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The eyes of the beholder

I found another piece of living nostalgia today.

I knew the food would be good when I saw the small, uneven, gravel parking lot.

There were two vintage gas pumps in the center of it.


But pristine enough in all the right places that you wondered if they worked still.

It shared the tiny, two unit complex with a “Cuttin Up” barbershop/ hair salon.

Ahhhh. To be Southern.

Mr. Jimmy, as I heard him called by one of the other patrons, stood so tall that he bowed in the middle a bit.

Marvin Gaye’s Trouble Man floated softly on the air behind the counter.

I ordered the Catfish plate and laughed at the Schlitz Malt Liquor sign over his head. Memories of times that aren’t as far away as my mind convinces me they are.

The back door is open for ventilation and I know just by looking at the frame that the screen door slams when allowed to close on its own.

I take in the posters of Michael Jackson, The Obamas, Nelson Mandela that are scattered about as I wait on my hand battered catfish, fried okra, and potato salad that I already know will be thick and taste only faintly of mustard.

When I get up to pay, I notice a sign by the register advertising weekend fish fry’s on the back porch.

You can’t bottle this.

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