Fuzzy Duck

There was a bar at 227 Broad Street, Gadsden, Alabama, on the main road south from downtown, before the four-lane highway was built. Called The Fuzzy Duck Lounge, it had a lighted sign with a duck walking along, holding a cocktail and whistling. I liked to drive that way when I could, because the old bridge over the Coosa River was so much more fun to drive over than the one on U.S. 431. The new bridge had safety walls to keep drivers from plummeting into the water, but I liked the view and the rush of danger I got from passing the statue of Emma Samson at the water's edge, and flying out over the Coosa on the 80-year-old bridge.

The name of the Fuzzy Duck popped up from time to time when Granddad and I talked, because the name was funny, and because it was so out of the realm of possibility that either of us, Baptist deacon or would-be missionary, would have gone there.

The last time I remember us having duck-talk, Granddad was living at the Wessex House, a nursing home in nearby Leesburg. It was well-run, with a caring staff. Granddad couldn't live by himself safely any more, and having a live-in helper hadn't worked out. His family was spread out, had jobs and families scattered all around, the nearest one being 45 minutes away.

He was visiting my parents, as I was, and around the table after supper, he told us about a new arrival at the Wessex House--a man in his 20s, recently paralyzed from the chest down. "How did it happen?" I asked. "He was shot in the Fuzzy Duck," my grandfather answered.

I knew he was thinking what I was thinking, so I asked, "What part of the body is the fuzzy duck?" He smirked. "I think it's below the waist."

Which leads to one of Granddad's other stories that he couldn't tell in church. It seems he was sitting on the front porch of the Wessex House when the postman came by. They made small talk, and the postman mentioned that his next stops were north, toward Cedar Bluff. Granddad happened to think of a family he used to know named Pimple who lived in that direction, and, trying to find out if the postman carried their mail, asked him, "Do you have any Pimples on your route?" The postman looked startled, then answered, "Well, I used to, but I used some cream, and that took care of it."

Postcard: Quart Low

The thing that tipped off my parents was that JD couldn't write a check.

Several doctor visits led us to the problem--subdural hematomas, or blood clots that were putting pressure on his brain. Brain surgery was scheduled immediately.

I had known his neurosurgeon in high school, and while it didn't inspire confidence that the former football player had been known as "Bimbo," my dad had worked with his mother Agnes at the hospital for years, and I knew that chances were good that he had inherited her medical talents.



Dr. White operated, the blood clots were removed, and JD recovered. And not long after, I found the perfect postcard...

Biscuits

When I pulled the biscuits out of my purse to find a pen, the mayor didn’t even blink. Hokes Bluff, Alabama, was small enough that he knew I’d come to city hall from lunch with my grandfather. I guess I wasn’t the only person he knew who gnawed on cold biscuits while driving down County Road 33.

My job at the time was helping local governments in the eastern part of the state get grants to build playgrounds or extend their sewer lines. After my grandmother’s death, I timed my trips to visit the elected officials of Etowah County so I could spend lunch hour in the red brick bungalow with the wrap-around porch, the first house my grandparents ever owned.

The biscuits started out hot, sweet, and sinfully good. Biscuits and Karo were all we ate for lunch. It was our signature dish, a symbol of our little club. It was a ritual as important as any in a Masonic Lodge.

As soon as I came in the front door each visit, Granddad pulled the cast iron skillet out of the cold oven where he stored it and let it slam on the stovetop. He snapped the oven dial to 375, popped the biscuits out of a can, lined them up in a circle with one in the middle, and tossed the skillet in the oven with easy practice. When the tops were brown, they were done.

Out of the oven and on his plate, he’d drop a slab of butter on the middle of each split biscuit and let the heat melt it until butter ran down the sides and he could scoot the biscuit around with the end of his knife like a skater on an frozen pond. Then came Karo syrup, the light version, poured on top and dripping down the sides.

I didn’t bother with the butter because I didn’t like it, but otherwise I did the same. Split open a biscuit and douse it with Karo. I leaned over the table to eat it, dipping each biscuit in the syrupy runoff every time I took a bite. My fingers were sticky at the end, but it didn’t take but a second to lick them clean.

We sat on either side of the small round table that took up almost all the floor space in that kitchen with the slightly sagging floor. To get past the refrigerator, even a skinny person would have to turn sideways. But none of us were what you'd call skinny. It was a source of pride in our family to be hearty, strong, solid people who didn't put on airs. The kind of people who didn't think twice about carrying cold biscuits wrapped up in a paper towel, just in case.