Tales from the Road

Straw is for Scarecrows

Dempsey Darrow

Just off I-40 in Tennessee, southeast of the Duck River Watering area, north of Only and just short of Bucksnort sits the unassuming Log Cabin Restaurant. The promise of “Homestyle Southern Eats” offered a welcome respite from the increasing monotony of my cross country drive.

Having settled in, the attractive young waitress approached me. Yes, I wrote “waitress”, not “server”, neither term is reason for embarrassment or outrage.

Understand that The South has its own speed and tempo. Theirs is generally slower and more relaxed than what most urban dwellers would find familiar. This slower pace has freed additional time, some of which has been filled by stretching words generally recognized as comprising a single syllable into two. For example, “said” becomes “say-ed”, “damn” is “day-um”… I think you can see the progression. Add it to the list of Southern Charms.

“Well ha they-er. What kin ah git ya to dray-enk?”

I noted with satisfaction when she left to retrieve my standard Diet Coke there had been no all-too-frequent pitch for Diet Pepsi. She returned and set down my glass, turning again to leave and give me extra time to study the menu. It was then that I noticed the anomaly.

No straw.

For years now I’ve been used to restaurants serving soft drinks with straws. Not quite ready to step out of my comfort zone I began to motion to her, then thought better of it. Too late. She caught the movement out of the corner of her eye and turned around. Our eyes locked. It’s now or never, I thought. Man up or forever be branded a limp-wristed wuss by the young beauty.

I hesitated only long enough to enjoy one more blink of her doe-like eyes. I locked a throat-crushing grip around my drink and raised it to my mouth, my lower lip slapping against the glass as my head tilted to the rear. A flood of carbonated delight roared into my mouth and washed over my tongue like a tsunami on Japan’s Sanriku Coast. I swallowed with an audible gulp. Then another. Then another. I slammed the half empty glass onto the table and simultaneously let out a satisfied, “A-h-h-h-h-h!” I looked directly at Little Sweetie.

“That’s right. That’s how *men* drink. No little squirts through panty-waist straws. Uh-uh. Man-sized gulps from real glass containers. Mason Jars. Don’t bore me with tales of ‘sanitation’ and ‘germs’, my corpuscles – red, white, black, brown, yellow – hell, I ain’t no racist – have been doing battle my entire life and if there’s a bug out there that can kick their asses then it’s just my time. I can see from your face that this got your womanly juices flowing. Hang in there, little miss, and do your due diligence around Army posts. Look for a Ranger. That’s R-A-N-G-E-R. You’ll know them from their chow, they eat SEALs for breakfast. OK now, keep the refills coming.”

I thought this. I said, “Thank you!”

There was steak on the menu. But, hey, it was only a little past lunch time. Then again, I was in the true South. What better place for a little rebellion?

Make mine “Rare”. And no steak sauce.

~ Dempsey 🌵

9 thoughts on “Straw is for Scarecrows”

  3. Mr. Darrow, I am enjoying your tales of days gone by; the above brought memories of Sweet ice tea, quite common in The South, as you know. I just had a bit of my fill recently as we were in Georgia for some R&R (aka: vacation). As I reflect on your stories, they bring me back to a tale of a walk in the sand one evening long ago, also in Georgia by chance, and I recall two young men, who traced their friendship back to high school – one being the older Senior, albeit the smaller of the two; and the younger one, the cocky, taller, sophomore with miles of wisdom to be gained, who re-connected after their college days… and in a brief time created some memories that pass on to the next generation…. Demps, you take it from here….

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  4. Ah, yes, Doug, that red Georgia clay, it does evoke memories. Like the night you carried that PRC-77 on the 25 mile road march. Memories go back even further, to West Point, and even to Stuttgart American High School in Ludwigsburg, Germany, where you and I defended our turf on both the gridiron and the wrestling mat against other schools’ interlopers.

    Good times, Doug. I hope at some point we can link up again before we get to the point of forgetting our own names.

    I hope all is well with you and yours. All the best from the Desert Southwest.

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  5. “stories” .. no one will believe them nowadays…but they are true (aren’t they Demps,?)
    1. me visiting you at WP during my recruiting visit, and you sneaking me into
    your barracks.
    2. some event at SHS w/ Coach Palmer and we are painted in gold paint??
    3. winning our first two football games your Senior year, only to have to forfeit them due to an illegal player…
    4. did we win European Wrestling Championship your senior year? I think so, it’s the photo that Kim Medders keeps posting on FB, bless his heart!
    5. Staying w/ you at the apartment outside Benning, your dogs crapped on the carpet, and I was late Monday morning to Airborne School formation and your drove me to Lawson Field as the bus pulled up…jump week!
    6….and of course, the story that I have told many a time, around the camp fire, drinks in hand, of the “.45 incident” at an army base. protecting the innocents of course…but the story has grown a life of it’s own…based on my telling it. Kinda like the Floyd Talbert night of the bayonet story from Band of Brothers!
    Love you Demps…like a brother!

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  6. Doug,

    I’ve wondered if anyone else remembered the gold paint presentation. If I remember correctly, we were representing awards statues.

    Actually, as a wrestling team we took second in the USDESEA Southern Regionals my senior year. If SHS ever won it all, it wasn’t during my tenure (nor was it due to our lack of effort).

    The dog who forgot that his toilet was outside was a Doberman named “Tiger”. I later moved into a travel trailer across the Chattahoochee in Alabama and he ran free in the fenced yard. One day while I was at work he jumped the fence. I looked for him for several days but the closest I got was hearing him bark in the far distant woods. Thanks for your help scrubbing the carpet!

    On a return trip to Benning for the Best Ranger competition in 2013 I made the effort to look for the old 1st AIT Brigade mess hall where I fired the .45 that day. I couldn’t find it, the lay of the land had changed too much. All that’s left is the memory.

    Reaching way back, Doug! Thanks for the trip down memory lane.

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  7. yea…so much has changed…. I was at Ft Jackson in ’79, right after Ranger school, buzz haircut and no body fat… assigned to tank hill.. old WWII wooden barracks, basic training of male and female trainees.. Now, I’m told those barracks are long gone. Later, I was assigned to Ft Sam Houston, 5th Army inTexas, as Aide-de-camp to the CG, came from 82d Bragg; was “immediately” assigned post quarters (go figure), wife who was 8 months pregnant back at Bragg had to fly down to Texas (I drove two days in a ’66 Ford Mustang, no AC). nice post quarters… close to the office. Now, of course, those quarters are gone….zero sign of it ever being there!
    Now, we lived on Bragg, post quarters, in ’70, prior to me joining you as students @ Stuttgart HS; just when Capt. Jeffery McDonald killed his family on base, post quarters, at Corregidor Courts housing area… the house was “yellow-taped’ off for the longest time. I went by there years ago, and it was occupied!! Now it, and the adjacent house, are removed.. no sight of that house any more..vanished!
    But I remember that night all too well!! Another story, another time…as I saw three “hippies”, two guys and a tall, long hair blonde female with a brown tasseled jacket” that night…

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