VIRGINIA'S

The Lord granted me a delightful seven years of life in Raybun County, GA. Clayton, the town that I lived in is at the beginning of the Apalachian Trail. Unfortunately I was already too old to attempt the climb, but never too old to enjoy the incredible beauty of the town.
Born and raised in the city, I found no difficulty in turncoating myself into a mountain person. I lived, for two of those seven years, alone on a mountain that was just being developed into homesites. I loved my job as speech therapist in the local skilled nursing facility, all of the ingenuous residents that I was privileged to meet there, my mountain, and the town.
The Clayton Police Station gave me my biggest WOW! It was on the main street in the business district. The building was fronted by a large old-timey porch complete with rocking chairs and hanging geranium plants. To the right of the building, planted on the lawn, were two porta-potties available to pedestrian traffic.
On a corner, opposite the Police Station, was the local drugstore, maintained in pristine nineteen-forties condition. A large soda fountain dispensed soup and sandwiches and the usual fountain treats of banana splits and sundaes. But my favorite place was Virginia's.
My previous mode of opperendum was in center and south Philadelphia, where dining spots of incredible food and ambiance dotted the landscape like the streetlamps that lit up the city at night. Locals jammed these cullinary tables and the local media touted them to tourists.
My children, Floridians all, came to visit for a spell. The first place I took them was Virginia's. "Dimdom," exclaimed my daughter in-law, Sandy, "You eat in a place like this?"
Virginia's took the place of a former fastfood restuarant that went bust in this country folk town. How Virginia came upon the where-with-all to get a lease on the place is unknown to me, but there she was, the proprietress of a three-meal a day operation. All of the left in fixtures of the earlier eatery were kept in place. There was a salad bar which displayed an assortment of vegetables that were questionably fresh; they were by no means crisp. Two of the walls that lined the huge room were filled with large booths that could accomodate six. In the center were as many tables as could occupy that space and still leave room for customers to walk around them. The restrooms were cramped and painted in battleship blue. The brown pleather upholstery that covered the booths showed there lack of relsilience by exhibiting holes, caused by heavy traffic, and the stuffing was easing out. Some holes were diligently secured with masking tape. But nowhere, then or since, have I found a biscuit and redeye gravy to match.
Virginia's southern breakfasts were gustatory treats that reflected the beauty of the mountains and the gentle souls of the denizens. All of the locals ate there. I think I was the only northerner that frquented the place. I couldn't help feeling sorry for all of the many tourists, that meandered through the town, who would never know of Virginia's bountiful breakfasts.
It's many years since I left this paradise on earth. I still miss it and yearn to go back, but I hear that many of those tourists did find the territory to be just what they wanted to build their second homes on, so maybe it's best that I don't try to go home again. God Bless you, Virginia, whereever you are.