May 6, 2009--Always Talk With Strangers: The Three Louises

After driving more than 400 miles through Georgia and South Carolina, we were happy to get to the blue state of North Carolina. We did, though, have a memorable lunch at Maurice’s in Columbia, SC, where the pulled pork comes saturated in a vinegar and mustard-based sauce that the Kiplinger Letter allegedly named the best in the USA. We’ve had a lot of different South Carolina style BBQ sauces, and Maurice’s is for sure a contender for the all time best.

What Kiplinger didn’t mention is that Maurice’s houses what I am certain is incontrovertibly the only bookstore anywhere housed in a BBQ joint. Though this was unexpected—the only paper in these kinds of places is that used to wrap sandwiches and soak up the juice from dripping sandwiches—the books spread out on a table were what you might expect if you ever though a BBQ place would have even one book in sight.

There were at least a dozen about the “War of Northern Aggression,” or what we in the rest of the country still call the “Civil War,” including a couple that totally surprised me about Jews in the South who fought on the side of the Confederacy. Marcus Spiegel’s A Jewish Colonel in the Civil War, for example. I guess these were supposed to kosher things for someone of my persuasion who might come away from my ribs and hushpuppies feeling guilty about enjoying pork so much in the heart of Old Dixie. Or, to make the case that the Confederacy was not made up of just your usual bigots and anti-Semites.

And for those with a taste for revisionist history, Maurice’s had a full line of books that looked at things from the Southern perspective. James Ronald Kennedy’s, Was Jefferson Davis Right? was one. And for those with a pre-millennialist view of the upcoming Final Days, Armageddon, and the End Times, there were stacks of paperback from Tim LaHaye’s and Jerry Jenkins’ Left Behind series of extraordinarily popular novels.

I’m a reader and actually have a deep interest in the history of this kind of End-of-the World thinking, but we stopped at Maurice’s for the food not the literature; and so we were glad to get out of the place in one piece so that we could enjoy the taste of the pork and especially the sauce as it repeated on us as we drove the next hundred miles, burping our way along a series of South Carolina’s scenic and bumpy back roads.

So when we checked into our motel in Charlotte, North Carolina and thought about what to have for dinner, Jay’s Fish Grill, which we spotted as we pulled into town, after the gastric demands of Maurice’s, seemed like just the right kind of place for us, though Rona, always concerned about the freshness of food, worried a bit about what kind of seafood would be available in a fish restaurant in a small shopping mall in a city far from the ocean. I thought, on the other hand, that it could turn out to be good—who would think of running a fish place in such an unlikely spot if they didn’t have good sources? With all due respect to Charlotte, it’s not exactly a fish kind of town; and in order for Jay’s to survive it had to be at least decent. Thus, feeling confident we wouldn’t be poisoned, we decided to give it a try.

Not only did the food turn out to be excellent—Rona had what she called “arguably the best crab cakes ever” (and she’s had hundreds in dozens of road-food places along Chesapeake Bay and elsewhere) and I had an incandescent catfish drizzled with a light mustard sauce—though the food was wonderful, the waitresses stole the show. Not the least of it being that all three of them had the same name—Louise.

Our primary waitress, Louise, after talking me into ordering the catfish—“To tell you the truth, I eat here all the time,” she winked, “and all I ever have is that catfish. If you don’t like it, I‘ll take it back to the kitchen and eat it later for a snack,” she licked her lips and theatrically rubbed her stomach, “And I won’t charge you anything for it.” When I raised my hand to signal I’d be fine with it no matter how it was done, she added, “And of course I’ll bring you anything else you want. No charge.”

The second Louise stood off to the side the whole time smiling and nodding her head in support of what Louise was promising. And the third Louise, her arms full of orders for the table next to ours, sotto voce, out of the side of her mouth as she rushed by, said to me, “You’re in the South now honey. So live a little.”

With the ordering done, feeling relieved from that pressure, Rona and I lifted our glasses of very decent Riesling to toast being in the South and living a little.

We were famished from all the driving and hardly said a word to each other as we devoured our entrees. “Um, um,” Rona said to no one in particular, “These are indeed mighty fine crab cakes. Why I remember the time we were in Delmarva. At what was the name of that place? The Captain’s Table, I think. Real down home. But these sure take the cake. No pun intended.”

I noticed that though we had been in the South for fewer than three days, Rona already had developed a thick drawl. Another two days, I thought, and I’d need a translator. We had better take up the pace of our driving since I was worried about what our city slicker friends would think about us if we came home sounding as if we had spent the winter on Hee Haw.

All the while, the first Louise hovered in the background, making sure we were showing sufficient appreciation for the food. It should have been obvious--only about ten minutes had passed since she had brought us our dinners and we had pretty much cleaned our plates. In fact, she spotted Rona licking her fingers and took this as a good sign. She skipped over to us. “Everything to your pleasing?” I saw Rona take note of this regionalism of Louise’s and knew I’d be hearing a version of it in a few days over coffee at Balthazar.

“This espresso is to my pleasing,” I was sure she would say as I cringed and looked in the other direction, shrugging my shoulders as if to say, I wonder where she’s been these past four months.

