The River

For my entire life, but especially when I was a kid, we would go to “the river” for catfish.  This was something I always looked forward to.  Possibly because it was delicious but also because my father is so tight, eating out literally makes him turn red, then purple, he grabs his heart , rolls his eyes and says (as Mom crawls under the table), “Virginia, they are coming to get me!”  Growing up I remember eating out being a HUGE thing that happened maybe 3 times a year.  We would go sometimes to York Steak house at the mall, the Candlelight Inn or Mansfield Chinese restaurant.  This is why even to this day really nice restaurants make me nervous, I might as well be taking a trip to the moon.

At any rate,  The River was my favorite.  It had the added benefit of including OTHER people!!!!  My Grandparents, aunt, uncle, cousins, this was the coolest thing.  We would load up in a couple of cars and take a road trip from Bowie, through vast empty land with nothing but barbed wire and train tracks until trees started to rise up and we hit the Red River.   I had a fantasy that my parents would say, “today before supper we are going down to play in the river and build red sand castles. “  Of course this was never going to happen but a kid can dream.      

The minute we crossed the bridge and rounded the bend, there was The River on the left.  My mouth would start to salivate as I stepped onto the pea gravel parking lot and crunched my way to the front door.  I loved how everything changed the moment you stepped inside.  It was always blistering hot outside, the sun so white I could barely keep my eyes open.  But the minute the door shut behind us, we were enveloped in a cool smoky darkness.  Lots of cowboy looking fellas, standing at a bar I couldn’t see over.  When I was very young I didn’t even hold my breath.  Back then most kids had a built up tolerance level to large amounts of cigarette smoke.

I would stand marveling at the beer signs with waterfalls that seemed to move and pulse with light.   But this was short lived, we were only passing through, I was quickly shuffled into the back room, a much brighter space with white cinder block walls, unforgiving florescent light and more glowing mountainous beer signs.  There were no windows, which is a puzzlement because I seem to remember the distinct sound of a window unit and the feel of that type of air blowing on me.  There was nothing at all attractive about this room except the beer signs so I spent a lot of time staring at them.  (You might have guessed that this is the type of place one would typically avoid these days.  Solid brick building, no windows, mostly a bar only slightly a restaurant with fellas well on their way to a hangover by noon).

Someone would come take our order.  I can only imagine what these early waitress would have thought of Starbucks.  I can hear one now, “Shit, we serve one thing honey, catfish.  Fried.  With white bread, pickles, onions and hushpuppies.  Fried.   It comes in a little plastic basket on paper.  We got your standard iced tea, soft drinks and beer.  And, we got the best God damned tarter sauce in the world.  Right here.” 

Which brings me to the core of my story.  It has been a loooong set up just to get to the best God damned tarter sauce in the world.  Yesterday my cousin had a fish fry at his house.  Everything was delicious.  But the moment I tasted the tarter sauce I knew, “Mom!!!!  They got The River’s” recipe!!  Oh my God!"  Mom smiles, “It isn’t the River’s recipe, it is the River’s tarter sauce.  Pat bought a gallon for the party.” 

Some families talk about the weather.  We have actually had entire conversations centered around The River’s tarter sauce.  If there is an awkward moment where none of us has seen each other in awhile someone will lead in, “You know, Babe’s has really good fish but their tarter sauce sucks.”  And everyone is instantly talking, our brains in the same place, discussing the fine details of a perfected recipe, is it the extra onions or the pickles that make it so good?   

I find my Aunt Pat and try to convey that she has just made me the happiest person at the party, in Denton, perhaps Texas.  And it gets better, she sends me home with several jars.  They are in my refrigerator at this very moment.  Jars of happiness that with each bite send me traveling back to summers in Bowie, Margaret trying to keep her mouth closed tightly as she laughs with her mouth full, Pat leaning over to tell me something nice that makes me feel important, hands reaching into the center of the table for more bread, Kyle saying something funny and making Margaret laugh again.   Edison smiling his big toothy grin, Rhenda and I giggling, big cowboy belt buckles with big cowboy guts hanging over them when people at other tables have eaten their fill.   

And now there is new memory to add to the mix, one with 3 cousins, all grown, 4 parents really grown, still enjoying life, kids, family, laughter, and the best God damned tarter sauce in the world.