Southern Hoodoo in My DNA: "Hoo-ca-shoo-poo!"

           Educated people laugh up their sleeves, snicker at old wives’ tales, and raise an eyebrow at stories about Hoodoo’s prevalence in the South. Not designed to conjure evil, research indicates that Hoodoo uses spices, roots, candles, and readings. Hoodoo should not to be confused with voodoo or the vampire universe. Hoodoo sounds uncomfortably familiar.

            I’m an educated person. On reflection, however, I’ve lived surrounded by Southern Hoodoo and have come to realize that spells and incantations are part of my Southern DNA. When my father was alive, he was known to throw out a hex or two if he received bad service at a restaurant. One such restaurant burned the very weekend of his curse. The official cause of the fire was a smoldering kitchen grease fire; we had our doubts.

           

I’m no stranger to techniques that ward off bad luck. My grandmother and a friend were driving home from a day of shopping in Little Rock when a black cat ran across the road. Nana pulled the car to the side of the road and both women got out and began to spit. Upon seeing ladies dressed in their shopping finery at the side of the road, men began to pull over to offer assistance. “No need. We’re fine. We just need to spit thirteen times each and we’re too tickled to spit!” The more they tried to complete the task, the drier their mouths became. At home, they explained their delay and family understood the situation.

            Mother believed in lighting candles and calling on the saints, especially during Razorback football broadcasts. The lighted mascot candle with its snout turned toward a potential touchdown played a major role in the team’s success.

If a rival pulled too close or went ahead by any margin, the phone would ring. “It’s time to call on the saints,” Billy Newton, die-hard fan and forever friend, would say. The saints were those dearly departed Razorback fans who’d gone on to Glory, certain to be Calling the Hogs in Heaven. Sometimes, it worked and the Hogs would pull out a last minute victory.

            In addition to a genetic predisposition toward Hoodoo, it is possible that the burial mounds at Chuccalissa Village in south Memphis cast a wide net and I could have been influenced by their proximity when I lived there. I have been known to sit aligned with a bathtub while playing cards, setting myself up for good cards and a winning night. Wearing pajamas inside out could bring on much needed snow days. The performance of a snow dance complete with arm and hand motions as well as chants once caused a record number of Wicked Wednesday snow storms.

            During the time I was having difficulty conceiving, Mother brought out the big guns; Lydia Pinkham’s tonic promised “a baby in every bottle.” I swigged that nasty stuff that tasted worse than Ny-Quil. After draining multiple bottles of the putrid concoction, I decided on a different strategy.

           

Needing no help from Lydia’s bottle, friends awaited delivery of their babies. About six months into the pregnancy, it was time to find out the sex of the baby. In the mid-1970’s, finding out whether the baby was a boy or a girl could be accomplished at a Drano Party. The pregnant lady would spit upon a tablespoon of Drano crystals placed before her on a safe surface. Either they bubbled and boiled or they didn’t. The determining factor for boy or girl I have forgotten but the success rate for this hooey procedure was right at fifty-fifty.

            A recent piece of Made in the South Hoodoo evidence was related to the sale of my house. A charming cottage in a family-friendly neighborhood should have sold quickly. I was lamenting my situation and two friends offered advice. One explained that General Dollar sells several specialized room fragrances packaged in tall, color-coded aerosol cans. On one can is the picture of a Native American in full warrior headdress. His presence on the can suggests a fragrance concocted of special roots and spices prepared by an authentic medicine man. I bought several cans that promised alluring scents for the home. Another friend suggested I visit the Catholic book store and purchase a molded replica of a particular saint. This patron saint provided good vibrations for anything related to a house. She suggested I bury the little statue facing east, next to the Crye-Leike Real Estate sign. I figured if one crazy ploy was good, two would be better. I sprayed Native scents throughout my house and buried a Catholic figurine in the front yard. The house sold, but the offer came much later than the friends’ suggestions predicted.

            The funniest event involving supposed Hoodoo chants came when several girls traveled to Kentucky for an antiquing adventure. After a day of shopping, we slid into a booth at the hotel’s grill and our collective cuteness brought out the crazies. A staggering gigolo approached and mumbled, “Hoocashoopoo!”

            Aghast, we replied, “What did you say?”

            He repeated, in a louder voice trying to be heard above the music, “Hoocashoopoo! Hoocashoopoo!”

            Certain that our days were numbered, we signaled for the waitress. She said, “What’s wrong?”

            “That crazy man is chanting and putting a spell on us!”

            “Oh, he’s one of our regulars and he’s drunk. Actually, he’s asking ‘Who can shoot pool?’”