by Fannie Flagg
Bud smiled. “I did. I knew all the railroad men. They’d all come in for breakfast. Everybody in town ate there. But we also had a lot of people who’d heard about the place, and you never knew who was liable to walk in on any given day. Yeah, I met a lot of interesting people there. And one pretty interesting dummy, too.”
“Who was that?”
Bud laughed. “Well that’s a long story.”
“I’d sure like to hear it,” said Billy, biting into his sandwich.
1937
ONE HOT, MUGGY August afternoon, a dark green Packard with a cardboard placard on the back that read THE OATMAN FAMILY SINGERS TRAVELING FOR JESUS slowly pulled up to the front of the cafe. A few minutes later, a large woman wiggled her way out of the back seat and walked up to the screen door of the cafe, threw it open, stepped inside, and announced in a loud voice, “It’s Minnie Oatman! I’m here to get me some of them famous fried green tomatoes. Am I at the right place?”
A startled Ruth looked up at the woman who was as wide as the door she’d just entered, and was speechless. But Idgie, who had seen Minnie’s picture on a poster on a telephone pole over in Gate City, recognized her right away, and said, “You sure are, Mrs. Oatman. Come on in.”
“Oh good. Me and the boys was doin’ an all-night gospel sing over in Gate City and I told my husband, Ferris, I said, I’m not leaving Alabama till I get me some.”
Minnie waddled over to the counter and looked at the stools.
“Honey, you’re gonna have to charge me twice. I cain’t fit on that one little bitty stool.” She then heaved herself up and sat down on two stools and asked Idgie, “What’s your name, hon?”
“I’m Idgie, and this is Ruth.”
“Well, hey, glad to know you. I left the boys sleeping in the car. They’d rather sleep than eat. Not me. I want me a plate of fried green tomatoes and some sweet tea.” Sipsey peeked out over the double doors to the kitchen and snuck a look at Minnie. Minnie saw her and called out, “Is that Sipsey Peavey I see?”
Sipsey said, “Yes’m.”
“Well, gal, that woman who told me about this place said you are the best cook in Alabama. Is that right?”
Sipsey giggled. “Yes’m.”
Just as Minnie was ordering another dozen fried green tomatoes and a half of a coconut cake to go, seven-year-old Buddy Threadgoode walked through the cafe on his way back to his room. As he went by, Idgie grabbed him by the back of his shirt. “Whoa…stop. I want to introduce you to somebody. Buddy, this is Mrs. Oatman, and she and her family are famous gospel singers.”
Buddy’s eyes got wide. He had never seen anybody that fat before.
“Well, hey there, Buddy,” said Minnie. Then looked at him and asked, “Where’s your little arm, honey?”
Ruth jumped in. “He had an accident, Mrs. Oatman.”
Minnie made a sad face and said, “Aww, ain’t that too bad….Well, the good Lord giveth and he taketh away. How old are you, little Buddy?”
Buddy managed a weak reply. “Seven.”
“Seven? Well ain’t that something. I got somebody out in the car who would just love to meet you.”
She looked at Idgie, “Honey, run out there and wake Floyd up and tell him to bring Chester in here. I got somebody I want him to meet.”
A few minutes later, a disheveled-looking man walked in the door carrying a small wooden ventriloquist dummy with red wooden lips and painted freckles, wearing a blond wig and dressed in a small red cowboy suit and red cowboy hat. He was known professionally as Chester, the only scripture-quoting, gospel-singing dummy in the world.
Minnie said, “Chester, this here is Buddy….Say hello.”
Chester suddenly sprang to life. He looked at Buddy, blinked his eyes, and shot his eyebrows up and down, and said, “Hello there, Buddy. How are you?”
Buddy’s jaw dropped. He had never seen anything like this in his life. “I’m fine,” he said, barely audibly.
Chester said, “How old are you, Buddy?”
“Seven.”
“Whoo-whee. Me, too! Would you like to be my friend?”
Buddy nodded. “Yes.”
“Great!” Let’s shake on it.” Chester stuck out his small wooden hand, and Buddy shook it.
Then Minnie said, “Hey, Chester. Why don’t you sing Buddy a little song?”
