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Hunker Down with Kes

Breakfast With Uncle Whit and The Snakes

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There is Cracker Barrel Old Country Store. And then there is Cracker Barrel Old Country Store in Tennessee.

Big difference.

And it has nothing to do with meals, cleanliness of the restrooms, adequate parking, length of wait time or the quality of service. One of the hallmarks of the Cracker Barrel chain is their consistency.

The chicken and dumplings taste the same no matter if you’ve pulled off Interstate 4 near Orlando or rolled into the St. George, Utah, Cracker Barrel from the not-as-busy I-15. Ditto for the biscuits and gravy, Tuesday’s meatloaf special, the Old Timers breakfast, the vegetable plate...

It’s not the food that sets the Tennessee Cracker Barrels apart. It’s the waitresses. They just grow them a bit differently in the Volunteer State. “Sir, you’re gonna really like them eggs this morning.” This was just last week, I was on my way to a college baseball reunion.

Dottie “graded” my order as she placed my half and half tea in front of me, “I reckon you are not a coffee drinker.” Well no, I wasn’t. And I didn’t say it out loud, but I was thinking if I had been a coffee drinker I would have ord— “My Uncle Whit didn’t drink coffee either. He grew up down at Estill Springs, just south of Tullahoma. I don’t reckon you’ve ever been to Estill Springs. It’s about as small as Uncle Whit’s brain.”

I’m telling you, this meal was destined to be more entertaining than listening to Andy and Barney discussing Otis Campbell’s drinking problems back in Mayberry.

As Dottie turned to wait on Mr. Barton, I got to wondering about “them” eggs. Did she pick out a couple of double A extra-large just for me? Does she keep some Rhode Island Red chickens in her backyard?

Mr. Barton was sitting under an antique sign advertising Squirt Cola. He obviously hailed from somewhere close. She was asking how his granddaughter was doing with her soccer and informing him, and the surrounding six tables, that it was going to be snowing “here in just a little bit.”

Folks, this is April 8 in Tennessee. It was sure cold. And a bit cloudy. But I don’t think it snows in Tennessee in April. At least it never did when I lived there.

She brought my eggs and bacon with a smile, “Honey, if them eggs aren’t all I said they are, I’ll give you your money back.”

I was in the middle of my first bite when Dottie decided to introduce Mr. Barton to Frank Weber and his wife, who were sitting just behind us at the table under the authentic J. C. Higgins rifle that was partially covered by the equally authentic, but a bit weathered, leather saddle bags.

They got to talking “over” Cathy and me about all the friends they had in common in, and around, the Tullahoma area. Between bites of some really good eggs I asked if they knew Uncle Whit from down at Estill Springs...

I was reading the GTX Castrol Motor Oil sign suspended from the ceiling when Dottie laid our check on the table, “I can tell by the way them eggs disappeared I’m not paying today. Where are you good folks headin’?”

“Sewanee, I’m meeting some old friends.”

“Honey, you be careful going up that mountain. It will be snowing before you reach Monteagle.”

I thanked her without mentioning this was April for goodness sakes, laid the extra “entertainment” tip on the table and was standing up when she knocked me almost to the floor as she began jumping up and down and waving both arms like a run-away windmill.

“There’s my pastor! There’s my pastor!”

Naturally I turned, along with near ’bout everyone else in the middle section, to see what a preacher looked like that could engender this much passion in a church member. Then I realized just how close we were to East Tennessee!

I’d heard about those Primitive Baptists over there. How they would bring out the snakes to make sure your faith was strong.

Folks, I quickly remembered I had a reunion to get to. And my belly was full. And I had had about as much fun as the law allowed just stopping by the roadside to eat breakfast. And I wasn’t too sure where my faith stood...

I did some waving of my own. Over my shoulder to Dottie, Mr. Barton, Frank and his wife and to a pastor that I didn’t even meet...but I was sure wondering what he was carrying in that big satchel of his!

I was still laughing and kinda wishing I’d swung by Estill Springs as I started up the mountain toward Monteagle.

When the snow began falling like a late afternoon January white-out in Point Barrow, Alaska...

Respectfully,
Kes