Written by Justin Showah
The Crawdad Hole encapsulates Jackson’s soul. When you walk inside the gate, you are greeted by a funky decor — strings of lights and picnic tables surrounded by haphazard pictures of sports and music personalities under tin roofs. A shaded creek runs by the outdoor dining area, and the food is spicy southern goodness you eat with a bunch of friends or family who have wheeled in their own cooler of beer. Y’all are subject to the weather, sitting around fans and firepits, the house supplying cans of bugspray, tiki torches, and citronella candles as darkness eases in. All races, ages, and walks of life commingle around the live music, the good times, and the feeling that you are hanging out at a clubhouse. There are no tablecloths here — heck, there’s not even silverware — you just come as you are, grab a big bowl of crawfish or shrimp, and start peeling.
I was my Dad’s first employee 18 years ago when he started with one crawfish pot in the back storage room of a rundown wooden building and remain amazed to have watched this place blossom from a weekend hobby into the established hangout it is today. Like Jackson, the Crawdad Hole is unique in the world, and there will never be another place like it. I can’t think of another place I would rather be.
Jackson: photographs by Ken Murphy is available now for purchase. To order a copy, call Lemuria Books at 601.366.7619, visit us online at lemuriabooks.com, or pick up a signed copy at the Crawdad Hole!
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