Posted Thursday, October 11, 2001 by Daniel Boone
Good-bye, Ruby

I know it was over twenty five years ago when I was first invited to go to Ruby’s Hot
Tamale Hut for lunch. “No, I don’t think so,” I replied.

“Why not?”

“Well, it’s a Black Place.”

“So what?”

Yeah, I asked myself that, too. Was I afraid? Yes. Of what? Well, not being welcome. I
was afraid They would not want me there. I could picture a scene like the ones in the
Western movies where the dude opens the saloon doors, and the room falls to a hush as all
eyes bore into the unwanted one. Was I ever wrong: conversation never seemed to stop in
that room on China Street in downtown Vicksburg, and I never felt unwelcome. In fact,
pretty soon, Ruby C. Mitchell made me feel like a member of a very extended family.
Lunch at Ruby’s quickly became a midday habit for my working partners and me. On
Thursdays or Fridays when our pocket money was gone, we would discreetly inquire
whether she might front us the lunch until after we got our pay. She never refused.

Ruby was arguably the hardest working woman I ever knew. She cooked all the food in
her tiny kitchen at the back of the place. Without leaving the kitchen she would lean her
head in your general direction when you came in and found a seat at one of about eight
tables crammed into the boxcar shaped room, call out the menu of the day, and ask what
you wanted. She served the tables, and collected the money. It was literally a one-woman
operation. But she was never too busy to visit while she worked. “How’s you’ girlfriend?”
she would ask. And she wanted details.

Ruby’s Hot Tamale Hut was a plate lunch place. For about $2.25 the plates were piled
high with your choice of several meats, three vegetables, a couple of cornbread sticks, and
accompanied by a glass of some of the sweetest iced tea that ever passed my lips. We
asked her why she didn’t offer unsweetened tea. Her reasoning was that it was cheaper
this way than to let people sweeten their own. She made sure her customers wouldn’t
waste her sugar by not making any available to them. And even though I know the lemon
slice added to each glass would temper the sweetness, I was never convinced that the old
man at the next table didn’t have something else in mind when he’d call out to her as she
crossed the room towards him with his lunch, “Ruby, squeeze my lemon one time.”

It was Southern cooking: smothered chicken (is that how it’s cooked or how it’s killed?),
fried chicken, hamburger steaks, and extremely cooked vegetables: squash, okra, rice and
gravy, mustard greens. Ruby knew her clientele. She did serve broccoli and Brussels
sprouts, but she said she was cooking them for her white customers. “Black folks don’t
eat those things,” she would say. She also offered chitterlin’s, hog maws, and other
mysterious foods that she was convinced no white folks would eat. She was usually right.
On a Sunday my favorite was pork roast and cornbread dressing with a baked apple: oh, a
fond memory.

One thing I never ate or even saw at Ruby’s Hot Tamale Hut was hot tamales. The story
was she had started making tamales when she first opened, but gradually the lunches took
over. When asked if she was ever going to make any more, she would always say maybe.
If she ever did I never heard about it.

Sometime in the Eighties, Ruby bought a building at the corner of Grove and Walnut. She
lived there and her business, still inexplicably known as Ruby’s Hot Tamale Hut,
continued there for awhile, but it was mostly takeout. She was getting tired. Eventually
she stopped serving food altogether. But for all these years she remained an important
fixture. She would while away the days sitting in the doorway to her building behind a
wrought iron security gate. We called her the Mayor of Grove Street. When we moved
our business to Grove Street four years ago, Ruby was always there, right across the
street, as we arrived for work and when we left each day. She would call out a greeting
and call us over to warn us about anything unusual in the neighborhood. If she needed a
small job done, she would ask and I would do. She was a reassuring presence.

Last year we noticed she was not there for a few days. Fearing the worst, we made
inquiries and found out she was still alive, but not well enough to continue living in the
building by herself. As soon as she could, she convinced a friend to bring her to Grove
Street, so she could sit in her doorway during the day, at least. The block felt complete
again. Not that long ago, she called to us one afternoon as we were attempting to go
home from work. She asked my wife and I if we would walk with her down the steep hill
to the Biscuit Co for a drink. It was the only time, she’d ever asked that, but how could
we refuse? We talked. She told us she had met Al Gore years ago. She pronounced his
name, “Goldy,” but she made it clear that was who she meant. True? I don’t know. After
one gin she asked if maybe two might not be too many. We assured her we really had to
be going (we did) and convinced her to let us get her back up the hill. Gravity almost
defeated us, but we managed to reinstall her in her doorway.

