don't bring undue criticism and opposition by being nosy or getting involved where you shouldn't.
“If you come up on an old yella mangy dog and that dog is barking the word 'God' then let him bark."
TRANSLATION: Don't challenge, denigrate or dismiss the faith of anyone. A person's faith represents the core, the essence of who they are. It’s one of their most personal choices. You tear that person down if you tear down their faith. Hell, join them. It can probably do you some good.
“Be careful what you say about someone, you're probably talking to their cousin.”
TRANSLATION: You're probably talking to their cousin.
“In politics if you take a swing at someone you better be prepared to take one right back.”
TRANSLATION: I actually learned this one from House Speaker Nancy Pelosi. I share it with candidates and young political operatives all the time as I travel the country. It's a great way to remind yourself to be prepared because it’s true and it helps you think through an action. It helps you think down the road to where your decisions are taking you. I also know that Big Daddy was very aware of this principle too.
“Preach it three times. Before you do it, when you’re doing it and after you do it.”
TRANSLATION: It's not just enough to believe it or even do it. People must know where you stand on an issue. They must know your actions. Just doing something without getting the news out is a waste of good time. I run across people running for office all the time who have done good things but no one knows. They’re even indignant that others don’t know of their good work. Well, they lose no matter how much time they waste being indignant. Tell your story and tell it often.
“No one ever had to apologize for something they did not say!”
TRANSLATION: Don’t talk if you don’t have too. If it doesn’t help you, remain quite. If you’re unsure if it helps you keep your mouth shut. You must know for certain what you’re saying and why. Don’t take chances saying something you likely can’t fix.
"The person with the khaki pants, sweaty shirt and straw hat, driving the old farm truck is probably on the local Bank Board. The slick guy with the pin stripped suit, silk tie, tasseled shoes and new car probably charged his clothes and is, more than likely, a couple of payments behind on his car.”
TRANSLATION: Big Daddy was never impressed with those who put on airs. He had a lot of things to say about it. Being flashy was artificial to him. He wasn’t against spending money and living good but he was against anyone who seemed to take pleasure in using material items to show off or feel superior to others. We all know that flashiness is a waste of time in politics.
"Take the blame. Be responsible."
TRANSLATION: Don’t pass the buck. Never, NEVER pass the buck. Stand up and take it when things go bad.
"Spread the credit"
TRANSLATION: And when things go good, let people know who all was involved. Share the wealth and it will be returned to you over and over again.
“The Golden Rule is the best rule to follow in politics.”
TRANSLATION: I recently heard Senator Clinton say this. It stopped me in my tracks. Treat others as you would like to be treated – that’s the rule, isn’t it? Just imagine if that rule was applied prior to every action, statement and decision in a political campaign. Big Daddy preached to golden rule all the time. He lived it.
“The world would rather see a sermon than hear one.”
TRANSLATION: Now this is about doing instead of talking. This is from Congressman Jim Clyburn who relates a beautiful story about being in college and deciding, against his father’s dreams, he was not going into the ministry. When we took the long drive home and told his preacher father there was a long pause then his father said, “Well, son, the world would rather see a sermon than hear one.” That’s powerful. St. Francis of Assisi said preach often, sometimes use words. Our political system would be much stronger with more action and less talking. Big Daddy was all about doing and not talking.
“Don’t kick a person when they’re down.”
TRANSLATION: When people are at their lowest, no matter what they did, no matter how bad, it is not the time to pile on. Show them attention, love and support. Let them know they matter. This was Big Daddy’s philosophy not just in politics but for how the inmates were to be treated at his jail. Not your normal take on how a Mississippi Sheriff may run things. And he kept running his jail and Sheriff’s department because his county would give him 70 – 75% of the vote nearly every time he was on the ballot.
“Remember Your Raising.”
TRANSLATION: I heard that Big Daddy said this once. Cissy Ross Pierce was getting ready to move to Korea with her soldier husband who was being stationed there. There was a big going away party on our farm with all the families of Pea Ridge in attendance. At the end of the party, Big Daddy hugged Cissy and simply said “You remember your raising while you’re over there.” I was a little boy at the time and wasn’t there. But I’ve heard this story a hundred times by Cissy Ross who did indeed live in Korea then she and her family returned home to Mississippi and rejoined our community. I think it would bode well for all of us if we took time every now and then to remember our raising.
