Текст книги "Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe"

Автор книги: Фэнни Флэгг

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Artis tapped his foot on the floor three times and, magically, the movie changed. He is a little boy now, and his momma is cooking in the back of the cafe. . . Oh, don't get in Momma's way, she slap you out the door . . . There's Naughty Bird and Willie Boy . . . and sweet Jasper . . . Grandma Sipsey's there, dipping her cornbread in honey . . . Miss Idgie and Miss Ruth . . . they treat you white . . . And Stump . . . and Smokey Lonesome . . .

Then, the old man, who had been agitated just a moment before, begins to smile and relax. He is out in the back of the cafe, helping his daddy barbecue . . . and he is happy . . . we know a secret.

His daddy gives him a barbecue and a Grapico, and he runs way back up in the woods to eat it, where it's cool and green and the pine needles are soft . . .

The pockmarked man in the hotel lobby walked over and shook the smiling Artis O. Peavey, who was now quiet and still. "What's the matter with you?"

The man jumped back. 'Jesus Christ! This nigger is dead!" He turned to his friend at the counter. "Not only that, but he's done peed all over the floor!"

. . . But Artis was still way up in the woods, with his barbecue.

MONTECITO, CALIFORNIA

DECEMBER 5, 1986

Evelyn had been at the lodge almost two months now, and had already lost twenty-three pounds. But she had gained in another area. She had found her group, the group she had been looking for all of her life. Here they were, the candy snatchers: chubby housewives, divorcees, single teachers and librarians, each hoping for a new start in life as a slimmer, healthier person.

She had not known how much fun it would be. To Evelyn Couch and her cronies in poundage, the most important thing on their minds was what exciting low-cal dessert would the cooks come up with tonight? Would it be Chiffon Pumpkin Pie, 55 calories per serving? Or Nonfat Fruit Whip, only 50 calories? Or, maybe tonight they would have her favorite, Fitness Flan, 80 calories per serving.

It had never dawned on Evelyn that just knowing it was Boots and Mitties Day could make her heart sing, nor that she would be the one who was always early for Water Fun.

But something else had happened here that she could never have dreamed of. She had become a much sought-after, popular person! When new people arrived at the lodge, they were soon asked, "Have you met that darling woman from Alabama? Wait till you hear her talk, she has the most adorable accent, and is she a character!"

Evelyn had never thought of herself as being funny or having a cute accent, but it seemed that every time she said anything, the other women would scream with laughter. Evelyn enjoyed her newfound celebrity and played it for all it was worth, holding court at night by the fireplace. Her special friends were three housewives from Thousand Oaks, one named Dorothy and two named Stella. They formed their own, private fat club, and vowed to meet once a year for the rest of their lives; and Evelyn knew they would.

After stretch and flex class, she changed into her new royal-blue jogging outfit and stopped by the desk to get her mail. Ed dutifully forwarded all the junk mail, and usually there was nothing important; but today she saw a letter postmarked Whistle Stop, Alabama. She opened the letter and wondered who could be writing her from there?

Dear Mrs. Couch,

I am sorry to tell you that on last Sunday, around 6:30 A.M., your friend Mrs. Cleo Threadgoode passed away at her home. I have several things she wanted you to have.

My husband and I will be happy to bring them to Birmingham, or you may pick them up at your convenience. Please call me at 555-7760. I am here all day.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Jonnie Hartman

Neighbor

Suddenly, Evelyn didn't feel cute anymore, and she wanted to go home.

APRIL 8, 1986

Evelyn waited until the first warm day of spring before she called Mrs. Hartman. Somehow she could not stand the thought of seeing Whistle Stop for the first time in the dead of winter. Evelyn rang the doorbell and a pleasant-looking brown-haired woman came to the door.

"Oh Mrs. Couch, come on in. I'm so happy to meet you. Mrs. Threadgoode told me so much about you, I feel as if I know you already."

She took Evelyn back into a spotless kitchen, where she had set two places with coffee cups and placed a freshly baked pound cake on her green Formica dinette set.

"I was so sorry to have to write you that letter, but I knew that you would want to know."