Chester said cheerfully, “Okay, Minnie!” Then Chester looked up at Floyd. “Hey, Floyd. What song should I sing?”
Floyd shrugged and then said, “How about ‘Ridin’ the Range for Jesus’? Or, ‘When It’s Round-Up Time Up Yonder’?”
Chester looked at Buddy. “Which one would you like to hear?”
“Umm…I guess, the round-up one?”
“Good choice, Buddy, one of my favorites.” Minnie then got up and walked over to the old stand-up piano in the corner and sat down and played, while Chester sang and yodeled “When It’s Round-Up Time Up Yonder.”
By now, people in town had heard that the famous gospel singer Minnie Oatman was in the cafe, and the place was filling up fast. Opal Butts and several ladies still in pin curlers and hairnets were the first to arrive from the beauty shop next door.
After Chester finished his song, they all applauded. Then someone standing in the back of the cafe called out, “Minnie, could you please sing just one song for us?”
Minnie looked around and noticed she had drawn a crowd and said, “Sure, hon.” Then she began to play and sing at the top of her lungs her now famous rendition of “Can’t Wait to Get to Heaven.” Afterward, people lined up to get her autograph. Her husband, Ferris Oatman, finally came to the door and called to her, “Minnie, come on now, hon. We got to be in Pine Mountain by five.”
After the Oatmans left town, Buddy Jr. was still awestruck and a little confused by the whole experience. He said, “Aunt Idgie…was Chester a real boy?”
“Why, sure he was. He looked right at you, didn’t he? And talked.”
“Yes, but he was so little. Why was he so little?”
“Well, Buddy, that’s the thing, everybody’s different. Some people have one arm, some have two. Some are fat, some are skinny, some are little…and some people, like myself, are smart.” Idgie looked over at Ruth and said, “And then some people I know aren’t all that smart.”
Ruth picked up a biscuit and threw it at her. Idgie dodged it and laughed. Ruth waited until Idgie had turned her back and threw another one that bounced off the back of Idgie’s head. Idgie looked back at her, holding her head. “Hey!”
Ruth smiled and feigned ignorance. “What?” she said.
“You hit me with that biscuit.”
Ruth winked at Buddy. “What biscuit? I didn’t see any biscuit.”
Idgie said, “Buddy, you saw that.”
Buddy said, “No ma’am. I didn’t see anything.”
Idgie then stuck her tongue out at them both and went into the kitchen.
* * *
—
LATER THAT NIGHT, when Ruth was tucking him in bed, Buddy said, “Momma, I sure did like Chester. Do you think he liked me?”
“Oh, I’m sure he did, sweetheart. He signed a picture for you, didn’t he?”
“Hey, Momma, do you think Chester might write to me sometime, like a pen pal?”
While Buddy was sleeping, little Chester had been put back into his suitcase, headed out of Georgia to another town, never knowing what a hit he’d been with Buddy, or that every once in a while, Buddy would be getting a postcard sent from one of the many places they traveled, saying “Hello, Buddy,” and signed, “Your friend, Chester.”
(WHISTLE STOP, ALABAMA’S WEEKLY BULLETIN)
August 17, 1937
OUR SURPRISE VISITOR
I’m sure we are all still not quite over our town being visited by some famous folks. And, looking back, n
ot to brag, but yours truly might have been to blame.
Last week, Wilbur and I went over to Gate City to hear the Oatman Family Gospel Singers. And oh, what a show they put on! I have never seen or heard anything like it. As Gospel magazine says, “Pound for pound you will never hear or see a better group than the Ferris and Minnie Oatman Family Singers.” Anyhow, we waited in line to get a signed album, and while Minnie was signing mine, I happened to mention that while she was in the area, she needed to come to the Whistle Stop Cafe and have some of Sipsey’s famous fried green tomatoes. I could tell she seemed to appreciate good food. And happily for us she did!
Reverend Scroggins was very happy with all the money we took in at the church rummage sale on Saturday. At last count it was over eighty-two dollars. The sale took place in my neighbor Ninny Threadgoode’s front yard, and consisted of collectibles, homemade quilts, and pies and cakes all donated by the neighborhood ladies. My other half Wilbur showed up to help and, as usual, fell asleep sitting up in his chair. Opal Butts went over and stuck a “Make an Offer” sign in front of him, and sad to say, we only got one offer from a widow lady from Gate City for five dollars and Opal took it. I had to pay it to get him back! Oh well, it’s all for a good cause.
