We plotted the route to Ezell's by looking at a map. The Garmin was still kind of pouting, because it never would acknowledge "Lavaca" when we typed it in, and we were afraid it would try to take over and find some interstate to get us there. Looking at the map, I was able to actually find a route that seemed better than the one Joe had posited. Which is quite the feat, seeing as I can hardly see regular things, much less a map in a moving car.
Why Lavaca? (pronounced la-VACK-uh, not la-VAH-ka, which means "the cow" in Spanish, and was surely the origin of the name. Kinda like Lafayette, which is pronounced la-FAY-ett by the natives. I'm sure the real Lafayette would be a little puzzled and possibly a bit pissed by this.)
Ezell's is between Lavaca and Nanafalia on the Tombigbee River. Joe says it's in Lavaca, and Richard Crawford, Chevy 6 guitarist, says it's in Nanafalia (pronounced NAN-a-fly by the locals). Surely it's claimed by both towns. I have known about their dish-defining catfish ever since college, when we used to go out to Ezell's Catfish Cabin and belly up to troughs of all-you-could-eat fried catfish there. Musky, flaky, riddled with bones and exploding with fried cornmeal flavor, they were an unbelievable thing, and they came on huge platters piled high. Another plus was that they would serve you beer as long as you were eating, without carding you. WELL then! The Cabin was a branch of the original Fish Camp, where we were headed.
After reaching a small overpass on highway (X), Joe expertly turned off onto a good sized area of flat farmland coming almost up to the river. There was a thin grey road running straight through it that led to the Fish Camp. If you had cropped an aerial photo of the land, you could convince anybody that it was somewhere in Indiana. Very weird.
Our first sign of the place was the catering truck parked in a shed next to the restaurant. The parking area across the way was gravel that led right into the field beyond. Plenty o' parking. It was after 2:00 when we got there, but we weren't worried about them not serving food when we saw a carload of seniors emerge slowly like geriatric clowns from a Volkswagen, and then begin to amble toward the building. We tried to be polite as we lingered around, taking pictures while they finally got inside.
The Fish Camp looked like exactly what it should. Old wood everywhere, a wide front porch for people waiting, and unmistakable authenticity. Joe had told me that the place had flooded halfway up the building several times in the past. This certainly contributed to the ambience, and it's places like this that spawned the modern imitators. From the way it hung out over the riverbank just enough to make you nervous, to the foyer crammed with deer heads, old pictures and other trophies, this was the real deal, and made me swell with pride once again to be an Alabamian.
I was pretty excited for two reasons: 1. facilities; 2. catfish. And definitely in that order. We said "hey" to the lady at the cash register and waved at a couple of cooks in the kitchen, then I made a beeline for the bathroom. It was not far from the cash register and the door opened up right onto the little lobby. My father the architect would have been appalled. One of his cardinal rules was to never put a bathroom door right in a room. There must be some sort of wall or partition to "disappear behind," as he said. "You don't want to walk right out into a room after being in there, and you sure don't want people to see you walking in. And then there's the risk of somebody already being in there when you yank the door open for all to see." Wow! It was like Miss Manners for architects. But I feel that the real Miss Manners would not be terribly amused at this topic to begin with.
After a period spent indicative of an 85-year-old-guy, I popped the screen-door-style latch and climbed the 6 degree slant toward Joe, who was skidding past me toward the door in time to catch it before the hydraulic hinges had allowed it to slam shut.
When he had returned, the lady behind the cash register wandered out and told us to go find a table. We picked one by the window, but not the one with the beautiful sun streak, because it would have probably been too hot. But it sure was pretty.
Presently, our waitress came up with menus and began to chat with us. "What are y'all doin' with those cameras?" she asked.
Joe explained why we were there, and mentioned that he was from Octagon, and how he had been coming to Ezell's since childhood. Within 30 seconds, it was established that our waitress' name was Christy and that she was good friends with one of Joe's nieces. The next 30 seconds was spent compiling a list of 20 or so mutual acquaintances. I sighed with contentment at this exchange while eyeing the menu, deciding on the 3 catfish fillet lunch. No bones!
