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Archive for August, 2011

When locusts are a good thing

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on August 31, 2011 | Leave a Comment »

“…when morning came, the east wind had brought the locusts.” Exodus 10:13

There I was this morning, in my gown, trying to sneak out into the yard and retrieve today’s paper from the foot of the pine tree without attracting the attention of the neighbors. As I bent over, my head close to the tree, I saw it, staring back at me from it’s perch there on the bark. It like to have scared me to death.

That is, until I realized what it was.

It was not really a locust so much as a cicada. And it was not really so much the creature its ownself as its hollow little shell clinging to the pine bark. Its back was split open where it had emerged an opalescent adult and flown away to serenade us through these last sultry weeks of summer. All that was left was the hollow shell, abandoned, signifying the end of a long cycle of life underground, two to five years for the dog-day cicada and thirteen to seventeen years for the aptly-named periodical cicada. More important, however, this small, brown hull represents not only the end of one incarnation, but also the beginning of a another.

Now I’m not going to yammer on about rebirth, resurrection, butterflies, and all that. I’m talking about Fall. Cooler climes. A chill in the air. Sweater weather. An end to this breath-of-Satan summer that’s been dragging us down. You see, this parched bug husk means that the first frost is only a mere six weeks away. Six weeks, y’all. Mid-October.

With the help of God and Trane, maybe we can last. Until then, I’m going to find all of the shells I can, decorate my shirt and maybe even my hair with them, and do the happy dance right out in my front yard, gown and all.

————

P.S. The harmless cicada is commonly mistaken for its biblically destructive brethren, the locust. Locusts remind me of those horrible, nasty big old black and red “lubber” grasshoppers that plague South Alabama like, well, locusts. GAWD, are they scary!

Well, when I was in my early twenties, I was living in the old house where Mama and Baw had their office, right across from the police station. I came home one day to find one of these behemoth bugs blocking the entryway to my porch. I tried to shoo it away, but the heinous thing would not move. So I did what any reasonable person would do.

I went right across the street and politely asked Chief Parker to come shoot it dead. Sworn to protect and serve, he came with me to examine the situation and declared, “I can’t kill it.”

Excuse me?

“I can’t kill it because I will kill your soul.”

Excuse me?

Apparently Chief believed that if some creature presented itself in your path, it was a manifestation of your spirit sent to bring you some sort of tiding. Gives a whole new meaning to “don’t kill the messenger,” doesn’t it?

I was very grateful that the Chief was reluctant to kill my soul, but even more grateful when he agreed to move my soul into the grass. I never did figure out what it was telling me though.

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Make all the difference

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 29, 2011 | Leave a Comment »

Husband and I have made it our mission to avoid the interstate at all cost. Despite feeling like you are being shot out of a dangerous, crowded canon for hours on end, you can’t even see anything outside the window except for a green blur with the occasional neon blip. However, just on the other side of that green blur, within your very grasp, are towns, landmarks, shops, greasy spoons, cemeteries, farms, oddities, and history, which are sometimes all one in the same.

All you have to do is exit.

The next time you decide to head south to the Gulf Coast, take Hwy. 31. Did you know that Chilton County peaches don’t come from a glorified truck stop jammed with RVs and chachka? They come from orchards scattered along the sides of the roads and sometimes from the tailgate of a farmer’s truck. Take a side trip through Verbena. It is a beautiful little town with a big, white church, and old train station, and clapboard houses. It looks like a postcard, and you aren’t even near the sea. A little further down the road, stop off in Georgiana to see the childhood home of Hank, Sr.

Hank, Sr.'s Boyhood Home in Georgiana, AL

(If you have to ask who that is, there may still be hope for you, but you should definitely detour. Now!)

Piddle on down through Milton, FL. If you simply must eat lunch somewhere that provides a porch and a rocker, I highly recommend the Blackwater Bistro in downtown. Their chairs face the Blackwater River, not an asphalt parking lot, not to mention the business is locally owned and the food is home-cooked.

Take Hwy. 5 to Hwy. 43 down toward Mobile. Go see Gee’s Bend where the quilts are actually made. Pictures can never adequately portray how isolated and impoverished Wilcox County is. You will gain a whole new appreciation for the hands who pieced those scraps together to make something useful and beautiful. And don’t bypass Grove Hill just because the “new highway” does. You might miss out on the steam table at Glenda’s serving up fried chicken, greens, cornbread, and tea sweeter than a mother’s love.