"I appreciate that you did. I had no idea she had left Rose Terrace."

"I know you didn't. Her friend Mrs. Otis died about a week after you left."

"Oh no. I didn't know . . . I wonder why she didn't tell me."

"Well, I told her she ought to, but she said you were on your vacation and she didn't want you to worry. That's how she was, always looking out for the other fellow . . .

"We moved next door right after her husband died, so I guess I've been knowing her for over thirty years, and I never heard her complain, not once, and she didn't have an easy life. Her son, Albert, was like a child. But every day, she'd get up, and shave and bathe and powder him, and put on his hernia belt—treated him just like he was a baby, even after he was a grown man. . . . There was never a child more loved than Albert Threadgoode. Bless her heart, I miss her so much, and I know you do, too."

"Yes, I do, and I just feel terrible I wasn't there. Maybe I could have done something, gotten her to a doctor or something."

"No honey. There wasn't a thing you could have done. She wasn't sick. We always carried her with us to church on Sunday, and usually she would be all dressed and waiting, sitting on her front porch. But that Sunday morning, when we got ready to leave, she wasn't there, which was very unusual. So Ray, my husband, walked over and knocked on her door, but she didn't answer, so he went on in, and in a few minutes he came back out by himself. I said, 'Ray, where's Mrs. Threadgoode?' And he said, 'Honey, Mrs. Threadgoode's dead,' and then he sat down on the steps and cried. She died in her sleep, just as peaceful. I really think she knew her time was near, because whenever I went over there, she would say, 'Now, Jonnie, if anything ever happens to me, I want Evelyn to have these things.' She thought the world of you. She'd brag on you all the time and said that she was sure you'd come riding up here one day and take her for a ride in your new Cadillac. Poor old thing, when she died, she didn't have hardly anything to her name but a few knickknacks. That reminds me, let me get your things."

Mrs. Hartman came back with a picture of a naked girl swinging on a swing, with blue bubbles in the background; a shoe box; and a Mason jar with what looked like gravel in it. Evelyn took the jar. "What in the world?"

 Mrs. Hartman laughed. "That's her gallstones. Why she thought you'd want them, the Lord only knows."

Evelyn opened the shoe box. Inside, she found Albert's birth certificate, Cleo's graduation diploma from the Palmer School of Chiropractic, in Davenport, Iowa, in 1927, and about fifteen funeral programs. Then she found an envelope full of photographs. The first was a picture of a man and a little boy in a sailor suit, sitting on a half-moon. Next was a 1939 school picture of a little blond boy; on the back it said, Stump Threadgoode—10 years old. Then she picked up a family portrait of the Threadgoode family, taken in 1919; Evelyn felt as if they were old friends. She recognized Buddy immediately, with those flashing eyes and big smile. There was Essie Rue and the twins, and Leona, posing like a queen . . . and little Idgie, with her toy rooster.  And there, way in the back, in a long white apron, was Sipsey, taking picture posing very seriously.

Right underneath, she found a picture of a young woman in a white dress, standing in the same yard, shading her eyes from the sun and smiling at the person taking the picture. Evelyn thought that she was probably one of the loveliest-looking creatures she had ever seen, with those long eyelashes and that sweet smile. But she didn't recognize her. She asked Mrs. Hartman if she knew who it was.

Mrs. Hartman put on the glasses she had hanging on a chain around her neck and studied that picture for a while, puzzled. "Oh, I’ll tell you who that is! That's that friend of hers who lived here for a time. She was from Georgia . . . Ruth somebody."

My God, thought Evelyn; Ruth Jamison. It must have been taken that first summer she had come to Whistle Stop. She looked at it again. It had never occurred to her that Ruth had been so beautiful.

The next picture was of a gray-haired woman wearing a hunting cap and sitting on Santa Claus's knee, with Season's Greetings, 1956 written on the backdrop.

Mrs. Hartman took it and laughed. "Oh, that's that fool Idgie Threadgoode. She used to run the cafe out here."

"Did you know her?"

"Who didn't! Oh, she was a mess, there was no telling what that one would do next.”

