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Meade County: Facts and Fiction also Pages of Memory

CHAD HOBBS

Messenger Staff


This week, we continue to follow William Miller Boling’s column from 1946 in the Messenger offering a unique view of Meade County history from 75 years ago.


WILLIAM MILLER BOLING


Part 8


Potpourri


Was Pottery ever made commercially in Meade County? Oh, Yes! “Old Man” Miller (we boys called him “Pottery” Miller) operated a pottery for profit on the Ohio, some four miles above Brandenburg.

In his plant various kinds of earthenware were produced—jugs, pots, vases, crocks etc.

It was very interesting to watch the making of these utensils, especially the jugs and the placing of their handles. To “our gang” Mr. Miller was very taciturn and hermitical and we had an innate fear of him, consequently we visited his place of business seldom and always in tiptoeing trepidation.

J.W. Richardson and A. Ditto used to sell “Miller’s Pottery” in considerable quantity.

I have a still serviceable crock which was made by Miller more than sixty years ago.

My mother bought it at Henry Washington’s Store.

Time has filched a thrill out of the lives of “country boys.”

Did a country boy ever get a greater thrill then to skip along a winding path through the frost-covered “broomsage” with the sun just peeping into the winter sky and see a rabbit hanging in a snare?

I doubt if any present day boyhood experiences produces the tingling joy and inner “kick” that bunny did as he hung from a sassafras pole with his white belly catching the first rays of the morning’s red sun.


Don’t you.


Those were great days. Tularemia or rabbit fever had not come to mar the goodness of rabbit meat. I’ve always thought that “rabbit and dumplin’s” ran a close second to fricasseed chicken and that a rabbit’s hind leg fried slowly in brown gravy ran a dead heat with a fried “drumstick.”

“Country boys” of the 90’s practiced what is now a lost art. Yes, it was an art—one so engaging that we often took time out during “books” to pursue it. “Bows, pegs, triggers, buttons and strings” had to be made, for Snaring was a boy’s chief business. One winter morning when I “run” my snares, I took the noose from around the necks of 32 cottontails. I took thirty of them to McIntire and Bryant’s (where the Post Office is now) and “Chuch” Bryant gave $1.50 for them and I was jubilantly wealthy.


A product no longer harvested


Winter’s sub-zero temperature p