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Memory Monday–Hound Dog

Memory Monday–It’s a thing…

I stayed with my grandparents when I was young.  Not because of any nefarious reason, but that’s just the way things worked out.

My grandfather had this old green car and all I could really remember was that it was green and big.  I hit my older cousins up on Facebook to ask about the car and we’re fairly sure it was a Plymouth Gran Fury from somewhere between 1968-1974.  I think it was a four door, but not sure if I’m remembering it that way because I sometimes rode in the back seat or if it really was a four door car.  There were a couple small country stores about two or three miles from our house.  Both sold your basics:  bread, milk, cheese, sandwich meats, toilet paper, candy, and some other random can foods.  The biggest difference was one sold beer and one didn’t.

Grandpa would take me to the store for candy pretty much any time I asked.  What I didn’t realize at the time is that he was taking me to the store mainly so he could go get beer.  I didn’t have a limit on these trips and would always come home with a small bag of candy.  This happened a few times a week.  Most trips were smooth sailing and without incident; however, my grandpa was a bit of a teaser.  He would say or do things to kind of get me riled up and if he could succeed in making me cry, well, that was just a hoot for him.  While an adult making a child cry might seem demented, cruel, and reason for CPS to come knocking on the door, he didn’t stop there.  Once he had me wailing and crying, usually in the back floor board so I could pound my fury and rage out on the vinyl back seat bottom, he would sing to me.  Sing along if you recognize the tune:

You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog
Cryin’ all the time
You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog
Cryin’ all the time
Well, you ain’t never caught a rabbit and you ain’t no friend of mine

This song would send me into absolute uncontrollable snot slinging squalling fits.  Why?  Because I was a little GIRL not a HOUND DOG, I had not actually caught a rabbit and somehow felt as if I should have caught one, and I WAS my grandpa’s friend.  But mainly, I didn’t like that his song was suggesting I was a hound dog…which he thought was hysterically funny.

I. Am. Not. A. Hound. Dog.

Speaking of little girls that aren’t hound dogs, check back in next Monday for the one about groundhogs.


About Marsha Blevins, Author

Marsha Blevins lives in West Virginia with her boyfriend and six fur-children. She earned her B.A. in English with a concentration on writing from Marshall University. Two of her short stories and several poems were published in the university’s literary magazine, Et Cetera. She is an active member of the writing group Wicked Wordsmiths of the West and WV Writers. Follow her at on Facebook at, on Twitter @marbleswords.

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