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I’ve known Charlie Cook Bridges for as long as I’ve known anyone or anything, so it’s a little hard to get my mind around the fact that he recently passed away.
More than just a friend of my father’s, Charlie Cook was an important influence on me from my early childhood, through my teen years and on into adulthood. In my life, he was a friend, a teacher, a boss and an occasional partner in crime. No matter the circumstances, Charlie Cook was someone I was always happy to see.
Some of my earliest memories are of Charlie Cook calling me over to a card table and sliding his winnings into my hands. He and Mrs. Mary Kathryn played cards with my parents pretty regularly, so I have no idea how much he gave me over the years, but it seemed like a fortune every time. I even remember my father coming in once from a game at Charlie Cook’s house and handing me a small paper sack full of change. He said, “Charlie Cook sent this to you.” On the outside of the bag was written, “For my shirttail buddy.”
For all the years he called me that, I never knew exactly what it meant. But there was never a question in my mind that he was someone I could count on to be on my side, pulling for me and wishing me the best. He never said any of those things to me outright, but I always knew they were true.
When I was 13, Charlie Cook hired me to work with him in the bees. I was never sure if he actually wanted my help or if Daddy just goaded him into giving me a job, but it didn’t make any difference. I learned a lot about life and work during those few weeks. Even at that age, I remember wondering how anyone could work all day at his job and then come home and work most of the night in the bees. But what impresses me still is that no matter how long or hard we worked, Charlie Cook managed to crack jokes, laugh and have fun the whole time.
Of course, he had to have a sense of humor and loads of patience to deal with my father all his life.
For one thing, Daddy had a four-wheel-drive and a winch, which meant he would try to drive all over the swamp. When he got hopelessly stuck, which was fairly often, he had only one reliable backup plan: Call Charlie Cook.
My brother Hentz remembered one occasion when Daddy buried his old truck on the old road to the camp. He sent Hentz out to the Capps’ house to call Charlie Cook. But when the two of them got back to Daddy’s truck, Daddy was nowhere to be found. After a lot of work, they finally freed the truck. When they found my father, he was back at the camp in front of the fire.
Charlie Cook was livid, but he got his revenge.
A couple of years later, it was my brother Bill who was with Daddy when they got stuck. Daddy said, “Charlie Cook was going fishing this morning at Iamonia Lake. He ought to be headed home in a little while. Walk up to the highway, flag him down and tell him to come down here and pull me out.”
Sure enough, Charlie Cook came driving by and pulled over. When Bill told him what was wrong, Charlie Cook told him to hop in the truck. But they didn’t go down to the camp. Instead, Bill said they went back to Charlie Cook’s house, watched television for a while and then had some lunch.
After a brief nap, Charlie Cook finally said, “Alright, now let’s go get your sorry Daddy out of the mud hole.”
It speaks volumes about Charlie Cook that these are just two of many, many stories and memories I have of him, all of which bring a smile to my face. And I’m just one of many, many people who have them.
But what’s more important is that he was the kind of man who inspires us to remember those stories and tell them now and for many, many years to come. Not everybody has a shirttail buddy, but I did and I won’t ever forget it.
My father-in-law was complaining about raccoons recently and debating the best way to keep them out of his garbage cans. From what I gather, he doesn’t mind them visiting his yard or scrounging for food. His biggest complaint is that they don’t clean up after themselves.
When I was 10 or 11 years old, I spent the night on a houseboat with my father and his friend Harold “Greasy” Gaskin. They were going fishing that evening and the following morning, but it was during hunting season and I got to bring Daddy’s old Remington .22 and a brand new box of bullets.
Every time there’s a huge Lottery or Powerball jackpot, people talk about what they would do with all that money if they won. Mostly it’s the same old stuff – mansions, vacation homes, yachts, expensive cars and the like.
Not me, though. My dreams are much simpler. I have enough stuff. I just want stuff that works like it’s supposed to.
Of all the family members I write about, my two oldest brothers, Mack and Hentz, are the ones who appear least frequently. For his part, Hentz has been noticeably tight-lipped since I started committing these stories to print. Which makes sense because his advice when I started my blog was, “Be careful that you don’t write anything now that could be admitted as evidence later.”
I was cleaning out my mind’s closet at year’s end and these were some odds and ends I ran across.
I was in my 20s, I think, when I first learned that “discharging a firearm within the city limits” is a crime in many places. When I was growing up in Blountstown, it was sometimes a necessity and sometimes entertainment. And on rare occasions, it was both.