Joe got the same thing, and also a basket of fried pickles for us. It was just as delicious as I expected, and the pickles were salty as hell. I got him to take a gag shot of me with a fistful of them (after we had had our fill).
Joe had about 12 glasses of tea to my 6, which made me wonder about the next leg of the trip. It's not like you can will yourself to leave all that tea behind before you get in the car. It just doesn't work that way. I felt like a bloated gelatinous mass coming up the 6 degree incline to the door.
While paying the bill, Joe discovered a few connections with the cash register lady and two of the cooks while I looked at pictures of the Ezell family. After we got outside, we went around the corner of the restaurant to take some pics of the river and the cool environment around the place as it jutted out toward the river. That diversion exhausted, we climbed back into the car, said soothing words to the Garmin and headed toward Octagon.
Why Octagon? Pronounced OCK-tuh-gun, not OCK-ta-GON like the polyhedron, the town was indeed named for an 8-sided church that used to stand there. "It's gone now," Joe said.
The terrain became even more rural than I could have thought possible, when we came upon a tiny little abandoned building that Joe informed me used to be Mrs. Hill's store. This place was screaming with spirits, and I insisted that we stop and take some pictures.
"See how little it is?" Joe asked me. "When I was real young, Solomon would come along with me while I rode a pony cart down here. We'd eat peanuts and drink co-colas from one of those neat old machines. I thought I was some kinda big stuff."
I nodded enthusiastically at his description and he continued, "The place was tiny, and she was always cooking greens or something in the back. The Health Department never said anything about it."
"Was she selling the food she was cooking? Like, could you get a plate?"
"Naw, that was food for her. She just sold peanuts and cokes and stuff."
"Like Pop-a-Lance?" I asked.
"Yeah! And the whole array of the 'chee' cookies."
"That must have been so cool," I intoned, thinking 'Nip-chee,' 'Toast-chee,' 'Nekot,' and how weird it was that young 39-year-old Joe had experienced the exact same bucolic pleasures that people 2 and 3 times his age had, without the taint of a modern slant.
We drove a couple more miles passing a dilapidated structure that Joe referred to as "the garden shed," then came upon the Watts homestead--a historic white house exhibiting a beautiful presence in the middle of all the acreage around us. The yard was populated with 300 year old trees and completely covered with the first signs of a million daffodils. "Oh man, I'd love to see that in Spring," I said.
"Oh yeah, my Mom planted 'em every year just about. They're so thick in there that you can cut a ton of 'em and never be able to tell. I've transplanted a bunch of her stuff to my yard."
He didn't have the key with him, so we just walked around the massive yard and Joe told me old stories about Octagon. We saw the smokehouse, which, when infused with a good bit of imagination and Joe's narrative, really looked like a smokehouse. I then neatly avoided being garroted by the classic clothesline (the exact kind my grandmothers both had), all the while extolling the virtues of air-dryed clothes with Joe.
After tromping around a bit more, then making sure a sad-looking camellia bush had been properly watered, I joined Joe in the car enthusing about his neat homeplace. He agreed wholeheartedly, nodding at the house as he began to head toward Linden, with Demopolis our ultimate destination.
When I first met Joe, he said he was from Linden, which was probably easier than explaining where Octagon was. I immediately started giving him hell about being from "below the Bogue"--a friendly putdown Demopolites use on Lindenians--referring to the Bogue River(?) Creek(?) Stream(?). Joe didn't know which it was, but he was familiar with the epithet. At the time, he just laughed. Now he was quick to point out that Octagon was SO much below the Bogue that it didn't count.
"There's not much to see in Linden, even though it's the county seat," Joe said.
"Yeah, I know. I always thought that was weird. Why not Demopolis?"
"Who knows," he replied. "Well here we are. I think I'm gonna get some gas."
"Fine. I wanna see Dvorak Circle," I told him. "Rocky Grayson used to date a girl that lived on Dvorak Circle, and it always fascinated me."