Also, overheard at the cafe the other day: “There are two surefire ways to avoid paying alimony. Don’t get married. But if you do, stay married!”
…Dot Weems…
THE GIFT
AS BUD AND Billy continued talking, Billy said, “Sir, if you don’t mind my asking, did you ever feel sorry for yourself? Losing your arm so young like that?”
Bud smiled. “Oh, you bet. For a while I had a bad case of the ‘Poor me’s’ and ‘My life is ruined forever, I’ll never amount to anything, what’s the point of trying.’ I was well on my way to becoming a royal jerk. But you know, all that changed. And I can tell you exactly when it happened.”
“Did you get an artificial arm or something?”
“Nope, better than that. It started on one Christmas and ended on another, and I remember it just like it happened yesterday.” Then he smiled. “That second Christmas, everybody in town knew what I was getting. Everybody but me. But I knew something was up. My friend Naughty Bird was taunting me. She’d say, ‘I know what Santa Claus is bringing you,’ and then she’d run away. Or else somebody would say, ‘I know something that you don’t.’ I tried my best to find out, but nobody would talk, and I was so darned frustrated, because I knew what I wanted. I wanted it so bad I was scared to tell anybody. Scared I wouldn’t get it, scared to let Momma and Aunt Idgie know that I’d be disappointed if I didn’t get it.
“Back then I still kind of believed in Santa Claus, so I wrote him a letter addressed to the North Pole, and handed it to Mrs. Weems, the postmistress, in person to make sure it got mailed in time.” Bud smiled. “Of course, I didn’t know it then, but I found out later that Mrs. Weems read all those letters to ‘Santa Claus’ herself, and told the parents what their kids wanted. So Momma and Aunt Idgie knew all along what I was hoping for.”
WHISTLE STOP, ALABAMA
1937
THE FIRST YEAR Idgie and Ruth had opened the cafe, as a thank-you to their customers, they’d decided to stay open Christmas Day and invite everybody in for a free meal.
That first Christmas morning, when Ruth opened the door, she was stunned to see how many people were waiting outside. Almost everybody in town was standing there, including a few strangers who had heard that the cafe would be open. But all were welcome. Men, women, children, folks riding the rails, even dogs and cats.
Every year after that, they started cooking around December twenty-third. They had to. Christmas at the cafe was now a town tradition. And during the Depression, for the poorer kids, the gifts that Ruth and Idgie wrapped and put under the Christmas tree were the only ones they would receive that year. Then there was the food. Sipsey’s son, Big George, would make sure there was plenty of barbecue on hand. And a few days before Christmas, Idgie’s hunting pals always brought in a load of wild turkeys to fix and stuff with cranberries. They had fried chicken and pork chops, plenty of mashed potatoes and gravy, chicken and dumplings, homemade rolls, cornbread, and biscuits, and at least ten different kinds of dessert. A lot of the railroad men that lived in town were old bachelors, and had nowhere to go on Christmas. The cafe was home to them, and they brought Idgie bottles of good seventy-five-year-old Kentucky bourbon that she served in paper cups to try to fool Reverend Scroggins. Of course, she never did fool him, particularly when a few of the guys got so loaded they fell off their stools.
Just like always, in 1937 everybody in town was enjoying themselves. Everybody except Buddy. A young boy suddenly losing his arm was bad enough. But Buddy had been very good at sports, and had dreamed of becoming a major league baseball pitcher, or a football star. He didn’t say much about it, but he hardly ever went outside to play anymore. He just stayed in his room, and for the first time in his life, he’d started throwing little temper fits. That Christmas, after he’d thrown a fit in front of his Aunt Ninny and Uncle Cleo, Idgie knew that Buddy was more upset than even he realized.
