At the intersection where Roscoe Road meets Jackson Street there is a cinder block building. A simple rectangle. Painted a rusty red on the bottom half and white on the top half. The green shingle roof looks like it’s been there longer than dirt.

If you were to think that this used to be the site of an old gas station back when the Twenties were roaring and Model A automobiles were traveling up the Atlanta Highway, you’d be right. A few miles out of town, Houston Sprayberry set up a mom-n-pop business to sell gasoline to the passing travelers.

Houston had been pumping gas for a few years when he got the idea that folks coming from who knows where, headed to the white sand beaches of the Gulf Coast might be hungry. By the time the Federal Highway Department decided to make the road out front of his station part of US Hwy 29 in 1926, Houston was selling enough sandwiches to get rid of the pumps and open up a restaurant.

Houston said to his wife, “We could build us a BBQ pit right out front.”

Mattie Lou said, “Everybody ‘round here loves your sauce.”

Houston shot back, “Can’t nobody make stew like you Mattie Lou.”

And as they say, the pig hit the fan.

This was before anybody in Washington had ever thought of something as boring as an interstate highway. Real roads went through real towns, and they took you to real places. Some of them with little cinder block buildings that you couldn’t forget.

It’s a warm spring day. 1952. A family from upstate South Carolina is headed to sunny Florida. Everybody has the beach on their minds. The windows are down. No one has air conditioning inside a car. The kids are tired of counting cows. They whiz by this little block building on the north edge of Newnan, Georgia.

“Do you smell that?” he says to his wife.

The kids sit up and hang over the back of the front seat. There’s a wandering scent in the air that, even at 50mph, just cannot be overlooked.

“I’m hungry.” Little Joey is doing his best to look like he’s about to die.

“Okay by me,” Mom says.

Dad turns into the next dirt road on the left and backs her around. His nose knows a good BBQ smell when it comes to him.

This is how all good BBQ works. No one cooks the BBQ at home and brings it to the restaurant. The fire is out back, sometimes up front, sometimes right inside the building. The meat is laid out. The fat sizzles. The ooze drips on the wood fire. Always the smoke carries an aroma across the air on a soft breeze to the olfactory sensors of weak-willed men who swoon and follow the trail to heaven itself.

Thus began the 98-year history of Sprayberry’s BBQ in Newnan, Georgia. The place may be under new ownership these days, but the commitment to tradition remains. Same old building. Same old tables and chairs. And by what could only be called divine destiny, the same smoked pig on the plate.

Backtrack with me a moment.

I stopped in at Sprayberry’s last week. It was a Friday. Earlier that day I had visited a retail nursery and wholesale greenhouse operation where my buddy Mark works. One of my retirement goals has been to catch up with and in some cases meet face to face with some of the customers I’ve known over my years in the nursery business. I had known Mark for years by phone but had never met the man.

Mark gave Marion and I a tour of the greenhouses. The beauty. The scale. The variety of color and foliage. The details of what it takes to run that kind of operation will blow you away.

I was grateful to catch up with Mark and get to know him better.

A couple days before that, I met a young man at Southwest Christian Church whom I discovered was from Hampton, Georgia. My hometown. It turns out that his dad is John Martin, a guy I grew up with and with whom I went to school, first grade all the way through high school. I had a picture in my phone of his dad and me from our Boy Scout days.

He sent me a text later that day. “Made my day to speak to someone about my dad.”

John has been gone from this world since 2015. It doesn’t matter how old we get, connecting with someone who knew our parents is an awesome day.

So, it’s the end of the week. I’m at the place that Lewis Grizzard called “merely the best barbeque joint on earth.” In his honor I’m ordering the Grizzard Special. Pulled pork sandwich, stew, and a pile of onion rings big enough to cover the whole plate.

I knew that Mister Grizzard frequented this place. He wrote about it often enough in the AJC. I didn’t know, however, that Alan Jackson, while still in high school, waited tables at Sprayberry’s before he became a Nashville icon. Over the years, even with all the fame, when he came home, he made time to stop in for his pork sandwich, stew, and lemon pie.

Homegrown dignitaries and athletes and stars always seem to find their way back to this place. It’s that good.

Marion and I meander through the redtop tables and wooden chairs and choose a spot over by the window. The waitress comes by to ask what we want to drink, and to offer menus. We haven’t even taken our seats, and we’re not messing around.

“We don’t need to see the menu,” I said.

We give her our order. She smiles and nods.

Once seated, I notice this fella a few tables over. He’s looking our way with his hand raised in the air. He’s waving. I don’t have my glasses on because I can see my plate better without them, but recognizing a face from across the room is not easy.

Through the blur I put it together. Gene is a good friend and former customer of mine from Carrollton, Georgia. I invited him to come over and sit with us. And for the next 30 minutes we swapped old stories and Marion got to meet yet another piece of my past.

This may not mean much to you but think about it. In the same week, my path crossed with three other folks that have some bearing on my life. One brand new person with a very old connection. Two others who were a big part of the reason I loved my work and who helped make my business what it was.

To me, other people are always far more interesting than I am. I love hearing about their stories and where life has taken them. I honestly pity the folks who are socially uncomfortable. Unknowingly, they shelter themselves and they miss out on some of the greatest treasures in life.

The best part. I ended the week at Sprayberry’s. The onion rings were to die for.

But the company was unforgettable.