Henderson Daily Dispatch

Grits and Gravel
(By T. MOSES JONES.)

T. B. ROSE, JR.

I shall try and tell you in a small way the answer to this question which has been asked me several times. "How on earth do you think of all those things you write about?" All of these things actually happened today. I was walking down the road yodeling (in some sort of fashion) and an old colored woman came to her door and looked at me as though she thought. "Who in the world is that crazy man?" After I had gotten warmed up real good from walking the Allie Hart came along and my journey soon ended in Henderson. So I walked on towards the office, running right smack into Red Taylor and Elliott G. Shaw, who were trying to make plans to relieve this country of suffering 68 accidents a minute, as statistics show, and also as Red's badge showed. At first I thought it was Heinz being promoted from 57 to 68.

At the office things again seemed to be okey-dory. I handed in a couple or so subs and inquired if there were a cut of Tommy Rose there, to which the answer of said question was in the affirmative. So then and at once my old friend. Tommy. was decided on as topic for conversation for my next column. We were boys together some years ago when he lived in Oxford, except that I was quite a bit older than he.

I finally got up the nerve to go by his office and renew our acquaintance as I had not seen him for a long time. But before the lady would budge from her tracks, I had to tell her who I was, where I was from, and who I wanted to see. So I sat down in his office and waited. There were hundreds of boxes of candy all cellophane-covered to keep folks like me from sampling them. The lady had to walk about a quarter-mile down a long aisle which gave me time to glance over the room. There on his desk was a beautiful picture of Tommy's family, Miss Katherine, a former Oxford girl; and their three children, Ann, T. B. Rose, III, and Paul Hunt. Finally Tom arrived and seemed glad to meet an old friend once more. He asked about my family and I asked about his, I told him that I had not come to bother him, but just to see if he were the same old Tommy he used to be. I found that same smile and hand-shake just as sincere as they formerly were. As I left, he gave me some nice candy to bring to the boys

But before seeing Tommy, Mrs. W. Parham had introduced me to her Uncle from New York. Also Rat Breedlove had said, "Moses, meet my nephew." And that was he told me, leaving me to have to go to the trouble of finding out who that very sizeable and healthy looking young man was. Which turned out to be the son of Rat's brother, E. G. (Ernest) Breedlove, down at Middleburg. He was Edward Breedlove, of the Time Jewelry Store.

Just like a picture in a frame, or a silhouette on the wall, does Junius Roger's smiling face usually stand out at the P. O. window, but this time it was profoundly minus, with M. Lassiter serving as pinch-hitter. He said that some of the girls had not mailed a letter for several days, but were waiting for Junius' return so they could buy stamps from him.

There I was ready to go home and no way to ride. Found Mr. and Mrs. C. R. (Charlie) Blackwell who said they would bring me. But first they rode around to Burwell Ave. to see H. A. (Herbert) Grissom. They farmed with Mr. Grissom in 1914 and for several years afterwards, just after Blackwells' marriage, living out near St. Andrew's church. Mr. Grissom's brother, Charlie, the mail carrier, lives at Kittrell. And Police Charlie Harris married one of the girls, Miss Joe Miss Leonora gave Mrs. Blackwell a mother cat with four little kittens to take to their little daughter, Marie. And all the way riding home I kept thinking of Tommy Rose, and his name made me think of all those songs of the roses. I know Mr. and Mrs. Blackwell wondered why I kept trying to sing:

" 'Tis the last rose of summer, left blooming alone,
All her lovely companions are faded and gone."

"Roses white or roses red, In course of time must perish:
As before our eyes they shed the loveliness we cherish."

"Dear little rose with your heart o gold,
Dear little rose, may your petals unfold."

"My wild Irish rose,
The sweetest flower that grows."

"Sweetest lil' fella, every body knows.
Don't know what to call him, but he's mighty lak' a rose;
Lookin' at his mammy, wid eyes so shiny blue,
Make you think that Heaven is comin close ter you."

"On the wild rose tree, many blooms there be;
Yet each sunny hour hath but one perfect flower."

Then I whistled that beautiful melody, To A Wild Rose, which I once heard at a wedding. and tried to remember Rose of Picardy and Rose No Man's Land, but the tunes only remained, as the words had escaped my memory.

Well. anyway. the Blackwells reached Oxford safely and here I was back home the same day I had left. When suppertime came, here Mrs. Jones and myself were with an invite out to the Oak Hill school play, but no way to go: an invite to the Junior Order speaking and entertainment; and about that time Miss Edna Crews phoned she was sending for us shortly to come over to the Lewis School to the P-T-A Minstrel. As soon as we were ready, up rode Mr. Wheeler for us.

That was some minstrel with all those black-faced Pappy and Mammy and Epidermic, Miasma, and about ten more of the chillun. They were radio and theatre entertainers calling themselves "The Lazy Moon Minstrels." They came by their home to give their Pappy and Mammy,a free show.

When I wasn't laughing I was hollering. I could not call one name without mentioning all. as all did exceedingly well.

We reached home after nine and found that the Jones Boys had been studying. So I gave them the candy Tommy Rose sent, and I sat down for a two hours of reducing my thoughts from thoughts, to writing.

So that is the way these daily columns happen to happen. And now please let me go to sleep.

T. Moses Jones.