Sporting Life

“Our dead are never dead to us until we have forgotten them.”  — George Eliot

So it’s hot. July in North Carolina. What do you expect? I opened all the car doors on the 4Runner, cranked it while leaning inside and turned the air conditioner to full blast. Linda, my bride, was standing at the arbor door giving me encouragement while I tried to get the Runner habitable.

“You be careful, and say hey to Bubba.” She went back inside and closed the door to the heat.

It was a mixed blessing kind of trip. Even though I looked forward to seeing Bubba, I kinda really didn’t want to. The word from the old-timers and outdoor geezer friends had gotten to me. He was in a bad way, one that didn’t seem to be promising.

Bubba had moved to a retirement/healthcare village, leaving his wonderful home, and when I heard that he had put his favorite place in the world up for sale, I knew that things were not right. I made plans to visit. I couldn’t get him on the phone for some reason, so we communicated by text, and I told him I was coming and to get ready ’cause he was gonna buy me lunch.

It’s about a two hour ride up to Bubba’s new place, and since I was in no hurry I kinda meandered along. Random thoughts about our friendship bubbled in my brain, one reflection leading to another. We met many years ago, and part of our first conversation had something to do with duck hunting versus Canada goose hunting. I remember Bubba was pro goose, and I was heavy in favor of the ducks.

“After all,” I said as we closed our argument, pro and con, “there aren’t any geese around here. You gotta go to Maryland to find any numbers and to the coast maybe to even catch sight of one.”

In those days that statement was true, before the geese figured out that migrating was a waste of time. Why expend all that energy when you can live and prosper in one spot? Now they’re grazing the greens on about every golf course in North Carolina.

“I’m gonna invite you to a goose hunt next season,” he responded, “and I’m sure you’ll change your mind.” He did, and I did. We made our first trip to the Eastern Shore of Maryland, hunting with Bill Meyers on his Plimhimmon plantation, and I was hooked on Canada goose hunting.

I pulled up to the check-in gate at the retirement village a little before 11 a.m. and asked the attendant how to get to his villa. “Take a left turn after three streets. He’s in number 312. It’ll be on your right.”

The place had the same fresh ambience of an expensive country club. Lush plantings surrounded miniature lily ponds, and oak and maple trees were in abundance. Sidewalks curved around the surroundings with benches spotted here and there. The atmosphere was lavishly luxurious in an understated way, but as I drove through, slowing for the inevitable speed bumps, up the little hill to turn and find Bubba, I wondered if he was happy here.

The front door of the villa was open with a glass see-through storm door slightly ajar. I eased through the door. “Hey Bubba. You in there?”

A weak voice responded, not like him at all. “Come on in, Coot. I’ve been waiting on you to get here.”

I hoped that I didn’t visibly show how shocked I was at seeing my thin, longtime friend supine on the couch. “Coot, sometimes you really piss me off,” he said. “You never change.”

“Bubba, you know that’s not true. Remember the folks at Duke removed half my innards. I’m walking around now several pounds lighter.” He laughed and coughed and said, “Look in the fridge in the kitchen and pour us a glass of wine. We got some catching up to do before lunch.”

I poured us two glasses out of an open bottle of red wine and went back to the living room. The couch was on one wall, on the opposite were shelves with several mounts of game Bubba had gotten over the years. “Yeah, Judson brought those from home to kind of make this place a little more habitable.”

“I don’t remember seeing that ptarmigan before,” I replied. The bird was half in its winter color and half in summer. A beautiful specimen.

“I got that on my last winter trip to Canada.”

We sat silently, neither of us knowing what to say. I broke the silence. “Bubba, you don’t look too good. What’s up?”

“I had to move over here. I kept falling down at home, and now the docs here are trying to fix it. Not having much success. Hell, let’s go eat. The restaurant is down the road a piece. You’ll have to help me.”

It was a chore. Not physically, but mentally. To see my good friend in such debilitating health was a shock. I helped him get in the car and then on the walk to the dining room. He used his cane on one side, and I held his arm on the other.

Lunch was short, and so was the conversation. I don’t remember what we had or said, but we were glad when it was over.

Back at his house, we poured another glass of wine. I asked, “Bubba, you sure it’s OK for you to be drinking this stuff?”

“What’s it gonna hurt?” he said, laughing. “I tell you what, Coot, if this is it, and realistically, I think I’m on the way out, I’ve had a great ride. I’ve been getting rid of things, sold most of my guns, and have given all the rest of the household stuff to the kids. They’re helping me with the bride, you know.” Bubba’s bride of many years was having her own health problems, and the children were taking turns looking after her.

“I want you to have my swan. Remember? You were with me at Currituck when I got my first one. We were hunting with Old Man Woodrow. You got that redhead duck you had mounted, I recall. We ate that first swan. The swan I want you to have, I got in Montana. It’s hanging over the fireplace at home.”

When I hesitated he said, “Coot, we’ve been friends for a long time, and by taking the swan, every time you look at it, you’ll recollect some good adventures. It’ll be a way for me to be around a little longer.”

He died three weeks later. I didn’t get to see him again. I heard he had moved back to his beloved home, set up a hospital bed in his study overlooking the wood duck pond, hired a couple of round-the-clock nurses, and spent his last days there.

Right before he passed on, I called him and got his voicemail. I can’t recall the message I left. What can you say to a good friend who’s dying?

It turns out Bubba had the last word after all, because he left a message on my phone a few days later.

“Hey Coot, got a few folks in here. Not prepared for a lengthy conversation. Hope all is well. Maybe tomorrow we’ll get up together and have us a little bit of a leisurely chat. Take care of yourself, bud.”

We never had that leisurely chat, but now that swan hangs over the door leading to the roost, so every time I walk under it, I can remember the good times and one of my best friends. Bubba’s ashes have been sprinkled on a ranch in Montana, one of his favorite hunting locations.

Out of the multitude, he was one of the rarest. He walked to his own drummer. No apologies or excuses given. He’s missed.  PS

Tom Bryant, a Southern Pines resident, is a lifelong outdoorsman and PineStraw’s Sporting Life columnist.