It's been a couple years now since the last days of Cagney's. Here below is a much appreciated comment from Banana Jack Murphey.
"I'll miss Cagney's because it oozes history. You could write a book filled with stories on the origin and history of all the artifacts in that place. Cagney's to me was a museum with some mighty tasty vittles.For so many patrons it's going to feel like the lost of a loved one". Banana Jack
Bout every ten years I get a creative attack and either open a restaurant or write a book.
Since our lease wound down on Cagney's and I'm down to one restaurant, the Flamingo Grill... so I decided to write a book about music...BOOGIE WOOGIE BEATS.
Music? you're yelpin. Whatinhell's that busboy, cook, waiter know about music?
Well back in our long ago, dancin is how you met girls, how you legally got up close.
And you couldn't dance without music. So music and dance became a huge part of life.
Everybody who grew up spittin distance from the Myrtle Beach Pavilion jukebox will tell you the same thing. Punch up this book on your Kindle or Nook jukebox, give it a look and a listen. If you'd like to buy a printed copy, stop by FLAMINGO GRILL or send me an email at email@example.com. (Dino Thompson)
to HURRICANE HAZEL- OCT 15 1954 BY DINO THOMPSON.
From my memoir: GREEK BOY- GROWING UP SOUTHERN.
COME MID-OCTOBER, Professor Waldo ran up his
squall pennant. Then he ran up the double-squall pennant. Then he ran up the
hurricane pennant, two white pennants with red squares. “Definitely gettin some
rain this time,” the professor assured anybody who cared to listen.
What was comin was more than a ground soaker, more than a gully washer or a
coffin floater. It was a roof-snatchin, tree-flattenin, people-drownin,
ass-kicker of a bitch named Hazel. A name that would forever be a
The very same Hurricane Hazel that had killed
1000 people in Haiti. Radio weather warnings started cracklin right regular.
Late that afternoon Governor James Byrnes
came on the radio.
“This is Governor Byrnes . . . I’m orderin
the immediate evacuation of the first two rows in all the coastal areas north
of Georgetown . . . Designated shelters are bein readied as of this moment . .
Late that night, excited voice on our local radio station is blarin these
words. “Myrtle Beach is directly in the hurricane’s path. It’s comin in right
at us. The Governor has ordered everyone to leave coastal areas and seek safe
shelter inland. Wind gusts of one hundred fifty miles per hour have been
reported by hurricane spotters.”
Don’t care what they say, weathermen live for
this shit. Hurricanes are a weatherman’s biggest hard- on. Bigger the better.
More damage the better. People dyin even better. People smushin transistor
radios to their ear holes hangin on to every word like it’s barometric gospel.
All sleepless night and into the mornin, sirens wailed and serious voices
boomed from loudspeakers. Vehicles from city and county police, fire department,
Civil Air Patrol and civil defense units goin house to house makin people
evacuate with whatever they could carry. The high school, my grammar school,
city hall and the library were designated shelters for Myrtle Beach. Most
people left willingly. A few old codgers, threatenin to go down with the ship,
had to be peeled off the door jambs of their homes and trailers.
5AM - THE DAY OF THE STORM.
Nobody slept much that night. We came down from our three-room apartment and
made plans to ride out the storm in the Kozy Korner basement, which far as I
knew was the only beer-joint bomb shelter in town. Dad and his slick black
cook, Marcus Johnson, lay down all the chairs and tables, then X’d up the
windows with tape. Yia Yia, thinkin the X a symbol to fend off evil spirits,
reinforces the windows with holy water. One by one, downtown merchants start
showin up, hopin to huddle with us. Pretty soon we have a herd of about 35
people ready to ride out the storm underneath our restaurant.
Seven Seas Restaurant owner Charlie Kordas is there with his daughter Vesta.
Papa Chris, his wife and son Docky are there. Professional gambler Cadillac Joe
is there with a grocery sack everybody knows is fulla cash money. Louie
Achilles and John Gravis from the Broadway Restaurant. Future Miss Myrtle Beach
Barbara Hershman with her sister Betty. The two Hershman girls are huddled into
a lump of flannel footy pajamas.Our Syrian neighbor Tony Koury, a restaurateur
and a "collector" who use to pay me to cuss, is there.
