Frank and I nearly got a divorce every Friday for forty four years. Almost every Friday was pinto bean day at our house. I would cook a pot of pintos putting them on early letting them cook slowly most of the day. I loved the thick brown juice on a piece of good hot cornbread. I would have them just like I liked them when Frank came in from work. He would walk into the kitchen, lift the lid of the bean pot and add some water to the beans. To make matters worse when sister Jane and her husband, the late J.M. Rogers, lived close we had them to eat supper with us on Friday nights. (Most of the time.) After I had spent an hour or so ranting and raving about Frank putting the water in the beans and things had gotten quiet J.M. would say, “These beans would be a little better if they had a little water in them.” Thus it set off another spell of my ranting and raving. I don’t know if Frank liked a little more juice in his beans or if he just thought I needed a weekly outlet of furry. It has long been a joke in our family about Frank watering the beans. While I was raving he would just grin.


One time he decided he would raise game chickens. I think someone wanted to get rid of some and gave them to Frank. When he got the chickens he wasn’t prepared for them. No chicken coop nor pen. What started out being a pair or two soon became a BUNCH. There was an evergreen tree at the back of the Court House that was almost as tall as the Court House. Wouldn’t you know that is where the chickens preferred to roost. I kept telling Frank, “Build a pen for your chickens.” Having your chickens roosting at the Court House was embarrassment enough to make you wonder what could be worse. One day as I drove into Greenwood, what did I see? Game chickens marching proudly in front of Stewart’s Drug store which was located on the north side of the square! That really was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I took a big risk by telling Frank it was either ME or the CHICKENS…one had to go. Believe it or not the chickens disappeared.


Chickens were bad enough. Ducks are much, much worse. Someone gave my dear brother-in-law, J.M., some ducks and who ended up with them? The Hugharts of course. Were we prepared for ducks? NO! and where did they spend most of their time?—on the front steps of the Court House! “Nuff said.”


This all happened when Greenwood was small town USA and everyone knew everybody. All I can say is , “Oh, my!” I will say the ducks soon found another home. There was no way we could have denied the chickens or the ducks. We needed to live on a backwoods farm instead of the middle of town.


One time Mama was going through town when she saw a black and white cow near the square. She just knew one of our cows was out so she called someone to catch it and put it back in our pasture. When Frank got home from work he asked, “Where did that extra cow come from?” For once it wasn’t any of our live stock on Main Street.