For many years here, I’ve written about the muses that I have in Hoots. One of those people was a man I’ve known since I was a child whom I have always called Mr. Bob. He was an alderman in Martin for many years, an attorney, a political bon vivant and the person that I will always call my favorite Republican. He was more of an independent but he liked to give me hell.
I loved Mr. Bob. Not everyone did because he wasn’t afraid during his time on this planet of throwing a few verbal and political molotov cocktails, but I found that his stories about life growing up and as a young businessman in rural Tennessee fascinating. He ventured outside the area for several years but decided as a young man to return home to Hoots. You see, Mr. Bob knew where the skeletons were buried and he loved to tell me and my friend Mandy the tales. As he got older, he liked to have a PBR (with salt) and tell stories. And his accounts of his life were amazing. When he was an alderman and I was a new reporter, I have to say that Mr. Bob never lied to me. He always had time for a conversation on local issues. He didn’t take a lot of crap off of anyone, including me.
On the Occasion Of Mr. Bob's 69th Birthday with a free 40 from Cadillacs
When he was in law school, he was a handler for Buford Ellington who would pop him in the head if he went over the speed limit when he would drive too fast. He also was a handler for Frank Clement, who he said would let him drive like a bat out of hell. When that gig was over and law school was winding down, his last job as a driver was for Porter Waggoner. He liked Ronald Reagan, Ned McWherter and my dog Mabel, who used to hang out with him. He didn’t really subscribe to one way of thinking, he was all over the place.
And good Lord that man was loyal. When I left (aka got canned) from the newspaper, he wasn’t happy and wanted to “call” people because that’s what people in his generation used to do. I begged him not too. When I was in Memphis for a stretch, he called me several times to make sure I was doing okay telling me to “get my butt back home.” And the term Hoots is partially inspired by him.
His health had declined over the past few years. He wasn’t steady on his feet and about once or twice a week we would meet to have a beer together. He always would wear, even if it was August, a Members Only jacket. “They fit and I like them,” he would say when I teased him that 1979 called and wanted their coat back.
When I moved to Nashville I always would try to go see him when I went home.
He died on Monday. I cried and I’m not ashamed to admit it. I am trying not to cry right now just writing about him. You see, he was important to me because he took the time to teach and mentor me. And these kind of relationships are crucial. He always was engaged in having a conversation and I swear to God people have forgotten how to do that sometimes. I was never treated as an inconvenience. He understood the oral history of passing stories down to the next generation. Mr. Bob loved the subculture of living in Hoots as much as I did.
And he didn’t give a damn who knew it.
I haven’t found a Mr. Bob in Nashville. I doubt I will.
