Snowin’ in the Pines

The road on Christmas

I had my eye on a pizza parlor in downtown Fort Payne. When I drove by it looked cozy and packed and anything with warm cheese sounded good. Maybe I would have a calzone, that felt like a good thing to eat at Christmas. I stood for a while admiring the marquee of the old theatre, until the jean jacket I was wearing signaled defeat, and shivering, I hurried back to get dinner.

Polaroid SX-70 made last night in Fort Payne, Alabama

I had just polished off some cheese sticks and was waiting on my pizza—probably redundant, but I was seeking comfort and cheese sticks are the definition of comfort—when an old fella in a Santa hat wandered over. He asked how my food was and I said it was fine and without asking he sat down. A young family wandered by and murmured good-bys and the littlest one hugged him and said “are you coming over on Christmas morning?” He then began telling me enthusiastically about his family, and I asked, was that your grandson just now? The fellow said, oh no, none of those are my kin, at least not my blood kin.

The pizza arrived. It was called a Burpee, for some reason, and was the veggie one. The crust was thick and doughy and pretty dang good. I offered the fellow a slice of pizza. He made a show of declining, then said “well if you insist,” and I used the little metal spatula to maneuver a piece into his hand.

He then pontificated about the night’s entertainment—a kid from Baltimore playing electric guitar—and how he had once met a folk artist in the region who made face jugs. He asked where I was from but did not ask my name. At various points people would walk by the table and say hello to him or he would holler over at another table to great laughs.

A kid behind me was eating a steak. I knew this because he had yelled “HEY, HOW’S THE RIB-EYE?” at the kid. I wondered out loud who ordered steak in a pizza joint. He said they had steak on the weekend, mostly ribeyes but sometimes filet.

The fellow declined a second slice of pizza. He asked where I was coming from. I told him I had gone to put some poinsettias out on the grave of my grandparents in Birmingham. My Nana always loved poinsettias, and last year there had been a bad frost which had killed what seemed like all the live ones in Jefferson County. I finally scavenged two weathered little specimens with drooping flowers from a hardware store. This year I had bought some artificial ones in shiny gold wrappers that would look beautiful for the whole season. They’d done double duty as part of a display at my work in a door decorating contest. We didn’t win this year, although we won two years back.

Polaroid 600 made at the grave of my grandparents

The guitarist had played a version of “Simple Man,” and improvised a solo where he played his guitar behind his neck. The fellow whistled and cheered and I clapped. From the table behind me the dad of the kid with the ribeye wandered over; the kid hadn’t finished the steak. The dad was wordlessly chewing on the remaining gristle. Plate balanced in his left hand, he held out a chunk on a fork held in his right. My dinner companion scarfed it right up. Then he held out a chunk to me, which honestly, I considered a great kindness, although I declined, on account of being a vegetarian.

I got a box to take the pizza with me; I figured it would heat up okay and make a decent breakfast. I told my dinner companion I would be sure to come back next year and we shook hands.

While driving in I had seen a newish looking chain hotel right off the highway and within walking distance of a Waffle House, so I headed back that way. I put the song on the radio as I drove by the Alabama museum, which declared that they had been awarded artists of the decade by the American Music Awards. Maybe down in Memphis, Graceland's all in lights, they sang.

I was fading fast as check-in seemed to be endless; it was magnified by the fact that the people next to me were on hold with an online site and wrangling over a refund. Their phone was on speaker and turned all the way up, distorting the voice on the other line like a transistor radio. They had enlisted the other clerk in their efforts, and he would chime in every now and then with a “we are fine with a full refund! We have no opposition!” But the lady on the phone kept saying no and it all seemed very tragic.

I finally got the room key and said thank-you and walked down the hallway and around the corner and opened the door and thought, well, I guess they forgot to clean up the room, since there was what looked to be a tied-up plastic bag of either takeout or garbage on the counter by the TV, but then I saw a giant handle of whisky, and turned and saw the man dead asleep in the bed with the covers up around his chin.

I apologized profusely—quickly lowering my voice, hoping not to wake him—and rushed back to the front desk. Oh okay, I thought to myself. I am getting the David Lynch Christmas holiday special, I was wondering which one it was.

“SNOWIN’ IN THE PINES” is a chapter of GORJUS, a dispatch devoted to art and life in the South, held fast with instant film. And from Fort Payne, Alabama, Merry Christmaaaaaaaas tooooonighhtttttt. If you liked what you saw and read, if you maybe felt a twang in your belly while you looked it over, then this is for you, and I reckon we would be friends. Consider sending this letter to a pal who is like us. I’m gorjusjxn on Instagram, and you can see an archive of Polaroids at McCartyPolaroids.