While Tony Koury eats, he lets me play with
his brass-knuckles and sandfilled rubber hose. Miss Lieb, Glamour Shop owner, a
Republican even before Eisenhower, is there with her parakeet. Local bookie
Mister Harach is there sippin his Hadicol. So is ole man Baba Dinash, a Gypsy
who speaks four languages with a palm-reading babushka’d sister. He sells
advice, French ticklers, two-dollar watches, Spanish fly, and palm-size comics
about a Popeye character with a two-foot schlong. Our landlord Mike Hobeika is
there with his very large wife and his pretty stepdaughter Madeline. Eli
Saleeby from the Fleetwood shows up with his entire family and a laundry bag
fulla bootleg half pints. He slips around pattin everybody on the back sayin,
“Here boys,” slippin every man a slider of Lord Calvert. “The ladies’ll help us
get through the day and The LORD’ll help us get through the night.”
7AM - WINDS STARTIN TO HOWL.
The entire building is vibratin like a Ford on railroad tracks. Mom and Yia
Yia, who both attributed every natural disaster to God’s wrath, are pacin like
zoo cats at feedin time. Yia Yia, who has made a career outta predictin
disasters, is fingerin her worry beads, recitin scripture. Angie, my mom’s
pacin, clawin her fingers over her ears, tryin to drown out the groanin wind. I
offer her a Necco mint.
“For godsakes Angie, sit still,” Papa Chris yelps while he munches
a Greek meatball chef Marcus has pan-fried for the occasion. Papa Chris passes
me a plate but I'm now in war-mode and refuse to eat on anythin cept my army
mess kit. Mom, a world-class worrier on a good day, is now in her cataclysmic
end-of-the-world mode. In between cleanin and pacing mom's now doin a scripture
duet with Yia Yia. She’s cleanin, pacin, prayin, cleanin, pacin, wantin dad to
show more concern, thinkin maybe she should faint to get dad’s attention.
Right when a ferocious wind growl shakes the building, and says, “I ever tell you boys bout first
time Tony try to go inna beesness for hisself?” Joe didn’t wait for an
“ . . . Wassa 1932 durin the depression. We were livin in Astoria. Tony boughta
old Ford truck. Once a week he driva upstate to Farmer’s market, buya truckload
tomatoes, bringa them back to the city and sella them to all the Greek
restaurants. One mornin he stops at Charlie’s Diner. Charlie’s upstairs so Tony
double-parks the truck, walks upstairs to ask Charlie how many tomatoes he
needs for the weekend. Two hours later Tony comesa back downstairs, calls a taxi
and goes home. Why you think he callsa taxi?” Joe smiles, waits a couple
seconds for an answer. “Becausa he lost alla his money in the poker game
upstairs. Losta the truck, losta the tomatoes . . . just like that. Boom. Outta
the tomato beesness. Thata Tony . . . whatta beesenessman!” POWER BEGINNING TO FLICKER ON AND OFF. Ferocious growl shakes the building. People’s faces waddin up with concern. Cadillac Joe wipes back his black moustache with both hands. Me, I’m in my action-adventure
mode. Togged out in one of my action suits, a yellow rain slicker, sailor suit
underneath. In my pockets is a careful selection of army soldiers, two pocket
knives, plastic hand grenade, decoder ring, skull ring, two packs of grape
Charms, shark tooth, two silver dollars, four Indian head pennies, six Amazing
Spiderman comics. I’m locked, loaded, ready for bear and big wind. Power keeps flickerin, then fades completely
out when the leany pole behind the restaurant crashes in a tangle of explodin
transformers. Yia Yia, sensin the end is near, lights a candle and volumes up
her bodice-rippin bible voice. In my 8-year-old mind, this whole thing is just
a Cub Scout jamboree with grown- ups. I survey all the blankets, pillows,
candles, flashlights, transistor radios. Some people have canned goods and
water even though we had a whole restaurant fulla stuff upstairs and a 10-foot
buffet spread out on the beer counter downstairs. Reminded me of war footage
I’d seen on Movietone News bout people hidin under the London streets durin the
Eli, Papa Chris, Louie Achilles, Cadillac
Joe, Mister Hobeika and my dad have cranked up a candlelight game of partner
pinochle, but decide to put the cards away when my Yia Yia starts hissin like a
possum, shakin her crucifix, swearin it’s sacrilegious to gamble and laugh when
God is angry. The boys decide not to make God any madder than he is. Yia Yia’s
voice now boomin like the chanter at Greek Church. She’s recitin scripture,
slingin holy water in between sips of ouzo. Miss Hobeika is workin on a serious
plate of chicken and meatballs.
