Among My People in the South

Lauren and I made a quick day trip to Florida to meet Brayden’s family before Lucia and Brayden head back to Hawaii and before he sets off on a naval assignment for a few weeks. When we rolled up to the house in Titusville, we heard roosters crowing as we got out of the car. If you do not recall, rooster is about the worst insult you can give in our family.

“Is that a cat?” Lauren said.

“Nope, those are roosters,” I said.

“You’d think I’d recognize my own kind,” she said.

“It’s the southern accent,” I said.

We went inside and met Brayden’s mother, stepfather, and half brother. I hung out with their French bulldog puppy while Lauren and Lu worked on hair and makeup for some pictures. Then we headed to a nearby church where we took various photos of Lu and Brayden, and afterward, the newly betrothed couple were offered their choice of anywhere for lunch, and Brayden picked, wait for it . . . Cracker Barrel. Best son-in-law ever. Chicken fried steak.

But Brayden quickly learned his first lesson in betrothal/marriage.

“Really, Brayden?” Lu said. “I’d like to go somewhere kind of nice.”

So it was Dixie Crossroads instead, a southern seafood place. When we pulled in to the parking lot, we saw a line of motorcycles, and Brayden exclaimed, “Look at that, Lu! The Hell’s Angels are here. We could be at Cracker Barrel!”

He looked around the parking lot. “Dear lord, I see a Trans Am even!”

“Oh man,” I said. “If there’s a Trans Am here, we’re in for mullets.”

“The Mullet Convention,” said Brayden.

“With dudes in black Iron Maiden and Megadeath shirts with their sleeves cut off,” I said.

“Yes, exactly!” said Brayden. “See, your Dad knows.”

“We just ate at Cracker Barrel the other day,” Lu said.

“It’s cool,” Brayden said. “Hell’s Angels and mullets notwithstanding, the food is really good.”

We went in to get a table, but before they called us, Brayden’s nine-year-old half brother Christian handed us tiny cups of pellets. I thought at first it must be like Texas Roadhouse—everyone gets their bag of whole peanuts.

“We gotta follow tradition,” Brayden’s stepfather Garrett said. “We always feed the fish before we eat.”

“Ah,” I said, grateful I had not sampled any pellets. “Gotta fatten up what you eat.”

We headed outside to a bridge over a tiny fish pond, and we took turns tossing in our pellets where shiners, minnows, and a turtle went nuts over them. Then it was on to lunch where we had traditional southern fare like po’boys, shrimp and grits, and corn fritters. It was a good spot, and when I wandered away to the restroom for a break, I found that the Hell’s Angels were all about seventy years old. They might have lived lives of crime at some point, but unless they had guns, they weren’t gonna be much danger to anyone with their canes and walkers.

Meanwhile, back on the homefront, Graham stayed with his grandmother at Wingate, the assisted living place a quarter mile and across the street from the high school. He had to stay for track since he has a statewide freshman/sophomore meet Saturday. As we loaded the plane, the mother of Graham’s friend Reace texted us. She had picked Reace up from track and was driving on Lake Street when she spotted Graham walking slowly toward Wingate. She pulled over and asked if he needed a ride.

“Nah,” he said. “I live at the nursing home now.” No explanation other than that. Diane broke up laughing and drove on. She asked Lauren, “Can Reace move in with him?”

It is a pretty sweet deal there, though the boys would require far more food at meals than Wingate normally serves—though Grammie often says the portions are huge, when Graham eats with her, he tends to get two full servings and still wants more. Though we got home this evening, Graham elected to stay another night and walk to school. We’re supposed to pick him up after track, but we’ll see if he goes with us—he might prefer running his own life at Wingate. Then again, Grammie keeps her room at about eighty-five degrees, and Graham can only sweat so much.

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