Forget about Atlanta being the hub to everywhere. If you want to go to North Georgia, head up through Rome and stop to see Myrtle Hill Cemetery, which is the final resting place for Confederate soldiers and a president’s wife, among others. Drive all the way to the top of the hill and look out over downtown where the Etowah and Oostanaula Rivers converge. Next stop off in Dahlonega at Quigley’s Rare Books and Antiques, right on the town square, and be amazed at their collection of first editions and out-of-print works.

If you can manage to leave Quigley’s, head right on over to Clarkesville and find your way to Mark of the Potter, which is way off the beaten path and totally worth very extra mile. Housed in an old grist mill situated on the banks of the Soque River, Mark of the Potter showcases the work of local artisans and has since the 60s when the mill’s machinery was destroyed in a flood. While you shop, the kids can feed the trout from the deck or play along the banks, but there’s no fishing allowed!

These are but a few examples of the marvelous treasures you can find if you just get off the path that has been beaten to a greasy pulp and onto the true roads less traveled. But you also can’t overlook the boarded up storefronts, the vacant lots, the overgrown railroad tracks, and abandoned houses peeking out from their blankets of kudzu. You must imagine the once vibrant hubs of commerce, travel, worship, and fellowship that now lie decrepit and abandoned. Conjure the ghosts of Main Streets past that finally surrendered to the highways and bypasses, to the big-box retailers and fast food restaurants, to the truck stops and strip malls. Catch a teeny glimpse what life was like before the four-lane frenzy made us all catatonic travelers, hurtling down the road to the next exit blind to all that we pass and all that passes us.

The next time you travel, no matter how near or far, don’t just stare vacantly through your windshield at the bumper of the car in front of you. Open your eyes and take a look at the world around you, really see what there is to see, and enjoy the trip for more than just a harried means to a manic end. Don’t be like Kaw-liga…see what you’ve been missing.

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Nice white rice…

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on August 25, 2011 | 5 Comments »

I was recently invited by a former college classmate to attend a Free Accent Reduction Seminar she was teaching for “people with heavy regional dialects that they would like to tone down.” Well, thanks, but no thanks.

Many of you, dear readers, have heard me speak live and in person and know that I do indeed have the aforementioned “heavy regional dialect.” It’s because I’m FROM THE SOUTH, the deep South, just about as deep as you can get and not fall off into the water. I’m not from the mid-West or California, and furthermore, I do not wish to sound like I came from anywhere else except for my beloved birthplace, Alabama. You might as well ask me to make my heart beat differently.

I realize that I can’t say “sill” without making it sound like a marine mammal, that most of my words have two syllables whether they are intended to or not, that I occasionally leave off a concluding “r,” and that I probably commit about a thousand more crimes against phonology on a daily, if not hourly, basis. But let’s just get down where the goats eat – I don’t care.

In fact, I like it. I relish it. I wallow in it. But even more, I enjoy listening to other people who speak with their own unique regional accents. I have family in North Georgia who sound very different from my South Alabama kin. I have friends from the far Northeast to the desert Southwest, from Spain, Belgium, and Newfoundland, and I love to listen to each and every one of them, their peculiar phraseology, their unique intonations and inflections.

Should we feel obligated to shed our native dialects? Should we be ashamed because we don’t blend into a homogenous, linguistically colorless blur? Well, I shan’t. And neither should anyone else.

So, if you think I sound ignorant, go ahead and underestimate me. That’s fine. If you think I sound “cute,” I think you sound condescending. And if you think I should change to sound like you, too damn bad.

My accent is what makes me special, what sets me apart from the monotone masses, what makes me ME. Why in the world would I want to tone that down?

p.s. If you feel the rumbling of another earthquake, not to worry. That’s only Granny turning over in her grave because I just said “damn” in public.

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Healthy eating made easy

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on August 23, 2011 | 2 Comments »

At lunch yesterday, in an effort to be health-conscious, I ordered a vegetable plate. Collards, fried green tomatoes, fried eggplant slices, and macaroni and cheese were my selections from the vast list of vegetables prepared by Lloyd’s, one of Birmingham’s landmark diners. They all arrived at my table escorted by a bowl of iceberg lettuce with some carrot slivers in it, three whoppin’ big hushpuppies, some pepper sauce, and a bowl of banana pudding. Have mercy, it was good!