THE STORM IS HERE. Right when the storm kicks in for real, dad
whispers to mom he’s goin upstairs. My mom jumps straight up, gives dad her craziest Joan Crawford stare. “Eesai trelos? (You crazy?)
You’re going where?” “Calm down woman. I’m just goin
upstairs for a few minutes to check on the restaurant.” Mom starts crossin herself. Yia Yia
does the same. While they both have their eyes closed prayin for dad’s safe
return, I follow him upstairs. I know he’s goin upstairs to have a smoke and to
get away from Yia Yia’s bible readin. Dad sits on a stool next to the window,
lights up a Player. I climb up into his lap. We both watch in amazement as one
thing after another sails by.
Gets to be a game tryin to recognize each flying object. Deserted streets have
become a warzone. Growly wind is squirtin through doorjambs and roof vents,
occasionally grabbin the building by the shoulders and shakin it like Bogart shakin Bacall. I watch a poor moth hangin
on to the window get its wings torn off. Dad seems more curious than afraid. He
stubs out his cigarette. “Buckle up your raincoat son.
We’re going outside.”
Thought he was kiddin til I see him unlockin the front door. He pushes open the
front door and the wind bout rips it off the hinges. Woulda blown completely
off if not for the wall stoppin it. Dad has to use his shoulder and foot to
lock it back. Holdin me by the back of the collar, he leads me around the
corner. Soon’s we turn the corner, a powerful gust whooshes me airborne, blows
my feet straight out. But dad snags my jacket collar, scoops me up into the
front seat of our open Willys jeep. No sooner he plops me in the seat, he’s
wrappin clothesline around me. Probably the first known use of the seatbelt. He
pulls himself in, cranks it up and starts drivin through the howlin winds and
“Hey dad. We gonna go fight the
hurricane?” “We’re goin to watch the wind
blow. Hold on.” What’s he talkin hold on? I’m tied like laundry to the seat.
Several spooky times durin the four-block trip, wind gusts scoop under the jeep
and spatula one side off the ground. Whoa. We’re gonna fly to Oz to visit
Dorothy. Dad slowly motors us to the West Side of Ocean Boulevard. We park in
about three feet of water on the leeward side of the Nu-way Laundry building,
directly across from the Ocean Plaza Fishing Pier and Seafood House.
Waves breakin clear across Ocean Boulevard. The two-lane street is now a
Level-4 rapids. While I’m marvelin at the number of objects floatin by,
advertisin signs, trash containers, soda pop crates, trees, top of a lifeguard
stand, dad is practically on the floorboard tryin to light a cigarette. Even
recognize a four- foot snowcone replica from a Pavilion concession stand. Like
bathtub toys, the debris bobs its way north. I keep an eye out for floatin
bodies but only see one trembly dog, soggy ears back, somehow keepin his head
above water. I wanna save the dog but dad shakes his head.
“WATCH THE PIER,” is all dad says, still
hunched over fastdrawin safety matches. Wind strong enough to make the space in my
teeth whistle and my ole man is tryin to light up a cigarette. Ocean has turned
the color of a syrupy Co-cola. Wind snatchin chunks of water off the tops of
the swells and turnin it into jet spray. Every now and again a wave would
engulf the entire end of the pier, crash downward and splatter into a mist all
over the boulevard. Like when a fat man sits in a tub, the ocean has swelled
way high. In between the big rollers, the ocean gets so high it’s rollin up
over the floorboards of the fishin pier. Sometimes it’d suck way back out like
a fighter cockin his right hook and let the pier be tall and important again.
For a moment you could walk on the sand around the end of the pier. Then here’d
come another wall of water.
Water now jettin right through the Seafood
House windows. Huge walls of water climb into big black hands and slap down on
the cedar-shake roof. Didn’t take but maybe ten more minutes of foamy right
hooks to collapse the restaurant section of the pier. Like a drunk on wobbly
legs, the creosote pilings buckle out from under the center section and drop
the restaurant building straight into the ocean. For a moment the entire
restaurant floats in place like a clipper-ship. Then it boils up on the crest
of a humongus wave, higher than it was when it was hooked to the pier. Then
like someone pulled a chair from under it, crashes straight down again. I’m
imaginin real fish and crabs swimmin through the restaurant insteada the dried
ones they had on the wall. Imaginin myself ridin a buckin float through the
dining room around the tables and chairs, torpedoin out the front door.
