My Friend Skeet

My friend Skeet, (short for Skeeter) is so extremely polite in his driving habits, that it sometimes takes him an hour to get through a four way stop. (his words) I suspect he always uses his GPS to get out of a parking lot, and he always strictly follows the parking lot arrows, exactly centered on his little red car or little red truck. I told him yesterday that he follows a very narrow path through life, tightly bordering “A total genius” on the left, even more tightly bordering “Totally crazy” on the right.

     Skeet has not always been so polite. As a boy, he and two of his friends were driving a little too fast, missed a curve, and their car slid through a yard, with the back of the car going under a house. While waiting for the police, one friend checked inside the house to see if anyone was hurt. As the police arrived, he fled the house, screaming, “Get an ambulance! There's a woman dying in here!”  When the paramedics investigated, they found the commode had disappeared  through the floor, and the woman sitting on it had gone crazy, thinking the world was ending. She was physically OK, except for getting two bruises when she hit the floor.

     Skeet and I were once sitting in his big red fishing boat in the middle of Lake Degray. Suddenly, Skeet just up and said, “Let’s go to Wing.” Skeet had never been to Wing, Arkansas, where I grew up. My book, Spreading Wing, was centered around there. I just had to know why Skeet wanted to go to Wing, and why right now. “You’ve been talking so much about Wing, I’ve just got to see it.” So, Skeet fired up his big red boat, and we were soon at his house, with his two little red cars sitting out front, along with his big red pickup. As he started to get into one of his two little red cars, I had decided to use a very special approach to Wing for Skeet’s first trip, so I said, “Take your big red truck.” I knew Skeet’s little red car would never make it over the special approach to Wing I had in mind for Skeet.

     Wing is 100 miles north of Arkadelphia sitting right in the middle of the Fourche La Fave River Valley, The most beautiful little valley on God’s green earth. If there had been a way to make a living in Fourche Valley, I would never have left it as I did 50 years ago. Anyway, we headed across the Ouachita Mountains from Mt. Ida, through Story, Aly, and on into the big mountains. On the south side of Fourche Mountain, I had him take a hard left up Long Hollow, across Barnhart Creek, on a tiny forest service road, and several miles on west. Skeet had me stop at two different places, and after he had explored a little, he announced he wanted to establish a homestead, right here. I had to disappoint him by telling him, "The US Forrest Service just did not allow that any more." Cutting hard right across Scrougeout Mountain, we reached the top. Fourche Valley was spread out below. The rains had been good this year and the valley was very green. We had to stop there and look for a very long time. Fourche Valley is beautiful, any way you enter it.

Dropping off the mountain, Skeet began to notice that every car or truck we met had a smiling face behind the wheel, and they all waved. I had to tell him, “Get used to it. That’s just the way it’s done up here.”

     We soon were heading back south, the normal way. On top of Fourche Mountain on hwy. 27, we stopped for one long, last look at Wing. I pointed out to Skeet where the Gillum house used to be, and that stop gave us our best look at the Valley, up and down.

     Skeet grew up in Pine Bluff. He lived very close a couple of night clubs that were really happenin’ places, back in their day, back in the 50's. Many of the top young musical stars in the country played there, on their way to stardom. Skeet and his dog played in the street late one afternoon with a young man who was going to sing there  that night. The next day, his father asked him if he knew who that young man was. No, skeet replied. His father smiled. “Elvis Presley.” Skeet was not impressed. “So?”

     Skeet’s father was a barber. Once Skeet was in his shop. Three Plain clothes detectives and the police chief were waiting for a haircut. The three barbers always kept a gun at their station.

     Two men walked slowly by, looking in as they walked. Moments later, they again walked back by, again looking in. Skeet’s dad said, “Get in the bathroom, Skeet! Now!” Skeet obeyed, but of course left the door ajar to view the action.

     Moments later, the two men burst in the door, one pointing a gun. The only noise heard was the clicks of seven pistols being cocked. The eyes of the would-be robbers got very big, and the gunman very slowly, very gently lay his gun on the floor, and both ran for their lives. The police chief said, “Aw, let ‘em go. I know who they are, we’ll pick ‘em up tomorrow.”

Nowadays, If I ever want to head up to Wing alone, I have to keep it secret from Skeet. He’s fallen completely in love with Fourche Valley. If Skeet gets the idea I’m headed for Wing, he’s always in my car with me.     

     When I headed up to the Fourche Valley Reunion last year, Skeet just jumped into my car beside me. He wanted to go. I said, “OK Skeet, but you’ve got to behave this time.”  Well, we had not seen some of our classmates in 50 years, and before I realized it, Skeet was passing himself off as somebody’s long lost classmate. I had to stop him, though, when he started hugging people and sobbing. Later, someone reported that an old man was outside the front door, telling all as they came in, “Welcome to Walmart.”

     Skeet has already reserved a meal at the Fourche Valley Reunion this year. Fair warning.