My grandpa had false teeth, which he only wore at meal time. (At least that is what I recall)
Every meal time, the table was set, One plate was turned upside down, under the plate were his teeth.
Grandpa walked to the table, turned his plate over and slipped them on. He finished eating and the plate was turned over again to hide the teeth.
I am guessing Grandma cleaned them for him.
I do know he used his pocket knife for toenail cutting and cleaning. I can still picture him cleaning his toe claws and putting the big knife back in his pocket.
I am equally sure that same knife was used at his dinner table and definitely for cutting and gutting his fresh caught catfish.
I never thought of that until early on Saturday morning. Somehow plate, teeth and turned over popped into my brain,
I lay there thinking.
Later I called my older sister to have her refresh my memory.
Yep it happened just that way.
I really loved my Grandpa and Grandma, They were dirt poor, but I never recall feeling bad at their house, (until the lights were blown out and it was totally dark)
We had coal oil lamps at their home on the Quachita river, No electricity. So lights were literally blown out, with a whoosh of air.
With all the dirt poor lives they lived, they loved us, and I knew it. In my child's heart I could feel the love.
In addition when we went to visit, I got to play with numerous cousins and see aunts and uncles.
I could wander down the old dirt road and play in the mud holes.
Then I began thinking of those mud holes.
How did the frog eggs survive to grow into tadpoles then into frogs?
Simple, There was really no traffic to run through the holes and squash the eggs. We as children saw life so differently. There was no fear to allow us to walk the mile or so to our aunts house. There was no fear of us playing in the mud holes. There was no fear of kidnapping.
It was a free, easy, Summer day trek through the massive forests of Sparkman Arkansas, down an old dirt road.
Oh, How I wish for the old dirt roads of Sparkman Arkansas, a place where I am sure, frog eggs still survive in mud puddles in the middle of muddy roads.
A place in my life where the old men at the county office, remembered my Grandpa. A place where a dog roamed the street with a lzay stroll.
A place where, when the mill whistle blew, brought back a flood of fun, painful and wonderful memories.
My birth town, As my grandpa always called it, "God's Country."
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