A QUAINT STORY ABOUT HOW EVELYN COUCH BEFRIENDS MRS. THEO THREADGOODE AT THE NURSING HOME WHERE HER HUSBAND’S MOTHER RESIDES. SHE COMES TO LIKE LISTENING TO THE OLD WOMAN TELL STORIES FROM HER PAST ESPECIALLY ABOUT THE WHISTLE STOP CAFE AND ITS CAST OF CHARACTERS. YOU WILL COME TO LOVE THE CHARACTERS AND WISH FOR THE SIMPLE LIFE IN SMALL TOWN WHISTLE STOP.
The Whistle Stop Cafe opened up last week, right next
door to me at the post office, and owners Idgie
Threadgoode and Ruth Jamison said business has been
good ever since. Idgie says that for people who know
her not to worry about getting poisoned, she is not
cooking. All the cooking is being done by two colored
women, Sipsey and Onzell, and the barbecue is being
cooked by Big George, who is Onzell’s husband.
If there is anybody that has not been there yet, Idgie
says that the breakfast hours are from 5:30-7:30, and you
can get eggs, grits, biscuits, bacon, sausage, ham and
red-eye gravy, and coffee for 25 [cts.].
For lunch and supper you can have: fried chicken;
pork chops and gravy; catfish; chicken and dumplings;
or a barbecue plate; and your choice of three
vegetables, biscuits or cornbread, and your drink and
dessert–for 35 [cts.].
She said the vegetables are: creamed corn; fried green
tomatoes; fried okra; collard or turnip greens; black-eyed
peas; candied yams; butter beans or lima beans.
And pie for dessert.
My other half, Wilbur, and I ate there the other night,
and it was so good he says he might not ever eat at home
again. Ha. Ha. I wish this were true. I spend all my time
cooking for the big lug, and still can’t keep him filled
By the way, Idgie says that one of her hens laid an egg
with a ten-dollar bill in it.
… Dot Weems …
ROSE TERRACE NURSING HOME
OLD MONTGOMERY HIGHWAY
DECEMBER 15, 1985
Evelyn Couch had come to Rose Terrace with her husband, Ed,
who was visiting his mother, Big Momma, a recent but reluctant
arrival. Evelyn had just escaped them both and had gone into the
visitors’ lounge in the back, where she could enjoy her candy bar in
peace and quiet. But the moment she sat down, the old woman
beside her began to talk …
“Now, you ask me the year somebody got married … who they
married … or what the bride’s mother wore, and nine times out of ten
I can tell you, but for the life of me, I cain’t tell you when it was I
got to be so old. It just sorta slipped up on me. The first time I
noticed it was June of this year, when I was in the hospital for my
gallbladder, which they still have, or maybe they threw it out by
now … who knows. That heavyset nurse had just given me another
one of those Fleet enemas they’re so fond of over there when I
noticed what they had on my arm. It was a white band that said:
Mrs. Cleo Threadgoode … an eighty-six-year-old woman.
“When I got back home, I told my friend Mrs. Otis, I guess the
only thing left for us to do is to sit around and get ready to croak….
She said she preferred the term pass over to the
other side. Poor thing, I didn’t have the heart to tell her that no
matter what you call it, we’re all gonna croak, just the same …
“It’s funny, when you’re a child you think time will never go by,
but when you hit about twenty, time passes like you’re on the fast
train to Memphis. I guess life just slips up on everybody. It sure
did on me. One day I was a little girl and the next I was a grown
woman, with bosoms and hair on my private parts. I missed the
whole thing. But then, I never was too smart in school or otherwise …
“Mrs. Otis and I are from Whistle Stop, a little town about ten
miles from here, out by the railroad yards…. She’s lived down the
street from me for the past thirty years or so, and…
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