March 28, 2002

My nomination for the Croix de Grits

My nomination for the Croix de Grits Earlier, I supported Fred Thompson as my choice for the inaugural award, but as I was writing up my reasons, I was struck by another, more worthy candidate. (My bookshelf collapsed and one of his books hit me in the head. Coincidence? I think not.)

This would have to be a posthumous award since he died a couple of years ago, but my vote goes to Lewis Grizzard.

Here's an excerpt from his biography, maintained here:

It was Mr. Minter, his mentor and professional father figure, who first encouraged him to write a column. "What the hell would I write about?" he asked. But one day, he tried it. He rolled the paper into his old manual clunker and he hit a key and wrote a column. It was a task he would repeat afterwards for upwards of two decades. Steve Enoch, his friend and manager in later years, tells a story about a lady of the evening who approached Grizzard in a bar in Mexico. "I make you very happy," she is supposed to have said, "for one hundred American dollars I do anything you want!," whereupon Grizzard shouts, "Thank you Jesus! It's a miracle!" pulls out a hundred dollar bill and says "Here. Go upstairs and write my next column." Grizzard likened the pressure to top oneself day after day in print to "being married to a nymphomaniac... it's a whole lot of fun for the first week."
Every blogger that's been around more than two weeks knows exactly what Lewis meant.

That was Lewis' gift; he knew us, and could talk to us and about us.

My first exposure to Lewis was the book When my Love Returns from the Ladies room, Will I be too Old to Care? I was a young man, just starting out dating a lovely young lady, and this issue was at the forefront of our relationship. What does a man do when his date has left the table to go to the ladies room? You're sitting there, feeling awkward with nothing to do and no-one to talk to. You would welcome the return of the waitress who couldn't stay away from your table long enough to allow you to finish a single bite of your meal without interrupting you to ask if everything was OK, but she is bound by Female Law 137.2 to stay away from your table while you wait for the eventual return of your date. When I saw Lewis's book, I knew that I had found my master, the man who could explain everything about women and the world. Of course, as I read, I found out that Lewis was just as befuddled as I was, but it didn't seem to matter. Instead of a master, I had found something even better; a friend walking the same road I was.

I went out and bought more of his books, and the titles alone were worth the price:


  • Chili Dawgs Always Bark at Night
  • Shoot Low, Boys-They're Ridin' Shetland Ponies
  • If Love Were Oil, I'd be a Quart Low
  • Don't Sit Under the Grits Tree With Anyone Else but Me
  • Elvis is Dead and I Don't Feel So Good Myself

Inside the covers, I explored taverns and honky tonks on the side of the freeway where a barmaid is willing to fix breakfast for a couple of out-of-towners. I watched a local pool stud whiff on the break, and watched the room go still with surpressed laughter. I watched a young boy being taught that giving involves sacrifice, even though he didn't understand the lesson until years later. I met a woman sending her son back to the Marines after his first leave. I met a homeless man with a quiet dignity that shattered the stereotypes I'd always believed in. I met a father who came back from the war tormented and broken, unable to handle the burdens on his soul, but who still believed that America was worth fighting for.

Daddy, it embarrasses me when you sing our national anthem so loudy.
Son, it embarrasses me when you don't.

I met the wife and mother who watched him go, driven away by his demons, then started a new life with nothing but courage and her young son. I met Kathy Sue Loudermilk, Ludlow Porch, Cordie Mae Poovy, and 'my boyhood friend and idol Weyman C Wannamaker Jr, a Great American.'

Lewis wrote about the people of the South, and about what makes it a special place. He blasted those who attacked her through cliche and stereotype, making fun of our lifestyles, the way we play, even the way we talk without ever taking the time to actually get to know what southern culture truly is. But Lewis was more than a southern humorist; he was a humanist. He told us of the pain, disappointment and loss of his three failed marriages and we all, Reb and Yank, could understand that. He told us of the unsung heroes which surround us every day. He told us about the joy of a good dog, and the sorrow of losing him. He told us about ourselves.

I hope that someday I am able to write with even half the flavor and honesty of Lewis Grizzard.

Posted by Rich at March 28, 2002 2:52 AM