In her life, Ruby made many friends: black and white. It wasn’t unusual to see visitors
standing on the corner holding onto the bars of her security gate. They brought her food
and gifts. I even took her some cornbread sticks one day. She was touched, and asked me
why I had thought of her. I only wish I had thought of her more often.

Earlier this year she disappeared from her corner again. For good. Good-bye, Ruby.
Thanks for everything.

Posted Wednesday, October 10, 2001 by Daniel Boone
The Forest of the Wang Dang Doodle

Can’t see the forest for the trees. That’s what they say, but for my generation it’s not so
much the trees but the TVs. With the steady diet of pop culture we’ve been fed by
television and all mass media, sometimes we don’t see the magic forest growing around
us.

For us teenagers in the 60’s, our musical tastes included such “new” recording artists as
the Doors, the Rolling Stones, Steppenwolf, Eric Clapton, and Led Zeppelin. When Jim
Morrison bragged about being a “Backdoor Man;” Mick Jagger crowed about the “Little
Red Rooster;” Clapton philosophized about a “Spoonful,” and John Kay of Steppenwolf
claimed to be the “Hoochie Cootchie Man,” this was powerful stuff. They were more than
just our musical heroes, they were icons of our time. Something special.

The Doors and Steppenwolf were based in California, and the Stones and Zeppelin did
their work across the Atlantic in London, and we assumed the exotic images from these
songs must come from those faraway, glamorous places. We were just too young to know
all these songs had first been recorded in Chicago by musicians who were, almost without
exception, from just up the road in the Mississippi Delta, including Muddy Waters of
Clarksdale, and Howlin’ Wolf of West Point, Mississippi.

But the real revelation to me was Willie Dixon. Early on I noticed his name credited as the
writer of more than one song on several Doors albums. It was years before someone
pointed out to me that he was from just up the street - literally. Born in my hometown of
Vicksburg in 1915, Willie Dixon wrote all those songs mentioned above and hundreds
more. He played string bass on many of the original records, and eventually became a
longtime producer for Chess Records in Chicago. Not only did he put the words into the
mouths of those real bluesmen (and those other guys) but his work helped define the
sound of hundreds of classic blues recordings.

Mr. Dixon was a cornerstone of the blues and all those wild lyrics he wrote were indeed
exotic, but the inspiration for all that imagery was here all around us. Without being able
to see it, this forest we were living in was the natural habitat of the Backdoor Men, Little
Red Roosters, Hoochie Cootchie Men, and even the Wang Dang Doodle (whatever that
is.) To us, Vicksburg and the South seemed an ordinary place but to our musician-heroes,
it was a place of magic and dreams. And, I guess they were right.

The Face of the South: Regular or Sandwich Style?

I overheard the child of a friend asking my wife how Vicksburg had changed the most
during the time she had been here. The question was asked for some school project, and
even though nobody was asking me, I knew my answer.

I remember the day it started. I think it was a Sunday afternoon in about 1961. I was
standing in one of two long lines of people waiting for something exciting. Among those
waiting with me and my parents were merchants, professional people, judges - it seemed
the whole town had turned out for the opening of a new business: the Burger Chef, our
first fast food franchise. (I know, that’s four f-words.) Why were we there? I can only
imagine the attraction was to the plastic and metal glitter of the place. The food was
cheap, and there weren’t many choices to make. Burgers, fries, and Cokes were fifteen
cents each. The so-called “milk shakes” were twenty.

Until that day Vicksburg, like most Mississippi towns, had dozens of places to eat. They
were all locally owned, and although they weren’t exactly gourmet restaurants, they had
their own charm. The burgers were usually about a quarter. If you wanted yours
“sandwich style,” it might cost another nickel or dime. This “sandwich style” thing seems
to be a uniquely Vicksburgian burger idiom. Most outsiders assumed it must mean you got
your burger on sliced bread.Who would want that? A burger comes on a bun. No,
“sandwich style” meant it would be served with lettuce, tomato, and mayo as opposed to
“regular,” which came with mustard, pickle, and maybe onion. If you wanted your burger
some other way, you probably weren’t from around here.

But the local places served more than burgers. At places like The Glass Kitchen, Johnny’s,
The Beechwood, Jack’s Village Inn, Tuminello’s, Cassino’s, The Old Southern Tea
Room, Aunt Minnie’s, Tasty Food, and Knapp’s Pastry you could find what passed for
good Southern cooking. Some were drive-ins, some were full scale restaurants, some were
what we called “cafes.” But as the Sixties progressed, more and more fast food places
sprung up to tempt us with their modern, predictable, paper-wrapped fare. We must have
felt that because these places were just like the ones in big cities somewhere else, they
must be somehow superior.

