Page Two
T-SHIRT WEARERS ARE SLIGHTED
If, as some politicians say, any publicity is good pub
licity just so people are talking about you, Senator Umstead,
Senator-nominate Broughton, and Mr. L, V. Sutton of the
Carolina Power & Light Company must feel terribly let
down. Miss Mary Price, the alleged Communist who heads
the Progressive Party in North Carolina, issued this week
what she considered a castigation of Senator Hoey and the
Duke Power Company, but neglected to make any mention
of our eastern North Carolina solons or our local power
company.
Obviously Miss Price was angry with Senator Hoey
because of his pointed questioning of Witness Bentley
at a recent Senatorial hearing, in which Miss Price
was identified as a Communist agent. The Duke Power
Company operates in Greensboro, where Miss Price
located her carpet-bagger offices when she decided to
come down from Yankeeland to save backward North
Carolina
We cannot understand the slight to Mr. Sutton. We
have in our files two speeches by the utility executive, one
made at Virginia Tech and the other at a power station dedi
cation; in both speeches Mr. Sutton praised the American
way of life, and pleaded for its retention. It seems to us
that this is reason enough for a bitter attack on Mr. Sutton
by the so-called Progressive Party.
Miss Price hit at Senator Hoey because he wears
winged collars, and hails from Shelby. Really it seems
to us that a man can stand for what Miss Price is at- '
tempting to tear down just as well in Durham or Ra
leigh as he can in Cleveland County. Os course the I*ro
gressive Party spokesman did criticize the “soft collar”
boys, too, and maybe Senators Umstead and Broughton
can qualify as targets on this basis.
Come to think of it, we feel a little slighted ourselves.
In her rabble-rousing statement Miss Price completely omit
ted us. She lashed the old and young who wear winged col
lars and soft collars, but completely omitted us; we work
in T-shirts.
MEMBERSHIP LIST GROWING
The response to the current membership drive of the
Zebulon Chamber of Commerce has been heartening. Al
most every business which joined last year has renewed its
membership for 1948-49, and individual membership re
sponse has been similarly great. In addition, many firms
which did not join last year have paid dues for the new
year.
At the annual supper and discussion meeting of
the Chamber of Commerce some members expressed the
feeling that the directors devoted too much effort to
civic improvement and too little to actual boosting of
trade. This argument was effectively answered, if
membership renewals may be considered a criterion by
which to judge.
On the other hand, the directors of the Chamber have
made extensive plans to sponsor more local events, among
them a Farmer’s Day and street dances. At the same time
they will continue the program which, if continued for a de
cade at the same rate as in 1947-48, will increase the town’s
payroll by $20,000 a week.
A POSITIVE OUTLOOK NEEDED
We note with interest an article in The Christian Science
Monitor which describes the development of the sugar beet
harvester, a machine which does mechanically in a few
hours what took dozens of men days of backbreaking labor
to accomplish. A significant, yet expected statement in
the article is, “They said it couldn’t be done.”
American ingenuity has had to overcome the ele
ment of disbelief in the merits of any particular labor
saving machine more often than any technical problem,
however complicated. Fortunately saying “it can’t be
done” has more often than not simply confirmed techni
cian’s determination that it would be done.
We are close to this attitude here. Many local resi
dents can remember when people shouted, “Get a horse!” to
Mr. Vannie Gill when he’d drive his car, and only last year
many farmers questioned the efficacy of machine-picking
cotton. This year a gin is being built in Zebulon at a cost
of many thousands of dollars to process machine-picked
cotton.
A great portion of American strength lies in the belief
that no problem is too great for some American to solve,
the belief that it can be done.
The Zebulon Record
Subscription rate: $1.50 a year. Advertising rates on request
Entered as second class matter June 26, 1925, at the post office
at Zebulon, North Carolina, under the act of March 3' 1879.
