Comin' Up Cracker: The Adventures Of A Southern Preacher's Kid

By Carolyn Smith Flavell

Comin’ Up Cracker is a whimsical look at growing up in North and Central Florida as part of an ever-growing family of preacher’s kids. The author relates events as seen from the eyes of a little girl in the post-war ‘40’s to the ‘60’s. Her tales, ranging from precocious to outrageous are quirky, funny and heartwarming. This book takes the reader on a leisurely journey through a Florida history that is largely lost or forgotten and along the unpaved byways of quaint country towns where residents still proudly claim to be “Florida Crackers”.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carolyn Smith Flavell
• Release date: Mar 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9780996158411

Book preview

Comin’ Up Cracker

The Adventures Of A Southern Preacher’s Kid

Carolyn Smith Flavell

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2015 Carolyn Smith Flavell

ISBN 978-0-9961584-1-1

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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of this author.

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Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter 1 ● Born and Raised

Chapter 2 ●All Back Roads Lead to Home

Chapter 3 ● Getting a Round TUIT

Chapter 4 ● Chicken Pox and Shaped Notes

Chapter 5 ● Easter Eggs and Preacher Puddin’

Chapter 6 ● Manners – Cracker Style

Chapter 7 ● Brogans and Bathing Suits

Chapter 8 ● The Mule and the Dungarees

Chapter 9 ● Welding and All-Night Singin’

Chapter 10 ● Marryin’ Sam’s Tent Revival

Chapter 11 ● Kinfolk and Turtles

Chapter 12 ● The Hanging of Haman and Other Humorous Homilies

Chapter 13 ● The Back Yard Chicken Dance

Chapter 14 ● Have Hammer – Will Travel

Chapter 15 ● I Don’t Plan on Dyin’

Chapter 16 ● Homecoming

Epilogue

Glossary ● Crackerspeak Defined

Contact the Author

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Acknowledgements

There were a lot of people who contributed to this effort in one way or another. First of all, thank you Daddy and Mama for allowing me to relate all the embarrassing stuff. Thanks to my brothers and sisters. They unwittingly provided the basis of many stories and I didn’t even get to half of them. (Just wait until the next book!)

To stalwart friends: Gary, Darlene, Ken and Jeannie. Thanks for being there when I needed you most.

To Dr. Lorren Weaver. After laughter, an accommodating shoulder to cry on was perhaps the second-best medicine. Thank you for filling both prescriptions as needed. You were not only a healer of hurts, you were a healer of hearts… especially broken ones. Besides, how could I not love a doctor who never once told me I needed to lose weight?

Finally, I have to thank all the songwriters everywhere who put notes to staff and penned words that allow me to express myself in song.

Carolyn Smith Flavell

1995 - Naknek, Alaska

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Dedication

To my daddy, Baswell Smith. He gave me the gifts of laughter and music and has always been a gentle example of all that was honest and good. I would love for my epitaph to read, She was just like her father.

And to the man who makes the sun shine in my life, my Arthur. He keeps me laughing and encourages me to be better than I am. He is my best friend. Any good thing I accomplish in this life is because he believes in me. The most constant song in my heart is my love song to him.

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Chapter 1 ● Born and Raised

My great-aunt Luna once told me that somebody in her branch of the Smith clan traced our genealogy. She proudly informed me that our family came over on the Mayflower.

The way I see it, one of two things must have happened: either the budding genealogists were snookered by a member of the family who owns and periodically sells the Brooklyn Bridge or some Smith forebear achieved passage to the New World as a stowaway. I cannot imagine any of my ancestors having the social connections - much less the money - to go on the first British transatlantic cruise, even if it was church sponsored.

In general, our portion of the Smith heritage is a mixture of English, Irish and Scots with a trace of German. The various genetic traits are all represented. Specifically, our branch of the gigantic Smith family tree is Southern. Very Southern. My father, Baswell Smith, is a genuine Southerner. As a matter of fact, my family is commonly known as Florida Crackers. A Florida Cracker is anyone born and raised in the Sunshine State, particularly those near the state line. This is not to be confused with Georgia Crackers, who are similar in nature and heritage but not quite lucky enough to be born and raised just acrost the line.

Not many people, including native Floridians, realize where the moniker originated. In the early years of southern settlement, one of the more prominent means of achieving a livelihood was cattle ranching. Enterprising cowboys got their herds together by going into the scrub and rounding up wild range stock - domestic cattle abandoned by the Spaniards. Long rawhide whips were used to herd these wily beasts together. The distinctive crack echoing through the scrub during roundup identified them as crackers.

The term Georgia Crackers originated with the drivers of freight wagons pulled by sizable teams of mules or oxen through the extensive pine forests. The cracks of whips over the traces of the teams led to their nickname. As a point of interest, the Georgians were collecting sap from pine tree stands to be made into turpentine.

In my opinion (which is admittedly biased), Florida Crackers sprang from a much more colorful and interesting background than Georgia Crackers. I mean, which is more exciting to you, a large, juicy T-bone or paint thinner?