"Look, Mrs. Hartman, here's a picture of Mrs. Threadgoode.” The photograph had been taken downtown at Loveman's department store, about twenty years before; Mrs. Threadgoode was already gray and looked very much like she did the last time Evelyn had seen her.

Mrs. Hartman took the picture in hand. "Bless her heart, I remember that dress. It was dark navy blue with white polka dots. She must have worn that dress for thirty years. After she died, she said she wanted all her clothes to go to the Goodwill. She really didn't have anything worth saving, poor soul, just an old coat and a few housedresses. They picked up what little furniture there was, all except for the glider on the front porch. I just couldn't bear to give them that. She used to sit in that thing all day and night, waiting for the trains to go by. It just wouldn't seem right to let strangers have it. She left her house to our daughter, Terry.”

Evelyn was still taking things out of the box. "Look, Mrs. Hartman, here's an old menu from the Whistle Stop Cafe. It must be from the thirties. Can you believe those prices? A barbecue for ten cents . . . and you could get a complete dinner for thirty-five cents! And pie was a nickel!"

"Isn't that something. It costs at least five or six dollars to get a decent meal nowadays, even out at the cafeteria, and they charge you extra for your beverage and your pie, at that."

Before she was through, Evelyn found a photograph of Idgie wearing a pair of those glasses with the fake nose, standing with four goofy-looking guys dressed up in crazy outfits, with Dill Pickle Club . . . Icebox Follies, 1942 written underneath . . . and an Easter card from Cleo, the postcards Evelyn had sent her from California, a Southern Railroad pullman car menu from the fifties, a half-used lipstick, a mimeographed copy of Psalm 90, and a hospital armband that said:

Mrs. Cleo Threadgoode

An eighty-six-year-old woman

And down at the very bottom of the box, Evelyn found the envelope addressed to Mrs. Evelyn Couch.

"Look, she must have written me a letter." She opened it and read the note:

Evelyn,

Here are some of Sipsey's original recipes I wrote down. They

have given me so much pleasure, I thought I'd pass them on to

you, especially the one for Fried Green Tomatoes.

I love you, dear little Evelyn. Be happy. I am happy.

Your Friend,

Mrs. Cleo Threadgoode

Mrs. Hartman said, "Well, bless her heart, she wanted you to have those."

Evelyn was sad as she carefully folded the note and put everything back. She thought, My God, a living, breathing person was on this earth for eighty-six years, and this is all that's left, just a shoe box full of old papers.

Evelyn asked Mrs. Hartman if she could tell her how to get to where the cafe had been.

"It's just a couple of blocks up the road. I'll be happy to go with you and show you if you want me to."

"That would be wonderful, if you could."

"Oh sure. Just let me turn off my beans and throw my roast in the oven, and I'll be right there."

Evelyn put the picture and the shoe box in the car, and while she was waiting, she walked over to Mrs. Threadgoode's yard. She looked up and started to laugh; still stuck up, high in the silver birch tree, was Mrs. Threadgoode's broom she had thrown at the bluejays over a year ago, and sitting on the telephone wires were those blackbirds Mrs. Threadgoode thought had been listening to her on the phone. The house was just as Mrs. Threadgoode had described it, with her pots of geraniums, right down to the dog-eared snowball bushes in the front.

When Mrs. Hartman came out, they drove a few blocks from the house and she showed her where the cafe used to be, sitting not twenty feet from the railroad tracks. Right beside it was a little brick building, also abandoned, but Evelyn could just make out a faded sign in the window: OPAL'S BEAUTY SHOP. Everything was just as she had imagined.

Mrs. Hartman showed her the spot where Poppa Threadgoode's store used to be, now a Rexall Drug Store with an Elks Club on the second story.

Evelyn asked if it would be possible to see Troutville.

"Sure, honey, it's right across the tracks."

When they drove through the little black section, Evelyn was surprised at how small it was—just a few blocks of tiny run-down shacks. Mrs. Hartman pointed out one little house with faded green tin chairs on the front porch and told her that's where Big George and Onzell had lived until they went over to Birmingham to stay with their son Jasper.