You see, eating healthy is just a simple matter of partaking at least once a day in a balanced offering from each of the four food groups. In case you have forgotten your basic nutrition, those groups are as follows: salad, fried, sides, and dessert.

Let me explain.

The best way to commence a wholesome dining experience is with a salad.  One’s first course can come in all sorts of incarnations – congealed, slaw, layered, marinated, or the aforementioned iceberg with dressing. It’s all good. Whether it be fruits, vegetables, cheese, gelatin, topped with mayonnaise, infused with marshmallows or nuts or both, a veritable farmer’s market in a bowl or a ring-molded confection, no meal is complete without it.

Next is my particular favorite: the fried group. Fish, fowl, mammal, or vegetable – if you can wrestle it into some batter and dip it in hot grease, you can fry it. Cornmeal, flour, beer, milk, and/or eggs will all embrace some delectable tidbit in the loving arms of crust when kissed by some sizzling hot fat. The only thing that makes a fried delicacy any better is that other glorious incarnation of the same flour, milk, and grease triumvirate: gravy.

Now, I want you to pay particular attention here, because I am about to tell you the answer to the question of the ages: How in the world can macaroni and cheese be considered a vegetable?

Are you ready?

It’s not!

We all know it’s not really a vegetable. Macaroni and cheese is merely a victim of Southern misidentification, just like when you say “I’m going to get me a Coke” but you actually purchase a Dr. Pepper. The steam table’s favorite son is actually a “side” just like your hushpuppies, and dressing, and stewed apples, and dumplings and all those other fantastically scrumptious, but hard to classify, indulgences. By the same token, a “vegetable plate” is just a conglomeration of all your favorite sides.

One’s final course might be something as simple as a biscuit with butter and syrup or some nice cantaloupe, a traditional favorite like pudding, cake, or pie, preferably a la mode, or something flat fancy and involving fire like creme brulee or Bananas Foster. But whatever it is, no well-rounded repast would be complete without dessert or as Husband likes to say, “a sweet treat.”

So there it is. The truth is out. Healthy eating is easy greasy.

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The dark blot

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , on August 21, 2011 | 4 Comments »

I like to say that I was raised Baptistmethodistepiscopalholiness with a little dash of Church of God thrown in for good measure. As the daughter of Episcopalian parents, with Baptist and Methodist grandparents, Holiness friends, and Church of God help, religion was always close at hand, not to mention the fact that in a town as small as Citronelle, there wasn’t much else to do except go to church – somebody’s church, anybody’s church, whichever church was having something.

We went to fish frys, Christmas bazaars, covered dish dinners, dinners on the ground, revivals (both inside buildings and under tents), singings, camp meetings, and bible school. It was a social outlet with the added perk of eternal salvation. At times, however, I found myself somewhat conflicted.

You see, there weren’t very many Episcopalians at all in Citronelle. We might have 14 attendees on a good Sunday, and our family made up four of them. There certainly weren’t enough young’uns to have any sort of consistent Sunday School program, so I went to Sunday School at the First Baptist Church where Granny (and my best friend) was a member. We learned all the good stories – Samson and Delilah, David and Goliath, Jonah and the whale – and the concomitant moral lessons, all washed down with a lukewarm glass of grape Kool Aide and an Oreo.

After Sunday School was “big church,” the 11 o’clock service, an hour plus of sweating, pulpit pounding, hoarse hollering, hellfire raining down on our collective heads to be endured along with hunger pangs no Starlight mint could assuage. I always knew the end was near when the pianist would start softly playing “Just As I Am,” but that also meant my weekly internal battle was about to be waged.

As the preacher would slowly and meaningfully descend the seafoam green, carpeted steps to the stand amongst us sinners, the congregants would rise to meet him, quietly beginning to sing the first of six verses.

