Everyone that has ever had anything to do with turnips, knows that because they grow close to the dirt, they are hard to clean. In the early fifties, water had to be drawn from the well by rope, or a hand pump. A few lucky folks, in the country had electric pumps, but they were aggravating at the best of times. The turnips had to be cleaned, the dirtier they were the less money you received.
Most of the black folks that came into Ashford on the dirt road from Cowarts, to sell their turnips, would stop at Mill Creek just before town. Many of them could not pump enough water by hand to clean the greens. The creek was fairly large and had plenty of running water to rinse the water away. There would be a crowd of fifteen or twenty folks along the banks, washing turnips and stacking the clean ones on "croaker" sacks spread out on the wet dirt. Even though it was cool, they had to beat the bushes to run off the moccasins. Most would leave, but the old female would stay and have to be killed.
The women always kept a sharp eye out for the remaining snakes. The current was strong and it did not take long to rinse the dirt away. They always breathed a sigh of relief when they finished and could leave. When one left, their spot was quickly taken up by someone new. The men would stand around the mule and wagons and old trucks, smoke rolled up Prince Albert, spit, scratch their butts, drink dollar-a-pint red wine and talk some stuff. Old mammy would climb up out of the ditch, dry her legs, straighten up and yell, "Joe Freddy, git off yore lazy ass, load them greens and let's git." "Yes sum," he replied. That's how Mill creek got the nickname "The Turnip Wash".
The Turnip Wash, played a role in my married life as well. When Sheila and I were in our mid-twenties, I wanted to go fishing. It was Saturday night, the moon was bright and we had no fishing license, so off to The Turnip Wash we go. If Sheila knew now that we needed a fishing license then, she would be worried to death now that we might still get a ticket.
I had a few beers under my belt and was in charge of the flashlight. After rigging Sheila's cane pole and hooking the worm, she laid the line out by the old stump. Becoming bored pretty soon, she began to raise and lower the worm out of and into the water. The worm was getting sea sick and was ready for a fish to put him out of his misery. The alcohol and laughter had me slipping and sliding on the muddy bank next to the water. "I caught one, I caught a fish", she squealed with delight. "Ain't no way", I laughed, "the hook ain't even wet." "I did too!" and I could feel the excitement make a slight turn to anger. "O k", so I shined the light at the end of her cane pole and yep, she had hooked a fish. The poor cat fish had been sleeping soundly in a warm bed and she had snatched him up by the side. I laughed so hard I fell down onto the muddy bank. "Well, you did not specify how we had to catch them" she said. Life has been good, albeit more for me probably.
