One of my favorite writers died twenty-five years ago this month. It’s hard to believe he’s been gone that long. He had a way with words that I could connect with. His newspaper column was something I looked forward to. He was a true poet of the Southern dialect.

However, he began his career as a sports writer. That’s were he and I differ. I never look at the sports section. Had I known back then what I know now, I would have probably searched out his coverage of sporting events. His special spin on things would have made it more interesting for me. But I stumbled upon his strange gift later on in his writing career.

He wrote about things I could relate to, and once I stumbled upon his talent I was hooked. I’ve read all of his books, and in respect of his 25th departure from this earth anniversary I’m in the process of rereading them again. He wrote about current events, and his childhood. It seems as if we could have been distant cousins, though he grew up in Georgia and I grew up in Mississippi.

His childhood love, Kathy Sue Loudermilk, didn’t ride my school bus, but a girl of similar description did. I was among the little boys on the bus that swooned as she walked down the aisle toward an empty seat. I thought I was in love with her. It was a most sorrowful day when she got her driver’s license and no longer rode the school bus. I believe every guy on the bus went into a state of depression.

His childhood friend, Weyman C. Wannmaker, Jr.? I had a good friend that could have been his double. Bless his heart, the Lord saw fit to take him home a few years ago.

And his book, Elvis Is Dead, And I Don’t Feel So Good Myself, made me roll on the floor laughing. I’ve never had heart trouble, but I could empathize with him. I’ve had a near-death experience myself when I had an acute attack of diverticulitis. Like him, I love bar-b-que, too. It’s God’s gift to a Southern man.

Won’t You Come Home, Billy Bob Bailey? I worked with a fellow who carried that nick-name – Billy Bob. Though his last name was different. The guy I knew loved coffee and had the unusual habit of guzzling the last few swallows of the in his cup if the phone on his desk rang. He didn’t want it to get cold. That would have been a sacrilege.

One morning a couple coworkers dropped a chicken liver into his cup when he wasn’t looking. A few minutes later he had made it to his office and was busy at his desk when his phone rang. Our coworkers were gathered around their phone in another office across the hall listening as he picked up his cup and downed the remaining coffee. Just as the last drops were going down his throat that chicken liver slid forth from the bottom of the cup and made contact with his nose.

Did I mention the fact that he had a weak constitution? Well, he did. Up came the coffee, down went the phone receiver ,and across the room flew his cup. Evidently Billy Bob was a religious man because he began speaking in tongues. No interpreter was needed that morning. Everyone knew exactly what he was saying.

From across the hall came rolls of laughter. The guilty had given away their crime. The department supervisor was called in to calm things down. He was trying awfully hard not to laugh as he pretended to ream those fellows out.

My only wish was that my writer/hero could have found true love like I did. I’m not sure he ever did. He once said that if he ever thought he was falling for another woman he would just go ahead and buy her a house, walk away, and be money ahead. He was going to lose anyway. He must have been lucky at cards because he wasn’t lucky when it came to women. Maybe he should have done like I did and married a Yankee.

I mourned along with him when his faithful dog, Catfish, died. I’ll probably do the same when my Spanky kicks the bucket. He loved his dog. After he died a cartoonist published a caricature of Catfish greeting him at the Pearly Gates. I was moved. Spanky and I have the same agreement. Whoever goes first will hold a spot for the other. I’ll bet if Ole Spank goes first he’ll probably mark my spot in yellow. He’s funny like that.

So, here’s to my writer/hero, Lewis Grizzard. He may be twenty-five years long gone, but long may his memory live. His stories will always have a spot on my bookshelf.

Rest in peace, Lewis.

P.S. After writing this an old friend contacted me and informed me that he had met Lewis while coaching a high school team in Georgia. He said that Lewis had found true love and married before his death in 1994. It was his understanding that Lewis had bequeathed his entire estate to her.

Lewis had been married quite a few times, and once someone, supposedly, had bumper stickers made that said, “Honk if you have been married to Lewis Grizzard.”

My buddy said that a cousin of mine was in the same boat. Upon one of his divorces some of his coworkers had a similar bumper sticker printed up with my cousin’s name on it.

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Rick Algood
March 7, 2019