As they drove out, she saw Ocie's grocery store, attached to the side of a falling-down, wooden shotgun house that had once been painted baby blue. The front of the store was plastered with faded old signs from the thirties, urging you to DRINK BUFFALO ROCK GINGER ALE . . . MELLOWED A MILLION MINUTES OR MORE . . .

Evelyn suddenly remembered something from her childhood.

"Mrs. Hartman, do you think they might have a strawberry soda in there?"

"I'll bet he does."

"Would it be all right if we went in?"

"Oh sure, a lot of white people shop over here."

Evelyn parked and they went in. Mrs. Hartman went to the old man in the white shirt and suspenders and began shouting in his ear. "Ocie, this is Mrs. Couch. She was a friend of Ninny Threadgoode's!"

The minute Ocie heard Mrs. Threadgoode's name, his eyes lit up and he got up and ran over and hugged Evelyn. Evelyn, who had never been hugged by a black man in her life, was caught off guard. Ocie started talking to her a mile a minute, but she couldn't understand a word he was saying because he had no teeth.

 Mrs. Hartman shouted at him again, "No honey, this isn't her daughter! This is her friend Mrs. Couch, from Birmingham . . .”

Ocie kept grinning and smiling at her.

Mrs. Hartman was rooting around in the cold drink box and pulled out a strawberry soda. "Look! Here you are."

Evelyn tried to pay for it, but Ocie kept saying something to her that she still could not understand.

"He says put your money away, Mrs. Couch. He wants you to have that cold drink on him."

Evelyn was flustered, but thanked Ocie, and he followed them out to the car, still talking and grinning.

Mrs. Hartman shouted, "BYE-BYE!" She turned to Evelyn. "He's as deaf as a post."

"I figured that. I just can't get over him hugging me like that."

"Well, you know, he thought the world of Mrs. Threadgoode. He's been knowing her since he was a little boy."

They drove back over the tracks, and Mrs. Hartman said, "Honey, if you take a right on the next street, I’ll show you where the old Threadgoode place is."

The minute they turned the corner, she saw it: a big, two-story white wooden house with the front porch that went all around. She recognized it from the pictures.

Evelyn pulled up in front, and they got out.

The windows were mostly broken and boarded up, and the wood on the front porch was caved in and rotten, so they couldn't go up. It looked like the whole house was ready to fall down. They walked around to the back.

Evelyn said, "What a shame they let this place go. I'll bet it was beautiful at one time."

Mrs. Hartman agreed. "At one time, this was the prettiest house in Whistle Stop. But all the Threadgoodes are gone now, so I guess they're just gonna tear it down one of these days."

When they got to the backyard, Evelyn and Mrs. Hartman were surprised at what they saw. The old trellis, leaning on the back of the house, was entirely covered with thousands of little pink sweetheart roses, blooming like they had no idea that the people inside had left long ago.

Evelyn peeked in the broken window and saw a cracked, white enamel table. She wondered how many biscuits had been cut on that table throughout the years.

When she took Mrs. Hartman home, she thanked her for going along.

"Oh, my pleasure, we almost never get anybody out here to visit anymore, not since the trains stopped running. I’m sorry that we had to meet under such sad circumstances, but I've enjoyed meeting you so much, and please come back just anytime you want to."

Although it was late, Evelyn decided to drive by the old house one more time. It was just getting dark, and as she came down the street, her lights hit the windows in such a way that it looked to her like there were people inside, moving around . . . and all of a sudden, she could have sworn that she heard Essie Rue pounding away at the old piano in the parlor . . .

"Buffalo gals, won't you come out tonight, come out tonight . .  .”

Evelyn stopped the car and sat there, sobbing like her heart would break, wondering why people had to get old and die.

