Dennis Crocker
My name is Dennis Crocker, I was
born in 1942. I graduated from ol PHS in 1960. Gerald
invited me to share some of my memories with you, and as
those of you that do remember me, I can scarcely pass up
an opportunity to talk.
My Mother was Zara Loftis Crocker and my Dad was James
W. Crocker. I have 2 younger sisters, Charlotte, born in
1946, and Anne, born in 1953.
We lived in Pacolet
Station in the old Doc Jett house on US 150 about
4 houses down from Coleman's
Store. I was about 2-3 years old when Mom and Dad
moved in there from the old house in which I was born.
That old house, near Burgess
Town, was torn down long ago, and it stood in the
curve of the road just past the first turn off to Hammett's Grove. That
road separated my maternal grandparent's home from the
home owned by their son, my Uncle Talmadge, and still
living is My Aunt Annie(Scales) Loftis with her daughter
Joyce Loftis Petit.
I have two or three memories of the 1 to 2 years that we
lived in Pacolet Station.
We lived between Mr. and Mrs. Clyde Jett, and Mrs
Lorraine Wells (who taught second grade for years).
Better folks than the Jetts were not too be found. I was
over at the Jett's house one day, and Mrs Jett let me
help her water the flowers with a hosepipe. It wasn't
quite long enough to reach the flowers on the corner, so
she adjusted the spray to create a jet (poor pun!). I
was spraying away, and Mr. Jett came home from his shoe repair shop for lunch. He
came walking around the corner and I promptly sprayed
him. He laughed! My Mother didn't! One of the first
spankings that I remember.
Speaking of spankings, I must take you back with me to
the old house in which I was born, and in which we lived
before moving to Pacolet.
My Mother believed that everyone should have a job, some
responsibility. This was imbued in her by her mother, my
maternal grandmother, Minnie Blanton Loftis, a wonderful
lady. During the depression, as unemployed men roamed
the roads looking for work, one would occasionally stop
by and ask MaMa (Grandma Loftis) if she could spare a
meal. She cooked on a wood stove, so she would always
tell them to go to the woodpile and chop some wood, and
she'd be fixing them a bit of cornbread, onions and
buttermilk. Well, those that did, ate! Those that
didn't, she sent packing.
That gave rise to a saying in our family. If a person
would not work, or do some assigned task, it was said of
them, "He wouldn't go to the woodpile", meaning of
course he wouldn't chop wood for his dinner.
Well, I was only 2 years old , but I was assigned a job
of bringing in the slop jar every night. Now a lot of
you might not know what a slop jar is, or was. Us
country folk back in those days didn't have an indoor
bathroom with modern plumbing. We had an out door
toilet, constructed of wood, with a bench seat over the
pit. This seat usually had two holes (a two holer) of
two different sizes, one for larger folks and one for
smaller people. The slop jar was a rimmed, metal bucket
that was taken inside each night for any nocturnal calls
of nature, and was taken out each morning and emptied
into the toilet (outhouse). During the day, our slop jar
sat outside under a water oak tree that was about 40 ft
or so from our back steps. Mother assigned me the
responsibility of bringing the slop jar in each night.
(I sure was glad to be too small to take it out in the
mornings!)
This one day, it had already gotten dark, and I had
forgotten to bring the darn pot in. Mom told me in no
uncertain terms that I had to go get it. She would stand
on the back steps while I did. Man It was DARK! I made
two or three steps toward the pot tree and began to
falter. My Mother ordered me to go on. "Nothing is going
to hurt you "she said. I took about 2 more steps! I just
knew there was some kind of monster hidden behind that
tree. Mom was losing patience, "Go get that pot right
now" she ordered. I made one more step. I started to
cry, I could almost the that ogre peeping out from
behind that tree, and I just knew it was a lot meaner
than the one on the steps behind me. Now I ain't crying
- I am squalling - and a firm hand grasped my wrist
while another swatted my bottom. And that's the way we
went to the pot tree.
I reckon we got that darn pot, I really don't remember.
But, one thing you can be sure of, that was the noisiest
slop jar retrieval that ever took place in Cherokee
County.
So Long for now. If you like my scribblings, let Gerald
know. If you don't, be sure to tell him 'cause he is the
one what "sicced" me on y'all to start with. I got about
150 of these stories penned up (love that pun) and I'm
gonna try to send 'em your way one or two at a time,
maybe once a week - if Gerald don't fire me first. See
the list below for more stories.
Dennis's Memories -
Part 2 (May 15, 2013)
Dennis's Memories - Part 3
(June 1, 2013)
Dennis's Memories - Part 4
(June 1, 2013)
Dennis's Memories - Part 5
(June 9, 2013)
Dennis's Memories - Part 6
(June 17, 2013)
Dennis's Memories - Part 7
(June 22, 2013)
Dennis's Memories - Part 8
(June 27, 2013)
Dennis's Memories - Part 9
(October 17, 2013)
Dennis's Memories - Part
10 (July 2, 2016)
Dennis's Memories - Part
11 ( July 6, 2016)
Dennis's Memories - Part
12 (July 8, 2016)
Dennis's Memories - Part 13
(August 14, 2016) - A Tribute to Mr. Jack Corn
This web site has been
started as a public service to share the story of Pacolet.