Anyone familiar with the stories of Eudora Welty knows that life in small Southern towns is quiet and placid on the outside and filled with drama and fascinating characters underneath. So it was in the small Southern town from which I hailed.
There were the "normal" people who did - unusual things - such as the wealthy attorney who picked up soda cans from the side of the road so that he could turn them in and finance his next European jaunt, or the other attorney who wore berets to work and listened to bagpipe music all day long. And there were the eccentrics, such as the man who walked around town, dressed entirely in black and carrying a guitar, going by the moniker "Johnny Cash"; he apparently hadn't figured out that the "original" Johnny Cash was a different race than he was. And that he lived elsewhere and had made real money.
There were also the people who were simply larger than life. They would have stood out anywhere, I've no doubt, but in a small, slow-moving town, they became legendary. Duke was one of these. He didn't actually live in my small hometown - he lived 12 miles away in a much smaller town called Jones. To put Jones in perspective, I once drove through the state with a close friend of mine from NY. This friend, who is well aware of my allergy to small Southern towns, kept commenting as we drove through town after town, "I could live here. You know,if I had a family, and was kind of settled down, I could live here". When we got to Jones, he looked around and declared, "I couldn't live here."
There were the "normal" people who did - unusual things - such as the wealthy attorney who picked up soda cans from the side of the road so that he could turn them in and finance his next European jaunt, or the other attorney who wore berets to work and listened to bagpipe music all day long. And there were the eccentrics, such as the man who walked around town, dressed entirely in black and carrying a guitar, going by the moniker "Johnny Cash"; he apparently hadn't figured out that the "original" Johnny Cash was a different race than he was. And that he lived elsewhere and had made real money.
There were also the people who were simply larger than life. They would have stood out anywhere, I've no doubt, but in a small, slow-moving town, they became legendary. Duke was one of these. He didn't actually live in my small hometown - he lived 12 miles away in a much smaller town called Jones. To put Jones in perspective, I once drove through the state with a close friend of mine from NY. This friend, who is well aware of my allergy to small Southern towns, kept commenting as we drove through town after town, "I could live here. You know,if I had a family, and was kind of settled down, I could live here". When we got to Jones, he looked around and declared, "I couldn't live here."
We were in Jones to visit Duke - the only reason for anyone who wasn't born there, to stop in Jones. But what a stop it was. In this tiny backwater, Duke lived in a house which featured mahogany wood panelling in the library, immaculate gardens, and boasted peacocks who met us at the door. Duke called himself a "country farmer", but he was well-educated, well-travelled, and beyond intelligent. So my friend and I sat and talked to him about the types of subjects you just knew weren't often discussed in that town, enchanted. Finally, I said that we had to leave, so Duke rose, took our glasses and walked to the bar. He handed me another "glass" of wine (plastic cup) and one of beer to my friend. My friend, flustered, noted that we really did have to go. Duke looked at him and said, "Yes. This is a roadie." He then said, "No one is going to bother you for driving home drinking these, but if they do, just call me." When we reached the car, my friend's comment was, of course, "I could live here."
Duke was an astute businessman and accumulated significant wealth. He was also consistently generous, using numerous methods to ensure that the less fortunate citizens of Jones were cared for in many ways, such as buying bicycles for all the children in town. But he clung to his simple country farmer persona. After all, such a persona does allow one to be underestimated, often when it counts. And between this persona and his disdain for political correctness, he could, did, and enjoyed, ruffling the occasional aristocratic feather.
One of his sons has held prestigious and important jobs with some of the finest art museums in the country. At a dinner honoring this son, held in Boston, Duke found himself seated by a female donor who was chatty. She asked him, "Is it true that your son was educated at Oxford?" "Why yes, ma'am, he was." "And aren't you a farmer?" "Yes, ma'am, I am." "Where do you farm?" "In Jones, Louisiana." "Jones, Louisiana? I've never been there." His answer: "They haven't missed you." Undeterred, she continued, "Sending a son to Oxford must have cost a lot. How did you afford it?" Equally undeterred, Duke replied, "Well, ma'am, we had to sell a couple of slaves." That ended the conversation.
Duke was always ready with a quick retort, an offer of food and drink, and a seemingly endless supply of fascinating stories. What he didn't have was immortality and he died far too young. He was in his 80's, which, for such a man, is far too young.
He left Jones a legacy that benefits its citizens and visitors on a daily basis. Another son of his continues to live and farm there. Annoyed by what he sees as a speeding ticket racket, he took matters into his own hands. When you enter and when you leave Jones (about a mile apart), there is a huge sign with bright flashing lights announcing "SPEED TRAP. SLOW DOWN." My visiting friend asked me how on earth Duke's son was allowed to put up such signs without running afoul of the law. Simple. He owns the land that houses the signs. Duke was proud.
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