“Back home, over there in the hills where I live,” Louise pointed to the parking lot, a few miles beyond it I assumed were the hills. “My son is always catchin’ the best catfish imaginable. But I can’t do with them what they do with them here. Don’t you know?”

“They were delicious,” I said, tempted to lick my own fingers.

“You look like you’re ready for some dessert. I didn’t steer you wrong with the fish plate, now did I? So for dessert you need to have some of Jay’s chocolate bread puddin. He makes it right here. Well, not actually right here.” She chuckled and slapped her thigh, “But over there.” She pointed toward the back of the restaurant. “I know you’ll say you haven’t any room for another bite, but it’s on me. You just have to take a wee taste.” I was hoping the “wee” slipped by Rona as she was busy draining the last of her wine.

Without waiting for us to answer, she ran on her toes in tiny steps to the kitchen. Rona stretched her arms and yawned, covering her mouth. It had been a long day. “Maybe we should spend two nights here,” she said, “I sure would like to have another dinner in this place. I could go for some of that catfish of yours. And that way we could do a little moseying about.”

“I don’t know,” I said, “We do want to get to Virginia to visit with your sister and brother-in-law. We should do that over the weekend. Before the work week begins.”

“Oh, I forgot what day it is. You’re right. We should keep the pedal to the metal.”

I was glad to see Louise again with the dessert, which she held out before her with both hands as if it was an offering. I needed to get Rona back to the motel as soon as possible so she could watch some CNN to get her diction and vocabulary straightened out.

“If we were to stay on here abouts,” Rona asked Louise, “what special to see?” She glanced over to me to indicate she was just making conversation.

Louise motioned to the second Louise to come over to our table, the one with the spiky blonde hair and extra-short skirt. “These folks, Weezie, they’re askin’ what’s to see round here. Weezie knows everything. From the looks of her you can see she’s been around.” She slapped her thigh again and Weezie on her toes did a quick pirouette as if to show us that she did in fact know all the hot spots.

“But if you ask me—you folks did say you’re from up North?”

“Yes, New York,” Rona said. And added, “The City.”

“The Apple, the Big Apple, don’t you know,” the second Louise was all grins, “I can’t wait to visit there.”

“It’s only about ten hours from her, wouldn’t you say?” It was our Louise. “I made that drive one time with my daughter. Bet you wouldn’t believe from the looks of me that she’s already twenty-nine.” Before we could agree with her—she looked no more than her early thirties, she said, “You know us hillbillies, we get started with our babies when we ourselves are hardly out of diapers.”

At that, the third Louise, the one they call Lou, slid over to our table to get in on the fun. “Can’t believe a word that girls says,” she said. “You’d never guess that she’s fifty-four, now would you?”

Again before either Rona or I could say a word, the first Louise, who appeared to be called Louise, began to tell us about that trip. It was last year and she took her ten year-old granddaughter with her. “Smart as a whip, you can believe me. Though there’s nothin’ very special about her grandma. Me, I’m talking ‘bout. Never finished school. I mean high school. So I have to do this all day.” With her arm she swept the full expanse of the restaurant.

“There’s nothing wrong with . . .” I was trying to say that there’s nothing wrong with this kind of work but she cut me off.

“That’s OK,” Weezie said for her, “She’s fine here. Really is. Why there’s Lou and me. So what else she need to get through the day? We’re good company. Make the time pass. Then there are nice folks like you all.”

Louise smiled at that and went on, “As I mentioned, I took my little Lois along. She so smart and loves her history so much that we stopped in Washington. DC. And I told her we’d do whatever it is she wants to see. So she did all the research and came up with how she wanted to visit all the places where Abraham Lincoln was at. Of course the White House. We got on line early so we could make that tour. How I wish Obama and Michelle had been livin’ there at the time. Not that old George or Laura showed us around. I can’t tell you what I would have said to him. Two of my cousins got shot up in Iraq. One can’t walk no more.” She paused to contemplate that.

“Then of course there’s his memorial, where Lois read all the words carved up there in stone. From the Gettysburg Address. And from something else which I forget. Actually, she knew all the words and recited them so beautiful that a small crowd gathered ‘round her and applauded when she got done. I was so proud.”

“I can only imagine,” Rona said.

“But that’s not the best part. More ‘en anything she wanted to go to that place where he got shot. The theater. Ford’s. And then to the house where they took him. Where he died. There were park rangers or somethin’ who told about everything. It was fascinatin’. Would you believe it but Lois had questions for all of them. Like how long did it take to catch his assassin? I forgot his name. And why did he shot the president? And how did they think things would have been different if Lincoln had lived? That one really stumped them. One said no one had ever asked him that question and it would take more time than he had to try to answer it. He suggested a book she might want to read. And don’t you know, first thing when we got back, she went to the library and took it out. ‘Couse I forget the title. But she read every word of it. Looked to me that it was at least a thousand pages long.”

“She sure is proud of that girl,” Weezie said. Lou smiled, nodding.

“So you gals should take your own grandchildren up there. Not that either of them have anyone back home like my Lois.” She winked at them to make sure they knew she was joshing. From all the laughter and back slapping it was clear they did and that this kind of bantering went on all day, all year long.