“Good thing papa Chris ain’t in there, huh dad?” He cuts a sorta smile. “Just
watch son. Watch and remember.” Another 35-foot black wall of a wave rears
way up and smacks down on the floatin restaurant. Like a dog crunchin porkchop
bones you could hear beams breakin and bolts tearin loose. In a few minutes it
was like it never existed. Then, like it forgot to say goodbye, a section of
the restaurant’s roof-sign bobs up, then sinks back into the foam. One by one,
like dominos, the rest of the greenish-black pilings tumble into the black
soup. Not til the last plank of the Ocean Plaza Pier floats away does my ole
man crank up the jeep.
“Finito la musica. Show’s over son.”
WE START BACK. He starts us back toward the
Kozy Korner. Needles of birdshotty rain slashin our faces. Water sloshin over
the rusty floorboards into our boots. Dad’s steerin the jeep like a boat, tryin
to avoid gettin broadsided by a street wave. Winds so strong it’s pullin at our
clothes, flattenin our face. When we get back to our street, dad notices it
first. Motions up with his head.
“Look son . . . sign’s gone.”
I look up and see our 8' Kozy Korner marquee is gone. Torn wires are whippin. Useta hide
behind that fish sign and spit on people, shoot people with waterguns. Figured
it hadda be lyin on the ground somewhere, but not a shred of it in sight.
Figure it to be flyin like a long-tail kite on it’s way to North Carolina.
For a few minutes dad idles right in the middle of the street, starin. We were
right smack in the core of a five-way intersection. Every street led to more
devastation. Cars floated against buildings or overturned. Esso Station
roofless. Like Godzilla just cartwheeled through, every telephone pole in sight
leanin or snapped in half. Loose wires whippin back and forth like angry
snakes. Right when we pull up to park, a galvanized garbage can explodes
through the restaurant window. While dad is unwrappin me from the seat, a
traffic light tears loose and heads to the south side of town for a new career.
Carryin me under his arm, punchin holes through the spurty wind, dad
Quasimodo’s us toward the front door.
Peekin through my fingers, I’m wonderin . . .
Can seagulls fly in such wind? Won’t their feathers blow off? Can fish swim in
waves that big? Are all the beach houses gonna be big ole fish bowls? What
about Mister Benfield’s gourd bird houses? Did all his purple martins escape?
Wonder if my grammar school is still there? Wonder how the Dime Store and
Broadway theater are holdin up? Where’s all the stray dogs hidin out? Mister
Gus probably has em all in his apartment. Wonder how all my cardboard forts and
toys up on the roof are makin out?
BACK TO THE KOZY KORNER. Dad’s strugglin to
unlock the door. I’m squintin into the wind.
Never seen such pure meanness. Not even when I ambushed the two Gatlen boys for
usin baby ducks for battin practice. Not even when Whitey sliced up that
paratrooper or Maurice Treadway whipped up on the two lifeguards. This was even
worse than when Valerie bonked our cook with the big fish platter or when the
gator got one of our pointers at State Park.
“Hey dad . . . I seen enough. The wind is stretchin out my
Dad gets the door unlocked and the two of us fall inside soaked to the bone.
Felt good to be inside. I glance at the wall mirror to see if I had holes in my
face. I start downstairs but dad
snatches me to a puddly stop. “Son . . . don’t tell your mother we went down to
the pier. She worries. Tell her we came out to check on her car.”
Mom is at the bottom of the steps, waitin to
pounce. “My God . . . where have you been? Don’t you dare tell me you went
outside.” Puddle under my feet. “Me and daddy went out to check on the car.” I reach in
my pocket for a Necco mint. Soggy. “You went outside!
PA-NA-YEEMOU!” Slaps her cheeks. Crosses herself. Busted. After several
rib-smashin hugs and praise-Gods, mom is dryin off my hair and threatenin to
kill me if I go outside again. When she sees drippy dad walk in, she threatens
to kill him for takin me outside. We wait out the rest of the storm by
candlelight. My grandmother, a woman who crosses herself whenever she sees a
church or bible, is ready for the cataclysm. She’s swathed in mourner’s black
from scarf to foot, prayin like Easter mass. I’m huddled in the corner with our
two dogs, Sheba and Turk. Whisperin in their twitchy ears in dog language . . .
“Hey, you ever seen a bird fly backwards?” Their eyes were sayin hell yea.
