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| Darrell
Huckaby |
|
 Darrell
Huckaby has been called "Garrison
Keeler with a Southern accent." His
columns appear weekly in the Gwinnett Daily
Post, the Athens Banner Herald, the Newton
Citizen, the Rockdale Citzen and
occasionally in a multitude of newpapers,
including the Atlanta Journal-Constitution.
Longtime Atlanta news anchor, Wes Sarginson
of 11 Alive has called him "the
South’s hidden literary treasure."
Huckaby
draws on his own experiences growing up in
the Newton County (GA) mill village of
Porterdale to write about everyday life in
America the way it is, the way it used to be
and the way he thinks it should be. His
columns will usually make the readers laugh,
occasionally cry, and sometimes shake their
head in disbelief.
Huckaby
has published six books including two novels
(Need Two and Need Four), a
cook book (Dinner on the Grounds) two
collections of his columns, Grits is
Groceries . . . and other facts of Southern
life, and Southern Is as Southern
Does, as well as Hard Rock to Solid
Rock, a biography of hard rocker turned
Methodist preacher, Lenny Stadler. He lives
on a farm near Conyers, GA with his lovely
wife, Lisa, and their three children. He
teaches US History at Heritage High School
in Rockdale County and has recently
completed his 30th year in the
classroom.
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Whatever happened to Sunday dinner? -
When I was growing up my mama cooked wonderful meals every single day–this after working an eight hour shift in the cotton mill, I might add. But Sunday dinners were even more special. There were vegetables on our table every night, of course–peas and butterbeans and squash and okra–and the main course during the week might be meatloaf or fried pork chops or fried steak, or maybe even spare ribs and sour kraut. These were served with assorted relishes and other homemade condiments and, during the summer, slices of vine ripened tomatoes and sweet Vidalia onions adorned the table at every meal.
But Sundays were particularly special, even by Tommie Huckaby’s high standards. Sundays were for fried chicken and roast beef and maybe even chicken and dressing–always accompanied by three or four vegetables. We might have green beans and mashed potatoes and corn and those big speckled butterbeans. And we would usually have cornbread and fresh-baked-hand-patted biscuits. Yes, I said cornbread and biscuits. Not one or the other. I told you Sunday dinners were special.
Let me tell you about my mama’s fried chicken. Nobody–and I mean nobody–has ever cooked better chicken than my mama. It was golden brown on the outside, with a crust that was crisp but not hard, and juicy and tender on the inside. I would rather have a piece of that fried chicken than filet minion. I have tried to duplicate it a million times–well, maybe five or six–but to no avail. She had a special touch. And her roast beef was never dry or stringy. It was moist and tender and tasty and her dressing was indescribably delicious.
I am not sure exactly how Mama put together such wonderful meals on Sunday because she got up and went to Sunday school and church with the rest of us. In fact, Sunday mornings were really special around our house, too, because it was the only morning of the week that we were all there together. My mother and father worked different shifts at the Osprey Mill so, during the week, by the time I woke up, Mama was already at work and Daddy would be sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper and cussing Ralph McGill. On Saturdays Mama was usually at home but Daddy was at work.
On Sundays, though, our little house was full of activity as everybody got dressed for church–and getting dressed for church meant really getting dressed. Daddy wore stiff white shirts with cuff links and always had a handkerchief, folded just so, sticking out of the front pocket of his suit jacket. I think handkerchiefs went out of style about the same time as Sunday dinner. Mama always wore hose and "ear bobs" and, sometimes, a stylish hat. My sister wore frilly dresses with crinolines underneath and patent leather shoes. When was the last time anyone wore a crinoline? I always wore a suit to church, even when the suit came with short pants. And, believe it or not, a hat. That’s right. Even as a small child, I wanted to wear a hat to church–to be like the big people.
But the highlight of Sundays, other than the scintillating sermons I heard at church, of course, was sitting down to dinner afterward. Usually it was just the four of us, but sometimes a family friend or relative would join us, which made the occasion even more special, and once in a great while the preacher and his wife might join us, which was a mixed blessing. It was always exciting to have such honored guests, but Daddy would always have the preacher return thanks and our preachers always seemed to lean toward really long blessings. And I knew that whenever the preacher came the only pieces of chicken left on the platter when it was passed to me would be the wings and the back.
Nonetheless, I would trade the grilled cheese sandwich, which passes for Sunday fare at my house, straight up for one of my mama’s chicken wings. And I hope my lovely wife, Lisa, doesn’t read today’s column because, if she does, we’ll be back at the Chinese buffet after church next Sunday and I won’t even get a homemade grilled cheese.
Darrell Huckaby
==============================
Darrell Huckaby is a weekly columnist at Macon Area Online.
If you enjoy Darrells columns, drop him a line at [email protected].
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