Mincey’s Musings
Year One, Week Forty-One

This is an old story that I heard a long time ago, by a little-known comedian named Cotton Ivy. It was on a 33 1/3 RPM record given to me by a blind man named Earn Hendrix who lived on Dotson’s Creek.

It seems that once there was a young man from the country who left home to go to college. Like a lot of us who went to college, his real major became “good times”.
He came home for a break. A friend of his father’s came to visit, and the gentleman asked the young man how he was doing in college. The young man replied as expected, “Oh, fine.”

The gentleman asked the young man what was his major, to which he replied, “Accounting.”

“That’s good to hear. Now you can start ‘accountin' for the brassiere your momma found in your laundry last night!”

Obviously, the word “accounting” had different meanings.

Cotton Ivy told of another young man who left the country to go to college. He also majored in good times, and called home to give an “accounting” of his adventures.

The son called his home and his father answered.

“Dad, is that you?”

“Yes, Son, how are you?”

“Is Mom there, too?”

“Yes, Son, she’s here.”

“Put her on the other line.”

“I’m here, Son, it’s Momma,” she said as she picked up the extension.

“Now I want both of you to listen to me really close. I’ve started gambling since I got here, and I’ve lost every dime you gave me when I left home. There’s a bunch of thugs that tried to kill me, but I managed to get away from them. I met a woman and I’m hiding out at her place. We’re supposed to get married. Don’t worry, she’ll take good care of me, because you see, she’s about as old as you, Momma, and she knows how to treat a young feller like me. She’s pregnant with your first blood grandchild, at least I think it’s mine, and what’s more, she’s got six or seven other kids by three former husbands, I don’t know exactly how many, I’ve seen six. Are you still there, Mom and Dad?”

The young man could only hear heavy breathing from his parent’s end of the phone line. “Are you still there?”

“We’re here, Son,” said the father weakly.

“Now listen real close—everything I’ve just told you is a complete pack of lies, though I did fail calculus and dented the truck in a minor fender bender.”

“That’s all right, Son!” his mother screamed into the phone. “We’re proud of ye!”

Cotton Ivy told of yet another son who went to college and majored in good times. He called his father for money. He knew that his father wouldn’t just send him money without good reason, so he came up with a scheme.

“Hey, Dad, they’ve got a program up here that teaches dogs to talk. If you’ll send me Ol’ Blue and five hundred dollars, they’ll teach him to talk!”

The gullible father thought what a fine thing it would be to have a talking dog, so he sent the dog and five hundred dollars. He could make money off a dog like that. When the son went through that money, he called his father again.

“How’s Ol’ Blue doing, Son?” asked the Dad.

“Well, Dad, he’s doing pretty good, but they said if they had five hundred dollars more and they could teach him a foreign language.”

“Amazing!” said the father, so he sent another five hundred dollars. The old man could scarcely wait until his neighbors could see his educated dog.

In a few weeks the son called again. “How’s my dog?” asked the father.

“Dad, he’s doing so good, they said if you’d send just another five hundred dollars they could teach him to sing! Oh, imagine the joy of it, Ol’ Blue singing bass on the back row of the church choir with you.”

“Glory hallelujah!” exclaimed the father. He sent the five hundred. He didn’t tell any of his neighbors anything about the educated, singing dog, as he wanted them to be properly surprised.

The term ended, and the son returned home. Of course, there had never been any talking or singing lessons and the dog was long gone, sold by the son to cover a wild night on the town. How was the son going to “account” for this?

The son stepped off the train and met his father. The old man looked all around his son and said, “Son, where’s my dog?”

The son said, “Dad, the dog got in a little ‘likker’ a few days ago, and he started telling the blackest kind of lies on you and Widder Evans! They was so bad I can’t even repeat them to you. I was ashamed of him and had him put down so he couldn’t lie on you no more.”

The dad clapped his son on the shoulder and said, “You done right, boy. I never could stand a lying dog!”

Some of the best tales are the “Twice or More Told” variety. Good stories only get better with the retelling.

Perhaps one or more of these three young men had this philosophy about their higher education:

"I'm going to graduate on time, no matter how long it takes."

Next week, I’ll share another retold tale. Until then, may you hear something each day that will bring you joy.