Just as I am without one plea, but that thy blood was shed for thee, and that though biddest me come to thee, O Lamb of God, I come, I come…

The preacher would start to beseech the lost to come up and accept Jesus as their Lord and Savior, and I would wonder if I had the call or was I just hungry. What if I had the call but just wasn’t recognizing it? Was I going to hell? Could it wait until next Sunday so I could see if I was sure? Oh, dang! Next Sunday we’re going to the Methodist Church for family day…

Just as I am, and waiting not, to rid my soul of one dark blot; to Thee whose blood can cleanse each spot, O Lamb of God, I come, I come…

A dark blot? I have a dark blot? I did lie to my mama when I said my stomach hurt too bad to go to school…Shoot! I’ve gone and given myself the dark blot of a sinner! I’m sure to burn in hell! I’d better go down…I’d better confess it all…I’d better fall to my very knees and pray for forgiveness from the One who can cleanse this horrible spot!

Just as I am, though tossed about, with many a conflict, many a doubt; fightings within, and fears without, O Lamb of God, I come, I come…

Wait a minute. If I go down to the altar, will that make me Baptist? I’m supposed to be Episcopalian. Can Episcopalians even go down there? I’ll be at St. Thomas this afternoon anyway with my parents. I’ll just bet I can have this whole dark blot problem sewn up then. Yes. Yes! I have “done those things which I ought not to have done!” Good old Book of Common Prayer. I can cover this whole blot thing without having to expose myself as a sinner to this whole sanctuary of people who already think I’m a little weird and different because I’m not really one of them. Thank you, Lord! Now if I can just live until 4 o’clock…

Just as I am, poor, wretched, blind; sight, riches, healing of the mind; yes, all I need, in Thee to find, O Lamb of God, I come, I come!

Alright folks, let’s wrap it up now. It’s 12:15, and Mama is making crabmeat casserole for lunch. All I need now is to get on home. Wait just a minute! Who is that woman headed to the altar? Couldn’t she have gotten the call during the first verse? We’re almost to the end. We were so close! Did I just sin? Is it a sin to want to deny somebody their eternal peace and salvation because you’re nearly starved to death? Maybe I really am wretched! Maybe I’m just delirious with hunger. I’ll fix this at 4 too…

Just as I am, Thou wilt receive, wilt welcome, pardon, cleanse, relieve; because Thy promise I believe, O Lamb of God, I come, I come!

Okay, that was fast. She prayed; she cried; she’s headed back to her pew to lean weakly on her husband, emotionally spent and somewhat sweaty. Whew! That was close! What’s this? The preacher is heading back up the minty stairs! We’re almost in the clear…our selves and our souls are in the heavenly homestretch!

AMEN!

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My kingdom for a dead snake

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , on August 18, 2011 | Leave a Comment »

Dawg Days are upon us. Go on…draw that syllable out just like the heat and humidity that threatens to stretch clear to Halloween. It’s too hot to talk fast. Too hot to think fast. Too hot to do much besides indolently stand in the yard dribbling precious cool water on flowers as parched as you are.

This annual late summer conflagration and the contemplation thereof is some serious and Sirius business dating all the way back to ancient Rome when is was believed that the appearance of the Dog Star was a precursor to the hottest, most sultry days of summer. Back then, a brown dog would be sacrificed to appease the god in hopes that his wrath would be assuaged and the crops would not wither and die in the fields.

Now, I’d be hard-pressed to kill a dog no matter how hot it gets, but a snake is another matter entirely. According to Leroy, who Granny employed to help her tend her enormous yard, gardens, and hothouse and who was a veritable font of valuable information regarding all manner of superstition, all it takes to break the dark spell of Dawg Days is a snake. A dead one. Hung carefully over a tree branch.

Now, I am unclear as to whether species of snake matters, and there seems to be a debate about whether the snake should be hung belly up or belly down, in a tree or on a fence. But about one thing I am completely certain – this is some powerful mojo and it works. Fast. Without fail.

In fact, Leroy made it his common practice during the summer months to kill every snake he ran across and hang their carcasses up in the trees. Consequently, we always had plenty of rain, but not too much, Granny’s flower beds thrived to her delight, and two little tow-headed kids thought he was a mystical rainmaker capable of performing miracles.

I warn you in advance, if you go hanging dead snakes in the far reaches of your yard – in the far reaches because you don’t want company to come and there be a big, dead rattler right by the driveway scaring your guests, not because it works better if there is a distance – anyway, if you go hanging up some dead snakes, forget where you put them, and go strolling about, you might be in for a nasty surprise. But, should you decide you wish to pursue this line of defense against the most torrid, sweltering days of the year, you will be rewarded for your efforts.

