Preacher John by Michael Alan Fowler Part 1-A

Preacher John sat in the front row of chairs next to the coffin that would soon be lowered into its vault and covered with red South Georgia dirt.  As he listened to the real preacher, Pastor Tom, extol the virtues of Etta Mae, he could smell smoke in the air.  Quail season was over for another year.  The private jets and fancy Suburbans would not be back again until next winter.  Many of the plantations were owned by rich northerners who erroneously believed they were the backbone of the region.  The first member of Preacher John’s family in Georgia had been a carpenter who came to this land with Oglethorpe in 1733.  Since that time, some had flourished, others had moved on to the West, and some, like him, had been happy to just make a living and enjoy their friends and families.  One of the most amazing thoughts he had was that Etta Mae had lived as long and happy a life as she did.

      She had a stroke 25 years ago at the age of 50 that would have killed her had they not still had a party line phone.  She had grabbed the phone when the pains hit but could not work the dial.  Old Mrs. Smith, who was cousin to Etta Mae and lived down the road, just happened to pick up the phone to make a call and instead of a dial tone heard Etta Mae crash to the floor.  She ran to the then new house next door that had a private line and called for the ambulance and then she and the neighbor lady ran to Etta Mae.  They got her to the hospital in time to save her life, but the road to recovery was long and steep.  She got better – but never well.  When Etta Mae was recovered enough to understand the story she praised God for saving her.

      It had been February and Preacher John was in west Tennessee working the two dogs he had qualified for the National Championship.  He had been to Grand Junction many times before, had even knocked on the door a couple of times, but felt these were the best two dogs he had ever brought to the line – this was going to be his year.  When he called home that night, as he always did after the dogs and horses had been fed, his eldest son, John, Jr., answered.  Preacher John was on the road home a half hour later and at Etta Mae’s bedside the next morning.  Later that day, he called the owners of the dogs that were supposed to run in the National and told them they needed to find someone to handle their dogs.  He made a couple of suggestions.  The dogs ran but without John’s guiding hand neither one made a real bid for the championship.  Later in the week he called his other owners and within two weeks his kennel was empty.

      He was 50 years old and had been training dogs and chasing field trials since he got out of high school.  He married Etta Mae the day after graduation and she traveled with him at first.  She was a good hand with a horse and everyone asked her to scout for them.  After John, Jr. was born, they hauled him along too.  In what seemed like just a blink of an eye, they had three kids and John, Jr. was starting school.  Etta Mae stayed home then, but John called her every night, even when he was at camp in North Dakota and had to drive 15 miles into town with a roll of dimes for the pay phone.  When he was home, he always went to church with Etta Mae.  When he was on the road, if he didn’t have a dog to run on Sunday morning, he found the local Baptist church and went.  He was a part of congregations from Manitoba and Saskatchewan to north Florida, from Illinois to North Carolina, and many places in between.  It wasn’t that he was all that religious; it was just that he didn’t ever want Etta Mae to think badly of him.

      It was how he got the nickname, Preacher John, from the other dog trainers who were more likely to worship at the altar of Jack Daniels or Jim Beam and were often so hung over on a Sunday morning after a Saturday night social that saddling a horse and running a dog became a much greater challenge than normal.  He loved the life – the horses, the dogs, and the open road.  But, by the time Etta Mae was out of intensive care, he was out of the field trial game.  He farmed some and worked harvesting trees for a while, then took a job managing one of the plantations.

      He liked that work – tending the land to grow as many quail as he could.  And he was good at it.  For a dozen years, he drove five miles down the road from his house to the plantation office.  He had a big crew that worked for him – a dog trainer, an assistant dog trainer, and a couple of stable and kennel hands who also drove the wagons during the quail season and their wives who cooked and cleaned for the big house as well as assorted part-timers who helped out when needed.  During the season, they took care of the owners and their guests when they flew in from Boston or their home in Palm Beach.  At the end of each season, they hosted a field trial and Preacher John got to visit with all his old friends and Etta Mae and the ladies of the church put on a supper for them.  The rest of the year they took care of the land and the quail.

      At the end of it, the family from Boston sold out to some dot-com, overnight mega-millionaire who knew everything or could look it up on the Internet.  He hired a young guy out of Auburn with a Masters’ in quail to run the place.  The new owner offered to have John stay on part time as the boy’s assistant, but John was 67 and felt it was time to retire and devote full time to taking care of Etta Mae.  And for these last years, it was a full time job.  Etta Mae’s heart had been patched up so many times, she always joked that they should have just put in a zipper.  When they weren’t going to doctor’s appointments, there was always someone visiting.  Grandchildren and now great-grandchildren were always being dropped off at the house while their parents went shopping or to supper.  Sundays after church most of them were there for dinner.  Etta Mae was pretty much relegated to a supervisory role, but it was still her kitchen.  Now, she was gone.  Preacher John hoped that Etta Mae was right and that she was now sitting at the knee of God beside his son Jesus watching over her family here on earth.

