Southern Voices, Southern Stories

This ain't your Dad's Great Outdoors

Do you remember the “good old days,” when the only dangers an outdoor sportsman or sportswoman had to worry about were venomous snakes, rogue gators, wild boars, and the occasional rabid coyote? Yeah, good times, good times.

My aging fatherand his equally antiquebuddies are always making fun of my generation of modern sportsmen and our “newfangled technology.” Here is a line I never get tired of hearing around the campfire:

Which came first, the egg or the hemorrhoid?

I pride myself on being a farmer with a conscience, but sometimes making extra cash as a chicken/egg farmer feels a lot like being a pimp: the women do all the dirty work, and some man rakes in all the profits.

You didn’t hear it from me, and if it comes up in court I’ll lawyer up and plead the Fifth, but at the present moment I have about a dozen working girls out there on the strip right now, laying eggs and making money for Big Daddy down at DeWitt Family Farms.  But I can’t help but feel a little sorry for my ladies. It can’t be easy being an egg-laying, working girl.

When is wife swapping okay? Only in the Piggly Wiggly

The woman slumps tiredly into the man’s office. Wrinkles line her face. Her hair, once luxuriously brunette, is now graying and coming out in patches. She either has a bad case of the mange or has been busy snatching out handfuls of hair in frustration.

“I just can’t take this anymore,” she said, her voice and hands shaking with stress.

“Mrs. DeWitt, we’ve been through this before,” the attorney said.

“I have got to do something about this marriage! That man is killing me! He’s driving me crazy!”

Fish Farms and Other Crazy Schemes

It was shaping up to be a day for the Daddy Diary.

I was sitting, legs swinging carefree, on the dock of the family fish pond wearing Old Crusty, my lucky fishing hat that I have never washed, and a T-shirt with ventilation holes under the armpits and a treble hook still embedded in the sleeve. I took off my shoes so I could dip a toe in the warm water every now and then.

One order of chicken, please-hold the sex change operation

A normal, totally heterosexual farmer/writer asks the burning question: “How do you like your chicken: original, extra crispy or she-male hermaphrodite?”


There may be some freaky business going on at DeWitt Farms, but I am secure enough in my masculinity to tell you about it. The question is: are secure enough to believe it.

The Notorious Car Alarm Incident

When Miles B. McSweeney established The Hampton County Guardian in 1879, when Hampton County was barely a year old and still in diapers, he had to overcome a few minor inconveniences: polio, tuberculosis, muddy pot-holed dirt streets, Reconstruction, invading carpetbaggers, people paying their bills with eggs and livestock instead of cash, etc. But all of these trivial worries would pale in comparison to the hardships I’ve endured during my tenure as editor of this fine institution, primarily my automotive troubles. In fact, I’d be willing to bet my last lug nut that if Miles B.

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