There you have it – Big Daddy translated along with a peppering of Clinton, Pelosi and Clyburn. Those old Mississippi sayings have impact. They matter in 2007. I don’t think Big Daddy considered himself a post-modern philosopher, but what he taught and lived is relevant today. Up out of Pea Ridge, from deep in rural America, echoing back to the 20th Century the voice of a county Sheriff lives on. I hope I embody, to some degree, what he believed and what I find so evident in those I work for and with here in Washington. We truly are one nation, but only when we take the time to consider the power of our values and ideas and how they connect us rather than divide us.
Grenada, MS sits on the hills overlooking the great Delta. My folks, one can say, have put down roots there. Both sides of my family have called Grenada home for more 150 years. You could surmise that we know our neighbors. We’ve pretty much been farming and running for office the whole time. We’re from the Pea Ridge community, live on Strider Road and do our shopping at Bloodworth’s General Store (our cousins). The people of Pea Ridge work hard, play hard and pray hard. Families with names like Ingram, Ross, Winter, Mitchell, Burt, Rounsaville, Thomason, Mormon, Bloodworth and Strider have been there forever. Their farms and home places are as much a part of them as their next of kin.
I am one of the community’s prodigal sons having lived, for a few years, abroad and now for nearly a decade here in Washington, DC. I was a Baptist youth minister in Hong Kong in the mid-90’s. I would have fish-n-chips at Harry Ramsden’s restaurant on Sunday’s with the Cameron’s and giant Chinese family dinners on Tuesday night’s with the Tan’s. On Saturday mornings I’d join some of my Pakistani contemporaries at their flat in the Wan Chai neighborhood for food and fun. We’d sit on the floor and eat curries and other dishes with our hands. The meals would be so hot I’d break out in a sweat. It was like someone had taped a water hose to the top of my head and turned it on.
They’d talk about the game of cricket and Pakistani players who were hot or cold just like my friends and me sitting in a rib shack down in Starkville, MS, drinking sweet tea and talking SEC football. I didn’t know cricket, they didn’t know SEC football but we knew the value of a good game. We knew the difference between work horses and show horses on the battlefield of sports.
Today, I live and work in Washington. I’m raising, along with my wife, Karen, two nearly perfect little boys – my little old aunts and other relatives back home pray every night I’ll get those boys home to Mississippi where they can be raised right. Sometimes I can see their point. But I love Washington and am glad to be here. The fact, though, is that Mississippi is home and Truman Capote once remarked that Southerners go home sooner or later, even if it’s in a box. That is indeed true.
There is one constant that stands out, one continuous thread of continuity and perspective that helps bring connectivity and meaning to all that I do – my father and the examples he provided and the lessons he taught. This old cotton farmer and politician, God rest his soul, had as strong an impact on people as anyone I’ve ever met. Possibly the strongest impact was on me.
He was known as Big Daddy by nearly everyone in Mississippi. He stood at 6'7", weighed in at over 330 pounds and wore a suit, cowboy hat and cowboy boots 7 days a week. Jesse A. “Big Daddy” Strider was Sheriff of Grenada County for 24 years. My uncle has since been sheriff and now my oldest brother is sheriff. When my father died in the late 1980’s the Governor appointed my mom to finish the last months of his 5th term. I'm pretty sure that's when I decided to move out of Grenada County. By no means did I desire to be in a county where my mom had the legal authority to carry a side arm and arrest me.
We, and it is a family affair, have to get elected every four years. With my brother currently in the Sheriff's office we're still getting elected – he’s up this year and looking pretty good. I spent my entire life since birth going door to door asking for votes. By the time I was a teenager I knew everyone in Grenada. I knew who was kin and who had marriage plans. Heck, I knew those getting divorced and usually why. That’s what happens when you sit each morning at the breakfast table of the county Sheriff. You know things.
Mostly, I learned respect for folks. I learned about listening to people and taking them seriously. Big Daddy took people seriously. No one failed to meet the importance test in his book. Everyone was valid. Everyone mattered. Everyone had intrinsic value. And he expected no less from the family he raised, the deputies he employed and the county and state he helped lead.
David Hampton, a current editor at the Clarion Ledger, Mississippi’s statewide daily, came out of Ole Miss journalism school in the 70’s and got his start at the daily newspaper in my hometown. He said this, last year in a column, about Big Daddy, “I worked in Grenada as a cub reporter and was given some lessons in Mississippi politics by Sheriff Strider. While he looked every bit the stereotypical Southern sheriff, he was one of the most progressive, open-minded and smart politicians I have ever known.
