I was drawn to a verse in the Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Sound of Music that ends, “These are
a few of my favorite things.”
No, I’m not putting in a plug for the vocals of Julie Andrews. The country boy in me prefers
Loretta Lynn’s “Coal Miner’s Daughter.”
This line got me to thinking about some of my favorite things and I thought on a cold winter day
I might share a few of those things that are special to me.
‘
Any time I’m on a road trip, my first stop for refreshments is always, never deviating, a bottle,
not a can but a bottle of real Coke, and a pack of salted peanuts. Taking a few sips from the
bottle so it won’t run over, I pour in the peanuts. Nothing better; the sweetness and acidy bite of
the Coke blended with the saltiness and crunch of peanuts makes any road trip – unless it’s to the
see the dentist for a root canal – extra special.
I love coffee and I have discovered a blend that suits my fancy just right. I stop by the Black
Rifle shop for a pound of “Beyond Black” coffee. Just enough cream to lighten the color just a
bit and my day gets off to a fine start.
When the weather warms, I like to take my cup to the back porch where I sit and sip and watch
the birds while thanking the Good Lord for His blessings.
Back before age and infirmity kept me out of the woods, I loved to be sitting, covered in
camouflage, with my back against a tree and playing mind games with a savvy old wild turkey
gobbler. Hearing a thundering gobble as he responds to my calls mimicking a sweetheart of a hen
turkey and then finally seeing that white head floating atop a puffed-out body, tail fan spread out,
as the old boy comes in, spitting and drumming to investigate what he believes is a little hen
anxious for his affection, was indeed, one of my favorite things ever.
When the first Saturday in October came around every year, wild horses couldn’t have kept me
out of the woods on opening day of squirrel season. Sitting at daylight on a moss-covered fallen
log resting next to a grove of hickories, oaks or beech trees, was the ticket. If these trees were
bearing hickory nuts, acorns or beech mast, there was no doubt that as the sky began lightning
up, squirrels would be leaving dens for breakfast.
If I was fortunate enough to down a young “frier” squirrel, my next stop was the camp where the
squirrels were cleaned and a young one was cut into quarters, seasoned with salt and pepper and
dusted in flour. Once the skillet of oil was hot enough, I loved to listen to the sizzle as the
quarters turned brown and crispy. A plate of rice, a couple of hot biscuits and gravy made from
the drippings made a breakfast fit for a king. I declare, the hind leg of a tender young fried
squirrel would put Col. Sanders to shame. A favorite thing? You betcha.
When I was growing up, there was a spot known locally as the Sand Flats where every fall and
winter morning, a flight of wood ducks would leave roosts and wing their way up the creek to
feed. On mornings before school, my dad would take my brother and me to the Sand Flat for the
chance at downing a “squealer,” as wood ducks were called. The flight only lasted half an hour
but if my shot was successful, I had something to brag about to the kids at school.
When my mama slow baked a wood duck in her cast iron pot, it made the darkest and richest
gravy ever. Spooning it over one of her hot biscuits alongside a slice or two of duck breast was a
feast, a favorite thing, I will never forget.
Okay, enough nostalgia. I just heard Loretta Lynn crank up.
Contact Glynn at glynnharris37@aol.com.