C.B. Morrison

The first time I saw C.B., I showed up at his restaurant looking for an employment application. I was dressed nice, as I was looking for a job, wearing a heavy black button-down shirt during a Louisiana October. I believe the temperature was around 88 degrees. Inside his kitchen, it was closer to 105. I politely asked for an application, and he eyed me up and down, weighing me in his mind. He removed the Marlboro light from his lips, and said in his raspy southern voice,

"find an apron and start washing them dishes. I'm short handed, and that no-account Tom didn't show today. If you can get them dishes done without lollygagging, I'll hire ya."

For the first week, I hated that man. He rode my ass, called me lazy, and chastised me without cause, but I needed the paycheck. After about a week, though, he stopped riding my case. He was gruff, and he would still call me out if I messed up, but he stopped riding me constantly.

Eventually, I was able to see beyond his bluff exterior and realize what a great man he was. In true southern style, he was a man of honor, who did business on a handshake, and would occasionally spout poetry or philosophy in his booming drawl. He was an educated man, but was as salt-of-the-earth as one could get. I began to respect him and his opinions on things great and small, and I wished to make him proud.

Somewhere along the way, the Morrisons adopted me, and they became as family. C.B. made me manager of his restaurant. Months later, he called in a few favors, and unknown to me, re-enrolled me in college.

"Joe, come here!", he yelled from his office. he rolled three one hundred dollar bills from his wallet and pushed them to me.
"That's for books. I called the dean at the business college, and got you re-enrolled. you have an appointment with him tomorrow to set up what classes you'll take."

I was too stunned to speak. I'd told him before that I wanted to go back to school, but I didn't see it happening for another year or so.

he leaned in to me and exhaled a cloud of smoke.
"You're too sharp to be uneducated. I'm putting my faith in you. Don't fuck this up, boy."

I can't even recall all the ways that man helped me during the few years that I knew him.

His daughter employed me as a handyman for a few years after he died. She also bought a house for me and my wife to live in when our landlord sold the property we were living on three weeks before Christmas. She hired me for a secretarial position at a non-profit she ran, and she's been a wonderful friend to me. She asked me to dig the hole where we placed C.B.'s ashes after he passed. It was fitting that both the first and last time I worked for C.B. I was doing menial labor in dress clothes.

C.B.'s sister is a wonderful woman and a great friend. I've done a lot of odd jobs for her over the years.

C.B.'s first name was Carlisle. After all the things the Morrison clan did for me, I thought it appropriate to name my son after such a great man. My son's middle name is Carlisle, and today, the Morrison's generosity to my family continues.

A few months ago, I cleaned up a gun for C.B.'s daughter. It belonged to C.B.'s mom, who shot competition skeet in her youth. It's a beautiful Winchester Model 12 produced in 1913. It is a 20 ga. with matched Full and Modified barrels, and C.B.'s daughter gave it to me today.

One day, when he's old enough to understand and respect the weapon, as well as it's legacy, it will go to my son.

It's his namesake, after all.