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.”