The face of our town changed. The face of all towns changed. The South became less
Southern. Streets lined with fast-food logos look the same everywhere. Of the dozens of
“cafes” and restaurants of my youth, only the Beechwood remains. You can still get a
good burger there - probably even “sandwich style.” It’s more than a quarter.

Oh, I forgot about another survivor: Goldies Barbecue. See, barbecue is just too
Southern. There are barbecue franchises, but unlike burgers, barbecue hasn’t been reduced
to a unit that will appeal equally to people all over the country. Every barbecue sauce is
unique, and which one is the best offers Southerners a fit subject to argue about (in lieu of
politics or religion.) So, I guess there’s some hope for Southern culture. In fact, I revisited
the site of the Burger Chef this week - it’s a new (strictly local) barbecue place.

Mediocre Crawfish? Never!

We southerners have a reputation for politeness, and I think it’s deserved, but maybe not
understood.

The other day, my lunch companion and I were lingering over po’ boys at Toot’s grocery,
and comparing our jobs (the ones we were avoiding by pushing the lunch “hour”
envelope.) “One thing I’ve noticed,” my friend allowed, “is how some people will listen to
me so politely, but somehow, I find it hard to be friends with them.”

“Ah,” I nodded sagely, “that’s because politeness and friendliness don’t have anything to
do with one another.”

I figured this out one day a few years back. I was avoiding working by passing the time in
conversation with a fellow worker who was “not from around here.” (Notice how I
politely avoid using the “Y” word.) She was telling me how she had trouble dealing with
some locals. She wanted to know what it meant to “act like a Yankee” (oops, I said it).

“Well, uh,” I stammered, “some people think of Yankees as well, maybe too forthright,
uh, abrupt, or , uh, well, rude.”

“Well,” she says, “southerners are polite, but they’re insincere.”

“We think that’s better.” As soon as I heard myself say it, I knew it was Truth. Sincerity is
not what we’re looking for. Nonconfrontation is what it’s all about. For us politeness is a
tool, if not a weapon to just get past an encounter intact.

And it can cause some communication problems between us and some of those
nonsoutherners. I heard a story about a local woman who took a friend from “somewhere
else” out to eat at a place she thought was typically southern: catfish or crawfish or
something exotic. After the meal was served, the owner/cook stopped by the table to
inquire how the food was. The guest offered her opinion in an honest and forthright way:
“Mediocre,” she said. I cringed when I heard this.

You and I both know if your food was good, you would answer, “excellent, great, best I
ever had,” or some polite exaggeration. If your food was pretty bad, the correct answer
would be, “it’s just fine.” If you don’t know that, then you must not be from around here.

Anyway, the woman who thought “mediocre” was an appropriate reply found out
different. The stunned owner retreated to the kitchen for a few minutes, and then he came
back to the table and “went off on her” (as they say.) Many of the things he said to this
forthright woman were, well, not polite. And definitely not friendly.

Fresh Bread Nippin' at Your Nose

Like many towns in the south, Vicksburg is well acquainted with historic preservation and
restoration. Many a landmark home and public building here is under protection for its
unique architecture. Keeping our buildings and streets looking a certain way is important
to us. But there are other senses than visual, and sometimes I think we are forgetting how
important they can be. There is something our town has lost in the last half of the
twentieth century. Something that disappeared one day from the landscape of all our
senses: the overpowering fragrance of freshly baked bread.

There was a time in the ‘50s and ‘60s when a drive down Clay Street could be a heavenly
experience. Visitors from the East would enter our town by driving through a beautiful
stone arch which spanned Clay Street (just about where the new Pizza Hut is going up.)
Within a few blocks the wonderful yeasty odor would envelope them as they approached
Koestler’s Bakery on the corner of Clay and Hosseley Street (now known as Mission 66).
If you were here then, you can smell that bread now. I know I can.

If you never smelled the freshly baked bread from a city bakery, you probably can’t
imagine how intense and exquisite it was. There are certainly businesses around today that
emit smells, but not many will be so fondly recalled. At this time of year Koestler’s Bakery
is fondly recalled by most of my generation for another reason.

