Excerpt from The Lick Skillet Coffee Club

During the first few years of their marriage she realized that there was something that tormented Danny, but he never talked. She attempted not to listen to gossip that surfaced from time to time about Fanny, but it had been so hard. Thirty-five years ago she’d returned from a trip to North Carolina to hear from Danny’s own mouth his fixation with the woman, and to discover his involvement with Silas in something so terrifying, it might have destroyed her. 

 If I’d let it, she thought. Thank heavens, I’d just come back from seeing Daddy.

Her father had just retired from preaching, and was still getting over the loss of his wife, but had given himself, as usual, to her needs and concerns. During that trip she told him her concern about Fanny. He settled her turbulent mind by convincing her to talk to Danny.

“And if there’s any truth to it, don’t condemn him, Lissa,” he said, “You love him, then believe in him, forgive him, and, if necessary, fight for him.”

“But, what if…”  

“Life is full of what ifs,” he advised interrupting her. “The question is can you get to the place where you can get on with living your life, however it is to be lived, with or without Danny.” 

All her life he taught her that once you’ve given your word, you’re committed, but also with that commitment must come wisdom to know how to deal with the inevitable struggles and pain of life. His little “hanger-on,” he deemed her, digging in and holding on to the very last. He constantly nourished her independent spirit, but had also shown her how to submit it, when required, without destroying herself. His advice and own commitment never wavered, but remained as constant and unchanging as the God he loved. She drove home ready to talk to Danny about the rumors concerning Fanny, but instead discovered a broken and frightened man.

© 2017 Lynn Lacher

www.lynnlacher.com

Excerpt from Chapter 2 of "The Lick Skillet Coffee Club"

Mike thought of the stories of the town, remembering hanging on his Uncle Wilton’s every word. He had heard stories about his great-great uncle, Amos Crutchfield, a grand Montgomery preacher, coming north to Briars Crossing in 1905.

  

“To find his place,” Uncle Wilton had reiterated at this point. Mike could still hear his uncle’s robust voice filling the store. 

“But,” his uncle, always the impressive storyteller, continued, “To the question if he ever found his place, no one can attest. Even though the small community changed to Briarsville at some point, it became jokingly referred to as Lick Skillet. This was due to the fact that this retired man of the cloth was a great cook, and in this little town, he soon discovered many fine folk who relished his cooking.”

Mike glanced toward the three men around the table. The store was quiet except for their low rumble of conversation. Good thing, since Janice had taken the morning off. He sat down on his stool, closed his eyes, and allowed himself to remember more of Wilton’s colorful rendition of the store’s history.

Amos’ house, his uncle had told him, was located right on the main street, and it soon grew to be a little country store with a special eating place where locals could gather. Amos sold many necessary items, but the eating place in the rear was the attraction.

“It was said by many,” Uncle Wilton declared, “that every soul who dropped into the store found much needed spiritual food for the soul and good solid food for the stomach.”

In 1923, after having spent several weeks in the mountains in his granddaddy’s store, Mason Crutchfield, a pharmacist from Columbus, Georgia, decided to move north. The Lick Skillet General Store became Lick Skillet Drugs in 1927, and that same year Amos died. The eating room still waited, but it seemed no one could fill the vacancy left by Amos. Mason tried many people from far away as Memphis, but none had Amos’ special skill.

During the next few years, the store grew larger. Amos’ kitchen became more storage for Mason’s pharmaceutical supplies, and the old eating area in the back shrank to a corner where only a table, a few chairs, and a coffee pot could fit. Many an early morning hunger was appeased with strong hot coffee, and many a world problem solved.  It was Mason who jokingly starting referring to these men as the Back Few, or better known to the community as the Lick Skillet Coffee Club.

“Mason died in 1958,” his uncle spouted, “and by the early 1970s, the original Back Few were mostly dead and gone. I became known as the only pharmacist in town who offered the best coffee and the most entertaining conversation.”  

 The Coffee Club continued steadily through the years, which found it shrinking to as little as two, then blooming to as many as ten. When Mike joined his uncle in 1980, the Club had been at a peak, and he, being new and fresh to the store, had found the advice he overheard fascinating. His uncle took great pleasure in the stories Mike swallowed. 

 “Yeah, that Mike,” he could visualize his uncle leaning back in his coffee club chair, perched precariously on the two back legs, his hands clasped behind his head. “He can grab bait just as fast as you boys claim to catch crappie.”   

Excerpt from The Lick Skillet Coffee Club

ANDY HAD FINALLY COME HOME. The rustling of fall leaves in the wafting breeze and the scent of wood smoke curling from chimneys struck him strongly. He halted on his walk, closed his eyes and remembered once more the pungent fragrance of steamy brown apple butter bubbling in his grandmother’s cast iron pot. The thought of its richness smeared across her airy buttermilk biscuits, assailed his taste buds. Then there was her sharp cider that she pressed each year. Oh, yes, he loved her apple butter and cider from those wine sap apples she always brought home from Ellijay, Georgia. As a child, he had always chased his Moon Pie with her cider. Now, an RC Cola complemented his Moon Pie most of the year, but never in the fall. 

The air was permeated with the nostalgia of long forgotten autumns in these mountains. His gaze fell upon the church, suddenly stark and red-bricked against a cloudless October sky. Rising from its grassy knoll, it demanded the attention of the surrounding Alabama hills. The heavy door creaked as he tugged. Darkness swallowed him within the narthex, but after pushing through the inner door into the sanctuary, sudden light blinded him. A brilliant morning sun threw a prism of dancing color across the mahogany pews, its brilliance diverting his attention from the overpowering aroma of a recent waxing. Looking above the baptistery, he considered the stained glass through which the light fell. Stepping softly, as if the noise would disturb the moment, he approached the altar, his eyes never once leaving the arresting picture of Christ in the garden. He slowly sank in a bench.     

His father’s church. It had changed so very little. He swung his head to look behind him. So very like it had been, except for that stained glass above the baptistery.  He turned to look at it again. The dazzling shades darkened as the sun rose to a higher angle. He glanced at the altar. There was the place, right in front of him now, where as a boy of fourteen he had knelt after that long walk down the center aisle. Sixteen years ago. He didn’t want to remember, but it was still there, the look of surprise and disbelief on his father’s face.

© 2017 Lynn Lacher

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www.thelickskilletcoffeeclub.blogspot.com

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