He was a kind and gentle man. Having marched crossed Belgium as a
rifleman with the 79th Infantry Division in 1944, he never harmed
another living thing needlessly after he got home.
He had only the most minor of shortcomings, none rising to
the level of faults. He avoided fancy doings and digs, preferring the company
of his family, other farmers, and his cattle. And, cursed by the lack of a devious bone in his body, he was forever proving to be overly trusting that others
were as honest as he. Naturally, people took advantage of him.
I speak of course of my father-in-law, the late Julius Cole
of Lonoke County, Arkansas, who loved his daughter more than life itself and
tolerated me as long as I behaved accordingly.
There was this predilection he had for fried catfish, and
that prompted a classic instance of deceit. I suspect, if it turns out a
particular way, there are several spots of an hour or so in Purgatory reserved
for the “perps.” It would serve them right.
I mentioned yesterday the legendary Murray’s Catfish
Restaurant in DeVall’s Bluff, once the unchallenged best catfish place in
America, a title since moved to a new location by the son of the founder.
Anyway, the original Murray’s was not a place you would go
to unless you knew you were going to it or were with someone who did. Almost
inaccessible, it consisted of a series of mobile homes joined together at odd
angles and hosting tables on each side of a narrow aisle. Once in, though, one
might expect to see the Governor of our state, a crowd of “bond daddies,” state
celebrities, or a congressional delegation, along with locals and national
travelers who had wormed the location from someone or other.
Imagine the joy in which Julius received word that a family
delegation was coming to town from the Chicago area, and that a “trip to Murray’s”
loomed as part of the visit. Joy of joys, he loved that place. The day couldn’t
pass quickly enough, although he may have sensed something odd about the plans
when they told him to wear a sport coat and tie.
Going formal to Murray’s Catfish place meant making sure you scrapped the
cow manure off your boots just before you went inside.
Here lies the sad truth, dear reader. There are two Murray’s
in the central Arkansas area. Yep. You guessed
it. They had kidnapped this poor innocent soul for an evening at Murray’s
Dinner Theater in Little Rock. One can only imagine the level of crestfalleness. (Is that a word? Let's make it one. It's the only one that seems to fit).
There’s more, the horror,
the horror: Murray’s was featuring a musical as the entertainment portion of “dinner
theater.”
He never talked about the evening much. When I asked him how
it went, he would begin repairing a broken fence wire with short, jerky motions
and mutter something about people “prancing around like a bunch of g#%#%*&!%*d
idiots.” I never pushed the topic for I was pretty sure he still remembered how
to use a rifle.
 |
| No true Arkansan would pass this up for an evening of song and dance. |
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