A few decades ago, one contingent of Crackers got uppity and moved to the Florida Keys where they soon learned to harvest and eat those exotic sea creatures known as conchs. Conchs are mollusks which yield a particularly delectable meat. The shells make neat sounds when held to the ear and they polish up pretty good thereby making them suitable for sale to Yankee tourists. Those who enjoyed the conchs soon adopted them as a namesake and abandoned their Cracker roots.

Some innovative Conchs decided to establish the tourist trade and get rich. The plan worked very well for a number of years until over-harvesting put the lovely sea creature on the endangered list. Pretending to be a beach bum was no longer practical for serious writers and vacationing at a spot simply to enjoy its rapidly disappearing exotic seafood was not politically correct.

A lifestyle seemed in jeopardy. Desperation produced another plan. Interested in some beachfront property (swamp land) cheap? ‘Nuf said. They’d have done better to remain Crackers like the rest of us. If not for Key Lime pie, they might have no socially redeeming features at all.

Non-Cracker Smiths will usually admit to growing up in a certain locale. A renegade or two who probably were run out of town for reasons best not discussed produced a limited number of Smiths who actually pahk a cah somewhere up north. I’m not sure these lost souls would admit to being descended from, much less reared in, the gentle Cracker traditions. We haven’t gone looking for those lost souls or attempted to return them to their native soil. We figure they’ll show up sooner or later, buy their little wobbly box and sign up for the shuffle board club. They look on us with contempt. We look on them with pity.

A few mid-westerners and Texans come a step closer to their true heritage and reveal they were born and bred in the West by God. A died-in-the-wool member of my family will unequivocally state (as loudly as possible), I was born and raised (insert your choice here: on a farm; in the south part of Georgie; just acrost the line in North Florida).

All our family members were born and raised. My father was born and raised on a farm ‘just acrost the line’ in North Florida, (Hamilton County to be exact) very, very close to the sluggish, chewing tobacco colored waters of the Suwannee River. Though in general not very beautiful, some portions are kinda' pretty and we all like the song.

Because of a courthouse fire, I can’t prove it, but I’ve been told that my great-grandfather Smith was married to a full-blooded Cherokee Indian girl. About the only sign of Indian heritage is dark eyes that occasionally appear and once in a while, dark hair. Daddy’s most obvious sign of any Indian blood is brown, almost black eyes and ruddy skin.

To tell you the truth, I’m proud of any Cherokee blood that flows in my veins. The Cherokee Nation was one of the most civilized peoples to inhabit this continent. They had a written alphabet and a system of law and order that was admirable. They were peace loving and very gentle people. There is not much evidence that my forebears on the Smith side were either civilized or literate. Furthermore, the Smith tendency toward loud arguments absolutely does not exhibit much of the Cherokee calmness and cool rationality.

Baswell, born and raised on a farm, might have brought his bride to the farm, raised his family on the farm and most likely died on the farm. I have to breathe with heartfelt gratitude, Thank God for deliverance from the farm.

My deliverance came when Daddy received a call to the ministry at an early age. Before he could fully answer that call, it was interrupted by World War II and the U.S. Army; every able bodied man was either conscripted or volunteered to go over there.

If you were expecting a revelation about some modern day spiritual hero out to change the world, forget it. My father was a plain, hardworking, ordinary man. He was not an orator born to change history with the power of his words. He was a man of the countryside, a man who lived with and understood the needs and fears of the people he served. He did not try to sway people with eloquence. He simply stated what needed to be done, started by doing it himself and through his example, guided his flock. Daddy was an unsophisticated man who told his story in a simple way and quietly stood up for what he believed. He still does.

He does not stand like a magnificent, stately oak tree. No, he stands like the under-rated scrub oak found on the land from which he sprang. Scrub oaks are deceptive. They look puny. There isn’t much symmetry in their growth. They huddle up and group together like a bunch of gossips. You’d think a strong puff of air would knock most of them over. There doesn’t really appear to be much to them. How do they even survive?

I’ll tell you how. Those scruffy looking trees just keep on standing. They’re not mighty like the massive live oaks. They’re wiry and agile and know how to keep their footing in the strongest winds. They’re not big, but they are tough. They adapt. They just kinda' endure changes in the soil, the water table, the surface winds and every other nasty trick nature springs on them. And they just keep on standing.

If you look closely, you may spot a blue jay or a scrawny squirrel sprinting through the branches. Where my family comes from, what you most often see children. Scrub oaks are perfect for climbing, for swinging from low branches, for playing circus and a thousand other games. That’s why they’re there.

That’s why I say Baswell Smith is like the scrub oak on North Florida farmland. He’s learned to adapt to the climate around him. He’s wiry and kind of ordinary looking, but the little ones gravitate to him like ants to a picnic. He gives much of himself nurturing the children. He always has. Most importantly, Daddy has faced every wind, every storm, even the hurricanes that have swept through his life. He’s been battered and bent and suffered some damage, but the tree still stands.

