The Pickens County Courier gladly accepts letters to the Editor. Letters must be no longer than 500 words. All letters must be signed, including first and last name, address and phone number in order to be considered for publication. Only the name and city where you reside will be printed. Submission does not guarantee publication. We reserve the right to edit for content and length. No slanderous or obscene material will be accepted. Letters to the Editor and columns do not necessarily the Courier’s opinion. Send letters to  news@thepccourier.com

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The Pickens County Courier gladly accepts letters to the Editor. Letters must be no longer than 500 words. All letters must be signed, including first and last name, address and phone number in order to be considered for publication.

Hitler had a plan. He started small. In 1938, he’d been running things in Nazi Germany for five years. He spouted a dialogue of hatred, and the citizens of Nazi Germany lapped it up. Hitler blamed members of the Jewish religion for the loss of World War I and the financial hardships Germany was facing. Even though 10,000 German Jews fought and died for their country during that war, Hitler spun a fantasy for the public, and they chose to believe it.

The Pickens County Courier gladly accepts letters to the Editor. Letters must be no longer than 500 words. All letters must be signed, including first and last name, address and phone number in order to be considered for publication.

We’ve owned many dogs in our lifetime, and no two dogs are alike. When we lost Red Dog at age 14, we knew there’d never be another like him. But his death left a huge hole in our lives. We didn’t know it, but the children had decided, after seeing Red Dog at Thanksgiving, that they would give their daddy a puppy. They wanted a puppy as much like Red Dog as possible so that when Red Dog was no more we’d already have a young dog who had benefited from Red Dog’s wisdom and training.

The Pickens County Courier gladly accepts letters to the Editor. Letters must be no longer than 500 words. All letters must be signed, including first and last name, address and phone number in order to be considered for publication.

What are your New Year’s resolutions? I don’t have any. Don’t plan to have any. Think they’re pretty much a waste of time.

Making a list of things to change in the coming year seems a bit delusional to me.

The Pickens County Courier gladly accepts letters to the Editor. Letters must be no longer than 500 words. All letters must be signed, including first and last name, address and phone number in order to be considered for publication. Only the name and city where you reside will be printed. Submission does not guarantee publication. We reserve the right to edit for content and length. No slanderous or obscene material will be accepted. Letters to the Editor and columns do not necessarily the Courier’s opinion. Send letters to  news@thepccourier.com 

Over the years, many dogs have lived on Fowler Farm. A dog has to have many special qualities to be a successful farm dog. He must bark when people come, just to notify you, but must stop barking after you greet them.

He must not chase the horses, but maintain a vigilant watch over them. He must keep an eye on things and supervise the other dogs. But most of all, he must take an active interest in every part of the farm and the people who live there.

Red Dog Fowler was such a dog. He was special. A pit-boxer mix, he had been abandoned at one time in his early years but found a home on Fowler Farm when he was believed to be about three years old.

He was smart, loyal, affectionate and tolerant of others. He loved to ride in the truck with Fowler, and when spring came he followed the tractor in the field and walked the length of every row that was ploughed. He was obedient and obeyed a variety of commands. He seemed to understand every word Fowler said and was bent on pleasing him.

In winter, he enjoyed lying in front of the wood stove in the tractor shed shop and would only get up when Fowler moved from one location to another.

And he was a valiant groundhog killer who kept the farm free of all groundhogs, enemies of all growing things.

On summer evenings, when the work was done, Red Dog enjoyed the front porch with us. He liked to stretch out in the porch swing and put his head in your lap. Although he was a big dog, he liked to cuddle and was able to jump up into the swing or the back of the truck even this year, his 14th.

We clocked him running 35 mph, and when we walked the trail through the woods he loved to go with us. If he smelled a deer he’d be off so quickly he’d be a blur through the trees, but would always return, panting with tail wagging eager to share his adventure.

On a recent Monday morning, we noticed Red Dog wasn’t himself. He didn’t get up to patrol the yard and collapsed that evening next to the gardenia bush when coming back from the tractor shed in the rain.

Fowler carried him up to the front porch and put him into his bed. He curled up, and Sebastian, our rat terrier, got into bed and lay on top of him. Fowler covered them with the horse blanket, and Tuesday morning we took Red Dog to the vet.

He was diagnosed with pancreatitis, and they kept him until Thursday afternoon. He seemed to be much improved. His tests results were promising, and he was taking his antibiotic and didn’t dislike his special food.

