Volume 6 , Issue 20

Throw 'er June Photo (dated May 7, 1933 - 71 years ago)...

"I am not sure whether this will be helpful or not with your photo, Throw 'er June-Feel better?" -- but worth a shot just the same. I have a family history put together by Zellamae Longfellow and I will include and excerpt and a poem written by my great-great-grandfather, Alexander McFadden, below.

"It describes Woodward, Oklahoma and a ritual called The Pie Supper. In it was mentioned a June Renfro. Hope someone is interested in some of the other names mentioned as well!

"Entertainment was what the community made of it in those days. On Saturday afternoons, the townspeople would gather at Parson's Country Store and Post Office. Everyone would come and exchange stories and town gossip. Baseball games were played with one team for the men and one for the women. Each team had their own uniforms.

"People came on horseback, by wagon and on foot to join in the fun. One curious custom back then seemed to be the Pie Supper. From a poem written by Alexander McFadden, it would appear that the women were responsible for baking the pies. The men would buy the pies back from their women. The poem has been included here.

THE PIE SUPPER . . .
You have heard the poem White has read on the joys of eating pies
But I want to tell you, brothers, it's all a pack of lies.
But we can't censor Mr. White, his very life's at stake
He's got to write it just that way although it is a fake.
Cause Mr. White is getting old, has almost lost his muscle
His wife can do the old man up in every single tussle.
We know that White would never read that poem in his youth
But now that he is getting old, he's got to stretch the truth.
Not one of us would come tonight to eat like some starved shoat
But nearly all of us are ruled by some blamed petticoat.
We had to come and buy the pies or the cools would all been mad
We have got to blow and say they're good if they are spoiled and bad
The pie I bought and tried to eat, I tell you it was some
It rolled up in a big tough wad just like a chew of gum.
I chewed with my old grinders till my jaws began to squeak
I'll belch it up and masticate it thoroughly next week.
The pie Sid Scovel got he thought was made of squash
But when he cut the thing in two, he had to laugh, by gosh.
The top was smeared all over with something just like soap
The inside of the doggoned thing was black as wagon dope.
The only one who made a kick was Mr. William Cavett,
The pie he bought they could take back, by ging, he wouldn't have it.
But when that little black-eyed wife of his came walking 'round,
Old Billy just drawed in his horns and calmly wilted down.
June Rentfro's wife had got a heart as hard as any stone
And poor old June's afraid to say that his life is his own.
He tried to make the cooks all think their supper was a treat
But the pie he got he says was scarcely fit to eat.
When Eli Rentfro ate his pie, he made an awful face
He acted just as though his jaw had been knocked out of place.
The blamed thing was so heavy, it made his stomach sag
And every time he belched it up, the poor boy had to gag.
If Mooney's not the last man here, I'll freely go to jail
You'll always find Al in the rear just like an old cow's tail.
He told me that his stomach was as fill as any tick
And that the pie he bought and ate he thought would make him sick.
Old Charley smiled and scratched his head and pulled his long mustache
He said the pie he ate he thought was made of hash.
And even White, who read that piece and the cooks blowed out of sight
He whispered in my ear just now, 'My stomach don't feel right'.
Ed Smith can eat most anything: his stomach's tough as a brick
There never was a thing on earth could make old Edwin sick.
He said no girl that lives on earth in wedlock would him catch
If that's the kind of cooks they are, I'll always have a batch.
I always said if I could call just twenty years back
I'd rustle round and get a wife whose eyes were plum coal black.
But when I look at Charlie Smith and his baldheaded pate
That's just as round and slick as the bottom of a plate,
By ging, I changed my mind and I believe it's true
Black eyes are worse for pulling hair than gals with eyes of blue.
Although the cooks can't bake a pie that's scarcely fit to eat,
Although they pull out all your hair and think it quite a treat,
Yet life would be a failure, this earth a desert drear,
The world to chaos would go back without her presence near.
She shares our sorrows and our joys, our burdens she makes lighter,
Our toil, our troubles and mistakes her winning smile makes brighter.
And, if she sometimes makes us dance to the tune of Yankee Doodle
I've got to say down in my heart, 'God bless the whole capoodle.'

- written by Alexander McFadden

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