"What? The girl?"
"No. The street. First of all, where did they get "Dvorak"? And why do they pronounce it Duh-VORE-ack Circle instead of Duh-VORE-zhock like the composer if they were gonna go to the trouble of naming it something so highfalutin' in the first place?"
"All good questions," Joe said, as he hopped out of the car to fill it up. This was my cue to see what the bathroom in this brand new BP food store looked like.
On the way to Dvorak Circle we passed Marengo Academy. Joe pointed it out and said, "That's where I went to high school."
"Uh huh, I know," I said.
"It's weird. I'm Facebook friends with about 40 people I graduated with even though I haven't seen them in forever."
"That's neat," I said. "That's one of the things I really like about it."
"I'm friends with them even if we have different outlooks on life and stuff," he explained. "It's easier that way. This one weird guy kept trying to befriend me over and over, and I kept ignoring him. I finally gave in. After his first few posts--and he posted ALL the time--I put him on the way back burner. That's kinda nice to be able to do that."
"Wow. Your first Facebook stalker! You should be proud."
"Oh I am! Welp, here it is," he said, turning into Dvorak Circle.
Even though I had been there several times in the past with Rocky showing it off, I was compelled to a reverend-sounding, "Wow, Dvorak Circle. Just like I pictured it!"
"This is it. And here's where [Grayson's old girlfriend] lived. Her older sister and mine were good friends, so she was over here all the time. It was one of these houses. It's kind of hard to remember."
Once again, I was struck with the complexity of the tapestry woven by all the lives in the Black Belt. Joe continued, "Yeah, I remember roaring through here in my Mustang when I was in high school and getting chased down and busted by the mayor when I pulled back into the parking lot at school. I was so tough. I went home and sat by the phone for two weeks in case he called my parents. But he never did."
"The mayor of Linden?" I asked incredulously. "Did he live on Dvorak Circle? What was he doing here to come after you all the way to the school parking lot?"
"The school is right next door. It wasn't a long chase."
"Oh," I said. Joe's stories always raised more questions than gave answers. "You're lucky he never called."
"Yeah, I was sweatin' it out there."
"Well, what's next? Demopolis?" Indeed.
Why Lavaca? (pronounced la-VACK-uh, not la-VAH-ka, which means "the cow" in Spanish, and was surely the origin of the name. Kinda like Lafayette, which is pronounced la-FAY-ett by the natives. I'm sure the real Lafayette would be a little puzzled and possibly a bit pissed by this.)
Ezell's is between Lavaca and Nanafalia on the Tombigbee River. Joe says it's in Lavaca, and Richard Crawford, Chevy 6 guitarist, says it's in Nanafalia (pronounced NAN-a-fly by the locals). Surely it's claimed by both towns. I have known about their dish-defining catfish ever since college, when we used to go out to Ezell's Catfish Cabin and belly up to troughs of all-you-could-eat fried catfish there. Musky, flaky, riddled with bones and exploding with fried cornmeal flavor, they were an unbelievable thing, and they came on huge platters piled high. Another plus was that they would serve you beer as long as you were eating, without carding you. WELL then! The Cabin was a branch of the original Fish Camp, where we were headed.
After reaching a small overpass on highway (X), Joe expertly turned off onto a good sized area of flat farmland coming almost up to the river. There was a thin grey road running straight through it that led to the Fish Camp. If you had cropped an aerial photo of the land, you could convince anybody that it was somewhere in Indiana. Very weird.
Our first sign of the place was the catering truck parked in a shed next to the restaurant. The parking area across the way was gravel that led right into the field beyond. Plenty o' parking. It was after 2:00 when we got there, but we weren't worried about them not serving food when we saw a carload of seniors emerge slowly like geriatric clowns from a Volkswagen, and then begin to amble toward the building. We tried to be polite as we lingered around, taking pictures while they finally got inside.
