Well, social networking is definitely where it’s at these days, but it seemed like the tail wagging the dog last week when our Facebook page got almost 8.3 million visitors but our actual web site just muddled along with only a moderate number of visits.
Why fight it? Folks, check out our Facebook page. Apparently, a few million folks thought it was worth a look this past week! ;o)
Update: We stopped updating the Raised Country website in July 2012. We now have a loyal following on our Facebook page. If you would like to pick up the baton and support Raised Country by posting family-friendly tall tales and stories, please contact us.
Mike Reveals Latest Single and Video, “Still In The Fight”
Proceeds to benefit USO Wounded Warrior Family Centers
(Nashville, Tenn. – Aug. 31, 2011) Active-duty U.S. Marine and multi-genre artist Mike Corrado is raising public awareness for wounded service members with his latest single and video, titled “Still In The Fight.”
A nationally recognized singer-songwriter (featured on CNN, ABC, CBS and in Rolling Stone magazine) Corrado wrote “Still In The Fight” as a way to draw attention to the struggles many service men and women face after being wounded in combat. Proceeds from the song benefit the USO’s Wounded Warrior Family Centers initiative. Visit www.uso.org/woundedwarriors to donate or learn more.
The “Still In The Fight” video features Marines who were wounded in combat during recent tours in Afghanistan or Iraq; veteran Corporal Aaron Mankin, veteran Master Sergeant William “Spanky” Gibson and Lance Corporal Kyle Carpenter. Also featured in the emotionally charged video is the artwork of Marines and combat illustrators Robert Bates and Michal Fay. Gerard Elmore, who directed Corrado’s 2010 video, “Stand,” also directed “Still In The Fight,” due to be released in early September.
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The Dumbest Thing I Ever Did – submitted by Jack Strong
Editor’s Note: This is a tall tale that my Uncle Jack shared recently at his 81st birthday party, ostensibly in the form of a family confession; however, his sly grin betrayed a clear lack of any genuine contrition. ;). In 1945, his big brother, my dad, was involved in WWII. Jack, however, was still a restless 15 year old boy back home who managed to get into some fairly harmless mischief, as country boys that age are prone to do. After these childhood shenanigans, Uncle Jack went on to serve as a distinguished state senator, and he was also quite successful in his law practice and many business ventures.
Probably the dumbest thing that we ever did had to do with watermelons. We liked watermelons, as most boys did, but we didn’t like hot watermelons – we liked cold watermelons.
There was a particular farmer who lived about three miles out of Carthage, Texas. He was just next to the road there, and had what we believed to be the best watermelon patch in all of Panola County. We found a place in the fence that was easy to get across, and we would just go get two watermelons. We got two, not because we would eat them both, but because the man at the ice house had a deal that if we would bring him two hot ones he’d give us one cold one.
One night we went out there, and we had a flashlight so we could try to locate the two best watermelons. We were very careful – seriously – to not damage any of the vines or any of his crop. We might have been thieves, but we were considerate thieves.
Dogs baying throughout the night in the dark East Texas woods meant that some poor critter was running for its life. When a small red fox zigged and zagged through the thicket at top speed, its heart pounding, its small chest about to explode, the onslaught seemed a tad unbalanced, a bit unfair. At least, Samuel thought so. Sam consoled himself with the fact that the fox’s cleverness and agility would serve it well.
Though its prospects were bleak, it at least had a slim chance of outsmarting Papa Jim’s pack of hunting dogs. Raccoons were rarely as lucky, but this night’s hunt was for neither foxes nor raccoons. It was for wolves.
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I never told Bayno when Mama was going to make fried chicken. If I didn’t say anything, then all the cracklings in the pan would be mine. When the chicken was brown and crisp, I would take the spatula and press it against the bottom of the skillet and scrape the cracklings out of the grease, and when they were cool enough, I’d pour them into my mouth.
That summer was different from other summers even though the garden was the same. All its blooming and growing meant a good harvest along with back breaking work. Sometimes I’d stand in the middle of a row with both hands pressed into my back, my hands making a V and I would bend backwards and listen to all the bones popping and feel the muscles stretch so much they hurt. But with the sun beating down, I’d set my jaw and finish the row no matter if I was weeding, hoeing, or picking.
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