"BLUING"

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I'm trying to write something on "wash day" from eons ago.  My parents
and grandparents, in the 1940's, always put "bluing" in the water.  I'm
trying to remember the particular name of the "bluing," and I know that
it wasn't "Mrs. Stewart's."

This particular kind of "bluing" came in a small package like birthday
candles,  And, as a matter of fact, the bluing sticks were about
the size of a birthday candle.  I can remember this because I would beg
to hold the stick and swirl it through the rinse water...to see
the blue swirls...

Back in the day, the country folk usually reserved fried chicken for
Sunday's.   And, they served it at the "dinner" meal.  For the "younger
folks," dinner was the noon meal.  Supper was the evening meal.  I can
remember being confused when the "modern generation" changed dinner to
lunch, and supper to dinner.  Whew!  Anyhow, how many people can
remember "wringing" a chicken's neck...for Sunday dinner? <grin>


Would have graduated with the MHS class of 1957 had I not
been taken back to the "countryside."

Submitted by Nolan Bailey, Class of 1957

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In Reference to ďwringingĒ a chickenís neckÖ..I was probably about 6 or 7 and I had seen my Mammaw do it a hundred times. Evidently, I was bored one day and was trying to find some entertainmentÖI did! I finally caught a chicken and swung it round and round a few times and figured it was dead (like Mammawís). I let go and that chicken ran off, making very strange sounds. I was never able to catch that chicken again. Needless to say, my bottom was spanked and I learned a very valuable lesson. Leave Mammawís chickens alone!

Submitted by Kathy Walden Wusterhausen, Class of 1956

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A quick note about wringing a chickenís neck. Iím no expert, but I did it enough when I was pre-teen to know that itís not hard to do. After the chicken is caught (use the hooked wire method) use your left arm and hand to hold the chicken next to your body to keep the chicken still. Place your right hand over the head, and release the chicken from underneath your left arm. As it drops spin your right hand in a circle while holding the chickenís head tightly. About two spins will do it. If you do more you run the risk of breaking the skin and that can get messy. After wringing the neck we would put the chicken on the ground and it would die usually in a minute or so. However, it might do a lot of flopping around first. Thatís usually when the squeamish freaked out. J However, the flopping could be even worse if the wringing had broken the skin on the chickenís neck. In that case the flopping could sling blood everywhere. Iím sure there were other variations on the exact techniques folks used and they all probably worked pretty well. One other comment about Sunday, preachers, and chickens. Do you know what they call a Baptist preacherís belt? Itís a corral around a chicken grave yard. J Iíve been told that joke got started because so many families served chicken cooked in various ways when their pastor, or deacons, came for a Sunday meal. Works for me!

Submitted by Bill Scott, Class of 1961

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I can't remember the names for sure but I do remember the event.
    
 
                  How not to kill a chicken for Sunday dinner.
 
 When I lived in Premier Park in Cotton Valley I was up at the Slacks (?) one Saturday afternoon. They lived in the house on the corner across from the Premier Park Store and as many people did they had chickens in the back yard.
  I was up there to admire a 22 rifle the son had.(lost his name). I was in jr high and he was in high school.
  As we sat on the back steps Mama Slack came out and told the son to kill her a chicken.
Light bulb goes off!
Hey Dad, mom wants a chicken, can I shoot it?
Sure son. he answered as he walked up to watch.
Gun loaded,carefull aim, pop and a hole appears thru the chicken's head.
Chicken shakes head and continues to walk around.We are just standing there in amazement and the chicken never falls over.
Mr. Slack turned walked into the house and returned with a 12 gage.
BOOM! Guts and feathers everywhere.
It's dead now. Said Mr. Slack as he looked at the ruined chicken.
  Another bang as the back door flew open and Mama Slack came down the steps as mad as a wet hen.
  The three of us scattered like a covey of quail in front of a fox.
 
MORAL OF STORY
 
When Mama Slack gets mad.

Submitted by Pat Patrick, Class of 1958
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