​Tupelo Honey

His beady little eyes looked at me curiously and dared me to move. As he stood on the bank and glared at me his slathering lips smacked a bit on whatever piece of trash he had picked up. It looked like it might have been a piece of old rotten garfish, but I couldn’t be sure. I didn’t really want to find out, but he was so close and seemed to be enjoying the thing so much that I got curious. So, I leaned in to get a better look and then his breath hit me square in the face. Yep, rotten garfish. Once you’ve smelled it you never forget it.

It was back in the mid-sixties, and I was sitting in an old plywood fishing boat at Willis Landing. Willis Landing was a nondescript little establishment situated about half way in-between Port St. Joe and Wewahitchka Florida on the banks of the Chipola River. I was waiting on Granny to come back after paying the fare and buying a cricket or two when this hog, not a regular hog mind you but a boat landing hog, I think they’re bred for the purpose, sauntered up to my boat panhandling. He was pretty adamant about it too. It was obvious he didn’t plan on leaving my company empty handed, but all I had on me that morning was a couple of cans of Vienna Sausages, and trust me when I tell you that, even to this day, I will fight you if you mess with my Vienna Sausages. So, he and I were in the proverbial Mexican standoff as we stared at one another. He had the advantage, being a hundred pounds heavier than me, but I was wiry, scrappy and hungry to boot, which balanced the scales.    
    
I really was in a pickle though. Other than diving into the river, I had no effective retreat, and having caught all sorts of interesting things out of that river; I had no interest in meeting those critters on their home turf.

As he and I pondered the situation with no solution in sight, the sound of a twelve-gauge cutting lose somewhere in the woods over on the opposite bank drew our attention away from one another for a second or two, but as the sound faded, we went back to our posturing and pondering.

Little did I know that the demise of some poor raccoon was to be my salvation; for as the raccoon began his transition from coon to cap, the left over shot from the blast began to rain down on me and my belligerent companion. For a minute there the river, my boat, my person and my beady eyed visitor were getting peppered pretty good as #8 shot rained down from above.

This happened from time to time at the landing and was more a nuisance than anything else, but apparently a particularly hot piece of lead landed on a particularly sensitive part of my new-found friend. For as his expression change from terrifying to terrified, he started screaming like a little girl piglet and headed for cover. Not liking my vulnerable position, I saw my opportunity and sprinted for the bait shed, Granny and higher ground.

As it turned out, my friend had a family; and as I headed for the shed, his kinfolk began boiling out from underneath the place. Man, he had a lot of mouths to feed, and all those mouths were followed by a sow whose bulk and expression made my erstwhile friend look sweet and cuddly in comparison. Not wanting any of that, I turned back to the river and the relative safety of my boat, but by now my old friend had regained his composure and had out flanked me. I never knew pigs worked in concert, but this crowd had done a fine job of herding me into the woods where I assumed they were gonna run me down and turn me into bacon.        

Now it was my turn to scream like a little girl piglet. As I sprinted toward the woods yelling for Granny, I caught sight of her out of the corner of my eye standing on the bait shed’s front porch watching the festivities with a bemused expression on her face. I don’t know what I expected Granny to do about the situation, but I will admit that the smile was a little off-putting.

Laying my hurt feelings aside, I focused on the task at hand and ran as fast as my little bare feet could carry me toward the woods, praying for a tree with a low hanging branch. Turns out that wasn’t needed, because as my entourage and I tore past the bait shed’s farthest corner I heard Granny holler “outhouse,” with a little concern in her voice this time, I might add. It warmed my heart. It warmed my heart and changed my direction because at her word I noticed that off to the left and about ten or fifteen feet past the tree line sat an old greenish brown outhouse. It could have used a coat of paint or two, and as first choices go, it had a lot to be desired; but any port in a storm as they say, so I dove right in.

So, there I was trapped in an old outhouse on a hot summer’s day surrounded by a bunch of pigs with ill intent in their hearts toward my person.

I only thought I was in a pickle before, but now I knew I’d had it for sure.

Because on top of everything else, when I dove in and slammed the door, I irritated my new-found hosts and a low, irate, ominous hum began to vibrate the boards under my bare feet. As it turns out the business end of the outhouse was filled to capacity with an odd combination of yellow jackets, honey bees, wasps and an assortment of multi colored blow flies, as we used to call them.

It appears that I disturbed their midday siesta, and the whole motley crowd was unhappy with me on account of that. So they started this unremitting buzzing. I’ll admit that the sound was somewhat alarming, but it was the effect on the atmosphere, intended or otherwise, that was startling.

The air in a Florida swamp in midsummer can be a little thickish sometimes. The air in an outhouse in a Florida swamp in midsummer can be well-nigh solid. The air in an outhouse in a Florida swamp in midsummer with a thousand bees stirring up that air with their angry buzzing, can make a young boy yearn for the fragrance of a little rotten garfish.

After weighing my options, I figured I had a better chance of survival with the pigs. So, I sighted the front porch through the gaps in the sideboards, and flinging the door open, with head down, I hit the ground running for all I was worth and ran smack into Granny, knocking her down and into the mud. She started laughing on the way down, and I started crying from sheer relief.

It appears that my tormentors had grown tired of toying with me. They were all gathered under the porch squealing and grunting and besmirching my good name, I have no doubt.

As I sat in an old rocking chair on the front porch, Granny did something she seldom did. She felt so bad about my exploits that she went to the old store and bought me my own, and I might add my first, little jar of Tupelo Honey, made on the premises. It even had a little label. “Florida’s Best Tupelo Honey. Made at Willis Landing, Enjoy!”

Later that night as I sopped up every last bit of honey on the plate with one of Granny’s biscuits, it occurred to me just how close the proximity between the outhouse, the pigs, the bees and the honey was; but it was too late to make any difference. I was already hooked. 

The message is simply this: Life can be a mess sometimes, but be patient. God has a plan. Remember that no matter how messy or worrisome things get in your life, or in the church’s life for that matter, He’s got this. If God can turn an outhouse, a troublesome hog, an outraged sow and a thousand angry bees into honey, He can do anything. 

Love, Pastor Tony

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