“Can’t figure how someone like my Lois could be related to me. If I didn’t know better I would thing my Lucy, her mom, had adopted her or somethin’.”

“Why do you say that?” Rona said, trying to make her feel better. “You seem . . .”

“I’m nothin’ special. This place is good, but as I said, I never completed school.”

“She’s right about that,” the third Louise said, “she’s not very special.” She poked our Louise in the ribs to indicate she was just kidding. “Actually, she is, tell these nice folks about all your collectin’,”

“Yes, please tell us,” it was Rona again, still thinking maybe beneath all the kidding Louise was feeling badly about herself.

With that Louise lit up. “Well they tell me that I have one of the finest collections of 1950s furniture in the county. Been gatherin’ stuff for more ‘en twenty years. I’ve got so much stuff—and I have a big place, Lou don’t I—that there’s no place there to put a napkin.” I saw Rona take note of that expression. “Got lots of tables, mind you, but as we say down here, there’s no place for a napkin.” I knew from her repeating this phrase that it would quickly be incorporated into Rona’s growing regional lexicon.

“I s’pose I should start sellin’ some of that stuff. I have all sorts of big time dealers who know about my things buzzin’ ‘round like hornets. Why there was some fella come by from up by you the other day who offered me all sorts of money if I’d let him back a truck up and haul it all away. I knew, of course, that what he was offerin’ was about a tenth of what he’d be sellin’ it for in his fancy place. I wasn’t born yesterday, you know.”

“Not yesterday, for sure,” the second Louise couldn’t help chiming in, “but fifty-four years ago.” At that our Louise and the second Louise rolled with laughter.

“That Weezie sure can kid. I do love that gal.”

“But you were sayin’, I mean about you collection,” Rona asked, “Where do you find all these things?”

“Well, they’re all over the place down here. The old folks are either dying out or movin’ into homes and they can’t take their stuff with them. Their children think it’s all junk and can’t wait to get rid of it. So they call me in. They think I’m a junk dealer or somethin’. I hate to take advantage of their situations, but they’d give it all to the St. Vincents if I didn’t take it off their hands. And I try to pay them good money for it. Not what it’s worth, I know that, but among the good stuff there’s a lot of real junk and I dispose of that for them. Leave their momma’s place all cleaned out and spick and span. As my brother is always sayin’—“Even-up is no robbery.’”

“And since you were askin’ about things to do ‘round here, there is one place you might want to visit. It’s over in Flat Rock.” She gestured again out toward the parking lot. “Not too far from here. ‘Bout forty minutes or so. A pretty drive. It’s Carl Sandburg’s place. You know ‘bout him of course? The poet. Not that I know all there is to know about him or his poetry, I did leave school early as I told you.”

“I didn’t know he was from these parts,” I said. “I somehow thought he lived up in Vermont.”

“That I can’t tell you. But he did live here, in Flat Rock I mean, from about 1945, the end of the war, till he died in 1964. I remember when that happened. I was about nine at the time. And that wife of his, she was interesting too. She was from a famous family. Her brother was that famous photographer, Edward Steichen, I think that was his name. Took up, didn’t he, with that artist woman, Georgia O’Keefe? Well, his wife raised goats. And he helped out with that. Folks who knew him said he was salt of the earth. Always willing to stop and talk with. Even to those like me who didn’t know too much. But he always had a good word to say to everybody. My folks knew him a little bit. They were farmers and used to by some of their goat milk. Made cheese from it. They’re gone now, but I can still taste that cheese. They called it ‘Mrs. Sandburg’s cheese.’ She was sweet too, my mom told me. How I miss them. My folks, I mean. They were everything to me. But I’m not complaining. I have a good family, a good job, and those two gals over there keep me on my toes. And I have my collecting. No complaints at all.”

“I can see that,” Rona said, “It sounds as if you do have a good life here.”

And I said, not able to engage the emotion on a full stomach—Jay’s bread pudding was everything Louise had claimed. While we were talking I finished all of it. “Maybe we will drive over there tomorrow morning. It sounds interesting.”

“And while you’re there, you’ll see in the little shop that they have his books about Lincoln. You know he wrote, how many books was it—I forget—at least three, four about Lincoln. I don’t know, of course, but people say they’re still among the best books about him. Especially ‘bout the war years. I think that’s the title of one of them. And he wrote them just over there in Flat Rock. You can still see the place where he wrote them. They kept it just like it was when he died. And you’ll also see,” she smiled broadly. “that they also have some pretty nice 50s pieces there. Not all as nice as mine, but they were modest folks.”

“Yeah, just like our Louise,” it was Weezie, “real modest.”

“We’ve kept you long enough,” Louise said, “You still have a long trip ahead of you.”

“No, no,” Rona said, “It’s been great bein’ with you all. I hope we pass through these parts again. It’s been some special evenin’. And I hope back at your place, Louise, you’ll find a place for that napkin of yours.”

The three Louises, now with their arms around each other, at that rolled with laughter. “Have fun, you all,” they said in unison.

“And when you get back home,” our Louise said, “take a big bite out of that apple. Like we said, you gotta live!”