The deed is done. Wendy walked down the aisle on her father’s arm, in the same church where her parents were married 37 years ago. Her groom was down there, standing next to his sweating, gum-chewing best man, one of his brothers. Across from them was the maid of honor, of course, and between them all the old preacher, the man who married Wendy’s parents 37 years ago.
I didn’t take any pictures of the wedding. What I tried to shoot of the reception didn’t turn out very well. There is low lighting in the reception area of the 202-year-old country church. (I heard differing stories, but I’m going with this being the original location, but a slightly more modern building. I’m thinking post-1930s based on the architecture.)
This is the groom’s cake, a traditional thing I’ve come to loathe. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen one that looked nice. I’ve seen great feats of cakemanship, don’t get me wrong. I’ve seen Millennium Falcons, turtles and football stadiums all brought to life in amazing detail. At the end of the day, though, they were spaceships, reptiles and football stadiums.
And then there was this one. The groom is a Georgia fan.
But the bride is an Auburn alumnae. She secretly had the cake done up in orange and blue. The mother of the bride stood by me as they started to cut it.
“Watch this,” she said.
We thought she’d stab that dog in the eye, but it was a simple cut that brought about the desired reaction.
One of the groom’s brothers began to bark, because that’s what people from Georgia do. Someone started with the War Eagle reply, which turned into a loud cheer into on drowning out the offending canines.
One of the family’s guests took part, but he’s an Alabama fan. His golf cart, they say, is decked out in the script A and various other crimson clan signage. He found himself screaming War Eagle. Couldn’t help himself, he said. (Sometimes this college identity thing gets carried far, far overboard.)
The bride had a beautiful dress. Everyone looked lovely and happy.
It rained, which wasn’t ironic at all.
We met Big Will today. Brian, Elizabeth, Ashley, The Yankee and I stopped in his barbecue joint on the strength of reviews on Urban Spoon.
He walked over to our table to check on our lunch.
Big Will is a retired millwright, who walked away from the machining business after 23 years to open this restaurant last year. He started barbecuing, he said, after his son got in a car accident. He’d felt a need to come up with something his family could do together.
His future daughter-in-law waited on us. His daughter played a guitar and sang. She was great. She’d even appeared on American Idol, they said.
He’s working 17-hour days, making the most lean brisket you’ve ever seen. He’s got a great pork plate — the standard by which you judge any barbecue joint. It just got better as you went on.
His menu boasted the best potato salad in Jackson. I can confidently say it is the best potato salad I’ve ever had in that fine town. The baked beans were just about the best thing ever. It’s the toughest job he’s ever had, he said, and has brought his whole family together.
Just a super nice guy. Everyone there was great, genuine, earnest, good folks. You meet them and you realize how badly you want them to succeed. I’d eat there all the time if we were local.
So the next time you’re in Jackson, stop by for a bite. Tell Big Will hello.
