Welcome to Northwest Georgia...Part One

“How y’all doin?”

This is a phrase that means something in northwest Georgia. It can be spoken to many people, or just one, but it conveys a sentiment that your fellow man cares about you and yours. We used to greet people this way at Cass Grocery. Our customers would respond in many different ways:

“Fine! How y’all?”

“Good! How’s your momma ‘n them?”

“If I was any better, I couldn’t stand it.”

“Workin’ my ice (“ass” to the rest of the world) off, how you?”

The conversation would continue from there. You could find out so much from a person in those few minutes. Add those up over years and years of service and you get to know a whole hell of a lot (another northwest Georgia saying) about somebody. That’s what I loved about being there, the camaraderie of the people and their general kindness toward us and their appreciation. When I won the countywide spelling bee in 5^th grade, I got more pats on the back than I could count. “That boy right thar….he gonna be somebody,” I heard one man say to his brother. Unlike many places I’ve seen, people were actually happy for your success because they took de facto ownership of it. I even find myself claiming others successes, you wouldn’t find a happier person for Richard Samuel (Running Back at UGA from Cassville) than I…well, maybe his momma, but I digress. I assume that most small towns in northwest Georgia resembled our little hamlet.

What do I mean when I say “northwest Georgia?” In my mind, it is all the counties that border Alabama from Haralson to Dade, from Dade to Murray County, from Murray down to northeast Cherokee County, from there across Bartow and Polk and all that lies in between, with the inclusion of north and west Cobb County. (Cobb, contrary to popular opinion, is not all subdivisions and Land Rovers. Trust me.) When I have ventured into other metropolises, like Cedartown, Rome, Summerville, Dalton, Chatsworth, Ellijay or Calhoun or if you get into the outer reaches, like Fairmount, Flintstone, Felton, Esom Hill, Ball Ground, Eton, and the like….you get the same kind of person that I grew up with.

I speak with authority on these topics because of my years at the store. I was an archaeologist in Air Jordans and I loved every second of it. I’m proud of the fact that we were one of the last full service gas stations around. I’m also glad because walking out to those gas pumps gave me the first glimpse into life in our little corner of the universe. It was a circus out there. Somebody would pull up and my Dad would holler, “Got one on the front!!” Out I would go into this…..

 I had people pay me for $5.00 in gas in unrolled pennies. I had a guy pull up one morning at 7:30, still drunk from the night before, and get $0.27 in gas so he could get to Cedar Creek Road two miles away and go to bed. I’ve had people get gas in milk jugs, water bottles, paint cans, and once, in a Thermos. I had a guy get $3.00, pay with a twenty dollar bill and tell me to keep the change because it was Christmas Eve. There were rags, newspapers, sticks, and grocery bags for gas caps. There have been wasps (pronounced “waw-st-es” by real southerners), spiders, dirt daubers and hornets making their home under the gas door. There were Hefty bags, old dresses, plywood and cardboard for various windows on the vehicle. I have seen more mismatched rims, hubcaps and tires than I can count. I have seen Mustang hubcaps on a Camaro, Explorer hubcaps on Pontiacs, Acura hubcaps on Chevrolets, and many with no hubcaps at all because they sold them to a pawn shop. There were coat hangers holding hoods down, bungee cords keeping hatchbacks from flying open, missing mufflers to make the car sound louder, and some leaked oil so badly that I had to put cat litter down to keep somebody from throwing a cigarette on it and burning the place down. Bumper stickers and personal license plates were an artform. There were airbrushed masterpieces from Panama City or Gatlinburg, such as “Southern By the Grace of God,” “Misty and Dwayne 4-Ever,” and “Smart Ass White Boy.” There were classy stickers like “Eatin Ain’t Cheatin,” “Redneck Bitch” and Calvin pissing on everything from Ford and Chevrolet to the IRS and the President. I have had to pump gas with the handle sideways, upside down or at a snail’s pace because some of the older model vehicles could not accommodate the gas any other way.

This is the tip of the iceberg. You could see all of this in one day. Once I finished pumping gas, I was expected to bag groceries, make sandwiches, hot dogs and barbeque, monitor the hardware, keep the coolers stocked and make sure the cigarettes were prominently displayed. The cigarettes were a huge deal. I mean, paramount to the success and failure of a customer’s day. Essentially, they are twenty pieces of paper filled with tobacco attached to a fiberglass filter (or not). We sold almost any brand you can imagine. There are more kinds of cigarettes than vehicles on the road. Just listening to Dad order them on the phone would give you a seizure. “Yes, I need three cartons of Parliament Ultra Light Menthol 100’s in a Box.”  Ridiculous. If you measured the store’s size and compared it to the cigarette rack, I would say it took up 1/10^th of the entire store. The Surgeon General says cigarette smoking can cause lung cancer? Heart Disease? Low Birth Weight? Ha. We follow a different creed here in Cassville. We are of the “Hey, Smoke Up Johnny!” mold. One man named Doc used to buy a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon and four packs of Winstons every single day (except Sunday, when he would buy beer from a bootlegger). He was seventy years old, what did he care? Wildly enough, Doc probably weighed 140 pounds soaking wet. I have no idea how that little man was able to smoke and drink that way, but he did.

When a customer becomes a regular and they are a smoker, you immediately learn their preferences. Sometimes, orders get cancelled and you are out of a certain brand. A few people make do and just get something similar. However, most people are loyal to one brand and by God, they stick with it. Seriously, they may be more loyal to a cigarette than their own family. When we were out of a brand somebody wanted, that’s when the three act play would begin.

Act One: (denial)

First, the customer, we will call him “Jerry”, approaches and orders.

“Gimme a pack of Marlboro Red’s in a box.”

You then deliver the world-crushing news. “Sorry Jerry, they marked ‘em out on us, can you use something else? I got ‘em in a soft pack.”

You see the dread. You witness the perspiration trickle down their temple. Hats come off. Fingers run through hair. “Oh man.” They take a deep breath and look down at the floor. “Are you serious?” they ask.

Act Two: (acceptance)

After a few seconds of thought and meditation, their eyes meet yours.

“Well, I can’t smoke them Lights or them Mediums, no flavor. Them soft packs gets crushed too easy.”

The decision making process kicks into gear. You can hear their thoughts. They are pondering the trip to Wal Mart. You gotta save them from themselves at this point, “Jerry, I got Basics, they are cheaper and they are in a box too.” He shakes his head, “Basics ain’t worth a shit, it’s like smoking cardboard.” They give you the sad look. The look of a child who just got the kybosh on a trip to Six Flags. Cue another forlorn glance at the empty rack where the Marlboro Red’s once were.

Act Three: (overcoming obstacles)

Jerry is now craning his neck, pawing his chin, pondering his next move. This is the single most important decision of the day. There is no margin for error. One wrong choice and all hell will break loose. Another deep breath. He examines the cigarette rack and it’s 75,000 choices. A sad sigh exits the nasal cavity.

“Awright, gimme a pack of Newports.”

A menthol cigarette that is more expensive, the sensible choice. I shrug and lay them on the counter. Jerry pays and immediately starts slamming the pack into his palm. You must pack the tobacco or it does not smoke right, they say. I did not know smoke did anything but rise into the stratosphere and deplete the ozone layer. You must apologize to Jerry for being out of his brand, though.

“Awwww, that’s alright, I smoked these when I was in the Navy. I had to switch though. Man, these goddamned things’ll kill you!”

He chuckles and leaves. The day has been saved. Wal Mart lost four cents.

Welcome to Northwest Georgia.