The peckin' order was not a written document six decades ago.  But neither was the law of gravity and in our rural non-enlightment the validly of neither was questioned.

The grown men ate in the first shift at Sunday dinners when the clan amassed and did them a little visiting.

Next in line were the women folk who had cooked the vittles, set the table and would later wash the dishes.  Girls were included in the feasting by the fair sex as we boys watched the good stuff being consumed at an alarming rate.

The miniature men performed the mop up operation and the least desirable fare of all was what remained.  I didn’t know what banana pudding tasted like until I joined the Army.

We boys paid for our meal by totin’ in stove wood and hullin’ peas for the gala occasion and following the repast we were encouraged to go out and seek enlightment and entertainment in the nearest growth of timber.

It was our custom to seek out a secluded locale and hold wrasslin’ matches.  The big ones did the matchmaking, and age and poundage were the main consideration.  Handicapping would figure in when a runt was thrown into the fray against a cousin of superior size and the big’un had to keep one arm behind his back during the match.

In a match there was no time limit, few rules and remarkably few injuries, excepting for pride.  Anytime the going got too tough all that was necessary was the announcement of two simple words.

“Calf Rope!” translated out to “I quit!” and normally hostilities abated and the winner was promoted to the status of “Mighty Warrior”.

Now, if one combatant got in a good lick and dotted the eye of his opponent, and then yelled “Calf Rope” it was a chancy ploy and the boy with the shiner often developed temporary deafness.

Once the tournament was completed we’d have mumble peg, tops, marbles and washers until it was time to load the wagons or Model T Fords and strike out to be home for milking and sundry other rural pastimes.

There were jet streams to fetch in storms accomplished by pitchfork lighting, and somewhere a professional baseball or football game was being played, but we were blissfully ignorant of such trivia until the advent of rural electricity and the purchase of a television set.  Whether that marked the beginning or end to civilization is left up to us all to contemplate.

The final ritual was participated in by all the kids.  It was a contest to see who could fetch an unreturned lick to the offspring of another family and that final blow was always exulted by a victorious yell.

“I got the last tag!” was the boastful cry and it was our way of counting coup.

Let me hear from you.

My phone number is 254-893-5063, my official postal address is: 333 W AYERS AVE – DE LEON TX 76444-2113, and you can e-mail chupp@charleschupp.com.