Chapter ­­­­­_____ Tales from DeKalb:  Clean Dick and Greasy Dick and the Day K.M. Black Set Himself on Fire

                Warning:  This one is a little risqué.  I have tried to keep these stories clean, but this is so good, I just have to include it, so get the children out of the room when you read it. They will hear all the laughter and want to read it, too, which might be a bit embarassing

                A little background:  I graduated from Mississippi State University in 1969 with a B.S. in Forestry and got a job with the Mississippi Forestry Commission. I was assigned as County Forester for George County (Lucedale).  The trouble was, when I graduated, I lost my student deferment draft status and was reclassified as A-1 – ready to be drafted.  We had this little dust-up going on in Viet Nam and I did not want to spend two years in a fox hole getting shot at, so I joined the Navy under the Two by Six program.  I had a six-year obligation.  During the first year, I had to attend weekly drills and go to boot camp, then serve two years active duty and finish my enlistment by attending drills for three years. I kept re-enlisting until I finally retired as a Chief Petty Officer.

                After the first year, I attended Radioman “A” School in Bainbridge, MD, got married and fought the Battle of Norfolk.  I returned to work with the Forestry Commission.  My old job at Lucedale had been filled, so they assigned me to Kemper County (DeKalb).  Now folks, Kemper County is RURAL and backwards – about like Jones County in the 20’s.  Until a couple of generations ago, there were people who didn’t speak English: they spoke Gaelic.  And even today, some of the old folks still use Middle English words – right out of Chaucer. But there were some mighty fine people in Kemper County.  I still have good friends from those days that we visit occasionally.

                There were two men named “Dick Payton,” and to complicate matters, they were both mechanics.  Dick #1 was a meticulous, clean man who taught mechanics at the Vo-Tech School.  He always wore black pants and a white shirt.  His first step of any mechanic’s job was to steam-clean the area where he would be working.  It is said that he could overhaul an engine in a white shirt without getting it dirty.

                The other Dick Payton was just the opposite. His shop was in a nasty, run-down building right next to his nasty run-down house, both of which were surrounded by the carcasses of dead cars.  He always needed a shave (and this was in the days before the “grungy look” was popular) and he bathed once a week – whether he needed to or not.  If an engine or transmission leaked oil onto his work area he never bothered to clean it up – he just lay on top of it.  But he was one-more fine mechanic.  If you had a problem that baffled all other mechanics, he was the one you took it to.

                To differentiate between the two men, the teacher was known as “Clean Dick Payton,” and the other one was known as “Greasy Dick Payton.” (“I noticed your car doesn’t make that “clunking” sound anymore.  Who fixed it?”

 “Greasy Dick Payton.”)

                Clean Dick, by virtue of being a teacher, was involved in the social life of the community, and was active in the DeKalb Baptist Church.

                Not too many years ago, a social event in rural areas was “candy pullings.”  Young people would gather at a church member’s house, who would have, in advance, made a pot of molasses taffy and let it cool.  The youngsters would grease their hands with lard, grab a chuck of taffy and pull and twist it into ropes and eat it. It was wholesome entertainment.

                The Paytons were hosting a candy pull for the church youngsters, and the “Deacon of the Week” got up at the beginning of Sunday services to make announcements.  He intended to say, “Next Saturday night, all the youths are invited to a candy pulling at Dick Payton’s house.  But somehow, he got the syntax scrambled.  I will leave it to you to recompose that sentence as it came from the deacon’s mouth. 

                Yep, that’s what he said.

                At first, everyone just sat there in stunned silence, then one person giggled, and the dam broke.  People actually fell off the pews laughing.

                And then there was the K.M. Black incident.  K.M. was in inveterate smoker.  He could not have stopped if he had tried, and he never tried. He loved smoking cigarettes, and he loved smoking them the old fashioned way.  He smoked unfiltered Camels, and lit them with Diamond Strike Anywhere Kitchen Matches, which he carried in abundant supply in his pants pocket.  He would put a Camel in his mouth, fish a match out of his pocket, strike it on his zipper,  cup it in his hands hold it to the tip of his cigarette. Oh,the lovely smell of burning sulfur and tobacco!  (Did you know that in the 1890’s matches were known as “Lucifers,” and cigarettes were known as “fags,” hence the song lyrics, “While you’ve a Lucifer to light your fag, smile, boys, that’s the style.”?)

                K.M. always kept his matches in his right front pocket along with about a dollar’s worth of change, assorted nuts and bolts and a few .22 cartridges. When he couldn’t smoke, he got fidgety, put his hands into his pocket and nervously rattled the contents.

                One Sunday morning, after the announcements, opening hymn and choir special, the music director asked everyone to stand for Offertory Hymn, Number 402, “Set My Soul Afire.” About 30 minutes had elapsed by this time, and Ol’ K.M. was needing  a smoke REAL BAD, and was getting pretty fidgety.  He put his hand into his pocket and started rattling vigorously. No, folks, when you have a pocketful of matches, you don’t light just one:  You set off a chain reaction, Which K.M. did.  Right in the middle of the second stanza, he started slapping at his thigh furiously, and yelling, “I’m on fire, I’m on fire!”

                The preacher got real jealous.  He had been preaching his heart out for five years and could barely get an “Amen,” but this upstart music director has brought the Holy Ghost among them just by leading a hymn.

                But K.M.’s pew mates smelled the sulfur, figured out what was going on and helped put K.M. out before the .22 shell could explode. K.M. only got minor burns to his thigh, but his best Sunday pants were ruined.

                We did not have a movie theater, bowling alley, pool hall are other entertainment venues, but we did have