Your Unemployed Daughter

photo credit: Mayu ;P

Some of you may know this already, as my identity is not so anonymous as I might like it to be, but I went to high school (5th grade through 12th, in fact) in a smallish-to-midsized Alabama town called Decatur.

Yes, there’s one in Georgia, too, and Illinois, for that matter. But my dad (a chemical engineer who’s now back to work after retirement, congrats Dad) was transferred to the one in Alabama to help manage one of the big chemical plants.

It was a questionable transition, as moving required me to give up my post as treasurer of the 5th grade class at Indian Trails Elementary back in Downers Grove, IL (what do you want to bet that school has changed its name?), a post I fought long and hard to win in a battle of the ages against a pudgy yet conniving classmate named Jack Storino. (What do you want to bet he’s now in politics? Or the mob? I can say that because I’m Italian too.)

People in Decatur talked funny. And they didn’t seem to like me much because I said things like “pehn” instead of “pay-en,” “melk” instead of “mihlk,” and, ever-so-offensively, “roof” the way a dog would say it. One particularly nasty biotch of a teacher yelled at me for failing to call her “ma’am” (as if my Yankee heart knew that was even a word), a harsh blow to my fragile 10-year-old ego that has only been remedied with copious amounts of therapy and white wine.

Still, like they say, kids are hardy. So by 6th grade I wasn’t getting pantsed in the playground (and, by the way, the trick to not getting pantsed is to pants someone lowlier than you, which I learned about a week in at my new school, God bless), even though I wore coke-bottle glasses and was one of the first people in my class to get a bra (not the boon you’d think).

By 9th grade, I had adjusted to the local lingua, worked my way up the social chain, and was even rushed for a sorority. (Don’t ask.) While I wasn’t a cheerleader myself, I was at least friends with one. And by 10th grade, despite some situational difficulties involving a party thrown while my parents were out of town—which upped my popularity quotient remarkably with all but my debate coach and M&D and my erstwhile babysitter—I finally got my driver’s license, and could drive to meet my friends for lunch at such venerable institutions as Court Street Cafe and B.J.’s (now known as The Brick).

These restaurants were in a part of town known as “Old Decatur,” which isn’t anything like Old New York, but still, had a bit of history and was far more quaint than other parts of town. And in Old Decatur there was also a place called C.F. Penn’s. My dad went there, I believe (Dad, confirm?) and talked frequently of the deliciousness of the greasy hamburgers. It was a joint with character in a town that, frankly, wasn’t so chock-full of character it didn’t need this place.

Which gets me to my point in this long-winded trip down memory lane. C.F. Penn’s, which is almost like the Lombardi’s of New York City (in terms of being one of the longest-sustaining restaurants in the hood), which opened in 1927 (when hamburgers sold for 10 cents each or three for 25 cents…today they’re $1.30), which made burgers that Elvis Presley raved about, which has been open for 82 years … may close. Freakin’ economy. The decision will be made by co-owner Franklin Penn by January 31.

Decatur has McDonald’s aplenty, including, if it’s still there (what do you want to bet it’s not?), one of the first Rockin’ McDonald’s ever. Whoot. And Burger Kings, and KFCs, and even a Little Caesars, at least when I lived there. And perhaps they’re all doing fine, or maybe they’re not, but I could care less.

Because what Decatur doesn’t have a lot of is restaurants with stories. Places where Elvis would send his entourage to pick up a dozen or so burgers that met precisely the needs of the King’s palate. Places with “secret ingredients.”

So, I beg of you local peoples…save Penn’s. Decatur needs it! If not for the grease, for the history. And because in my own little way, after a pantsing and a party and eventually learning to speak Southern … I kinda grew to love the place somewhere in the deepest, darkest part of my corroded Yankee heart.

PS. Mr. Penn: Up your prices! $1.30 for a burger?

PPS. I say “C.F. Pehn’s”; what do ya’all say?