JUNE 25, 1969

Hard to Say Goodbye

I am sorry to report that this will be the last issue. Ever since I took my other half to south Alabama for a vacation, he has been having a fit to live there. We found ourselves a place right on the bay, so we are going to move down in a couple of weeks. Now the old coot can fish night and day if he wants to. I know I spoil him, but with all his ornreriness, he's still a pretty good old guy. Don't know what to say about leaving, so I won't say much. Both of us were raised right here in Whistle Stop, and had so many wonderful times and friends. But most of them have gone somewhere else. The place doesn't seem the same, and now, with all these new super highways they got, you can hardly tell where Birmingham ends and Whistle Stop begins.

Now that I look back, it seems to me that after the cafe closed, the heart of the town just stopped beating. Funny how a little knockabout place like that brought so many people together.

At least we all have our memories, and I've still got my old sweetheart with me.

. . . Dot Weems . . .

P.S. If any of you ever get to Fairhope, Alabama, look us up. I'll be the one sitting on the back porch, cleaning all the fish.

APRIL 19, 1988

The second Easter after Mrs. Threadgoode died, Evelyn was determined to make it to the cemetery. She bought a beautiful spray of white Easter lilies and drove out in her new pink Cadillac, wearing her fourteen-karat studded bumblebee pin with the emerald eyes, another award.

Earlier today, she'd been to brunch with her Mary Kay group, so it was late afternoon. Most of the people had been there and gone already, but the cemetery was filled with spectacular Easter arrangements of every color.

Evelyn had to drive around for a while before she finally found the Threadgoode family plot. The first grave she found was Ruth Jamison's. She walked on down the row and found the big double headstone with the angel:

WILLIAM JAMES          ALICE LEE CLOUD

THREADGOODE         THREADGOODE

1850-1929        1856-1932

BELOVED PARENTS

NOT LOST

BUT GONE BEFORE

WHERE WE SHALL MEET AGAIN

Next to them was:

JAMES LEE (BUDDY) THREADGOODE

1898-1919

A YOUTH CUT DOWN BEFORE HIS TIME

WHO LIVES ON IN OUR HEARTS

She found Edward's, Cleo's, and Mildred's graves; but she couldn't find her friend's, and she began to panic. Where was Mrs. Threadgoode?

Finally, one row down on the right, she saw:

ALBERT THREADGOODE

1930-1978

OUR ANGEL ON THIS EARTH

SAFE AT LAST IN THE ARMS OF JESUS

She looked beside Albert's grave, and there it was:

MRS. VIRGINIA (NINNY) THREADGOODE

1899-1986

GONE HOME

The memory and sweetness of the old woman flooded back in an instant, and she realized just how much she missed her. Tears ran down her face while she placed the flowers, and then she went about the business of pulling up all the little weeds that had grown up around the tombstone. She consoled herself by thinking that one thing was for sure; if there really was a heaven, Mrs. Threadgoode was certainly there. She wondered if there would ever be a pure, untouched soul like her on this earth again. . . . She doubted it.

It's funny, Evelyn thought. Because of knowing Mrs. Threadgoode, she was not as scared of getting old or dying as she had once been, and death did not seem all that far away. Even today, it was as if Mrs. Threadgoode was just standing behind a door.

Evelyn began quietly speaking to her friend. "I'm sorry I haven't gotten out here sooner, Mrs. Threadgoode. You'll never know how many times I've thought about you and wished I could speak to you. I felt so bad I didn't get to see you before you died. I just never dreamed in a million years that I would never see you again. I never did get a chance to thank you. If it hadn't been for you talking to me like you did every week, I don't know what I would have done."

She paused for a moment, and then went on, "I got that pink Cadillac for us, Mrs. Threadgoode. I thought it would make me happy, but you know, it didn't mean half as much without you to go for a ride in it with me. I've often wished I could come and pick you up and we could go on a Sunday drive, or over to Ollie's for some barbecue."

She moved to the other side of the headstone and continued pulling the weeds and talking. "I've been asked to do some work with the mental health group, over at the university hospital . . . and I might do it." She laughed. "I told Ed, I might as well work for a disease I've had."

"And you're not going to believe this, Mrs. Threadgoode, but I'm a grandmother now. Twice. Janice had twin girls. And you remember Ed's mother, Big Momma? Well, we put her over at Meadowlark Manor, and she likes it much better, and I was just as glad. . . . I hated going out to Rose Terrace after you died. The last time I went, Geneene told me that Vesta Adcock is crazy as ever, still upset over Mr. Dunaway leaving.