      As the graveside service ended, Preacher John was surrounded by his family and accepted the condolences of the many members of the community that had turned out.  At the end of the line was a man John knew well.  Bobby Pickett had played football with his youngest son and then gone to Tech to play for the Yellow Jackets.  He had blown out his knee his sophomore year and come home.  He had always loved dogs and horses and had asked John to take him on.  He had learned the field trial game quickly and had a great way with a dog.  John helped him get his first customers, and Bobby had gone on to win all the big trials.  He had been handler of the year a couple of times, run a few Top All Age Dog winners and even won the National.  Bobby hugged John and then held his hand and looked him in the eye, “What are you going to do now?”

      John hadn’t even thought about it.  He was 75 years old and tired, “I’m going to get some rest. Then I’m going to sit in that rocker on the porch and watch my grandchildren and great grandchildren chase each other around the yard.”

      “That’ll be fine for a while.  But I know you.  You won’t be able to sit there for very long.  Why don’t you come to North Dakota with me this summer?”

      Bobby had taken over John’s lease and still stayed in the old farmhouse that John had first rented 50 years ago.  It was a tempting offer but, “You don’t need some old man to look after.”

      “I’m pretty sure you can still look after yourself.  Just think about it.  I’ll check back with you before I head north.”

      John did think about it.  He thought about it a lot – the endless prairie with rolling hills of grass interspersed with wheat and other grain fields.  The sharptails, huns, and pheasants brooding their chicks through the summer months.  The cool mornings when you had to get up and get as much done as possible before the scorching heat of the day made it too hot for the dogs, horses, and people.  The magnificent sunsets that light up the sky in a whole palette of reds and purples.  At night, when he wasn’t dreaming of Etta Mae as she was before her first stroke, he dreamed of the prairies – of young dogs finally giving up chasing and pointing, of the proud walking horses loping to the dog, the flush of the birds, and the crack of the shotgun as he fired its blank cartridge into the air.

      But it was just a dream.  He was too old and too tired.  He never called Bobby, and Bobby never called him.  Then on the first of July he heard a diesel pick-up thumping as it pulled into the dooryard.  He stepped out into the sweltering heat of summer in Georgia to find Bobby climbing out of the driver’s seat.  John invited him in and poured him a glass of iced tea in the air conditioned kitchen.  After a few minutes of small talk, Bobby just looked at the man who had made it possible for him to live a life he loved.  Finally, he got to the reason for his visit, “I was going to call you, but I figured it would be too easy for you to say no on the phone.  I’m leaving for the prairies in the morning.  You need to come with me.”

      John didn’t say anything at first.  He thought of all the reasons why he shouldn’t go, “What about my house?”

      “Turn off the lights, have one of the girls come clean out the refrigerator, turn down the air conditioning, and close the door on the way out.”

      John thought some more, “I don’t have any gear.”

      “Neither did I the first time you took me north.  Now, I’ve got enough to outfit most of a field trial gallery.”

      “What about . . .”

      “Mr. John, we could sit here for hours and you could think of reasons not to go and I could shoot them down one by one.  Or you could just answer one question for me and then I’ll leave you alone.  Do you want to go?”

      John started with another objection and then stopped.  He thought of another and then another but didn’t say them out loud as he knew Bobby was right.  They were just excuses. “Yes.”

      Bobby smiled at the old man and reached across the table and squeezed his hand, “Alright then, let’s get to it.  Make some calls, pack a bag, and we’ll be on our way.”

      “Now?”

      “Yes, now.  I just came over to pick up a couple of dogs.  I have to go home tonight and we leave from my place in the morning.  We’ll be on the lease for the Fourth of July.”

      “I can’t leave now.”

      “Are we going to have to go through this whole deal again?”

      “No, but . . .”

      “Good. Let’s get to it.”

      John called John, Jr. and was at a loss for words.  John, Jr. helped him out, “Bobby called me a couple of days ago and told me what he was planning to do.  My only regret is that I can’t go with you.  We’ll take care of everything.  You don’t have to call me every night like you did Ma, but check in once in a while.”

      John looked at Bobby who was trying to avoid him, but John could feel the smile on his face and remembered the sheepish grin he had all those years ago when John would catch him taking a short cut with a dog or a horse.  He just shook his head and went over again all the things he wanted his son to do to make sure Etta Mae’s house was taken care of.  And then Bobby helped him pack a bag and they left.  He stayed in the spare room at Bobby’s that night.  It was the first time he hadn’t slept in his own bed since the night after Etta Mae’s stroke 25 years ago.  It took him a while to fall asleep but he finally drifted off and dreamed of the prairies.

      He woke to Bobby moving around in the kitchen before the sun was up and soon smelled the coffee brewing and heard the bacon sizzling.  John went to the bathroom first and then joined Bobby and Mack in the kitchen.  Mack was a short, wiry black man of indeterminate age.  He was Bobby’s scout and helper in all things and this would be his tenth trip to the prairies.  John had met him last night when they had pulled in and unloaded the dogs that Bobby had picked up.  They had 32 dogs and six horses to load in the trailer before they could pull out. It was 30 hours of driving time to the lease and they’d try to do it in two very long days.  Over the years, Bobby had found the perfect spots to get the dogs out, water them and the horses, load up again, then get fuel and food, and get back on the road in the shortest amount of time.