The very first church my husband pastored was in East Texas. It was in a part of East Texas described as deep East Texas. The year was 1989 but in this little town, I don't think anyone had ripped 1959 off the calendar yet.
The little country church sat on 10 acres set back off the road and a church member lived up on the road. While my Hero met in the church with the pulpit committee, some of the ladies and I fellowshipped on the back porch of the member's house. I was looking out across the church's acreage and noticed dozens of these dried mud mounds.
Now, where I come from in West Texas, we don't have anything that looks like this so after puzzling over it for a few minutes, I asked my hostess, "Erlene, what are those things?"
Sweet as could answer, she said, "Oh, them? They the crawdad holes."
Still puzzled, I looked out across the property and couldn't identify any water source. There wasn't a creek or even a stock pond to be seen, so I asked further, "Is the water table real high here?"
And without blinking an eye, she assured me, "Oh, no! It's only about $30 a month."
And I am telling the truth although I did change her name.