Cabbage Heads in an Altered Book

About “Cabbage Head”

My father, who grew up in Kentucky, never sang the entire “Cabbage Head Song” to me when I was young. It was always just the part at the end of the ballad, when the drunken husband is seeing a head on the pillow where his head oughta be…and his adulterous wife is claiming it’s a cabbage head!

Truth is, however, the link between the cabbage head and me…was my pillow, the one my head was still laying on in the morning when my dad said it was time to get up! Then again, perhaps when he called me a cabbage head, he was also joking that I was thick-witted or a dork.

This fond and silly memory inspired me to wander through all sorts of cabbage images and information, in fact far more than I expected to find.

Inspired by so much cabbage-related trivia, and in turn other memories and memorabilia rediscovered, my two-page tribute to cabbage head morphed into four pages. Included are two Victorian ladies that are part cabbage, one version of the “Cabbage Head Song”, as well as a photo of my grandson being posed above a cabbage patch.

Not featured are the knock off (cheaper, substitute) Cabbage Patch dolls that my parents gave to our daughters back in the eighties. As they were not authentic, yes you guessed it, we called them “Cabbage Head” dolls!

And I do believe it was my dad’s idea to call them that…

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By eklektikosbystar

I am a Wordpress rookie. As promised, come hell or high water, I finally got my “baby blog” going. For the time being, it is not interactive. No, it’s just a place for me to share my written words, and for others to take what they like, and leave the rest. At the start of this endeavor I am almost 66 years old. Allegedly “retired”, I never lack for inspiration in a world pulsing with options...and distractions. I’ve never understood the concept of boredom. While for some it is regarded as an unavoidable reality, I seem to teeter toward an intolerance of it. And, as a person who seeks compassion, I know that condescension besmirches my soul. We are all different, wired as we are by our respective predispositions, the environment we’re birthed into, as well as all future pit stops and destinations. This word ramble on the matter of boredom reminds me of journaling back in the seventies, e.g., when I took an Introduction to Philosophy course... Were I enrolled in said class today, all of the above pros would likely be entered into the journal. Now, as then, I would not necessarily reach any conclusions; but I’d do a spectacular job of contemplating...the contemplation!