Fred’s Place

I didn’t grow up with Jimmy King, and it’s a good thing I didn’t because I probably wouldn’t be alive today based on stories I’ve been told by the few childhood friends of his who lived to tell about his escapades. Things like burying people up to their neck and turning beetles loose on them or forcing boys to lie on the sidewalk so he could see how many of them he could jump over with his bicycle.

But once we met when we were in our 20’s, Jimmy and I became fast friends with young wives and young children. He was built like a skinned ox, and I was built like a victim of a famine. He and I hunted and fished together, and our families vacationed together. Like the time all eight of us, four in the front and four in the back, loaded up in his car and took two days to drive all the way across the country to the Atlantic Ocean. That was back in the day when seatbelts were optional and kids would curl up in the floorboard or stretch out in the back window.

Our families camped together in a tent that was less than waterproof. And we camped in a tiny, unairconditioned, pop-up camper made for four people. The only reason we didn’t die of heat stroke was because we hung three box fans from a metal rod at the top of the camper and turned them all on High. Some people camped at night serenaded by the sound of treefrogs and crickets. We were serenaded by the sounds of a low-flying prop-engine airplane.

It was during a particularly hot camping trip that we (actually, it was our wives) struck upon the idea of renting a house on the river where we could enjoy hot showers and air conditioning. So, we patrolled the banks of the river on our pontoon boat with an eye out for a likely looking place to stay.

As we eased into a secluded bay, there, perched high on a rock bluff was a majestic three-story cabin with a crisscrossing stairway built on the side of the bluff, leading from a boat dock to the cabin. It looked perfect.

The question was, was it a private residence or was it something you could rent?

Only one way to find out; climb the steps and knock on the door.

From the vantage point of the bay, the distance between the dock and the cabin up above looked reasonable. But when we tied off our boat to the dock and looked up, the cabin couldn’t be seen. That, my friends, was a sign that we should have paid attention to.

With each adult clutching the hand of a child lest they fall to their death, we embarked upon the climb. Excitement and adrenalin made the trek seem like nothing. (I want you to remember that line.)

I will say this, skinned oxen have a more difficult time climbing cliffs than skinny goats, especially if the ox has a history of asthma.

While our children jerked loose from us and ran up the final twenty steps, whooping and hollering, Jimmy’s breath was wheezing and whistling like a piccolo in a John Phillip Sousa march number. I gladly rested with him at the top as we watched our families circle the cabin like Indians circling a wagon train, peering in the windows and exclaiming how great the inside looked.

Jimmy and I walked to the front door where a sign said, Fred’s Place, and had a phone number to call about renting it. This was way, way before cellphones, so calling would have to wait.

Our wives were suspect about renting a place without first looking inside, but the front door was locked. We were just about to walk away when Jimmy took one last look in a window and saw one of his daughters inside waving at him.

“What the—?”

The next instant, his daughter opened the front door.

“How’d you get in?” Jimmy asked.

“The back door was open.”

That was the second sign we should have paid attention to.

We all poured inside and looked in every room on every floor and peered in the bathrooms, too.

It indeed was perfect!

A week later, the cabin was reserved in our names for a week the next summer.

For twelve months, we dreamed and talked about how much we were looking forward to staying at Fred’s Place.

When the time finally came, Brenda and I had somewhere else we had to be the first night, so we arrived a day after the Kings.

Jimmy met us at the door, looking apprehensive and nervous.

“We took care of it,” he said. “You probably won’t even notice.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“Well, when we got here, there was a terrible smell in the cabin.”

(That was sign #3)

“We looked everywhere for it,” he continued, “and finally found it in one of the closets downstairs. It was a dead possum.”

... To be continued in next week’s edition.

* Taken from The Wit and Wisdom of David Johnson, Volume I1: The Hairy Catfish Caper.