In 1984, I covered Oregon State in the NCAA Southeast Regional men’s basketball tournament in Birmingham, Ala.. The Beavers were eliminated in the first game, but I stayed in Birmingham an extra day and came up with some other stories.
At breakfast one morning, the waitress at the hotel restaurant offered an apology.
“Honey, I’m so sorry. We don’t have any grits this morning.”
“That’s all right,” I said. “I don’t know what they are anyway.”
For me, life went on without grits for more than 57 years. But that streak ended last week at the Buckhorn Landing restaurant in Morgantown (pronounced Morgan-ton), Ga.
Nancy and I were camping at nearby Blue Ridge Lake with my brother-in-law Bruce and his family. Bruce and his wife Linda picked us up at the Atlanta airport June 18, and I slept most of the way to Morgantown. When I woke up, we were at the Buckhorn for breakfast.
The place lives up to its name. There are three deer head mountings on the wall. All three bucks were bagged by owner Rosemary Collins’ son Kevin, now 37 and serving with the Army in Iraq.
You’ll also find stacks of Field & Stream at the Buckhorn and a prominent signs that reads, “Please do not blow you nose in the dining room.”
The Buckhorn is the place where people — mostly guys — come each morning to discuss the weather, politics and the fish that aren’t being caught because of the hot weather. One of the regulars is a 92-year-old retired brick mason named Parly who fought at the Battle of the Bulge.
When I asked what was grown around Morgantown besides hay, waitress Margie Hilton rattled off “tomatoes, okra, bell peppers, onions, cabbage, watermelon, potatoes — just about anything.”
When I inquired about grits that Friday, Margie popped the question: “Y’all want grits?”
No, I wasn’t ready for grits. I settled instead for scrambled eggs and toast. The Buckhorn is closed on weekends, so I came back last Monday morning and ordered oatmeal.
On Tuesday morning, I finally decided to give grits a try. But before I lifted a spoon, I insisted on getting a photo of Margie and Rosemary, who was holding the plate bearing a biscuit and a bowl of grits.
The grits (which are mainly coursely ground corn) tasted great. They reminded me of cream of wheat. The butter made them taste better than the oatmeal I had the previous day.
Before I left, I told Margie and Rosemary that the Buckhorn is my favorite restaurant in Georgia. I was honest, however, noting that so far it’s the only restaurant I’ve ever been to in Georgia.