IT'S OVER. When it seemed the wind
would never stop, it finally did. One by one, we all leave our bomb shelter and
venture upstairs for a look. Rain still comin down but not sideways. Streets
flooded knee-deep, waist- deep to me. My Yia Yia, Greek bible in one hand,
three-inch crucifix in the other, looks up, sees a patch of blue sky toward the
south, crosses herself, kisses her bible and smiles. She’s a woman who believes
in miracles, believes in the power of prayer. I could tell by the radiant look
on her face she’s confident she has prayed us all alive, prayed the storm to a
standstill. Tony fires up another Player. He puts his arm around my shoulder,
stares out at the damage and
shakes his head. Within a few minutes, the few others who hunkered behind
plywood and tape in their downtown businesses are comin out into the street.
First few minutes everyone is speechless.
Miss Lieb stands there, hand smashed over her
mouth, chokin down the tears.
“Oh my sweet God, look at our little town. It’s ruined.”
Missus Hershman, standin in two feet of water, holdin her dress up, puts her
arm around her. “Now hush that talk. We’ll build it back.”
Papa Chris nods at my dad, mumbles.
“Hestickame.” Loose translation, “We have shit on ourselves.” My dad nods back.
He spots Mister Jereboam wrapped in a rain slicker, standin out in
the street in front of the drug store. “How’s your shop?”
“Lost my awnings, windows and bout all my inventory.”
Every downtown awnings shredded into flappy pennants. Every window shattered.
Roofs ripped off. Everything that was once vertical is vaporized or flattened.
Every sign and painted window smashed. Every business all along Broadway Street
looks wounded or dead. The Broadway Theater sign is gone. Marquee danglin, few
letters from War of the Worlds somehow stuck. All the gourds around
Mister Benfield’s Esso Station gone. Cars upside down against buildings. Mack’s
5 & 10 has lost their awning, three windows blown out. Toys and housewares
floatin in the aisles. Even the huge pecan tree near the cabstand, the best
climbin tree in town, is uprooted and layin across Broadway Street.
We’d later learn Hurricane Hazel claimed
almost 1000 lives in Haiti, but only 20 in the Carolinas. Savaged over 20,000
structures, twice that many damaged. Storm surge the meanest in Carolina
history. Came in durin a full moon high tide. Flood waters reached 18 feet.
Steamrolled twenty foot sand dunes. Uncovered a hundred year old shipwreck on
the beach. Chopped barrier islands in half. Rearranged lot lines and topography
forever. Tainted fresh water lakes with brine, crabs and seaweed.
“Ole Professor Waldo had called
it right,” somebody said.
Me, Tony and our two dogs wade out into the intersection. Worried I might step
on a jellyfish or stingray, I’m tiptoein through the deep water. Dad’s wadin
like there ain’t no water. The dogs, who think we’re goin duck huntin, are
waggin their tails. Far as we can see, everything chewed up and spit out. Looks
to me like a foreign country in the Movietone News.
Dad tells me to hop in the jeep. The dogs
also hop in. He tells mom, “We’re going for a ride.” Mom’s eyes bug. “Goin for a what? It’s dangerous out there. There’s wires and
sharp things and . . . ” “We’ll be careful.” “You’re just going to leave me
here?” “You’ll be okay. Stay inside. We won’t be gone long.”
WE HIT THE BOULEVARD: We drive south on the
flooded, debris-strewn boulevard. Dad cowboy’s through the deep water like he’s
darin the jeep to flood out. Cars flipped on their backs like beached turtles.
Trees uprooted. Roofs Frisbee’d into the next block. Several buildings, even
their concrete foundations, completely washed away. The beach, like somebody
took a giant dragline to it, is carved 15-feet lower, riddled with debris.
Roads and bridges gouged out.
The once squooshy ocean floor now a 50-mile
yardsale of frigerators, stoves, roofs, toilets, concrete and twisted lumber.
Every summer day, for years after Hazel, some swimmer would be rushed to a
local doctor for stitches and a tetanus shot after a run in with a man-eatin
stove or frigerator. Somebody joked they oughta set up a tetanus-shot booth at
the Pavilion. Buick-size chunks of concrete boardwalk rudely tossed through
beachwear and hotdog shops onto the boulevard. Mister Hobeika had left our
restaurant and walked to his house. His roof is gone. We stop to see if we can
help. He asks if one of us can swim through his livin room to rescue his dog.
Dad gives me the nod. I frogkick through four feet of salt water to rescue a
wet-rat trembly Chihuahua ridin the back of a floral couch. Mister Hobeika tips
me a quarter. Savin Chihuahuas don’t pay much.
