Hotty Toddy, Part VII: Who Do You Love

After cleaning ice cream off the kids, we drove back out to Taylor (but I made sure we steered clear of the Idea House) to dine at the Taylor Grocery Restaurant, which Penny and I had wanted to see and visit for several years. Since Georgia had fallen asleep (thank goodness) on the way over, Penny let Nicholas and me out to go reserve a table. We had to wait for thirty-or-so minutes, but we didn't mind it, 'cause the temperature started to drop, and a nice breeze blew by every now and then while we were sitting on the porch waiting for our table.
After about ten minutes of waiting, Nicholas told me he wanted to go inside the Taylor Arts store, adjacent to the restaurant. Penny had taken him in there the day before while I was browsing through Square Books, and Nicholas had seen a plane that he wanted. I looked at the price tag and told Nicholas that I didn't think it was feasible for us to buy him another wooden toy because the last one he received has been sitting underneath the bedroom dresser for just about a year now. He asked, "Feasible means the fee's too much, doesn't it?" Something like that, yeah. I did see a carved wooden piece that I would have liked to buy, however. A local Taylor artist had carved a rectangle-heavy, three-foot sculpture of Bo Diddley, complete with cigar-box guitar. The clerk told me that the artist always carved a sculpture for her store of any Mississippi artist that had recently died. Ouch. Anyway, the scupture only cost $375; a fair price, I thought, and oh, it was sweet. If you squint real hard, you can see it, head and feet obscured, through the right picture window in the picture below, just behind/underneath the red/yellow sailboat.

But oh, how to justify to Nicholas buying that for myself when I wouldn't buy him the wooden plane. Hmm. "Nicholas, when Mom comes up, why don't you tell her that--since she didn't buy me anything for Father's Day--that this sculpture would be a very nice gift."

"Who is that, Dad?"

"You know who it is!"

"No, Dad, I don't know who it is. Why don't you just tell me?"

"Well, let me give you a hint. 'Who Do You Love?'"

"Mom," he said.

"Okay...let me try another one. See if you can finish singing this song."

"Dad, I'm not going to sing."

"Okay, then just say the words."

"What words, Dad?"

"Just listen. Here goes: 'Women here, women there....'" Nothing. "Okay, here's another hint: 'Women, women, everywhere'" and I immediately pointed at him, and...nothing. "Okay, here's a big hint. I'm going to sing, and I want you to answer. Okay?" He nodded. "'Hey, Bo Didd-ley!" Again, nothing. "C'mon, Nicholas. I just gave it to you. Here it goes again: 'Hey, Bo Didd-ley!'"

"I...I got nothing, Dad."

"C'mon, son, we used to sing that one in the Jeep!"

"You used to make me sing that in the Jeep."

"You enjoyed it."

"No, Dad. You enjoyed it because I didn't."

"Nicholas! I would never do that."

"Whatever, Dad."

"Anyway, you should know who it is by now, son. Who is it?"

"Duh, Dad. It's Elvis." At that moment, Penny walked up. I nudged Nicholas and told him to ask her. "Mom, Dad says that since you didn't get him anything for Father's Day, that you should get him that statue of Elvis in there, but I don't think that's fair, because he wouldn't get me the plane 'cause he didn't have enough fees."

"Oh...he did, did he?" asked Penny.

"Yeah, he did."

"Ask him how much it costs." I told them. "Okay. Nicholas, please tell your father that I would gladly buy him that for Father's Day...if it was still Father's Day."

He told me. We waited around for about fifteen more minutes while Nicholas and Georgia tried their best to break either the rope or the bell that was attached to the door. Just about when the rope's threads started to unravel, a waitress came outside and told us our table was ready. We went in and sat down and began sweating, for the restaurant took its theories on how best to cool an old building in the South in the summertime from William Faulkner instead of his wife. We then gawked at all the old-timey, tacky, and incongruent decorations around the restaurant.

While we were looking over the menus, a young man--Chad Nordhoff--started singing and playing guitar on the restaurant's small (about three by five) stage. He played a few blues songs, some gritty original fare, and come outlaw country. He had--and I'm sure still has--a great blues voice, gruff and serrated, and his guitar playing matched his voice, all meaty and ruff-and-tumble. About four-or-five songs into his set, our waitress arrived and took our orders. Since so many of our Rebel friends had highly recommended it to us (all using those exact same words, "I highly recommend..."), Penny and I both ordered the catfish; mine blackened, and hers, uh, not. I don't quite remember what Nicholas ordered, but I'm sure it was chicken tenders or chicken strips...but it could have been fish that we just told him tasted like chicken.

Georgia, on the other hand, decided to play the part of the true Southern Belle. She removed her bib, placed it on her lap, ever-so-slightly threw her head back, smiled, and said, "Why thank you, m'am, I'd be glad to place my order. Hmm. Well, so that I'll still be able to maintain my girlish figure, I fear I must forego the appetizer, but I'm sure you quite understand. For my entree, though, I'd like to request something not on your menu. Now, don't fret dear child, as fine a restaurant as yours I'm sure would have no problem whatsoever in obliging me my one simple desire, and I'm sure it will be no trouble a'tall, for, as you see dear, all I want...is just a mite bit of ketchup and lemon. Just a smidgen."

The waitress and the cook did indeed oblige, serving Georgia her meal just a few moments later. She ate it daintily, as a true lady should, and later paid the waitress the nicest of compliments. Nicholas enjoyed his chickenfish, and as for Penny and me...to us, the catfish was divin...okay. The catfish was catfish. It was good, though.

Penny tidied up the kids as I waited in line to pay our ticket. By the time it was my turn at the register, Penny and Georgia and Nicholas were at the door, waiting on me. I paid, told the clerk we enjoyed it, open and held the door for my family, and I looked back in to nod at the clerk, but she wasn't there. In her place stood Colonel Reb, with a catfish head where his face should have been. It nodded at me. I didn't nod back. I hurried the family to the Jeep and told them that we had to get out of Taylor right now. Penny asked why, and--so she wouldn't think I was some sort of looney (for I was now sure she hadn't seen the Brownies earlier that day)--I told her I was having intestinal difficulties. This satisfied her curiosity, and we dashed back to the Congo. Of course, to keep up my ruse, I had to writhe in pain for a few hours, but it was worth it, for Penny was none the wiser, and--unless she reads this--she'll never have any inclination that Taylor wasn't the most idyllic of towns.