Leroy and I guarantee it.

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Guilty pleasures

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on August 17, 2011 | Leave a Comment »

Last Friday night, Husband and I had the good fortune to eat dinner at Satterfield’s in Cahaba Heights. From the cheese plate to dessert, I have to say that every little mouthful was just divine, but I most especially enjoyed one of my guiltiest pleasures – rabbit.

Now Husband doesn’t eat anything that once had fur or feathers, and I can’t profess to be much of a carnivore either. For me, it’s a taste thing. I’m just not a big fan of meat, don’t like it, never have. But, there are some things I love, and rabbit is one of them, especially when said bunny is citrus braised and paired with ricotta gnocchi, baby radishes, and oyster mushrooms! Nevermind the cute, floppy ears, soft fur, and big eyes. I can get past it every day of the week.

In fact, I even had a pet rabbit as a child. The Easter Bunny brought me his little brown and white cousin one warm, spring Sunday morning. Baw and I made it a home in a hutch built in the chicken yard. We fed it, petted it, and tried to play with it. You should note here that rabbits don’t much like being held, and, if they decide they are ready to be put down, will lay your arm open with the claws on their big old hind feet. Nevertheless, we took good care of it, and it lived high on the bunny hog.

One day, I went out to the chicken yard to visit our rabbit, but the hutch was empty! I ran to find Baw and tell him that our pet had escaped. But it was not a jailbreak. Baw told me very solemnly that the Lord had taken our little furry friend to bunny heaven and that he would be happy forevermore in paradise.

Of course I was as sad as sad could be, but who could argue that a rabbit wasn’t better off hopping across heavenly meadows than he was in an earthly cage? Plus, that day Sarah made one of my favorite dishes for lunch – fricasseed “chicken” – and the world was right again.

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Back to school

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on August 15, 2011 | Leave a Comment »

Today is the first day of school. New clothes, binders, pencils, and paper. New hope for a better year, nice friends, and teachers who aren’t too hard. A chance to reinvent yourself for the year. Find your niche. Make your mark. Change the world. The possibilities stretch out before you like the line in the cafeteria.

Even though I am no longer in school, I still get as excited about the first day as I did when I was 4 and started my educational pursuits at Mrs. Jones’ Kindergarten. Our school was a long, low cinder-block building behind Mrs. Jones’ house on Lebaron Avenue. Every day started with the Pledge of Allegiance recited with our hands held over our hearts (“…with liberty and justice for Aud”) and the National Anthem sung in earnest enthusiasm. We were young patriots during a seemingly never-ending, mysterious foreign conflict. Thirty years later, my son would start his days the exact same way, war and all.

We spent most mornings sitting at round tables in groups of 5 or 6. There were stories and singalongs and art projects. Then there was lunch, which everyone brought in little metal lunch boxes or paper sacks. A cheese, pickle and mayonnaise sandwich for me, thank you very much. No one cared if their sandwich wasn’t in the shape of a star or if there was a peanut on the premises. We just ate whatever our mamas sent or traded for some delicacy a friend’s mama had made like a bologna sandwich or a piece of cold fried chicken. We brought Kool-Aid in a thermos or drank from the water fountain.

After lunch we had a short nap on plastic mats that always seemed vaguely sandy, and then, it was play time! Glorious freedom to run and scream and cut capers. There was a big swing set, a merry-go-round, and what was probably the most popular piece of playground equipment ever – a rusted-out junk car sitting on blocks. We swarmed its frame like ants, crawling under, over, and all around it. I remember climbing inside and sitting through the bottom of the enormous steering wheel while my friends rocked me from side to side.

Red rover, duck duck goose, crack the whip…all de rigueur. We learned how to divide ourselves into teams, how to cope if you weren’t picked, how to lead, how to follow, and how to win or lose graciously for Mrs. Jones would have it no other way. We learned that, if chased, Frankie could run just as fast with crutches and a cast as he could without. We learned that if you pick up a snake and bring it into the classroom, the teachers would scream bloody murder, even if it is just a little one. I learned that if you kick the mean boy in the ankle just as hard as you can, he’ll tell on you and you will get paddled. Hard.