When I think about Big Daddy’s greatness I realize that is a word he would have never honestly applied to himself. He was, though, very good at bringing out and recognizing the greatness in others, be it the cashier at the little grocery at Gore Springs, the guys who cut the grass along the highway, the waitresses at the Hill Top Restaurant, the people serving a little time in his jail or the retired farming couple at Hardy he saw their greatness, their ability to love, and smile and give to others. And he celebrated that greatness with laughs, and hugs and prayers on front porches and praising the homemade ice cream he never turned down.
Big Daddy taught me a lot. I realize sometimes, at strange moments, how universal his lessons were. I’ve come to recognize this amazing progressive streak that he played out in his politics and everyday life that impacted so many people. And he knew what he was doing. He held a Mississippi county together in the post- civil rights movement. But he also moved it forward. It wasn’t about keeping the old lines drawn as a way to maintain peace, it was about getting the new integrated schools up and running, getting everyone registered to vote, bringing everyone together at the Chamber of Commerce, running the Klan out of the county.
It was also about joining in all community celebrations such as the annual NAACP Freedom Banquet. I always went with him to that banquet as I grew up. I didn’t know at the time that we were breaking new ground by being there – doesn’t that seem ridiculous in 2007? I just knew I looked forward to the end of the evening when we all stood, joined hands and sang “We Shall Overcome.” I have 3 versions of that song today on my Ipod. My love for that song and what it means to my homeland has everything to do with that county Sheriff taking me to the county Freedom banquets.
Big Daddy lived out and taught a progressive brand of politics that was about doing and not talking. It was about simply taking the right reality and putting it into action. And you know what? When I worked for Nancy Pelosi, I saw my father’s politics in her politics all the time. I certainly saw it in Jim Clyburn’s. And when Senator Clinton says that the best rule of politics is following the Golden Rule then I hear Big Daddy all over again. A San Francisco liberal, a South Carolina African American, a New York Senator with mid-west sensibilities and a Mississippi Sheriff born in the 1920’s all getting elected in their corners of the nation, speaking out from their perspectives but advocating the same hope and vision and progressive principles about our nation and world.
Now that’s a thread of continuity and commonality our nation needs to reconnect too. When partisanship takes the place of progress and ideology becomes an obstacle instead of table to sit around we’ve lost our way. Our nation needs hope and vision and know-how. We need doers, not talkers. We need to stand on that common ground, there’s room for everyone, where Californians, New Yorkers, South Carolinians and Mississippians can all agree and then agree to find solutions where we don’t agree.
We also need good politics. That’s how we choose our leaders and set our course. We need good politics where people engage, and not leave it up to others. We need Politics that are tough and fair, strong and caring, competitive and contemplative, about winning and coming together. I campaigned all the time with Big Daddy. I learned mainly by watching but he also had some favorite sayings that are worth sharing, but they must be translated or explained for full impact. He loved a good political race, he played hardball, and homeruns he hit were always fair.
So, here it is, translating Big Daddy, rules for life and the campaign trail:
“A pick up truck beats a Cadillac every day of the week out here in real America.”
TRANSLATION: Don't get fancy. Don't get fancy with your words, with your plan or with your attitude. Folks are looking for one of them to lead.
“Every tub has got to sit on its own bottom.”
TRANSLATION: In the final analysis the candidate has to carry the day. The candidate is who the voters want to hear from. Only the candidate can ultimately speak for the candidate.
“If you're driving down the highway and see a car coming toward you in your lane then you're going to change lanes.”
TRANSLATION: Don't get in the way of your friends. Stay out of other people's races. Stay in your lane and don't bring undue criticism and opposition by being nosy or getting involved where you shouldn't.
“If you come up on an old yella mangy dog and that dog is barking the word 'God' then let him bark."
TRANSLATION: Don't challenge, denigrate or dismiss the faith of anyone. A person's faith represents the core, the essence of who they are. It’s one of their most personal choices. You tear that person down if you tear down their faith. Hell, join them. It can probably do you some good.
“Be careful what you say about someone, you're probably talking to their cousin.”
TRANSLATION: You're probably talking to their cousin.