Our parents would round us up on a December night, and we’d park at the Rose Oil
station across the street from Koestler’s. As soon as we’d open the car door, we’d hear
Jimmy Boyd singing “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” or maybe Gene Autry’s
“Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” blasting from concealed speakers. The first thing we
would see was snow! A blanket, or maybe more literally a quilt, of white, padded “snow”
covered the low terrace that the building was situated on, and the genuine evergreen trees
that grew against the walls of the bakery enhanced the illusion. It was breathtaking. And
there he was, the man himself: Santa with his sleigh full of wrapped packages being pulled
by the full complement of reindeer.

It was that way from my earliest memory, but it seemed to get bigger and better each year.
Eventually a giant Frosty the Snowman was added at the corner of the building. And
another Santa was added who actually handed out stockings filled with toys, candy, and
fruit to all who were brave enough to sit in the man’s lap for a few moments while he
asked us one simple question. Back then we usually had an answer ready when asked what
we wanted.

The questions and answers are less simple today. Where did the bakeries go? Where does
the bread come from now? What happened to Santa and Frosty and the “snow?” I’ve been
told that the unimpressive, painted plywood Santa and reindeer on the terrace at City Hall
are the very same ones. I’m not buying that story. It just doesn’t smell right.

Seemingly some people don’t think of Clay Street as a beautiful place today. And maybe
there were those who thought the brightly lit Christmas display at the bakery was gaudy or
tacky. But we kids knew it for what it was. A recent movie entitled After Life (I didn’t see
see it) had as its premise the concept that somehow a person could create their own
Heaven by choosing a memory from their past and reliving it for eternity. In the running
for mine would have to be the moment when I was about halfway across Clay Street,
holding my mother’s hand, walking towards a winter wonderland. Breathing deeply.

Mama Says, "Eat Your Veggies" (before they eat you...)

It’s getting hot.

When I walk out into the merciless sun of a summer day in Vicksburg; and open my eyes
to what is really here, I see the battle of Vicksburg. No, not that well publicized one of the
Nineteenth Century, but the older one, the one that started as soon as we got here. By
“we” I’m not sure whether I mean the first batch of people who settled the area or the
Europeans who drove them off. I suspect the latter group were the ones who decided they
could change and control the Nature-of-this-Place: the ones who started the Battle.

When I try to imagine what Warren County looked like when it was first “discovered,” my
best guess is that it was a forest covered with trees. Anyone who tries to keep a nice,
ordered yard knows It still wants to be a forest. The lawns our species favor are just not
natural. The struggle between Man and the Nature-of-this-Place seems to go on and on.
Early predictions that Man was winning seem to be premature. We make sweeping strides
quickly, but It struggles tirelessly and inexorably reclaims much of the occupied territory.

As usual, we have supplied our “enemy” with some of its most powerful weapons.
Whatever Vicksburg looked like when we arrived, one thing is known: there was no
kudzu here. Not only did we bring it here from Japan, but we thought it was a weapon we
could use to tame the wild. In the 1930’s a U.S. government agency thought it would be a
good idea to deliberately plant kudzu to control erosion (one of the side effects of our
earlier effortsin the war.) I imagine it was at that time that kudzu was planted along the
railroad tracks that cut right through the middle of town. It worked. Remarkably well.
There doesn’t seem to be any erosion around the tracks. The verdant vines quickly
insinuated themselves over every square inch of bare earth and then sprung up into town.

Take a drive on Washington Street or Cherry Street or any of the streets that cross the
valley in which the railroad tracks run through town. You won’t have to look very hard to
see the Kudzu. It has covered parking lots, fences, telephone poles, houses, trees, and who
knows what slow moving creatures. As it moves, it takes on the forms of stalking beasts
along the streets, seemingly threatening even passing automobiles.

This battle is not over...

And speaking of plants...

When summer settles on us here in the south, I feel pinned down, slowed down, just
down. In my feverish state I try to imagine something good about the South in summer -
some excuse for all we endure for what seems like an endless season of unreasonable heat
and hellish humidity. Then my Mama will ask me over for lunch and treat me to fresh,
hand shelled peas. I’m not talking about those little green things that People Who Are Not
From The South call peas. No, I mean lady peas, crowder peas, field peas, puple hull peas,
you know, peas - with okra. And sliced tomatoes. Real ones. Hand picked, sliced thick,
and served with a dollop of mayonaise. And for dessert: peaches from Georgia or
Alabama or Louisiana or even Mississippi. Sweet, juicy, fuzzy, peaches. Or maybe
strawberries from Louisiana. Ahhh...Leave it to your Mama to remind you why you are
here - even in the summer.