All Things Catfish: The Dry Creek Catfish Lunch

The Catfish Lunch

 

Chapter 32, “The Catfish Lunch,” from Curt Iles’s latest book, Where I Come From.

Learn more here.

If you’re going to understand the culture of Dry Creek Baptist Camp, you’ll need to know about the monthly Catfish Lunch.

If you’ve read any of my thirteen books, you know I grew up in a unique place: Dry Creek doesn’t even have a caution light, but we possess a deep sense of community, history, and connection with the land.

Dry Creek Baptist Camp is the center of the solar system in my hometown. The entire community depends on the Camp, and there is a positive feeling that everyone is part of the Camp family.

That’s exactly how it should be.

* * *

The monthly Dry Creek Camp Catfish lunch is a sight not to be missed. Today, over two hundred hungry adults will line up for all-you-can-eat freshly fried catfish.

 I’ve eaten catfish all over the world and will put Dry Creek Camp catfish up against any.

Part of it is how they cut the filets thin and serve it hot and fried, but the real reason is the ambiance. Dry Creek Baptist Camp is one of the most beautiful retreat centers in the country.

However, buildings aren’t what makes the Camp (and the catfish lunch) unique. 

 It’s the people, and the catfish lunch is a good example. Mix in several hundred hungry (primarily senior) adults, hot fried catfish served by the friendly camp staff, followed by good music, and magic takes place for twelve dollars per plate.

I’ve worked at Dry Creek Camp on and off since I was thirteen. From trash duty in 1969 to being manager from 1992 to 2006, it was one of the richest times of my life.

I never tired of hearing guests say, “When I drive through the gates, I feel God’s presence.”

It’s a special place where people have been coming to sense God’s presence for nearly one hundred years. 

Humans can’t create a special place like Dry Creek. Only God can, but a camp is where people can come apart and find rest—a welcoming atmosphere in a place where the distractions of life fade away.

If it sounds like I am bragging about Dry Creek Camp, I am. It’s where God has worked the most in my life and where I always feel at home.

* * *

The Catfish Lunch is always a special day. Here’s how it grew from its humble beginnings to what it is today.

The lunch started in the 1980s when Albert Hagan, my predecessor as camp manager, began the “Dry Creek Men’s Luncheon.” About a dozen or so of us would meet monthly in Dry Creek’s dining hall in our rural all-male version of the Rotary Club.

The attendance grew slightly over the next several years until a steady twenty men gathered monthly.

Then, one month, Mrs. Kathleen Heard showed up. We didn’t know it, but the earth was shaking under her feet, and things would never be the same.

Mrs. Kathleen was a tall, slim, elderly Southern Gentlewoman whom we all loved dearly.

Her husband, Barney, attended the Men’s Luncheon monthly. Both were my distant cousins, so I can speak honestly:

Mr. B.T. “Barney” Heard was overbearing and especially domineering toward his subservient wife. I recalled my father-in-law’s description of a pompous man he knew up in Catahoula Parish: “Curt, if you could buy him for what he’s worth and sell him for what he thinks he’s worth, you’d be a rich man.”

That’s how many Dry Creekers viewed B.T. Heard. God rest his soul.

But Dry Creek’s view of Mrs. Kathleen was different. She was a sweetheart and deeply loved by one and all.

When they married in 1931, Mrs. Kathleen had just turned fifteen, and Mr. Barney was twenty-one. I’ve always surmised that her being a young teenager and their age difference shaped their marriage and relationship.

 So the day Mrs. Kathleen Heard walked into the Men’s Luncheon and pulled out a chair, we were all surprised, none more so than her husband, Barney T. Heard.

Mrs. Kathleen had a trembling voice in the best of times, and today, it was shakier than ever as she took a seat at the table. “I had heard that you men have been having some good catfish, and I thought I’d join you.”

I glanced at Mr. Barney, and the only word I could use to describe him was agog.

He was agog, as in the dictionary definition: “Wide opened mouth; agape; astonished; goggle-eyed.”

Yes, that’s the right word. Mr. Barney was agog. His mouth was open as if to speak, but no words came out.

.

That April day, Mrs. Kathleen Heard broke the glass ceiling and integrated the Men’s Luncheon. She was the pioneer who opened the floodgates. Soon, other spouses showed up, followed by brave local women and more couples.

Then, the senior adults began attending. They arrived in dozens of church vans and buses, and the Community Catfish Lunch soon grew into what it is today.

Here’s one thing to note: senior adults like to arrive early. Lunch is officially served at noon, but the attendees begin descending after ten o’clock.

On arrival, they began jockeying for choice tables by propping their chairs. I call this “Dry Creek musical chairs” and warn you: don’t mess with their reserved spots. Certain church groups have had the same box seats for years.

There’s the detectable murmur of fellowship. Every person in the dining hall is glad to be here.

A long line, with its own pecking order, jostles to get in the front of the line, which snakes around the room. They’re lined up as if the Camp is going to run out of sweet tea and all-you-can-eat catfish.

At 11:30, they bless the meal early and then let them loose. I’d call it organized chaos, but it’s a happy chaos. 

 There’s nothing like a crowded room filled with clinking silverware, laughter, and good conversation. It’s the sound of people enjoying being together, and it’s hard to beat.

I call it “The sweet sound of Christian fellowship.”

I ask Camp Manager Todd Burnaman, my son in the Lord, “Todd, how many are here today?”

“About 200.”

“How many called in for a reservation?”

“Oh, about 150, Brother Curt.”

We both laugh as I say, “That’s about par for the course.”  

Over the years, we have tried everything to get people and groups to call in, but there are always about the same number of gatecrashers (I use that term in a sweet Christian spirit) instead of registrants.

We tried taking money at the door for one month, and it obviously irritated our guests and embarrassed our staff. I promised them never to do it again, so no one knows who put their money in the bucket. It’s an honor system that seems to work well.

However, there’s no problem if someone forgets to pay. Sometimes, a check for $1000 might arrive the week after the Catfish Lunch from one of last week’s attendees. There will probably be a women’s group at the Catfish Lunch that returns home and raises funds for scholarships to send ten kids to summer camp.

Honestly, the Camp has consistently lost money on the Catfish Lunch, but don’t feel bad for them. The goodwill, P.R., friendships, and generous gifts are worth a million dollars.

We learned that it’s often difficult to add numbers accurately to God’s balance sheet. God’s economy is unique and sometimes hard to trace.

Dry Creek Camp is an example of how you cannot outgive God.

The Camp always prepares extra fish and potatoes.

The two fish and five loaves never run out. Nothing goes to waste—no twelve basketfuls of leftovers. Every piece of catfish is happily consumed.

Surveying the full dining hall of eager catfish consumers, I ease up beside Todd. “Don’t forget. You have Mrs. Kathleen Heard to thank for this.”

* * *

Enjoy the Dry Creek Catfish Lunch, but please-please-please don’t show up without calling ahead.

If you don’t, we might put Mrs. Kathleen Heard in charge of taking money at the door.

If you enjoyed “The Catfish Lunch,” you’ll love each chapter of Where I Come From.