It’s an interesting question. Will anyone remember me when I’m gone? Now, don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere — at least not yet. Just had a physical and Doc says I should still be around writing stories for years to come. But there is someone who has gone away to that big glass of sweet tea in the sky, and he will be truly missed. Court is permanently in recess for the man commonly known as The Judge.
They say you really die twice. Once when you stop breathing and once again when someone mentions your name for the last time. When you exist in no one’s memory, then you are truly dead. I wish I could say I came up with that nugget of wisdom, but it has been ascribed to many over the years.
Still, it gives me comfort when I drive by The Judge’s restaurant. The parking lot is now empty, lights are off inside, and the air is finally cleared from the whiff of smoke that always greeted patrons originating from the Southern barbecue being cooked over the open pit outside.
Three black and white concrete statues of pigs out front resided in the lone island of green grass in the otherwise desert of black asphalt between the famous restaurant and highway. They stood ready morning, noon, and night to ride into the memories of children.
Sadly, the trios can be ridden no longer, now replaced by a “For Sale” sign planted in the island of green. When the stake was driven in, a stake was also driven into the memory of every child who ever took a ride on one of those pigs. For me, The Judge is still with us. I still remember.
Our first meeting was unexpected. After a stressful morning of walking lots looking for land to build a house in this county, the hot July sun had driven me to seek refuge indoors. It being noon, I pulled into the parking lot and made my way through the light sweet haze of smoke from the outside barbeque pit.
Once inside, I sat down and ordered a chopped barbeque sandwich on white bread, large sweet tea, chips, and sweet pickles. Little did I know it was to be the first of thousands such lunches I would enjoy with my family and friends in The Judge’s restaurant.
It was The Judge who served my meal that first day. Accompanied by his trademark cigar clinched between his teeth, he introduced himself as he placed the tray down and took a seat. With a slow Southern drawl, the soft-spoken man wanted to know all about what had brought me to his town. After hearing we were going to build a house here because of the great school system, he asked where. I told him, and he said it was a good location.
Not an intrusive conversation, just friendly and truly caring. That was his way. Guess that’s what made him such a good magistrate judge for over 28 years. Only time I heard him cuss was when a state law was passed that no longer allowed him to smoke in his own restaurant. Still, he was never far away from his unlit cigar.
His barbeque was second to none and a quart size tea was so thick with real sugar it almost didn’t need a glass. Whether it was a well-deserved lunch after a long shift fighting fire, a Sunday morning breakfast before church, or a catered meal, his food was always delicious and satisfying. If I was a little short of funds, he gave the meal for free and never asked for the money, only asked for me not to say anything about his generosity.
That first lunch was over 35 years ago. Now, driving slowly with the windows down past his restaurant, in my memory I can still smell the smoke from the outdoor barbeque pit. The call of sweet tea is irresistible. Luckily there is a chicken place just down the street with tea almost as good. Almost. Sadly, they don’t serve barbeque.
Other folks have different memories of the man known by many as The Judge. These are mine. And fond memories they are. He isn’t gone because I still remember. Thanks, Judge.
[Rick Ryckeley has been writing stories since 2001. To read more of Rick’s stories, visit his blog: storiesbyrick.wordpress.com.]
[Editor’s note: Albert Kenneth Melear Sr., 86, known to thousands as “Kenny,” died Oct. 27, 2016. He opened his restaurant in 1957 and served tens of thousands of his barbeque sandwiches until he retired in 2011.]
