Letters to the Editors

Voters could wake to a paradise lost

Editor: Once again, we are approaching our exciting election time, time to study the quality of the commissioners and the wannabe candidates so we can vote for the best.

Reading the mailouts, you'll see strange claims by some newcomers claiming to be a know-it-all problem solver. Yeah, sure.

Talk is cheap. We should wake up and realize that we need leaders who have paid their dues and have the savvy to listen to and act for the people. We cannot afford to settle for less, for less will not solve the wide array of problems on tomorrow's horizon.

You see, I had a dream, too. (Or was it a nightmare?) I dreamed I was driving a bus full of people looking for paradise promised. It was just sunrise and we were going down a long winding road when we came upon a crossroads where there seemed to be distant mountains and rivers of nature's beauty; wondrous things, clean air and water, a magnificent quality of life and an abundance of all things good.

As we came closer to the glowing crossroads, we could see that there were three blind mice working feverishly to shovel the mountain into the carpetbags of a line of "strange takers," who were pushing and shoving so they could be first to get their share of nature's bounty. Soon they were back for more, this time with trucks, each one bigger than the last. The mice got a pat on the back and bigger shovels to load even faster.

By the crossroads, we could see people sleeping soundly and securely, for they had hired the mice to guard the mountain, to preserve and protect it. We screamed at the people to wake them up to what was going on. We screamed at the blind mice to stop, but their shovels kept working away. We wondered, could they be blind and deaf too?

Finally, some of the sleeping people at a place called "All's River" managed to wake up, and it was a farmer's wife who managed to run off the blind and deaf mice. She cut off their tails, not with a knife, but with an electronic vote at the election booth.

I awoke from my dream before I could find out: Was it too late to save the mountain of beauty and magnificence? Would the tailless mice return, and would paradise promised have disappeared by the end of the day?

The moral/question of the story is obvious: We don't need more blind and deaf mice who refuse to hear and see the people. We need to wake up everyone and go to the booth to vote in the primaries Sept. 10. We need to make the right choices.
-- Robert Burke, Inverness

Memories of barbecue and accents bubble up

Editor: Re: Unpack your accents if y'all want to blend in, Aug. 27 Jan Glidewell column:

I usually find Glidewell's column amusing, even though I think on occasion his GPS locator could use a new battery. But in this column, I find he also is a man of considerable taste and intellect. Anyone who has the good sense to appreciate North Carolina barbecue has his taste buds tuned to the right station.

For those who don't know what I'm talking about, in the region near Salisbury, N.C., and environs, barbecue is prepared by hanging a pork shoulder over a bed of hickory coals for several hours, and letting it cook very slowly. The fat drips out and falls on the coals, and the resulting smoke rising up flavors the meat to perfection.

It is possible to cook barbecue until it is too dry, but if you get someone who knows what he's doing, the meat is moist and is ready to fall off the bone. Some serve the meat as is and the meat is "pulled" from the shoulder. However, when I grew up in Salisbury, the barbecue was mostly served "chopped," either in a cardboard tray or on a bun. Note that nowhere have I mentioned rubbing or basting the meat with a sauce. Heaven forbid!

Here is where regional differences begin to show up. In Salisbury, the diner is provided with a bottle of vinegar containing a little hot pepper, and you sprinkle this on your barbecue to the extent you like.

Usually, a slaw also came with the barbecue, and here differences arose, as well. In Salisbury, the slaw was chopped cabbage, mixed with vinegar, some red pepper and a few tiny bits of tomato. Very tangy. If you go about 100 miles east, the slaw served is similar to cole slaw, loaded with mayonnaise.

Of course, hush puppies come with the barbecue, and sometimes they contain onions and sometimes not. Dessert can vary, but usually, peach or cherry cobbler is available.

Glidewell also touched on another topic, and that is the Southern accent. Now, I'm from Salisbury, but there are so many Southern accents that I cringe when I see the Southern drawl alluded to as typical Southern speech. I spent most of my working life in western Virginia in a university environment, and so had opportunities to hear a tremendous number of accents. If someone was from eastern Virginia, "out" was "oot" and "about" was "aboot."

In the very rural areas 20 miles or so south of Salisbury, you could hear traces of Elizabethan English, "help" was pronounced "holp." The same was true in the more remote valleys of the mountains in the western end of the state.

Down on the coast, in rural areas a bit north of Beaufort, N.C., you almost could swear the natives had come from Britain not too many years earlier. I have one trace of my regional accent that I've been trying to lose for years, Unless I make an effort, the word "can't" comes out "caint."

My wife grew up in Brooksville, and yet I do not hear much Southern in her speech, as Glidewell described. I suppose it's true we do speak a bit softer and slower than our northeastern brethren, do use "y'all" a lot and do not stick an "r" on the end of certain words, but let's not be so all-inclusive with the term "Southern accent."

By the by, I see where the official wine that is served with barbecue in Piedmont, N.C., will soon be available here in Florida: Cheerwine, bottled in good ol' Salisbury.
-- A. Keith Furr, Brooksville

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