WE KEEP RIDIN SOUTH.
2nd Avenue Pier is vaporized. Spivey’s Beach Pavilion has “poof” disappeared.
So has the duckpin bowling alley. Ride by Professor Waldo’s house. Chunk of his
roof ripped off. His leanin flagpole still standin. His two hurricane pennants
ripped to tatters still flappin. We ride up some side streets. Past Jimmy
Brown’s house whose dad had a bathtub buried in his backyard with a screen door
over it to use for a minnow bucket. A tree has fallen over his bathtub. We stop
to comfort an elderly
lady who’s on her stockin knees weepin for a huge mossy oak leanin on her
house. My dad asks her if she needs help. “My daddy taught me how to swing in
that tree,” she says, rubbin the tree the way a nurse caresses the forehead of
a sick child.
Not too far from the old lady, we spot Miss
Rosie Saleeby, purple scarf fortuned-teller’d around her head, long black dress
tucked in rubber boots. She’s out in the street, slappin her thigh, mumblin,
carryin on somethin terrible. “Oooooh, lookit my house . . . will you lookit my
Miss Rosie wassa helluva entrepreneur. she'd
rent out every room in her house durin busy weekends and sleep in her car.
She’d even rent out her rickety porch. She’d even rent tent spaces in her back
yard. Miss Rosie didn’t let a little discomfort stand in the way of a dollar.
We dodge debris all the way down past Springmaid Beach to Nash Apartments. Pop
Nash is standin on a mountain of rubble, starin back at his buildin that
somehow survived. My father speaks Lebanese with Mister Nash. We turn round and
head back north. Things look worse as we head north.
KEEP RIDIN AND GAPIN. The houses that weren’t
gone were in the wrong place.Dad rides us by to check on a new Greek family.
I’m shocked to find out they have a son named Dino. I thought I was the only
Dino on earth. This is really a bad day.
Norther we get worser it looks. Whole forests swatted flat or snapped off.
Three rows back there’s a boat in a tree. Stop to watch a group of men, some
wearin hip waders, gathered on a Cherry Grove sidestreet a few hundred yards
from the ocean. Some have cameras poked in front of their face. They’re oohin
and spoutin scripture. Gawkin at a 40-foot creosote piling stickin into a
house. It jus don’t seem possible waves could ride somethin big as a piling so
far inland. But there it is, a 40-foot creosote pole, pokin right through the
front of the house like Poseidon fired a giant arrow.
Dad puts his hand on me. “Everytheeng looks
like hell huh son?” I’m noddin. My eyes mist up. Even the bird dogs look sad.
That’s the first time I knew what hell looked like.
PAY IT FORWARD: My old man Tony use to tell me there were only two kinds of people in the world...happy and miserable. "Happy people stay happy no matter what they have or don't have. Miserable people stay miserable and like the sayin goes they like company. They do their best to make everyone else miserable. Avoid them...run from them."
In any business, in any family we all have to deal with a few of these lifelong Les Miserables. So appreciate the happy people in your life and business. Tell them what a pleasure it is to know them, to be in their company, to be of service to them.
The other night at Flamingo Grill, 10 twentyish people walked in. They impressed me instantly by their upbeat demeanor, their delicious smiles and their gracious manners. We seated them at a large round table. When they got their entrees, they held hands and joined in a rather long prayer. A customer nearby watched. He was impressed and moved. He told their server to bring their bill to him and add a 25% tip. He left without their knowing who he was.
It was a delish moment for all. A beautiful pay-it-forward moment. Don't know the young people's name but I took a photo. All the best to you all.
Dino, thank you for allowing me to be a part of the Cagney's family!
Some of my most cherished times were enjoying the opportunity to be part of the Dino(s) team. You two made a material difference in my life teaching me a better work ethic, the importance of quality, commitment to service, positive attitude and most importantly a wonderful friendship.
President of Crescom Bank
This incredibly gorgeous window was rescued from a demolished church in Red Springs N.C in 1974. The church opened in 1910, torn down in 1974. A new church was built.
In 1976 it was restored and installed in Cagney's Old Place where it stood proudly in the main dining room for 37 years. After Cagney's closed, it was sold back to the newer Red Springs Baptist church. Thanks to church member Ed Tindall, it's spirit lives on in the new church. Bring a tear to a glass eye. It brought a tear to ours when Ed brought us the picture below.