While running an errand, for my mom, in my hometown, I stopped by a local restaurant for a carry out lunch. This restaurant is a town landmark, known by some throughout the state. It’s best known for barbeque, and in fact, claims to be recognized for its pork across the nation. I think the claim of wide recognition is a bit more sales pitch than true fact; I think the claim might be based on some truth of 20-30 years ago.

When I was a teenager, back in the early 80s, I worked as a waiter at the restaurant for about two years. A lot of former teenagers worked at that restaurant at one time or another. As a local icon, it was a first job, summer job, and/or after-school job for many hometown teens through the decades.

Since I left my hometown almost 20 years ago, I’ve only visited the place a couple of times. I ate lunch inside a few weeks ago, for the first time in some 15-18 years. It looks 90% exactly as it did when I worked there. I was pleasantly surprised to find my old boss still working there, now days at the register.

Back in the early 80s, while I worked there, the restaurant introduced a company mascot: Chitlin the Space Pig. I kid you not. A full costume pig with a cape and a space-style flight hood. A pig named after a food made of his own cooked intestines. That’s disturbing. This mascot showed up at the restaurant occasionally, sometimes visited the local minor league baseball park, and paraded around at local festivals and such.

I don’t know if Chitlin is still active in town or in the restaurant, but when I stopped in the other day to pick up a plate of barbeque, yams, string beans, and hushpuppies, I found his likeness patterned in tile on the floor of the carry out room. He’s arm-and-arm with “Wilbur” the symbolic barbeque cook of the restaurant (named after the actual former owner). Above their heads, are the words, “WE ‘PRECIATE YA TRADIN’ WID US!”

That slogan was created during my time at the restaurant. The owner, the aforementioned Wilbur, hired a marketing group to come up with the words, and their original version said, “WE ‘PRECIATE YA TRADIN’ WIF US!” The image of Chitlin the Space Pig and Wilbur the Cook, with the slogan, was posted up for all the employees to see and appreciate. (Or ‘preciate.) I, in my trademark pedantic way, pointed out that “wif” (for “with”) does not sound Southern. It sounds like we had a speech impediment. The proper Southern accent is “wid.”

“You wanna go wid us?” (You want to go with us?)
“Take this widja.” (Take this with you.)
“What would I do widdout my dictionary?” (I can’t find “wid” in this dagblame book!)

I figure my complaint (which I restated every time I saw the slogan) made it to the owner, and on to the marketing folks, because a few weeks later, the slogan was edited to say “WID.” So, if you’ve seen that slogan, know that I, then just 16 years old, had a hand in editing out the stupid speech impediment that could have been an embarrassment for all folks proud of their Southern accent.

Maybe that should be on my résumé.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

While visiting my hometown yesterday with my boys, we went to a local park. The park is relatively new, and the playground structures are well chosen and well assembled. It’s a nice park.

At first, the only other visitors at the playground was a dad and his daughter. The dad had no wedding ring, it was a Sunday afternoon, and the way he and his daughter were playing suggested it was probably their visitation time (custody arrangement).

After they left, another dad arrived with two daughters and their friend. This dad, you probably had to see to “appreciate,” but let me try to describe him: He had bright, white, new sneakers; very tight blue jeans with his keys attached to a beltloop (no belt), so they jingled everytime he ran; a tight white tanktop showing his moderate beer gut and his multiple tattoos; dark black hair and mustache over a cigerette hanging from his mouth. His daugthers squealed in delight when he pushed them high on the swings. He’d rush forward, pushing them up over his head, and continuing his run under them and away. The girls reached a height of about eight feet and then dropped back down in a big jolt and swing. They loved it, and they were old enough to hold on tight through the ride. (Their friend, however, did not like it, so the dad let her swing by her own power.)

Then a big red pickup truck arrived with half a dozen kids in the back bed, clinging to the sides like a redneck school bus. One of the kids in the back of the truck was in a wheelchair, and when everyone dismounted, they all helped get him down together. All the kids were barefoot or in flip-flops. That group went in the park museum for a while. When they came back out after about half and hour, they all climbed back on the truck. Four of them sat down on the tailgate. The truck backed out of the dirt parking lot, turned, and headed out to the main road with the kids hanging on and laughing amid a cloud of dust.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

My 6 year old, his best friend, my 2 year old, and I went out in the back yard last evening with water balloons. The boys were very excited, and were very anxious to play immediately, but I found filling balloons with water is not an easy task. It’s aggravatingly difficult, in fact.

The package of balloons came with a special nozel that attaches to the water hose, but there was no shut off for the water other than at the wall. I filled the first balloon easily, but then struggled to tie off the end. I struggled and struggled and struggled and &%$*##@* struggled. All the while, the water is flowing from the hose. And the boys were coming up to me wanting to play with everything every 10 seconds.

I eventually rigged up a system of filling the balloons without wasting too much water (much water was still wasted, just not “too much”). I never managed to get good or fast with tying off a small balloon filled with water, but I at least got about a dozen balloons filled and tied.

Preparation took about 20 minutes. Destruction took about 2 minutes. Unfortunately, most of the balloons would not pop when they hit a kid’s body—they would bounce off a boy’s back, fall into the grass, and burst on the ground. Rather disappointing. I threw one at my 6 year old’s chest, but he scrunched down instinctively, so the balloon hit him right on the nose. It bounced off and burst on the ground. Fortunately he was not hurt by the smack to the face, and just continued running and laughing.

I think water balloons might be more fun with older kids, so they and I can throw them hard enough to burst on a body. Watching them wet only the ground was just disappointing. So I ended up taking the hose to the boys to get them good and wet.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

We’ve had three straight days of temperatures at 100 degrees or higher; August 9 made it to 104 degrees. It’s brutal.

I’ve been in Phoenix, Arizona during 4th of July week, when the temperature got to 110 degrees. That was tolerable, if not comfortable. Although, “It’s dry heat,” is a cliché, it’s also quite true. I’d rather be in Arizona at 110 degrees than in any Southern state at 90 degrees. Humidity makes 90 degrees miserable, and 100 degrees just unbearable.

The humidity during a Southern summer can get so high you can almost wring water out the air with your hands. Walking from an air conditioned home or office out into the yard or parking lot is like walking through a curtain hanging in the doorway. I wonder, sometimes, how can the air hold so much moisture without it raining?

And we haven’t had rain in over a week. Grass and trees and flowers are turning brown and wilting. It’s amazing, the air almost requires gills to breathe, but all the flora is thirsting to death.

God created the South as an example of Heaven, but he makes sure to include a little bit of Hell each year just to let us know the difference.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com