"Never been...never been kissed by a boll weevil," she sighs...with jaw-dropping insight. "What's a girl to do?" To be honest, not one of those hot, come hither, gotta have you kisses that a girl never forgets belonged to a boll weevil. I have received my fair share of kisses a girl is oh so happy to file away under
look what I just endured. Sorry guys, I'm sure you felt the same way. So, here's the deal. Now, you would have to be from Kingstree to really understand the boll weevil kiss and know what all the fuss is about. I put myself on the fast track. I graduated from high school a year early. I read every book I could get my hands on, visited my grandparents, memorized the gospels-in particular the
Gospel of Mark-(and please forgive me, O Holy Father, I'm not all that fond of it to this very day), picked and shelled butter beans, jumped cotton bales at the gin in Salters, and "put-in" tobacco. Always had to "hand," never could "string," and was always looking up...up into the top of the barn to be exact...thinking how can he, whoever he was on that particular day, perch so precariously and fling his arms about all at the same time? But what I really wanted was to drive the tractor...as in, how fast can it go, or take off exploring down some never before traveled lane? Let's throw in some good works (they were genuine) and my various jobs...paying and otherwise. They. Tried. To. Domesticate. Me. The sad truth is I spent far too much time being serious...serious enough for forty boatloads of people. I was around adults solving serious problems or enjoying them. I'm not sure which. But the fact of the matter is, I missed my boll weevil childhood and adolescence. I missed all the fun. Not good. Must be corrected. So, here I sit on my Folly with a bad Butler dog trying to figure out how to correct something I just recognized as missing from my life. "No," I must say to my past and those who inhabited it. "The ferris wheel in Myrtle Beach does not in anyway make up for missing a
boll weevil kiss. And you know what I mean!"
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| "It ain't no sin to be glad you're alive." Bruce Springsteen |
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| KHS 1970 |
"Never been...never been kissed by a boll weevil," she sighs...with jaw-dropping insight. "What's a girl to do?" To be honest, not one of those hot, come hither, gotta have you kisses that a girl never forgets belonged to a boll weevil. I have received my fair share of kisses a girl is oh so happy to file away under look what I just endured. Sorry guys, I'm sure you felt the same way. So, here's the deal. Now, you would have to be from Kingstree to really understand the boll weevil kiss and know what all the fuss is about. I put myself on the fast track. I graduated from high school a year early. I read every book I could get my hands on, visited my grandparents, memorized the gospels-in particular the Gospel of Mark-(and please forgive me, O Holy Father, I'm not all that fond of it to this very day), picked and shelled butter beans, jumped cotton bales at the gin in Salters, and "put-in" tobacco. Always had to "hand," never could "string," and was always looking up...up into the top of the barn to be exact...thinking how can he, whoever he was on that particular day, perch so precariously and fling his arms about all at the same time? But what I really wanted was to drive the tractor...as in, how fast can it go, or take off exploring down some never before traveled lane? Let's throw in some good works (they were genuine) and my various jobs...paying and otherwise. They. Tried. To. Domesticate. Me. The sad truth is I spent far too much time being serious...serious enough for forty boatloads of people. I was around adults solving serious problems or enjoying them. I'm not sure which. But the fact of the matter is, I missed my boll weevil childhood and adolescence. I missed all the fun. Not good. Must be corrected. So, here I sit on my Folly with a bad Butler dog trying to figure out how to correct something I just recognized as missing from my life. "No," I must say to my past and those who inhabited it. "The ferris wheel in Myrtle Beach does not in anyway make up for missing a boll weevil kiss. And you know what I mean!"
I love reading your blogs!!
ReplyDeleteMe, too. According to your later post, you are now a dancing boll weevil! Hee, hee...there is poetry in that.
DeleteWhirling and twirling sure beats plodding through life!!
Delete