The Zebulon Record
This, That and the Other
By Mrs. Theo. B. Davis
When my husband and I with
Mr. and Mrs. Herring had supper
in the home of Mr. and Mrs. Joe
Tippett, we had the best biscuit I
ever ate, and the only “butter
peas” I ever saw. All the meal
was delicious, but these and the
apple pie were extra special. Mrs.
Tippett said the seed of the butter
peas were given her by her moth
er in Rowan County. They look
and taste a good bit like butter
beans, but are round instead of
flat. The biscuit were large, light,
crisp of crust. The pie was so dif
ferent I got the recipe. Here it is,
as made 'in the western part of
the state:
Use only a bottom crust. Peel
and quarter the apples, though
small ones might be merely halved
and cored after peeling. Sprinkle
a mixture of flour and sugar over
the crust after it is in the pan—l
guess the amount of flour would
depend on juiciness of fruit. I’d use
about one-third cup to try it, mix
ed with an equal amount of sugar.
Next, place the pieces of apple in
the pan, close together, as only
one layer is called for. Over the
apples put more sugar, a good
many bits of butter and a little
grated nutmeg, sprinkling the hole
well with water. Bake it very
slowly until the apples are tender
and the rest of the filling a sort of
jelly, the crust dark brown.
This is not a pie that has to be
served carefully to keep it from
falling to pieces, and eaten with a
fork or spoon. It has a character
of its own and tempts you to take
a wedge in your hand and start at
the point biting off gooey, chewy
By Carl E. Bjork
TIME FLIES OVER US and
leaves its shadow behind, such
was a statement by Hawthorne,
and to we who listened in on the
noisy Democratic Convention in
Philadelphia, the flight of the
years and the swift passing of the
hours were more noticeable than
ever. One could hear once more
the tumultous shouts of the con
ventions of previous years; the
throb of anticipated victory with
the men nominated for leadership.
The enlarged pictures of Roosevelt
and Truman above the speaker’s
platform emphasized the changes
brought by the tolling of the min
utes: the picture of a dead man,
and the picture of a living man.
I SAW ROOSEVELT—for the
first time in Philadelphia. It was
Late last Friday evening I start
ed off down the highway to Caro
lina Beach, traveling in our rat
tling good, old Oldsmobile. With
me were Hilliard Greene and Mrs.
James Creech. Mrs. Creech plan
ned to spend the weekend with
the Robertsons, who occupied an
apartment at the beach. Hilliard
and I planned to sleep under the
stars. It was the start of what
turned out to be a very enjoyable
but expensive weekend.
We were rolling merrily along
the road near Clinton remarking
on the darkening clouds in the
skies when I noted a black Chev
rolet apparently trying to pass. I
did a double-take, and sat bolt up
right when I saw a patrolman be
hind the wheel. His siren brought
me to a screaming halt.
Speeding? I Got Proof!
mouthfuls that stick to your teeth
and dissolve slowly as you decide
just where to take the next bite.
It is wonderful.
Mrs. Ida Hall says she remem
bers when she was a child her
mother made something much like
this at Winston Salem, and they
called it apple cake. Oh, well; the
rose by any other name, etc. Just
so it tastes the same.
Lilian Farson was the only girl
I ever detested without having
seen her and without her having
done one thing to or against me.
She was the niece of my aunt’s
husband and Grandma knew her.
So did Mother. And Lilian was
held up to me as a model of be
havior and a paragon of beauty
until I hated the sound of her
name.
Lilian never went outdoors
without wearing her sunbonnet,
and she wore gloves, too; not
having to be reminded of any of
it. In consequence she had what
was then the flawless complex
tion, looking “as if the sun had
never shone on her.” Notwith
standing the whiteness of her skin,
her cheeks were rosy and she had
dark, curly hair. Not one freckle
marred Lilian’s perfection. No
matter what, when or where, Lili
an was bonneted and gloved, ex
cept on Sundays, when she wore
a hat and carried a parasol to pro
tect the Complexion.
To me all this was too much, too
much for human frame to achieve.