Idgie had a friend named Eva Bates who ran the juke joint with her daddy down on the Warrior River. And Idgie had a hunch about something. Eva had about ten dogs that she kept out in her yard. And there was one little dog in particular that Idgie thought might be good for Buddy to see. The problem was that Idgie had made a promise to Ruth, so she was taking a big chance that might be worth taking, but only if he promised her to keep his mouth shut about it. After they got in the car she said, “Now, Buddy, if I take you somewhere today you can’t tell anybody because—”
“I know, because you could get in a lot of trouble if I do, right?”
“That’s right. So, you promise?”
“I promise.”
“Scout’s honor?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Okay then.” Idgie started the car, and they headed down toward the river.
They drove up to the wooden house and parked, and Idgie left Buddy in the car while she went up on the porch and talked with a lady with bright orange hair. As he sat there for a while, Buddy suddenly noticed the little three-legged dog jumping and running around in the yard with the others. And just as Idgie had hoped, it made an impression. The little dog didn’t seem to know she had a leg missing. She just seemed happy to be alive. There was nothing handicapped about her. He got out and called her over to the fence, leaned down, and petted her, and she almost licked his hand off.
When Idgie got back in the car, Buddy said, “Aunt Idgie, I sure do like that little brown dog over there. It’s got a leg missing, but it’s still cute. Don’t you think?”
Idgie looked over at it and said, “I do, and as a matter of fact, I think it’s the cutest one in the bunch.” She waved to Eva and they drove off.
* * *
—
EVA BATES WAS a somewhat notorious character in the area, as was her father, Big Jack Bates, who owned the Wagon Wheel Fishing Lodge and River Club. The tourist cabins behind the club were known far and wide for “unseemly activity,” so to speak. Big Jack Bates, a part-time bootlegger, also ran illegal gambling in the back room of the River Club, where high-stakes poker games could sometimes become dangerous. It was rumored that a couple of men had been murdered back there: one for cheating, the other for reneging on a bet. It was not a safe place, by any means, but Idgie had been going there with her brother since she was eight, and had been playing poker in the back room since she was twelve. And she was good at it.
After Ruth had left Whistle Stop that summer to go home to Valdosta and get married, nobody could control Idgie anymore. She wound up spending most of her time down at the River Club with Eva and Jack. Idgie didn’t care that most so-called decent people in Whistle Stop looked down on them, or that Reverend Scroggins preached against the evils of the River
Club, “that dangerous den of iniquity that is corrupting our youth.” Eva and Big Jack were Idgie’s friends. She liked them, and they liked her.
But later, Ruth left her husband and returned to live in Whistle Stop. It was then, when she and Idgie and little Buddy moved into the back of the cafe, that things changed. For the first three years, Idgie would sneak out at night and go to the River Club to drink and gamble, and Ruth would lie awake all night worrying about her. Finally, Idgie came home drunk one too many times. The last time was when she rolled in at five in the morning with a bloody nose. She’d gotten into a fight with someone at the poker table. The next day, Ruth took little Buddy and moved out.
She said to Idgie, “I love you. But I can’t live like this, wondering if you are dead or alive, or if someone has shot you.”
Ruth didn’t come back, either, until Idgie promised her on the Bible that she would never go down to the River Club again.
WHISTLE STOP, ALABAMA
December 4, 1938
BUDDY JUNIOR WAS hunched over the table, looking very serious and determined as he carefully composed his letter.
Dear Santa Claus,
My name is Buddy Threadgoode, Jr., and I live in the back of the Whistle Stop Cafe in Whistle Stop, Alabama. I am eight years old and I have been a very good boy. Ask my mother if you want to. Her name is Ruth. I only want one present this year. I’m not sure if you are real, but I want a dog so much. Momma says it is not good to have a dog where you serve food, but Aunt Idgie said, why not, because we have other animals, too. So please, please, please, bring me a dog. I promise to take very good care of her and love her forever.
Your friend,
Buddy Threadgoode, Jr.
DECEMBER 25, 1938
THE CHRISTMAS PARTY at the cafe was almost over. Everybody had eaten all they could hold and was happily stuffed with good food, and all the presents had been opened. Santa Claus had already left to go back to the North Pole, and Buddy was trying not to cry. Peggy Hadley had received her doll, Jessie Ray Scroggins had a new BB gun, and Buddy had received a lot of new underwear and a red cowboy hat, but he had not gotten the only thing he’d really wanted.
