Howdy!

True....seriously.

Yesterday, my husband and I went to a well-known country restaurant that's named for impoverished people. I was instantly brought back to the days when I used to serve my share of "sweet tea" at the same establishment up north.

The year was 1987 and I needed a summer job before going back to college. I applied at this restaurant figuring who better to represent the masses of hungry, poor people than a real broke, hungry college student.

After acing the hiring quiz, which I believe had questions about catfish and dumplins'....I received the cherry to my already dreaded sundae.....the uniform. The uniform consisted of a lovely apron ala "Minnie Perle" and a kerchief ala "Mrs. Butterworth". I was to wear these goodies with a pair of jeans, white shirt, and plenty of country charm. The only thing missing was something to black out one of my teeth. But when you need a job, you need a job.

I went through training learning all the important life skills like:
How to make old ketchup "new" again.
What the lowest temperature butter can get and still be served.
And my favorite....how to test any foods warmth with just your fingers.

After a couple nights, "shadowing" another server, I was ready to go out on my own into the pine wood oblivion. My kerchief was on straight, my apron had my fresh ticket book and pen, and I had perfected the greeting "howdy" better than Mr. Doody himself.

That summer I served more country food to city folk than I care to think about. I perfected the "beat" needed by a server in order to achieve high customer satisfaction and usually high tips. Although I did get my share of "Jesus" cards thanking me for my service but tipping was against their religion. You never knew who these people were going to be until after the meal, so it was always like a game of "GOTCHA!" when you served them....the little devils.

One day I was asked to take on an entire busload of tourists. I was to have the back of the restaurant for this party of 40+. It was a mixture of young and old, women and men, thrifty and more thrifty. They took their seats and I began to take their order, wondering if they thought the word "split" was actually a food item. I believe at the end they ordered two entrees, two desserts, 40 waters, and 80 spoons.

When they left, I breathed a sigh of relief. Until I saw my tip. It had turned out to be the world's largest game of "GOTCHA!". I was more steamed than the okra I had been serving all day. But thats the breaks, I thought. And at the end of the day, I went home, took off the uniform and called it a day.

The next afternoon was my shift. I walked into the kitchen, armed with a new attitude. Until I looked up at this chalkboard.

On the chalkboard were two columns, Good and Worst. I kid you not. And my name was...on...the....worst.....list. What the heck is this? Worst what? I hoped they were grading "hickability"....but that wasn't to be. They were grading check averages. How much fried, smothered, topped, iced, globbed crud you could force into each persons gullet....and subsequently check. What the "list" did not take into account was the multitudes of bus travelers that thought restaurants were to get a drink of water and literally a "bite" of something. And I was always being asked to take on these buses because....well....I was low man on the greasy pine wood totem pole.

I marched into the manager's office, kerchief a'flyin', and demanded an explanation and the removal of my name. I immediately got a big country "No can do 'mam". And that was that.

So....I slowly removed my apron, took off my calico name pin, and put my kerchief on the hostess stand. I couldn't work at a place that made their employees feel like that...no one should be on a worst list....no one should be punished for trying their best....I was too valuable a person to take that kind of melarchy.....

That....and I had just seen what looked like two "Church of the Gotcha" buses pull into the parking lot.......Yeehaw!