"Everybody misses you: Geneene, your neighbors the Hartmans . . . I went out there and got the things you left me, and I use those recipes all the time. Oh, by the way, I've lost forty-three pounds since the last time you saw me. I still have five more to go.

"And, let's see, your friend Ocie died last month, but then, I guess you know that. Oh, I knew there was another thing I had to tell you:

"Remember that picture of you in the blue polka-dotted dress, you made down at Loveman's? I have it framed and sitting on my occasional table in the living room, and when one of my customers saw it, she said, 'Evelyn, you look exactly like your mother! . . . Isn't that something, Mrs. Threadgoode?"

Evelyn told her friend everything she could think of that had happened in the last year, and she didn't leave until she felt sure in her heart that Mrs. Threadgoode knew she was really okay.

Evelyn was smiling and happy as she walked back to the car; but as she passed Ruth's grave, she stopped.

Something was there that hadn't been there before. Sitting on the headstone was a glass jar filled with freshly cut little pink sweetheart roses. Beside the jar was an envelope addressed in thin, scratchy handwriting:

FOR RUTH JAMISON

Surprised, Evelyn picked up the envelope. Inside was an old-fashioned Easter card, with a picture of a little girl holding a basket of multicolored eggs. She opened the card:

FOR A SPECIAL PERSON AS NICE AS YOU,

WHO'S KIND AND CONSIDERATE IN ALL YOU DO,

THE FAIREST, THE SQUAREST,

MOST LOVING AND TRUE,

THAT ALL ADDS UP TO

WONDERFUL YOU!

And the card was signed:

I'll always remember.

Your friend.

The Bee Charmer

Evelyn stood with the card in her hand and looked all around the cemetery; but no one was there.

MARCH 17, 1988

Elderly Woman Reported Missing

Mrs. Vesta Adcock, an 83-year-old resident of the Rose Terrace Nursing Home, apparently walked off the premises yesterday, after announcing that she needed a breath of fresh air, and has not returned.

When last seen, she was wearing a pink chenille robe with fox furs, royal-blue fuzzy-type slippers, and may have been wearing a red stocking cap and carrying a black beaded purse.

A bus driver remembered someone answering to that description getting on his bus near the home late yesterday and asking for a transfer.

If you have seen anyone fitting that description, you are asked to call Mrs. Virginia Mae Schmitt, director of the nursing home, at 555-7760.

The woman's son, Mr. Earl Adcock, Jr., of New Orleans, said that his mother may have become disoriented.

Elderly Woman Found in Love Nest

MARCH 20, 1988

Mrs. Vesta Adcock, an 83-year-old woman who had been reported missing from the Rose Terrace Nursing Home four days ago, has been found residing at the Bama Motel in East Lake. Her male companion, Mr. Walter Dunaway, 80, of Birmingham, suffered a mild stroke and was admitted to the university hospital for observation early today.

Mrs. Adcock asked to be returned to the nursing home and was very despondent, because, as she said, "Walter is not the man I thought he was."

Mr. Dunaway is listed in satisfactory condition.

MARIANNA, FLORIDA

MAY 22, 1988

Bill and Marion Neal and their eight-year-old daughter Patsy had been driving all day when they passed the roadside stand that advertised: FRESH EGGS, HONEY, FRESH FRUIT AND VEGETABLES, FRESH CATFISH, COLD DRINKS.

They were thirsty, so Bill turned around and went back. When they got out, nobody was there; but they saw two old men in overalls sitting under a huge water oak tree, out behind the stand. One of the men got up and started walking toward them.

"Hi there, folks. What can I do for you today?"

When she heard the voice, Marion realized it was not an old man but an old woman with snow-white hair and brown, weatherbeaten skin. "We'd like three Coca-Colas, please."

Patsy was staring at the jars of honey lined up on the shelf.

