Me and Bar-B-Que

A love story *

Some of you may already know this about me: my dad died when I was six. He was Junior, I was his sidekick, and in the short time I had him, we packed in a lifetime’s worth of stories. Most are funny now—though maybe not then.

As I wrote about once before, my parents owned a restaurant in Eufaula, Alabama called The Drive Around It. It was part truck stop, part neighborhood diner, and heavy on Bar-B-Que. Out beside the building was a pit big enough to roast a Buick, belching smoke that smelled like heaven—if heaven ran on hickory wood and pork fat.

My dad always had help, and the guy I liked most was almost always out there, tending meat with the patience of a saint and the easy smile of someone who knew joy came by the plateful.

His name was Sam—a tall, lanky guy with a voice that rolled like slow thunder and a look in his eyes that let a little boy know he was always welcome, not just tolerated.

His mama, Minnie, was the cook. She ran that kitchen like a warden runs a prison—except with better food and worse language.

This was the early ’60s in Lower Alabama, and let’s just say integration didn’t sit well with a lot of folks. But my mom and dad? They didn’t give a damn if it did or it didn’t.

The rules of the time said Black folks couldn’t eat in the dining room. My dad said to hell with that. He fixed up a space in the back with its own entrance. Most who came through were truckers—the kind of men he used to ride with before he broke his back. They had a soft spot for him, and he had one for them.

And that back room? That’s where the real living happened. The laughter, the smoke, the smell of pork fat, the Mason jars making their rounds—it was like church, but with more joy and less judgment.

Now picture me: four or five years old, blond crew cut, little belly poking out, and always wearing a white T-shirt destined for destruction. I wasn’t an angel—just a smart-mouthed, curious, sneaky kid who could sniff out trouble faster than smoke from the pit. But that kitchen, that pit, that back room with Sam and Junior? That was where I fit—loud, messy, and right at home.

Sam had a habit of pulling meat straight off the pit, drowning it in sauce, and handing it to me like he knew he was spoiling me for life. Within minutes, I’d be covered head to toe—shirt ruined, shorts stained, belly slick with sauce like I’d been in a wrestling match with a pig and lost.

Sam thought this was hilarious. Honestly, I think he did it just to hear my mama come unglued. She’d come running with a wet rag and a few choice words, half ready to fuss, half ready to laugh.

Sam didn’t care. I didn’t care. And Daddy sure didn’t care. He’d wink, pass me another rib, and laugh like watching me was the greatest show on earth.

Did I already mention I was sneaky? I’d snatch a rib when Sam turned his back or sneak a sip from one of those Mason jars, just to see if anybody noticed. (I’m pretty sure they always did.) But besides the stained clothes, my mother never thought I did wrong—even when I obviously did. Yeah, I don’t think she was picturing me as a future preacher. She was probably just hoping to get me to adulthood in one piece.

Looking back now, I realize the times were heavy. Segregation wasn’t right, wasn’t fair. Still, there were lines running through that town you couldn’t see, but everybody sure knew where they were.

Heavy times or not, plenty from those days stuck with me—the smells, the laughter, the lessons, all of it. I blame Junior, Grace, Sam, and Minnie for two that never left me:

1. A belly I’ve had since I was five.

2. A lifelong weakness for Bar-B-Que—and no interest in being cured.

To this day, I’ll take sauce over dry rub every time. Pour it on, let it drip where it may. Because that’s what love looks like to me—messy, loud, delicious, and always worth the trouble.

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The Condition — serving up nostalgia with a side of barbecue sauce.
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