Henderson Daily Dispatch

R. D. WATSON
State Grand Master I. O. O. F. Lodge.

Winston-Salem is the home of State Grand Master R. D. Watson, who was given that position of honor and responsibility at the convention a year ago at Wilmington. He and his wife, who is district deputy president of the Rebekah Assembly, have traveled over this State the past year in the interest of Odd Fellowship. It is an inspiration to see them, or to hear them.

They were here several weeks ago in Oxford, and Grand Master Watson will preside here soon in the sessions of the State Grand Lodge. Mrs. Watson will also have an important role in the Rebekah Assembly, which will convene simultaneous with our convention.

Now I am going to fool everybody. No, I did not ride over to Henderson with an insurance agent this morning, but I did start out walking as usual. No, I did not ride over with Allie Hart, nor any other automobile salesman. But I did ride out to Tab's Creek church with Carl O'Brien, whose mother, "Miss Emma," was a sister of Allie's Daddy, Mr. Bob Hart.

Carl had the registration book for Salem township, a job which I envy no one. I had that job for South Oxford during the last presidential election, and also for the special school bond election, which I hope will be my last time. It is a job of which I term a thousand dollars worth of responsibility, twenty-five dollars worth of honor, and about five dollars worth of pay. Those are my comparisons, but if any one proves me wrong, I will gladly make the necessary corrections.

When Carl turned off the highway to go his way, there stood James Nelson, going my way, another air passenger. So we both struck a bee-line walking down the road until he hit Dud's Tavern. James works at your Pine Tree Lodge on Raleigh Road.

And before I tell this great, long rigmarole about James Nelson, I wish to give you this bit of information. I do not want any one to think that I am a great brain wonder, for I come lots truly nearer being a brainless wonder. As it happened, I got all this forthcoming information about James when we both rode back to Oxford about a week ago as co-passengers in the same car. It took me the whole distance while riding to absorb it enough to make notes of some.

So here goes—James is the overgrown young son of the former Miss Foy Green, and Irket T. Nelson. Miss Foy is a daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Ed Green, from down below Dexter, just over the Vance line. She teaches at Pineland College at Salemburg, N. C. I. T. Nelson farms at the home of Mrs. Lallie Gooch Critcher (Mrs. Robert C. Critcher), who is the aunt of Miss Foy, and the great-aunt of James. So Mrs. Lallie Critcher is a sister of Mrs. Ed. Green.

I. T. Nelson spells his name Irket, while his relative, U. J. Brooks spells his name Urquhart, but folks pronounce it Irket. But I always hold up the right of every man or woman, boy or girl, to spell their name as they pleases. That's what I dhuzes.

What I started out to say, was that when I was carrying Daddy Joneses mail, I was invited out to Mr. Ed. Greenes' home to a party one night. But it turned out to be freezing cold and me and another boy got about two or three miles from town on our way out there in his buggy. The ground was full of frozen wheel tracks which were very rough to drive over,
so we finally decided to turn around and return home. So on account of the presence of bad roads, and the absence of automobiles, we missed that party, which I have never forgotten, and always regretted.

And if I have carelessly or purposely misquoted any of the above statements, you may just imagine that I did so in hopes of some one writing in to correct mis-statements, thereby gaining a nice, interesting letter for this fast-failing column.

But anyway, James Nelson and your Old Uncle Mose finally reached Dud's Tavern by a manipulation of fast walking, or rather of quick successions of pedimentary ability, there to find Fallis Finch raveniously and atrociously devouring an indefinable amount of sam-hamwiches.

Right there also were Bailey Currin of that community, and his brother, Floyd of Louisburg, on the way to the latter's home, so we rode on down to your town with them, and they stopped so very quick they literally threw us out of the car. And I promise you I am not telling about going by the post office, as I did not.

I am not even going to mention Lee Lassiter's name, even though I walked right by him and did not expell the breath it would have took to speak to him.

Nor am I going to tell of my trip in at the Dispatch office where I again bothered Mr. Finch with one more new sub, bothered Mr. Falkner with a bit of news for the next edition, bothered Miss Gooch with the request of a back-number of a certain copy, bothered Mr. Dennis with something about this and nothing about that, bothered the man who places the type in the forms (or whatever you call them) with a request for certain changes, bothered the man who fixes the cuts to please mount one to me, bothered the operator to have something especially set up in type by my next trip over; then I bade the whole shebang of them goodbye by trying to imitate Oswald's "Oh-yeah" drawl as I dis-mounted myself backwards down the steps, wishing the steps were an escalator.

On the street, and George Davis axes me, "How is you?" to which I replies, "I'm living." Then he axes "Does you know it?" But I winds him up for fair when I replied, "You doesn't see dead men sitting up talking, does you?" And there I was sitting in E. L. Raynor's car and he came right on and took me back home.

The back-seat driver was Cullom Clark on his way to Durham where he works. He is a son of the late Robert Gilliam Clark, who was buried by the side of his wife in the Salem church cemetery one Sunday afternoon eighteen or twenty years ago.

Jesse Clark was in our Oxford Methodist Baraca class at that time, and we sent a bunch of very large white flowers, chrysanthemums or peonies. I don't remember which. Cullom said his Grandfather gave the land for Poplar Creek church, where the late Dr. Cullom was pastor, hence the names Cullom Clark, Cullom Critcher, Cullom Hester, and several others.

Instead of all this, I really started out to tell about Jailor Yancey's birthday (fortieth, or something), about Mr. and Mrs. John Morris' twenty-fifth wedding anniversary last Saturday, and to read out loud to you another one or two gosling letters, or the letter from Uncle Marvin Hester at Los Angeles, or the letter from Lawyer Eugene Hester, of Reidsville, a great-nephew of Dr. C. J. H. W. Hester.

But I truly hope I have not offended, as it was not intended. And if I could just get to that far-famed kicking machine at a road-side filling station somewhere down east, I would just kick myself to sleep. "Rocked in the cradle of the deep."

T. MOSES JONES.