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
  
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This web site has been started as a public service to share the story of Pacolet. The web master and person to contact about putting information on the web site is me, Gerald Teaster.  Contact me at:
gteaster@pacoletmemories.com or by telephone at (843) 873-8117.  My regular mail adress is:
1311 Jahnz Ave.
Summerville, SC 29485

See more information about my Pacolet connection at Gerald Teaster.