One of my idols is Lewis Grizzard. Until his death in 1994, he was a true Southern humorist who purposely butchered the Queen’s English and was brutally honest enough that half the country was mad at him at any given point in time. (That half usually consisted of non-Southerners.)

Lewis and I had our differences. He loved fried chicken and beer whereas I’m more of a livermush and skim milk person. His only weapon of choice was a manual typewriter but I’m a laptop guy myself. (Gotta have the spell check, which underlined the word “gotta” in red as soon as I typed it just now.)

On a recent trip to Alabama, my middle son and I happened upon a stretch of I-85 near Moreland, Georgia known as the Lewis Grizzard Highway. We were running late and it was pouring rain on that particular day, but I had to see Moreland.

I heard tale of a museum in Moreland once. I knew I could find it. I exited and pulled into the first parking lot I saw- a gravel, mud, and grass mix that probably kicked up a lot of dust on a dry day. Cal chose to sit it out while I ventured inside.

The building resembled an old deserted Mayberry gas station but it turned out to be the Moreland Post Office. A gentleman was turning the lock on the door when I greeted him. “You’re in luck,” he told me, “I was just about to lock up for lunch and the museum is actually inside here.”

He could tell I was disappointed when he led me into a simple unimpressive room they called the Lewis Grizzard Museum. “Folks don’t come around here much anymore,” he said while looking down. “I’m trying my best to keep Lewis alive here but his last wife moved most of the good stuff years ago.”

I skimmed the place for five minutes or so and announced that I had to get going. He needed to eat lunch and I needed to recover from the letdown, though it certainly wasn’t the postmaster’s fault. Before leaving I signed the guest register- largely a collection of blank pages.

What little I saw of it, Moreland was what I expected. It was truly a slice of small town Georgia, USA and I’m sure the people there love and appreciate their hometown hero. And I like the fact that the post office and the museum share space. But I guess I was expecting more of a shrine instead of a few old books. Maybe Lewis would have preferred it that way. No glitz or glamour. Just real. Like him.

On my desk next to the laptop lies a book about as thick as a dictionary. It is a collection of Lewis Grizzard’s greatest works. I’ve had it for several years but I’ve only read two-thirds of it. I digest little bits at a time. I’m scared to finish it. I don’t want it to end. If so, I’ll be done with Grizzard and I will have read everything he wrote.

Then the reality will sink in that there’s nothing left. Except a tiny room in Moreland, Georgia where, every once in a while, a lonely postmaster dusts off a few old books and signed pictures before he locks up for lunch.