My good friend, Robert Dunnavant Jr. died in 1995. I miss him. We were great pals except when we were having a spat.
I met Bob when I returned to Athens in November 1968 to practice law. If the herd was stampeding north, Bob was heading south. He never married, occasionally drove a Porsche, he called “Broom Hilda,” but usually got around in a small red pickup.
He lived in a log cabin on Malone Circle with Sally, his black cocker spaniel. Sally was the only dog in Athens who had her own telephone listing. Bob was different. When a guy was as bright and talented as he was, he didn’t have to run with the herd. He had been a disc jockey, TV anchor, editor of the Athens News Courier, writer for the Huntsville Times, Birmingham Post-Herald, Birmingham News, Atlanta Journal Constitution, USA Today and Life. He was an award-winning journalist, photographer and author.
He loved to camp. Over the years we camped in the Colorado Rockies, Tetons and the Smoky Mountains.
When my son, Matt, was 10 we invited Bob to join us on a camping trip to the Smokies. Bob had purchased a set of Boy Scout aluminum cooking pots that fit inside each other and he was anxious to try them out.
It was cold when we departed Athens in my Jeep pickup and headed to Cades Cove. That night, Matt and I threw our sleeping bags in the back of the Jeep and crawled inside. Bob set his prized pots on the tailgate so they would be handy the next morning, then pitched his bag on the ground near the fire.
I woke cold and needing to relieve myself. I crawled out of the bag, slipped on my boots and coat and trudged off to the woods. Back in the bag, I thawed out and finally went to sleep. Later, I woke again and repeated the maneuver. When I woke a third time to answer the call of nature it was even colder. I was about to get up again when a loud voice spoke to me. It didn’t come from a burning bush like in the Bible, but from the stack of shiny pots.
“ARISE FROM THY SLUMBER AND STRAIGHTWAY MAKE USE OF THY FRIEND BOB’S NEW POTS.”
I reached over, quietly lifted a pot from the stack and did as instructed.
Next morning, I woke before Bob, emptied the pot and went back to sleep.
Later, a clanking noise woke me. I saw Bob preparing to make coffee in the pot, which I had used.
“Uh... Bob… uh… uh, I wouldn’t use that pot if I were you.”
“Why not?”
“Well, uh… uh... I just wouldn’t.” How do you tell your best friend that you whizzed in his favorite cooking utensil?
He looked down at the pot and then up at me, eyes narrowed. “You didn’t?”
“Now Bob, don’t worry, I’ll wash it and it’ll be as good as new and no one will ever know the difference.”
“I can’t believe you did that!” He flung the pot to the ground.
Over the years, I’ve thought about the voice that spoke to me that night. It was no angel. I don’t think they get involved in whizzing in a best friend’s cooking pot. I’m pretty sure it was the same voice that spoke to me many times when I was a kid and told me to play hooky, sneak off to the swimming hole or steal watermelons.
Jerry Barksdale
December 4, 2008
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