By LUDLOW PORCH

A wise man once said, “Nothing dies harder than love, but once it’s dead, it’s dead forever.” The thing that usually brings the most pain, however, is the fact that most people do not realize when it’s over.

I. therefore, felt it might be a public service if I gave you some things that happen when it’s really over:

• You know it’s over when she won’t tell you the code for the new burglar alarm.
• When she buys a dog and won’t tell you its name.
• When your mail starts being addressed to “Defendant.”
• When the children start to introduce you as “my ex-father.”
• When your lawyer tells you that he can’t talk to you because it might be a conflict of interests.

From Who Cares About Apathy by Ludlow Porch, published by Peachtree Publishers. Copyright, 1987, Ludlow Porch. Available on Amazon.Ludlow Porch is a talk radio pioneer. He was a vital part of the first all-talk radio station in the South as a Ringmaster on WRNG Atlanta. He later helped transform legendary AM powerhouse WSB Atlanta from a stagnant music format into a talk radio giant.  Ludlow continues to spread his good cheer to the masses each weekday via great radio stations in the southeastern United States as well as on the world wide web. He frequently entertains conventions and other public gatherings with well-prepared speeches that leave folks laughing and relieved to know that good humor is still alive and thriving. For a list of radio stations carrying Ludlow’s shows, go to the FunSeekers Radio Network website.

The world would be a pretty dull place without white trash. They are about the only large group that you can make fun of and not be considered politically incorrect. You can openly say anything you want to about white trash and nobody gets upset. It’s not that they are tolerant; it’s just that white trash don’t know they are white trash.

In many years on the air, I have told many “white trash” stories, I have referred to them many, many times in less than flattering terms. Not one time has anybody ever called my boss and said, “I’m white trash and Ludlow is on the radio making fun of me.” (more…)

By Ludlow Porch

Kudzu, the national vine of the South.

I have heard several versions of how kudzu came to this country. The most widely accepted is that it was brought here from Japan in the 1930s. Somebody got the idea that since it grew so fast, it would not only stop soil erosion but would also furnish feed for cattle. Since that time, it has become the national vine of the South. (more…)

Blueberry Pie. In the Dillard House Cookbook and Mountain Guide, Henry Dillard of the Dillard House in Rabun County reminisced about his mother, Carrie, and the wonderful blueberry pies she used to make:

Back during the Great Depression and Franklin Roosevelt’s Works Progress Administration days Mother started the county’s first school lunch program. Before she finished, she established six lunchrooms. She prepared the best meals for the lowest cost anywhere. Kids would bring what they could from home, like jelly, jams, cornmeal, and so on, then W.P.A. set up some money to help pay for other food.

One day they had blueberry pie. Mother asked one little boy named Jack Darnell to say grace, which they did before every meal.
Mother said, “Jack would you say the prayer?”
Old Jack said, “Oh, Lord, look on us this blueberry pie. Open our mouths and eat blueberry pie. One more time we thank you, Lord, for this blueberry pie.”

Walt Grindle of Dahlonega, Lumpkin County, Georgia
Recorded by Jean Bieder

Great-uncle of mine, he liked pepper – any form of pepper. He ‘as crazy about pepper. And his name was Hiram, and his wife was named Elizabeth. So she was always grumbling; she ‘as just a chronic grumbler.

Come spring of the year, and he told her one day, he said, “Elizabeth,” said, “it’s time you’s sowing pepper seeds now.”

She said, “Oh, Hiram, it’s no use.” Said, “I won’t live to see no pepper grow this time.”

He didn’t say any more about it.

So after wadn’t no pepper come that fall, when he had something he ’specially wanted pepper with, they set down to the table and he looked around and said, “Elizabeth, here you are still a-living, and no pepper.”

Recorded in 1975 by Jean Bieder from Walt Grindle, then sixty-eight, of Dahlonega, in Lumpkin County, “Fruitless Prophesy” is one of 250 authentic folk tales and stories recorded by the students of Dr. John Burrison at Georgia State University and published in Storytellers, Folktales & Legends from the South. Copyright by the University of Georgia Press and used by permission.

• To buy a copy of Storytellers from the University of Georgia Press, click here
• To buy a copy from Amazon, click here.

Links:
More on John Burrison and his projects at Georgia State University and the Folk Pottery Museum of Northeast Georgia at Sautee Nacoochee Center.

Editors Note: Dean Brown grew up in Fayette County, Georgia, when it had only one paved highway and horse drawn wagons mingled with a few automobiles on the roads - quite a contrast to the Fayette County of today, which is often ranked as one of the fastest growing and most affluent counties in the state. Now in his 70s, he has assembled a collection of “Little Stories”  that are entertaining tales and snapshot history lessons about how much the South has changed in one man’s lifetime. Here’s his recollection of riding the train to Atlanta as a small boy. If you enjoy this “Little Story” there are more on his PopSpin website. Mr. Brown would like to hear from you with your Southern Stories and so would Brown’s Guide.

The Southern Railway ran a route passing through Fayetteville to Atlanta in the morning, coming back through Fayetteville in the late afternoon. When I was about four or five I went to Atlanta on this train and remember it very well.

Atlanta’s Terminal Station, the station where Dean Brown disembarked after his train ride from Fayetteville. Terminal station opened in May 1905 and served Southern Railway, Central of Georgia, and Atlanta & West Point railroads. It closed in June 1970 and was demolished in 1972. (more…)

Harmless but abundant, may flies are native to the Lake Seminole area. Their presence is an indicator of good water quality. They appear in swarms. They do not bite, but swarms can be so thick they can impede breathing.

One night the Corps of Engineers got a call from a campground where may flies were clustering around an electric light. Campers complained that the odor from dead flies was bothersome. When Corps workers got to the site, they found a pile of expired flies three-feet deep that had to be hauled away with a front loader.