The Fish Camp looked like exactly what it should. Old wood everywhere, a wide front porch for people waiting, and unmistakable authenticity. Joe had told me that the place had flooded halfway up the building several times in the past. This certainly contributed to the ambience, and it's places like this that spawned the modern imitators. From the way it hung out over the riverbank just enough to make you nervous, to the foyer crammed with deer heads, old pictures and other trophies, this was the real deal, and made me swell with pride once again to be an Alabamian.I was pretty excited for two reasons: 1. facilities; 2. catfish. And definitely in that order. We said "hey" to the lady at the cash register and waved at a couple of cooks in the kitchen, then I made a beeline for the bathroom. It was not far from the cash register and the door opened up right onto the little lobby. My father the architect would have been appalled. One of his cardinal rules was to never put a bathroom door right in a room. There must be some sort of wall or partition to "disappear behind," as he said. "You don't want to walk right out into a room after being in there, and you sure don't want people to see you walking in. And then there's the risk of somebody already being in there when you yank the door open for all to see." Wow! It was like Miss Manners for architects. But I feel that the real Miss Manners would not be terribly amused at this topic to begin with.
After a period spent indicative of an 85-year-old-guy, I popped the screen-door-style latch and climbed the 6 degree slant toward Joe, who was skidding past me toward the door in time to catch it before the hydraulic hinges had allowed it to slam shut.
When he had returned, the lady behind the cash register wandered out and told us to go find a table. We picked one by the window, but not the one with the beautiful sun streak, because it would have probably been too hot. But it sure was pretty.
Presently, our waitress came up with menus and began to chat with us. "What are y'all doin' with those cameras?" she asked.Joe explained why we were there, and mentioned that he was from Octagon, and how he had been coming to Ezell's since childhood. Within 30 seconds, it was established that our waitress' name was Christy and that she was good friends with one of Joe's nieces. The next 30 seconds was spent compiling a list of 20 or so mutual acquaintances. I sighed with contentment at this exchange while eyeing the menu, deciding on the 3 catfish fillet lunch. No bones!
Joe got the same thing, and also a basket of fried pickles for us. It was just as delicious as I expected, and the pickles were salty as hell. I got him to take a gag shot of me with a fistful of them (after we had had our fill).Joe had about 12 glasses of tea to my 6, which made me wonder about the next leg of the trip. It's not like you can will yourself to leave all that tea behind before you get in the car. It just doesn't work that way. I felt like a bloated gelatinous mass coming up the 6 degree incline to the door.While paying the bill, Joe discovered a few connections with the cash register lady and two of the cooks while I looked at pictures of the Ezell family. After we got outside, we went around the corner of the restaurant to take some pics of the river and the cool environment around the place as it jutted out toward the river. That diversion exhausted, we climbed back into the car, said soothing words to the Garmin and headed toward Octagon.Why Octagon? Pronounced OCK-tuh-gun, not OCK-ta-GON like the polyhedron, the town was indeed named for an 8-sided church that used to stand there. "It's gone now," Joe said.
The terrain became even more rural than I could have thought possible, when we came upon a tiny little abandoned building that Joe informed me used to be Mrs. Hill's store. This place was screaming with spirits, and I insisted that we stop and take some pictures.
"See how little it is?" Joe asked me. "When I was real young, Solomon would come along with me while I rode a pony cart down here. We'd eat peanuts and drink co-colas from one of those neat old machines. I thought I was some kinda big stuff."I nodded enthusiastically at his description and he continued, "The place was tiny, and she was always cooking greens or something in the back. The Health Department never said anything about it."
"Was she selling the food she was cooking? Like, could you get a plate?"
"Naw, that was food for her. She just sold peanuts and cokes and stuff."
"Like Pop-a-Lance?" I asked.
"Yeah! And the whole array of the 'chee' cookies."
"That must have been so cool," I intoned, thinking 'Nip-chee,' 'Toast-chee,' 'Nekot,' and how weird it was that young 39-year-old Joe had experienced the exact same bucolic pleasures that people 2 and 3 times his age had, without the taint of a modern slant.