While the old woman was opening the three frosty Cokes, Patsy pointed to one of the jars of honey and asked, "What's in that jar?"

"Why, that's honeycomb, right out of the hive. Haven't you ever seen that before?"

Patsy was fascinated. "No ma'am."

"Where are you folks from?"

Marion said, "Birmingham."

"Well, I'll be. I used to live in a little town just on the other side. You've probably never heard of it: little place called Whistle Stop."

Bill said, "Oh sure. Where the railroad yards used to be. They had a barbecue joint out there, as I remember."

The old woman smiled. "That's right."

Bill pointed to her sign. "Didn't know you got catfish down this far."

"Sure we do, saltwater cat, but I don't have any today."

She looked at the little blond girl to see if she was listening. "Last week I caught one, but it was so big we couldn't pull it out of the water."

Patsy said, "Really?"

The old woman's blue eyes sparkled. "Oh, yes indeed. As a matter of fact, that catfish was so big, we took a picture of it, and the picture alone weighed forty pounds."

The little girl cocked her head to one side, trying to figure it out. "Are you sure?”

"Sure I'm sure. But if you don't believe me . . ." She turned around and called up to the old man in the yard, "Hey, Julian! Go in the house and bring me that picture of the catfish we caught last week."

He called back lazily, "Cain't do it . . . it's too heavy for me to carry. Might hurt my back . . ."

"See, I told you."

Bill laughed and Marion paid for the drinks. They were about to go when Patsy pulled at her mother's dress. "Momma, can we please get a jar of honey?"

"Sweetheart, we've got plenty of honey at home."

"Please, Momma, we don't have any with honeycomb. Please?"

Marion looked at her for a moment and then gave in. "How much is the honey?"

"The Honey? Well, let's see." The old woman started counting on her fingers, and then said, "You're not gonna believe this, but you hit it lucky, because today . . . it's absolutely free."

Patsy's eyes got wide. "Really?"

“That's right."

Marion said, "Oh, I feel terrible about not paying you anything. Won't you let me give you a little something, at least?"

The old woman shook her head. "No, it's free. You won it, fair and square. You don't know this, but your little girl, here, just happens to be my one millionth customer this month." "I AM?"

"That's right, my one millionth."

Marion smiled at the old woman. "Well, if you insist. Patsy, what do you say?"

“Thank you."

"You're welcome. And listen, Patsy, if you ever get anywhere around these parts again, you be sure and look me up, y’hear?"

"Yes ma'am, I will."

As they pulled out, Bill tooted his horn and the little girl waved goodbye.

The old woman stood on the side of the road and waved back until the car was out of sight.

******

 

SIPSEY’S RECIPES

BUTTERMILK BISCUITS

2 cups flour

¼ teaspoon soda

2 teaspoons baking powder

½ cup Crisco

2 teaspoons salt

1 cup buttermilk

Sift dry ingredients together. Add Crisco and blend well until like fine meal. Add buttermilk and mix. Roll out thin and cut into desired size biscuit. Bake in greased pan at 450 degrees until golden brown.

Naughty Bird's favorite!

SKILLET CORNBREAD

¾ teaspoon baking soda

1½ cups buttermilk

2 cups cornmeal sifted

1 teaspoon salt

1 egg

1 tablespoon melted bacon fat

Dissolve soda in buttermilk. Mix the cornmeal with salt, egg, and buttermilk. Add hot, melted bacon fat. Pour into greased iron skillet and bake at 375 degrees until done.

So good, it will kill you.

COCONUT CREAM PIE

3 egg yolks

1/3 cup sugar

¼ teaspoon salt

2½ tablespoons cornstarch

1 tablespoon melted butter

2 cups scalded milk

1 cup grated coconut

1 teaspoon vanilla or rum

¼ teaspoon nutmeg

9-inch pie shell, baked

Beat egg yolks. Beat in sugar, salt, cornstarch, and butter gradually. Pour in milk and blend. Cook over boiling water, stirring constantly until thick. Add coconut, and cool. Add flavoring and nutmeg and pour into shell. Cover with meringue and bake 15 to 20 minutes in 300-degree oven.