Moreland marker for late humorist Lewis Grizzard commemorates his writing

COLUMN

By T.S. Carter |

MORELAND, Coweta County, Georgia – Ever wake up and think to yourself, “Elvis is dead and I don’t feel so good myself?”

That wasn’t some guy at the bar muttering into his beer. But it could have been.

That long-ago description of realizing a funk has arrived is from the late great Lewis Grizzard.

The Southern humorist and novelist had an eye for recognizing the peculiarities of the people around him and the Southern culture from which they sprang.

Lewis Grizzard

He turned them into characters in his newspaper columns and books.

“Hey, I know those folks,” you’d say to yourself when you read his columns or books.

Take the “Elvis is dead” thing. He just described the blues we’ve all had, but tossed in Elvis just to give The King his props and give us a grin.

If humor is good medicine, Lewis Grizzard dispensed loads of it in a 47-year life cut short by a longstanding heart ailment that took him from us on March 20, 1994.

The Georgia humorist typically delivered a line whose value comes from the story behind it, such as with his signature one, “That dog would bite you.” Stick around for the story.

Just as America’s most admired humorist Samuel Clemens drew from growing up on the Mississippi River, Grizzard drew from life growing up in Moreland, a Coweta County town 20 miles north of Columbus.

I’ve been thinking of Lewis ever since seeing a recent story out of Moreland that detailed the placement of an historical marker in his hometown. Sponsored by the Georgia Historical Society, the Town of Moreland, and the Moreland Cultural Arts Alliance, the marker recognizes Grizzard’s legacy as a nationally syndicated columnist, bestselling author, and beloved Georgia humorist.

It’s fitting that new generations of Georgians and other visitors to Moreland will gain a degree of acquaintance with Lewis (he never went by Lew, one of his editors once told me).

Grizzard’s Bible Belt upbringing was a frequent column topic, as when he recalled the trepidation that came with sneaking a cigarette out behind his mother’s shed.  The main thing he had to look out for between puffs, he said, “was Jesus coming around the corner.”

After getting a journalism education at the University of Georgia, Lewis rose fast in the newspaper business, something difficult to do without an uncle running the place. The Atlanta Journal named him executive sports editor at 23 and later gave him his own column on the metro page.

People – and newspaper publishers – noticed his work. By the mid-1980s, his column was showing up in newspapers across the South and elsewhere. He became one of Georgia’s most distinctive voices.

I worked as an editor at a few of the newspapers that ran his columns. They came over the wire three times a week and were alwaysa treat, sometimes causing me to chuckle knowing I was getting paid to read these things.

But not all were the side splitters. He gave us his memories of loved ones and disappearing ways of life in the South. These writings could stay with you all day.

One of Lewis’ most memorable of this type was the heartfelt goodbye to his beloved black lab, “Catfish,” headlined “He Up And Died And Broke My Heart.”

He brought his memories of Catfish to life in that one. It is said that specialpiece of writing was clipped and cried over by dog-lovers all over the country.

The circle would close in 1994 upon Grizzard’s death and a memorable cartoon by The Atlanta Journal–Constitution’s Mike Luckovich. There was Catfish overcome with joy and running for Lewis as he neared the gates of heaven.

Luckovich says it is still the single cartoon of the thousands he has drawn that people thank him for and ask him to autograph.
OK, about Grizzard’s signature “That dog will…” line: As he tells it, the phrase originated somewhere in the stands on a football Saturday at Sanford Stadium in Athens.

Before kickoff, Uga, the University of Georgia’s English bulldog mascot, waddled to midfield, rolled onto his side and did what male bulldogs are prone to do.

“I wish I could that,” said a buddy sitting next to Lewis.

“That dog would bite you!” warned Grizzard.

Georgia Tech was a favorite foil. “I tried to get into Tech, but they declined my application. When I asked why they said I did not have enough pimples,” said a retelling by SaturdayDownSouth.com.

UGA rival University of Tennessee sometimes ended up on the receiving end, such as with this retelling of a young UT man picking up a co-ed for a date: “My, your tooth looks great tonight!”

He’d even sting his alma mater:

“They say if you drive real slow through Athens, Georgia, with your windows down, they’ll throw a diploma through your window. I’m here to tell you that’s not true—you’ve got to stop.”

Grizzard saved special praise for dive bars and barbecue joints. He’d do special reports on them whenever he wandered into the provinces in search of both.

It was at UGA that Lewis claims to have started the mid-1960s trend of male students wearing penny loafers without socks. A man of modest means, Lewis had the loafers but couldn’t afford the $1.50 for a pair of Gold Cup socks.

So, he wore his penny loafers sockless. This started a fashion trend that spread from the UGA campus to big cities and small towns around the country. That’s his story, at least.

Northerners who whined about life in the South often annoyed Lewis. “Delta is ready when you are,” he’d tell them.

Sometimes he would change up the retort to: “I-75 goes both ways.”

After his third marriage ended, Lewis quipped: “Instead of getting married again, I’m going to find a woman I don’t like and just give her a house.”

Another one:

What is your new wife’s name, Mr. Grizzard? “Plaintiff,” he replied.

I worked on the city desk at TheSavannah Morning News during Lewis Grizzard’s final days. As his heart infection worsened, Grizzard’s columns stopped, and we prayed his life would not stop as well.

Newspapers at that time had copy desks and city desks. The city desk assigned and worked with reporters on stories, sending the stories to the copy desk after going over them.

The copy desk was the decider on where the stories went. The city desk argued that updates on Lewis’ medical condition should go on the front page. The copy desk instead stuck the update inside the metro section.

“No one cares about that old redneck,” said one of the young copy editors, an import from above the Mason-Dixon.

I knew that Wally, our executive editor, dearly loved Grizzard. I warned the copy desk of this, to no avail.

The next morning, Wally arrived in an ill humor and demanded to know why Lewis Grizzard’s fight for life was not on the front page.

After that, Lewis stayed on the front page of The Morning News until he was dead and gone.

Lewis said in one of his last columns that he wanted to see one more spring in his beloved Georgia.

Sadly, that didn’t happen. He left just three weeks into March.

But the things he left behind are still with us. Like me, many of his readers still can’t say “hoax,” instead saying it as “ho-axe” as Lewis did. The pronunciation is stuck there and always will be.

And his readers can’t pass The Varsity on North Avenue NW in downtown Atlanta without wondering if the chili dogs are still as good as in Grizzard’s day.

Elvis has left the building, but the good cheer Lewis Grizzard brought is still alive online and in bookstores, especially stores selling used books.

Need a lift? Look them up.

And now there’s an historic marker in Moreland to commemorate a storyteller who reminded Georgians to love their roots and draw laughter from them.

Heck, maybe grab a beer and a chili dog and recite Lewis Grizzard’s old refrain: “I’m Bulldog born and Bulldog bred, and when I die I’ll be by‑God Bulldog dead.”

The “Catfish” cartoon by The Atlanta Journal–Constitution’s Mike Luckovich was one of the cartoonist’s most widely acclaimed works.

Hometown honor: An historical marker in Moreland now recognizes Lewis Grizzard as one of Georgia’s most distinctive voices.