It takes a lot of scrubbing to get shed of poison ivy

Here is a hillbilly poem based on my real life as an Ozarker.
Despite our poor soil, we grow a lot of brush and that includes a lot of poison ivy. The only thing good I can say about it is that it is colorful when the leaves change in the fall.
In summer, though, it makes me miserable. Usually, when I get a case of it, I go to the doctor and get a shot or a series of pills to take. My wife says those medicines are hard on my insides, so she took over when I got a case of the ivy this summer.
The misery inspired me to versify up this gem, that I hope you enjoy.

IT TAKES A LOT OF SCRUBBING
TO GET SHED OF POISON IVY
Been clearing brush from fence rows over at my place
and now I’ve got poison ivy on my arms, legs and face.
And that stuff makes my skin crawl and itch,
and when I say itch, I mean like a son of, uh--which
brings up the treatment figured out by my wife,
an earth mother-type, who’s loved herbs all her life,
so much that she went to college, you see,
and worked hard enough to earn a master’s degree
in agriculture, with a horticulture focus.
Now she’s working some folk medicine hocus-pocus
on me. She prescribed scrubbing with soap,
yes, Dawn dish soap, and that will work, I hope,
to cut the acid of the ivy oil. Plus, she says, pine tar
soap will also work, so she gave me a bar
of that stuff and another one made from jewel weed,
and, in a bow to modern medicine, Benedryl, with my nightly feed.
She also found in her medicine bag jewel weed spray
that she claimed would soothe my skin night and day.
Well, it all seemed to work, it sure cut down the itching
so maybe there’s something to her herbal treatment witching.
Now the truth has dawned on me like turning on a lamp. It
is clear as day to me now: I married Granny Clampett!

Poem: A visit from the preacher

Last month, I thought quite a bit about an old boy who I greatly admired and passed away on Feb. 4, 2019

His name was Lloyd Riley, and people at church called him “Bud.” He was a deacon at the small country church where I am a member and have attended off and on since about 1986.

Bud and I were in the Adult Men’s Sunday School class with a bunch of other old-timers. They’re all good men who work hard and have a lot of faith. I try to emulate them, and I usually fail.

Bud was a veteran; he was in the Army, apparently at the tail end of World War II, and he told of going by ship to Japan on a vessel that leaked so badly that everybody had to grab a bucket and keep bailing water to keep the old craft from sinking.

He owned a farm, raised cattle and hay. He told of raising hogs for a while, as well as dairy cattle. He told us about driving a truck for a dairy, going from farm to farm collecting milk in cans.

Bud and the other men in the class told me about days when everybody would raise hogs, milk dairy cattle and raise beef cattle. Having all three would help them to pay off their farms and maybe buy a truck.

Agriculture has changed a lot since then. Nobody here raises hogs or dairy cattle any longer. There is no dairy.

Bud and his wife, Doris, worked together on their farm. My wife always said they were the cutest couple she’d seen. Their children and grandchildren were involved in agriculture, too. I took pictures of their grandchildren who exhibited cattle at the county fair.

Bud also had a great sense of humor. We laughed a lot at the short stories and jokes he would often tell. He told me the best joke ever, in my opinion, one Sunday after church while we were sitting in the fellowship hall waiting for a church dinner to start.

I loved that joke, and I retold it in my column for the local daily paper years ago. I may have written about it twice in the paper, I can’t remember. I also wrote about it in my column for my own publication, The Ozarks Chronicle, a dozen or so years ago.

If I were a columnist for the weekly paper I now work for part-time, I’d write it up again.

I was unable to attend either the funeral or the visitation due to work requirements for my two jobs.

But since Bud’s passing, I’ve thought a lot about him, and I decided the only thing I could do to pay tribute to him is set his joke, my favorite joke, to poetry and retell here on this website.

So here is the poem, based on Bud Riley’s joke, with my enhancements based on my own grandparents and my imagination.

Yes, it’s a joke, but it has a lot to say about a particular Christian doctrine, which is referred to in the title I have selected.