“In politics if you take a swing at someone you better be prepared to take one right back.”
TRANSLATION: I actually learned this one from House Speaker Nancy Pelosi. I share it with candidates and young political operatives all the time as I travel the country. It's a great way to remind yourself to be prepared because it’s true and it helps you think through an action. It helps you think down the road to where your decisions are taking you. I also know that Big Daddy was very aware of this principle too.
“Preach it three times. Before you do it, when you’re doing it and after you do it.”
TRANSLATION: It's not just enough to believe it or even do it. People must know where you stand on an issue. They must know your actions. Just doing something without getting the news out is a waste of good time. I run across people running for office all the time who have done good things but no one knows. They’re even indignant that others don’t know of their good work. Well, they lose no matter how much time they waste being indignant. Tell your story and tell it often.
“No one ever had to apologize for something they did not say!”
TRANSLATION: Don’t talk if you don’t have too. If it doesn’t help you, remain quite. If you’re unsure if it helps you keep your mouth shut. You must know for certain what you’re saying and why. Don’t take chances saying something you likely can’t fix.
"The person with the khaki pants, sweaty shirt and straw hat, driving the old farm truck is probably on the local Bank Board. The slick guy with the pin stripped suit, silk tie, tasseled shoes and new car probably charged his clothes and is, more than likely, a couple of payments behind on his car.”
TRANSLATION: Big Daddy was never impressed with those who put on airs. He had a lot of things to say about it. Being flashy was artificial to him. He wasn’t against spending money and living good but he was against anyone who seemed to take pleasure in using material items to show off or feel superior to others. We all know that flashiness is a waste of time in politics.
"Take the blame. Be responsible."
TRANSLATION: Don’t pass the buck. Never, NEVER pass the buck. Stand up and take it when things go bad.
"Spread the credit"
TRANSLATION: And when things go good, let people know who all was involved. Share the wealth and it will be returned to you over and over again.
“The Golden Rule is the best rule to follow in politics.”
TRANSLATION: I recently heard Senator Clinton say this. It stopped me in my tracks. Treat others as you would like to be treated – that’s the rule, isn’t it? Just imagine if that rule was applied prior to every action, statement and decision in a political campaign. Big Daddy preached to golden rule all the time. He lived it.
“The world would rather see a sermon than hear one.”
TRANSLATION: Now this is about doing instead of talking. This is from Congressman Jim Clyburn who relates a beautiful story about being in college and deciding, against his father’s dreams, he was not going into the ministry. When we took the long drive home and told his preacher father there was a long pause then his father said, “Well, son, the world would rather see a sermon than hear one.” That’s powerful. St. Francis of Assisi said preach often, sometimes use words. Our political system would be much stronger with more action and less talking. Big Daddy was all about doing and not talking.
“Don’t kick a person when they’re down.”
TRANSLATION: When people are at their lowest, no matter what they did, no matter how bad, it is not the time to pile on. Show them attention, love and support. Let them know they matter. This was Big Daddy’s philosophy not just in politics but for how the inmates were to be treated at his jail. Not your normal take on how a Mississippi Sheriff may run things. And he kept running his jail and Sheriff’s department because his county would give him 70 – 75% of the vote nearly every time he was on the ballot.
“Remember Your Raising.”
TRANSLATION: I heard that Big Daddy said this once. Cissy Ross Pierce was getting ready to move to Korea with her soldier husband who was being stationed there. There was a big going away party on our farm with all the families of Pea Ridge in attendance. At the end of the party, Big Daddy hugged Cissy and simply said “You remember your raising while you’re over there.” I was a little boy at the time and wasn’t there. But I’ve heard this story a hundred times by Cissy Ross who did indeed live in Korea then she and her family returned home to Mississippi and rejoined our community. I think it would bode well for all of us if we took time every now and then to remember our raising.
There you have it – Big Daddy translated along with a peppering of Clinton, Pelosi and Clyburn. Those old Mississippi sayings have impact. They matter in 2007. I don’t think Big Daddy considered himself a post-modern philosopher, but what he taught and lived is relevant today. Up out of Pea Ridge, from deep in rural America, echoing back to the 20th Century the voice of a county Sheriff lives on. I hope I embody, to some degree, what he believed and what I find so evident in those I work for and with here in Washington. We truly are one nation, but only when we take the time to consider the power of our values and ideas and how they connect us rather than divide us.
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