(Dear Reader: Accept my apology for repeating this column from 2018. I really liked this column. Also, I’ve been spending too much time at the Dr.‘s office and not enough time at my keyboard)
ONCE, there was This Guy.
His pals really loved him and they knew he really loved them in return.
This bunch liked to go duck hunting. Guns, licenses, ammo, hunting regulation books, dogs, heavy waders, etc. It was an expensive hobby.
And then they needed lousy wet and cold weather. The kind of weather that appeals to ducks and duck hunters and game wardens and no one else.
I can’t imagine how it could have been fun, but they’d go out and stomp through the ice to get to a ‘blind,’ and sit there shivvering for hours hoping that some birds would fly in.
Then, if they were lucky, they’d get to take a shot.
Then, if they were lucky, the dogs would retrieve the ducks.
Then, if they were lucky, they’d get their limit.
Then, if they were lucky, they’d go home yakking all the way about how much fun it had been.
OR, if they were unlucky, they’d meet up with the game warden.
This Guy and his pals met up with that game warden.
They were still jovial and yakking because they weren’t worried — none of them had exceeded their limit of ducks.
The game warden was almost done with them when This Guy said, “Hey, look at this one. What kind of duck is it?” He held up an unusual-looking duck. One he had shot.
“That’s a hunnerd dollar duck,” the game warden said without the slightest hint of humor.
Sure enough, This Guy had to cough up $100 at the next session of Game & Fish Court because it was illegal to kill that kind of rare duck.
His pals loved it. It was the kind of story that would get better with each telling. And it was sure to be told many, many times.
One of them found a statuette of a kiwi bird. It was about 10 inches tall. This Guy’s pals spray painted it gold and printed GREBE across the front of the statuette base. Grebe was the name for the kind of duck that comes with a hunnerd dollar fine.
This Guy took it all in stride. The teasing lasted many years and hunnerds of tellings.
This Guy was a pharmacist. He worked at a few different drugstores, mostly the late and lamented Nashville Drug, over a career spanning about a half-century. The drugstore changed occasionally but one thing that didn’t change was This Guy and his enjoyment of cigars.
He didn’t smoke them. He just chewed on them a little bit and mostly just rolled them around in his cheek.
This Guy had a whole different circle of friends at the golf course. One of them recalled that This Guy was a terrible golfer, but was a valued member of the group because of his self-deprecating sense of humor. His golf pals loved him. They knew he really loved them in return.
This Guy also loved games of chance. He frequently said that his car knew the way to the ‘boats.’
This Guy didn’t drink. Didn’t cuss. He did possess a fine tenor voice, and for many years was in great demand at weddings and funerals.
This Guy tried to make it in show business briefly, but returned home from the Big City secure in the belief that his true calling was behind the counter at the drug store.
This Guy was a friend of the local newspaper columnist, too. The columnist once dreamed up a contest. He asked readers to suggest the best name they ever gave to a pet cat. This Guy didn’t win the contest; didn’t even come close. He said he named his cat “Friendly.” It almost made the columnist puke but This Guy never stopped insisting it was a great cat name.
This Guy finally reached his late 80s, rumored to be about 86. He gave up duck hunting and golfing, and retired to a quiet life mostly in seclusion.
And then he died.
His end-of-life instructions were that there would be no newspaper obituary, no public church funeral service. His ashes were to be spread privately in his back yard on North Main Street, Nashville. Self-deprecating to the very end.
Well, that request was unusual, but This Guy did sometimes hear a different drummer. The newspaper’s obit page this week dutifully ignores his passing.
His dear friends will miss him and they will probably re-visit their treasured stories about their hunting/golfing/gambling pal hunnerds of times until none of them are around to laugh again.
=—-= — =
BY THE WAY, Sammy Floyd died Wednesday, Sept. 19. He was 86, and was a retired pharmacist.
=—-= — =
THINGS I LEARNED from opening email: If the population of China walked past you in single file, the line would never end because of the rate of reproduction.
=—-= — =
WORD GAMES. Another set of twins: Song and Dance. Sometimes they’re about entertainment; sometimes it’s a run-around.
=—-= — =
HE SAID: “Suppose you were an idiot, and suppose you were a member of Congress; but I repeat myself.” Mark Twain, writer
=—-= — =
SHE SAID: “I never dwell on what happened. You can’t change it. Move forward. Don’t waste your energy on being angry at something that somebody did six months ago or a year ago. It’s over. Done. Move forward.” Joan Rivers, comedian
=—-= — =
SWEET DREAMS, Baby