Freckled myself, I thought with
hopeless envy of Lilian’s charms;
not the curls nor the cheeks so
much as the whiteness of the rest
Bjork s Tips
in 1936, and he was running for a
second term. Always popular with
the populations of big towns, one
could hardly get a glimpse of him
from the Market Street walks:
the people literally jammed every
available inch of space. So I
climbed the nearest lamp post, and
wrapping my legs around it,
waited the arrival of the presi
dent. He passed me about ten feet
away, his big bronze face, deeply
lined, showing a sparkling smile
as he waved a worn hat toward
the people. He was riding on to
victory upon victory.
ON THE SUNDIAL—in his
garden, Walter Scott had engarv
ed the pungent words, “Night
Cometh.” A constant reminder, so
he is supposed to have said, of the
absolute fact that life’s little day
You can guess what happened.
Some how or other that Oldsmo
bile had found energy enough to
shatter the established speed limit
of the State of North Carolina to
the tune of 65 m.p.h., and, unfor
tunately, the patrolman furnished
me with proof in the form of a ci
tation to appear before a Justice
of the Peace.
The patrolman, one W. T. Fel
ton by name, proved to be an as
set to both Colonel Hatcher of the
Highway Patrol and to the various
recipients of the $5 fine and the
$19.25 in costs which I had to shell
out. He was more than patient
as he waited for me to fumble
through the cards, keys, four-leaf
clover and such stuff that I carry
in my billfold. When finally I
found my operator’s license, he
courteously informed me that in
Friday, August 6, 1948
of her face; realizing that my own
carelessness and untimely indif
ference to looks would prevent my
ever looking as if the sun had nev
er shone on me.
As time passed I developed an
aversion to over-exposure to the
sun, not through vanity, but for a
desire to be comfortable. Sunburn
hurts a sensitive skin, sunshine
makes a glare that is almost blind
ing; and I enjoyed neither of
these. Nor have I ever really ad
mired deep tan skins, be they ever
so fashionable, vital, or what have
you. Lying out in full sunlight de
liberately trying to get brown is
caused by an impulse I have never
understood. My own darkened
skin is the result of other activi
ties, a sort of by-product. And I
have often felt sorry for helpless
babies whose parents were sun
worshippers.
And there are indications that
my day is coming. A late issue of
the SATURDAY EVENING POST
contains an article by J. C. Furnas
who claims that many of the ills
flesh is heir to come from sun
burn. He also states that prema
ture aging and wrinkling of the
skin are due to the same cause,
citing as example the network of
lines on the backs of farmers’
necks. Most alarming of all, he as
serts that excessive suntan may be
a cause of cancer.
And in the NEWS and OB
SERVER last week a Durham doc
tor blames the sun as being one
cause of polio. Maybe we had bet
ter mix fear with our love for the
sun.
ends, and we die. The words, of
course, are from the lips of Jesus
when he said, “I must work the
works of Him that sent me, the
night cometh when no rAan can
work.” For one to save time is bet
ter than to save money. Next to
life, it is our most precious poses
sion. It is the thing that life is
made of Horace Mann, great
American educator, said, “Lost,
yesterday, somewhere between
sunrise and sunset, two golden
hours, each set with sixty diamond
minutes. No reward is offered, for
they are gone forever!”
THREE THINGS NEEDED—in
every Sunday School are a bell, a
calendar, and a clock. All of them
deal with time. Most of them pos
sess a bell. The superintendent
(Continued on Page 3)
North Carolina * the maximum
speed on the highways is 55 miles
an hour, (and though he really
did make a nice talk, his words
didn’t impress that speed limit on
my mind half like the $24.25 I
paid.)
If you’re heading for the beach
any time soon, study my case
carefully, because the highway pa
trol doesn’t play fair down around
Clinton. They drive around in
jet black Chevvies rather than in
the gleaming, silver-trimmed Bu
icks which cover the rounds in
this neighborhood.
I’ve learned my lesson. I’m
poorer but wiser. Hereafter my
middle initial stands for “Slow,”
and I’m gonna drive with one eye
on the speedometer and one on
the rear-view mirror.
—Barrie S. Davis