Idaho, 2015, Day One

As is always the case, no matter how hard I try to be organized, I ran myself ragged getting ready for this latest of family reunion adventures.  I finally drug my weary body into bed before midnight last night but unfortunately my brain was still in overdrive and I resorted to Netflix to put me to sleep.  Usually this works in less than ten minutes but not tonight.  After I was into my second episode of Covert Affairs I finally passed out.  Sort of.  Two alarm clocks notwithstanding, I have an unreasonable fear of missing my flight whenever I plan to travel by plane. In reality, alarm clocks are totally unnecessary because, true to form, I woke five minutes before it went off.  With about an hour’s worth of shut-eye I almost felt relieved to get up and get started.

We made it to the airport before the baggage handlers so we stood in line like the rest of the zombies and waited.  After TSA finished all their weighing, searching, scanning, and questioning, deeming us safe, we arrived at our gate and proceeded to wait some more. I’m not a fan of air travel.  I like to be able to open a window when I need air and I have a personal space that does not appreciate the literal rubbing of elbows with strangers.  Oh, and I don’t like the virtually zero odds of survival should there be a malfunction of some sort.  Yes, I know it’s safer than all other forms of travel.  But when one of those tin cans goes down it’s pretty much curtains in an ugly way.  So, while I wait to board I usually spend my time trying to keep my imagination in check.

I like technology.  Since the young woman next to me had her phone in hand and her earbuds inserted (same as I did),it was mutually understood that talking wasn’t required.  At 6:00 in the morning, this suits me fine.

We arrived in Atlanta thirty minutes ahead of schedule and were picked up by Cousin Barbara and her husband Wade from Sarasota.  The plan:  we drive across the country together in their very large and very comfortable van. After breakfast at Cracker Barrel, I promptly commandeered the sofa in the back and slept for a few hours. I can’t sleep before flight time, even when I’m in my own comfortable bed. But when the anxiety of oversleeping is gone, I can sink into a virtual coma while careening down the road in a speeding missile, inches from big rigs and crazy motorists.  Ok, I never said it makes sense.

When I finally woke up, I was able to check a few things off my bucket list.  I would like to visit every state before I’m too old to travel.  We cruised through Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Tennessee, and Arkansas.  Three of those I don’t remember visiting before. 

At suppertime we were passing through a desolate section of Arkansas between Memphis and Little Rock on Interstate 40.  Googling revealed some good reviews for a place called Craig’s BBQ. We left the main highway and meandered along looking for this culinary wonder.  Other than abandoned, weather beaten buildings, the occasional, possibly-occupied mobile home, and even a collection of buildings that looked a little like the ghost town in Fried Green Tomatoes, there was nothing resembling an eatery worthy of Google.

 Our GPS came through though.  Craig’s does exist.  And it is a local dive of legendary localness.  I asked for the bathroom and the very sweet waitress pointed me toward the swinging kitchen door.  Thinking I misunderstood, I hesitated.  She repeated, “Through the kitchen.”

 About that time a woman of indeterminate age, maybe fifty, maybe seventy, stuck her head out the door and motioned me back with a shake of her head. Black as midnight, years of hard work left their mark in the lines on her face and the slight stoop of her shoulders. She held authority about her and I would have obeyed her even if I no longer needed to use the bathroom.  I was intrigued though, wanting to see what it looked like behind the swinging door.

A tiny kitchen, hot and steamy, was bustling with activity, meaning the three people hard at work filled it to capacity, and one of those was our waitress.  The only waitress.  They paid me no mind as I invaded their space on my way to the bathroom, located behind and to the right of their workspace.  I stifled my hilarity that rears its head at inappropriate times and tried to focus on my mission: find the bathroom.  Other than the headshake from the woman in charge, I received no further direction.

The term “deep south” probably holds different meaning to different people but everything about Craig’s BBQ fit exactly with my mental pictures of backwater Arkansas.  And I do not mean that in any derogatory way.  It was delicious and I refer to the atmosphere as a whole, not just the food. 

Except maybe the bathroom.  That would be worthy of a whole blog in and of itself.  I looked at the piece of trim once framing the back side of the door, but now broken in two about a foot and a half below the top edge and dangling uselessly in midair.  Why oh why did I not bring my camera, I moaned inwardly, because, after all, does not every self-respecting tourist take their camera with them to the bathroom?  I choked off the giggles and attended to business.

The beef Wade ordered, slathered in BBQ sauce was again reminiscent of Fried Green Tomatoes, like the "town" outside. I wanted to giggle again. The pork BBQ sandwich with coleslaw stacked on was delectable. The waitress in her soft southern drawl had said it was their best seller.  I’m not stupid.  When a tiny, decrepit, hole-in-the-wall like Craig’s elicits rave reviews on Trip Advisor, I feel secure in following the footsteps of all the customers who have gone before.  And, not to my surprise, the waitress was right.  The suggested “vegetable” was potato chips.  She brought a handful of individual bags and was passing them out.  One fell to the floor.  She scooped it up and put it on our table and it occurred to me that here, in this time and place, eating things that fell on the floor seemed entirely acceptable, even to me.

I was sad they were out of buttermilk and sweet potato pie. We ordered a slice each of coconut and chocolate and were presented with huge wedges of meringue-topped confections unlike anything I had ever seen before.  Again, delicious.  The waitress explained to us that the pies were not on our receipt because, “they are made by a lady across the street so the money for those goes to her.”   A cement block building across the way, looking long-abandoned and about the size of respectable closet, sported a spray painted scrawl haphazardly proclaiming it the Pie Shop.

We turned toward Little Rock, full, sleepy and well-satisfied with our supper experience.