We drove a couple more miles passing a dilapidated structure that Joe referred to as "the garden shed," then came upon the Watts homestead--a historic white house exhibiting a beautiful presence in the middle of all the acreage around us. The yard was populated with 300 year old trees and completely covered with the first signs of a million daffodils. "Oh man, I'd love to see that in Spring," I said."Oh yeah, my Mom planted 'em every year just about. They're so thick in there that you can cut a ton of 'em and never be able to tell. I've transplanted a bunch of her stuff to my yard."
He didn't have the key with him, so we just walked around the massive yard and Joe told me old stories about Octagon. We saw the smokehouse, which, when infused with a good bit of imagination and Joe's narrative, really looked like a smokehouse. I then neatly avoided being garroted by the classic clothesline (the exact kind my grandmothers both had), all the while extolling the virtues of air-dryed clothes with Joe.
After tromping around a bit more, then making sure a sad-looking camellia bush had been properly watered, I joined Joe in the car enthusing about his neat homeplace. He agreed wholeheartedly, nodding at the house as he began to head toward Linden, with Demopolis our ultimate destination.When I first met Joe, he said he was from Linden, which was probably easier than explaining where Octagon was. I immediately started giving him hell about being from "below the Bogue"--a friendly putdown Demopolites use on Lindenians--referring to the Bogue River(?) Creek(?) Stream(?). Joe didn't know which it was, but he was familiar with the epithet. At the time, he just laughed. Now he was quick to point out that Octagon was SO much below the Bogue that it didn't count.
"There's not much to see in Linden, even though it's the county seat," Joe said.
"Yeah, I know. I always thought that was weird. Why not Demopolis?"
"Who knows," he replied. "Well here we are. I think I'm gonna get some gas."
"Fine. I wanna see Dvorak Circle," I told him. "Rocky Grayson used to date a girl that lived on Dvorak Circle, and it always fascinated me."
"What? The girl?"
"No. The street. First of all, where did they get "Dvorak"? And why do they pronounce it Duh-VORE-ack Circle instead of Duh-VORE-zhock like the composer if they were gonna go to the trouble of naming it something so highfalutin' in the first place?"
"All good questions," Joe said, as he hopped out of the car to fill it up. This was my cue to see what the bathroom in this brand new BP food store looked like.
On the way to Dvorak Circle we passed Marengo Academy. Joe pointed it out and said, "That's where I went to high school."
"Uh huh, I know," I said.
"It's weird. I'm Facebook friends with about 40 people I graduated with even though I haven't seen them in forever."
"That's neat," I said. "That's one of the things I really like about it."
"I'm friends with them even if we have different outlooks on life and stuff," he explained. "It's easier that way. This one weird guy kept trying to befriend me over and over, and I kept ignoring him. I finally gave in. After his first few posts--and he posted ALL the time--I put him on the way back burner. That's kinda nice to be able to do that."
"Wow. Your first Facebook stalker! You should be proud."
"Oh I am! Welp, here it is," he said, turning into Dvorak Circle.
Even though I had been there several times in the past with Rocky showing it off, I was compelled to a reverend-sounding, "Wow, Dvorak Circle. Just like I pictured it!"
"This is it. And here's where [Grayson's old girlfriend] lived. Her older sister and mine were good friends, so she was over here all the time. It was one of these houses. It's kind of hard to remember."
Once again, I was struck with the complexity of the tapestry woven by all the lives in the Black Belt. Joe continued, "Yeah, I remember roaring through here in my Mustang when I was in high school and getting chased down and busted by the mayor when I pulled back into the parking lot at school. I was so tough. I went home and sat by the phone for two weeks in case he called my parents. But he never did."
"The mayor of Linden?" I asked incredulously. "Did he live on Dvorak Circle? What was he doing here to come after you all the way to the school parking lot?"
"The school is right next door. It wasn't a long chase."
"Oh," I said. Joe's stories always raised more questions than gave answers. "You're lucky he never called."
"Yeah, I was sweatin' it out there."
"Well, what's next? Demopolis?" Indeed.
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