Buttermilk, Beer Joints and The Man With The Doll

Powder Springs 40 years or so ago was just a small country town. 

Riding down 278, one might see a building (still standing) that my grandpa, Charlie Coker, built around 1949 and numerous signs that my father, Ralph Coker painted. In the days before neon and plastic, my dad was a go-to person for beautiful hand painted signs.

When he started a family and needed more steady work, he went to work at Dobbins Air Force Base, but he would still paint signs for special requests. The last one he did, that I remember, was for the Primitive Baptist Church.

“Oh, no,” he’d tell them when they’d try to pay, “I do this for the Good Lord.”

We didn’t get out much back then. In fact, I remember my mother not being able to drive so we’d have to wait for my father to get home to take us anywhere. It was a treat to go absolutely anywhere, and to me, there was a world filled with wonder just beyond our gravel driveway. 

My favorite trip was to get buttermilk. We’d head out 278, past the building that Charlie built, and run parallel to the railroad tracks a ways. To the right was a certified Beer Joint. 

For those who might not remember or be too young, there were no bars in those days. Heaven forbid a person partake of alcohol except, of course, for medicinal purposes.

A Beer Joint was what I guess the early bars looked like. I myself have never set foot in a Beer Joint. It was not a place for ladies or children, no siree. Nor would I have wanted to enter one. They were SCARY looking places, full of dangerous looking men and the odd floozy.

This one we passed was little more than a shack. It had a screen door and smallish windows and was festooned with Pabst Blue Ribbon and Budweiser signs (none of which my God-fearing daddy painted, mind you). 

My mother would just scowl at the place so abhorrent was it in her eyes. I always felt relieved when we’d passed the Beer Joint. 

Almost immediately after passing the Beer Joint, I’d crane my neck to look on the left side, just the other side of the railroad tracks. There was a little grouping of houses, one of which was occupied by the man who had a doll. 

Often, he’d sit out on the porch on a glider, swaying back and forth and lovingly cradling his doll. I was fascinated by him. My mom would say, “Bless his heart.” 

I asked her one time why he had a doll and she just said, “They say he has the mind of a 5 year old.” I wasn’t much older than that at the time, so I didn’t realize what that meant.

The rest of the trip was pretty uneventful, unless the little stream we crossed had risen way up over the road. Usually it was only a trickle and driving through it was no big deal, but in the event of a heavy rain, the creek could look terrifyingly deep.

Never worried, Ralph would steer the Rambler through it anyway. I’d exhale when we safely crossed and started the mild ascent on the other side.

Next was the long dirt road leading to the farm house. If we were lucky, Ralph would let us off at the beginning of the road and we’d run, often beating the Rambler to the yard. And, oh, what wonders we saw when we got there!

Giant white roosters and delicate polka-dotted guinea hens were everywhere.  They’d scatter as we tore into the yard, careful not to disturb the roosters since they were known to flog under duress. 

Feather gathering was always a favorite pastime, but the absolute best was hunting for kittens. Once we’d found them, we then had the feral cat mom to deal with. Rarely did we ever get to actually pick up and hold one of the babies, but we sure tried.

The house itself was weathered gray boards, a droopy front step and another wonderland unto itself. There was a HUGE kitchen that housed a potbellied woodstove, a quilting rack suspended above the large table, rigged with pulleys for raising and lowering. 

There was a kitchen sink but no indoor bathroom. I loved it. Even without air, the house always seemed cool and comfortable. 

Once I noticed a little tower with a large bell at the top. Mrs. Rogers was busy getting my mom’s buttermilk and butter when I ran in to ask her about the bell.  “Oh, I ring that for Dow to come in from the field for dinner,” she explained.  Dow, also known as Mr. Rogers, farmed this place all by himself. 

Mrs. Rogers and her sister, Jeannie, did all the canning, house work, churning, sowing and anything else necessary once the crops were in.

Milk and butter weren’t the only things we bought from Mrs. Rogers. There were butterpeas (much better than butterbeans if you ask me), crowders, string beans (I hated those because it meant stringing all those nasty little pods), blackeyed peas, corn—you name it and they grew it. 

Too soon, it would be time to go home.  With dirty feet and a handful of feathers (hopefully some spotted guinea’s in the bunch) we would pile into the Rambler. 

I don’t remember much about the drive home. Maybe we dozed off since we’d been running around so much, but I never forgot Dow, Bessie and Jeannie and their magical farm. 

And I always checked the jug of buttermilk regularly to make sure my mom knew when it was time to go back for more.