I hope you enjoy the poem, look up the scripture in the title and think about it.

For best effect, read it aloud with great vigor and expression.



JAMES 2:17
Dedicated in memory of Lloyd “Bud” Riley, 1927-2019

Late Saturday morning, just ’fore dinner,
we were sweating out in the hot sun,
hoeing eternal rows in the garden,
it sure wasn’t a whole lot of fun.

We heard a honk, looked up and we all saw
a fancy-pants car turn in the drive
Grandma turned to grandpa, said, “Can that be
the preacher? Goodness gracious, sakes ’live.”

And sure enough, the ole boy that emerged
was the Reverend Brother Les Moore.
I guess as preachers go, he was all right,
but his very presence made me sore.

“Why, howdy, folks,” he said. “Gimme that thing.”
And grabbing Gramp’s hoe, he chopped some soil.
Thirty seconds later, wiped his brow, said,
“You work up hunger with honest toil.”

“Well, let’s go in for dinner,” Grandma said.
So we washed up and sat down and prayed
Then ate cold fried chicken, tater salad,
cornbread, tea, all of it Grandma-made.

The preacher was quiet while he wolfed it
down, then leaned back, loosened his waistband.
“Brother, sister, you and the Lord have done
a wonderful job on this good land.

You and the Lord built a fine cattle herd,
a beautiful house, large barn, good shop,
pastures of plenty and a garden, too,
and you will sure want to share your crop."

Grandpa heard all he could stand, then rared back
and said, “Preacher, I’m grateful to God
for all the blessings He has given us,
like good seed, nice weather and rich sod,

but most of all for our strong arms and backs,”
he said, grinning like a little elf.
“Cause you ought to’ve seen the way this place looked
when the Lord had it all to Hisself!”

The Good Lord God Almighty blessed Bud and Doris Riley and their family, and I hope you believe in Him and trust Him as they did—and do.

Nothin' beats beans

Here is a poem I wrote years ago. It is so doggone good that I have to bring it out every now and again just to dust it off. I hope you enjoy it.


NOTHIN' BEATS BEANS

It was my buddy Earl’s birthday
So I took him out to eat
“Order what you want, Earl,” I said.
“The lobster can’t be beat.”

But when the waitress arrived
And suggested leg of lamb,
Earl said, “Ma’am I believe I’ll have
“A plate of beans and ham.

“And bring fried taters, cow butter
“And cornbread baked golden brown
“And a tall glass of buttermilk, real cold,
“To wash it all down.”

“Earl,” I said, “It’s your special day
“And I’m offering you a treat
“Order some clams, shrimp, crab legs,
“Those things you don’t normally eat.”

“Now, Ozarks Boy,” Earl said, “I thank you
“For your thoughtful, culinary gift
“But if I don’t eat those odd foods you mentioned
“I hope you’ll not be miffed.

“See I’m just a plain old Ozarks hillbilly
“Who never ka-bobbed a shish
“Or fileted a mignon (whatever that is)
“Or ate any unusual dish.

“I grew up eating a simple diet
“That was within my parents’ means
“Every night it was beans and taters
“Or for variety, taters and beans

“I developed a taste for simple foods
“Served from kettles, not fancy tureens
“So just give me taters and cornbread
“And a heaping plate of beans.

“Oh, sure, I’ll eat a little sausage
“And no meatloaf’s good as Aunt Irene’s,
“But when it comes to real good eatin’
“Just give me taters, ham and beans.

“Rich foods make my belly hurt
“Like I’ve been kicked by a couple of fiends
“So I stick with God’s simple fare
“Cornbread and buttermilk, taters and beans.”

“Earl, my friend, I wholeheartedly agree,
“It must be in our hillbilly genes."
Then I turned to the waitress, smiled and said,
“Darlin’, two plates of ham ’n’ beans.”

I don’t care what foods are called the best
By professors and educated deans
Nothing beats a simple meal
Of cornbread, taters, ham and beans.

--R.D. Hohenfeldt