When we brought him home, he jumped from the truck and greeted the other dogs, tail wagging.

He and Sebastian slept together on the front porch as usual, and Friday morning he resumed his normal routine. Friday afternoon, Fowler had to run to Greenville, and I to Anderson.

When Fowler got home around 3 o’clock, he couldn’t find Red Dog. I called from Anderson to check, and Fowler had been looking for him fruitlessly.

Our daughter called me when I was driving home from Anderson and said, “Mama, where are you? You need to get home.” She said her daddy had found Red Dog in the storage building. Fowler had been calling him, and he heard him scratch to let him know he was inside.

He was still alive when Fowler got there and lifted his head to greet him, but was too weak to get up. Fowler sat with him in the storage building, Red Dog’s head in his lap, and was with him for the last half-hour of his life. That precious half-hour gave him time to say goodbye to one of the best friends he’s ever had. Red Dog’s beautiful amber eyes grew dim as the light left them.

It was a peaceful death, just three deep breaths and he was gone, his great loving heart stopped.

We buried him next to the hay barn where he spent so many happy productive hours, and where he killed his first groundhog. He lies next to Molly Mule. The sun shines there in the morning.

I like to think of him lying in the sun while Fowler loads hay into the barn and following the tractor back to the tractor shed at day’s end.

Goodbye, Red Dog. It was a privilege to know you.

Right after Thanksgiving, Uncle Walter would come home from town with all the ingredients for the Christmas fruit cakes.

There were always two — one white fruitcake and one dark one. The white fruitcake was for Mama, because that was her favorite. It had golden raisins in it and sliced almonds instead of dark raisin and pecans. Chopping up all the fruits that went into those batters took several people sitting around the kitchen table in that old kitchen. The candied fruits had to be sliced thinly. Grandmama couldn’t abide big hunks of fruit in the batter. Everything had to be done to her level of excellence, and everything was checked before being folded into the thick, rich batter.

We never had to buy pecans, and many a Sunday afternoon was spent cracking pecans and carefully removing all pieces of shell, picking out the nut meat. And each half had to be checked to make sure it wasn’t withered or dark.

We used kitchen shears to cut everything up.

Children were good for that. Also, any available child was a willing pair of hands and legs made for running errands and bringing bowls, spoons and ingredients to the table.

And the aroma from the old oven once baking began was like no other.

That first whiff of baking fruitcakes brought Christmas into the house.

After the cakes were cooled, they were wrapped in clean dish towels and stored in cake tins in the pantry. Every afternoon Uncle Walter would open up the tins and pull back the dish towels from the cake tops. Then he’d pour a little homemade wine into a glass and slowly dribble a couple of tablespoons of the wine over the top of each cake. After this operation was complete, he’d tilt the glass up and finish off the rest. We just assumed that was part of the process. The cakes had to ripen at least three weeks before they were to the point where they were judged ready for slicing.

And then the countdown to the last day of school began.

Oh how we longed for that day. There was an electrical current running through classrooms coming straight from excited children. We’d make our list and devise ways of getting presents for the others. Many of our gifts were homemade. Fudge was a big one, and of course Woolworths in town furnished an array of items affordable for small pockets.

I still have the tin box with the picture of a sailing ship on top I bought Uncle Walter for Christmas from the dime store. It cost 25 cents. I don’t remember this, but the tag is still stuck onto the bottom of the box. I keep tape and other small items in it now. Uncle Walter used it for cuff links and tie clips.

The bubble lights were always carefully packed up every year and brought back out each Christmas. When Matt plugged them in, we’d wait anxiously to see if they still lit up. It was such a relief if they did. They’d come from the Sears store in downtown Fayetteville, the shopping mecca of the region, and it was 40 miles one way.

We only went to Fayetteville for major purchases, perhaps only twice a year. We’d go in the fall for school clothes for the new year. And on occasion, when some necessity was unavailable in Laurinburg, the closest town with stores, we’d make a special trip to Sears in Fayetteville.

They had the only escalator within a hundred-mile radius, and while the adults shopped we spent our time riding up and down. It was a real adventure for farm children who never saw any lights other than those from the stars.

Just before Christmas was a time when we traveled to Fayetteville. They had to take us with them, because we couldn’t be left at home alone, so it’s just as well we spent our time there on the escalator, ignorant of what they were buying.

Because the most spectacular thing about our Christmases was the surprises. Those crack-of-dawn Christmas mornings made irreplaceable memories we take with us down through the years.

Merry Christmas everybody.