I’ve referred to Daddy as Baswell Smith. He told me one time that his birth certificate name was Baswell J. Smith. (Pronounced like Basil.) Nobody seems to recall what the J. was for. It didn’t mean a thing. In later years, Daddy had the J. deleted from the certificate and opted to have only a first and last name. Talk about lack of ego. I could not have resisted using the J. and making it as impressive as possible. In truth, some joker probably wanted it to be John to go with the Smith. I think Jefferson would have been classy. Or maybe Jeremiah or Jedidiah. A preacher could get a lot of mileage out of names like those. Oh well, lost opportunity.

Back to World War II. Daddy wound up in the newly formed U.S. Army Air Corps, stationed in Amarillo, Texas. The Army Air Corps was the initial version of the U.S. Air Force. Daddy was not a pilot, or a crew chief. He was 18 or 19 years old. There were no fields that needed plowing and no hogs to feed, so they put him where they felt he’d be the most useful. They assigned him to the Mess Hall. He was supposed to be totin’ a gun and headed to France but the war ended before his boat sailed. Baswell was just grateful he could praise the Lord and skip passing the ammunition.

Baswell’s assorted descendants will be forever grateful. From their perspective, this seeming mis-assignment was a blessing in disguise. You see, while stationed there in Amarillo, Daddy learned to make what some people call pancakes. He calls them hot cakes. We kids call them ambrosia. They are the best you’ll ever taste. No kidding! It takes excessive flattery, begging and pleading to get him to make them these days but they’re worth a little groveling to get.

Bear in mind that the young Army cook was also a relatively new husband. His wife, Cornelia Rether Groover Smith (pronounced Ka-nee-ya) was back in Orange County, Florida, anxiously awaiting the arrival of her husband home from the war and the birth of their first child, me. I arrived first.

I’m telling this like I remember what happened. I don’t. Mama told me about it. I came winging in on a scream and a yell a couple of hours after midnight of Halloween night in 19-- (you don’t need to know the year). The big event occurred in a bedroom of the small house where Mama’s sister Zelma and her husband lived in Ocoee, Florida. I mention these trivial details because one or two little things made the difference in what my name is today.

My uncle’s name was Clarence, but everybody called him Shorty. He was one of those Crackers from the farm in South Georgie. Mama’s family originally hailed from South Georgia, but migrated to central Florida following available work. Georgie Crackers are notorious for adding insult to the injury of southern Cracker speech. My designated name was to be Carolyn Wanda Smith. The nurse, my aunt and my mother were rather busy at the time, so the delivering doctor asked my uncle if a name had been chosen so he could enter it on the birth certificate. Uncle Shorty said, Why yes, her name is Carolyn Wanda Smith. Sounds innocent enough doesn’t it? The words were correct. It was the sound of them coming out of his mouth that forever more established my legal name. To the unknowing doctor, Uncle Shorty’s innocent sentence sounded like, Why yes, her name is Carolyn Wonder Smith. That’s the way my birth certificate reads, Carolyn Wonder Smith. If one more person starts singing I Wonder As I Wander, I swear to resort to physical violence. That inanity has whiskers.

I shudder when I think how close I came to being born a Georgia Cracker. I might have grown up mangling the language that way, too. Now, I do have a very slight southern hint to my speech, but it’s a refined, gentle way of talking that’s easy on the ears. It’s a natural southern climatic adaptation. It’s just too blamed hot to be talking hard and heavy. It’s even more tiring to try to listen fast. So we just slow down and take the time to savor our words, to enjoy the shapes of the letters on our tongues; we can almost watch the sound molecules travel through the air to the listener who has plenty of time to catch not only the words, but also the meaning of what’s being said. Listening is a lost art and gentle speech is not far behind.

The last bastions of these two most important forms of communication exist in our Southland and often in the farmlands of nearly every country on earth. People who walk the land and work the soil take time to think about if something should even be said as well as whether or not to say it. It is understood; when words are actually spoken, it’s important.

A lot of folks visiting the south assume that because we speak slowly that we’re deficient in intellect. The exact opposite was true. Did you know that the most revered statesmen, the most successful government leaders, the most brilliant military minds in American history almost all were born and raised in the South? Now, I’m not advocating Save yer confederate money, boys, the South’s gonna' rise again. The point I’m slowly approaching is that Southerners do not dislike, disdain or disrespect Northerners. They just get too tired trying to communicate and go away to rest their ears and minds for a while. I imagine a goodly portion of the aggression and violence in big city ghettoes would be eliminated if the talking speed was just cut in half. Write your congressman and suggest the idea.

You may have gotten the idea that Daddy is the only character in my stories. Not true. Well it is, but it isn’t. Let me explain. When Baswell married Cornelia, they might have seemed to be a couple, but over the years and through lots of hard times, they have truly melded into one. They seem to think and feel as one person. When I refer to Daddy, you have to understand that I’m also referring to Mama, because she was and always has been nearby. Daddy may have been the pastor of the church, but Mama ran the household. It was her thriftiness and her ability to make something out of nothing that in large part allowed Daddy to pursue his mission. If she had received the gift of a college