We learned so many lessons on that playground where there was no soft mat to cushion our falls, no hand sanitizer, and no time out. So many more lessons than are found between the covers of a book. So many lessons that have made so many things possible.

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Why I love crime (The final installment)

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on August 13, 2011 | 1 Comment »

My mama once said to me during one of our frequent political discussions, “I don’t believe in the death penalty. I’ve known plenty of murderers, and they weren’t all bad people.”

Plenty of murderers, I wondered? Plenty as in “existing in ample quantity or number?” My sweet mama?

Well, yes. And come to think of it, so have I.

I knew a man who, in the 40s and 50s, owned a honky tonk just south of town and lived across the road from it. One night, a neighbor of his, fueled by a good deal of alcohol and rage over some unknown slight, proceeded to break all the windows out of the club building and then head across the road to see what the proprietor would do about it! Awakened by the sounds of banging on the door and glass breaking, the owner grabbed his shotgun, ran down the stairs, and shot the man he perceived to be a threat to his wife and young children.

Another friend of our family killed his father-in-law, who was notoriously ill-tempered and abusive. Again, alcohol was involved. A fight ensued, and only one man walked away.

One man had a wife who was known to run around on him. He loved her and tolerated her transgressions. But one night, out drinking with his buddies, they started talking about how she treated him and how he just took it. They teased and joked and put him down for not being a “real man.” The next morning, he found his wife. And shot her dead. It was Mother’s Day.

None of these three men were bad people. They were good people driven to defend or by anger and pride. Family men caught up in bad situations. People known to me who would go to the grave knowing that they had put someone early in theirs. Now that’s some reality for you.

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Why I love crime (The redux)

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on August 11, 2011 | Leave a Comment »

A doll is boring. And vaguely scarey with her fixed, blinking eyes. She just lies there. Staring.

A fingerprint. Now there is something flat interesting!

Here’s what a doll has: hair plugs.

Here’s what a fingerprint has: whorls.

Which sounds more interesting to you?

Baw had had the misfortune of contracting tuberculosis and spent many years recuperating from it and the surgeries recovery required. This process required long stints away from home and isolation from family and friends, both hard on a gregarious and affable man. To fill his time, Baw did many things. He drew. He wrote stories of his childhood. And he studied becoming an amateur detective.

He sent off for a fingerprinting kit that included dusting powder, some brushes, little white cards, and an instruction booklet, all packed in a neat little black case. He practiced around the house, dusting, transferring, studying, and comparing. Hours were spent peering through a magnifying glass at unique terrains of lines and ridges. He made notes on the little white cards of who was who, when the print had been taken, from what surface, and any distinguishing characteristics.

Years later when I came along, Baw showed me how to lift a latent from the refrigerator door, and the two of us cogitated over our findings. Together we solved such domestic atrocities as the mystery Baby Ruth and the dastardly fiend who had abducted her from the icebox.  Little did we know that Baw would be able to put his skills to use to solve an actual crime.

We lived on a corner of the main intersection in Citronelle in what was commonly referred to as “The Lily House” after the family who had built it in the late 1800s. One day Mama came home after work to discover that the little black and white television that we kept in our kitchen was gone! Mama called the police, then called her daddy. When the men all arrived, an investigation of the house revealed that the only other thing missing was a pack of cigarettes and that there was no evidence of forced entry at any of the doors or windows.

As Baw and the detective walked around the house looking for where the thief had entered our home, Baw noticed that one of the old windows to the living room seemed to be up just ever so slightly. In a house as old as ours, the windows didn’t lock any more, but we never worried about it. We just kept them down…all the way down.

Out came the fingerprinting kit. After a careful dusting, some teeny tiny little fingerprints appeared on the window sill, prints too little for even a small man. The prints were, well, childlike.

The detective remembered taking a call that very morning from a man reporting that his 15-year-old son had stolen his car and was gone along with his two brothers, one of whom was only six years old. The boys and the car were nowhere to be found. The detective and Baw surmised that the two elder Pew boys, who were known to be a little wild, had boosted their baby brother through the window to get the television and the cigarettes.

The detective put the word out that if the television appeared on on his porch before the next morning the Pew boy would not be arrested and charged with driving without a license. Sure enough, when he got up the next day, the little television was sitting on his stoop, missing only the UHF antennae, which was never recovered.

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