Steve Patterson: Characters I’ve Known and Loved

 

 

I believe in love, laughter and friendship. Without the loyal friends that decorate our lives with love and laughter, life becomes a dreary routine.

Perhaps my life’s greatest blessings other than my family and a few very classy bird dogs, have been knowing a wide array of larger-than-life characters who colored my life with amazing lessons and demonstrated love, loyalty and the true meaning of friendship.

 

Boy, have I ever collected a diverse bunch of friends, and some were real doozies!

True friends bring a deep sense of loyalty, steady love and shared stories that stay with us forever. These special souls leave a permanent mark on our hearts and guide us through our darkest and brightest days. They stay by our side through the hard times. They keep our secrets and defend our honor when we’re not present to defend it ourselves.

True friends accept our flaws and embrace us like their own family. They help us grow into better versions of ourselves. I’ve been blessed to have friends that acted as steady anchors when the world around me grew tough and chaotic.

These souls have been saints and sinners alike, and they all have one thing in common: I called them friend and loved them deeply. Each one created joyous memories that lasted long after they happened. They all had the ability to turn ordinary afternoons into splendid adventures, and they all taught one profound lesson; never take life too seriously.

These colorful characters always showed up when I called and always offered a safe place where I never had to hide my true self.

Below, I write a brief treatise on a few of the many amazing characters that have graced my life and had a profound impact on me. Their memories still bring a smile to my face and are in my thoughts often. They are gone now, but they all live on in my heart.

 

MARVIN THURSTON LITTLE

Wow, what a character! Anyone who ever knew Thurston, and there are many who did, will confirm he was among the most colorful folks to ever grace God’s green earth. Books could be filled with Thurston Little stories. I could write for weeks about this man, but I’ll save some stories for the fireplace gatherings at duck camp.

Thurston came from a large, old, powerful political family in Alcorn County. His father, Mr. Arch, had been President of the Alcorn County Board of Supervisors for 24 years and then his brothers, Travis followed by Harold, had served another twenty-some -odd years in that same capacity. Travis later served three terms as a state Senator and was president of the state Senate for two of those terms. Thurston had six brothers and two sisters, each of whom had large families themselves, so it’s easy to see how they had great political influence. Truth be told, they ran Alcorn County for many years. Politically speaking, if they were for you, you won in Alcorn County.

I first met Thurston in 1973 while working for Sen. John C Stennis in Washington D.C. About once a month, Thurston would come to D.C., to visit his good friend Sen. James O Eastland. These were greatly anticipated visits by Sen Eastland’s staff because Thurston would treat them to lunch and dinner at all the best spots in town, and I would always tag along.

Thurston immediately took a liking to me and I enjoyed him too. Over the years he kinda adopted me as his project, and we developed a father-son kind of relationship.

It was a real experience to spend time around Thurston. Alexander Graham Bell surely had Thurston Little in mind when he invented the telephone. Wherever Thurston was the phone was ringing with folks seeking favors or explaining personal problems. Most of the time they found a willing, sympathetic ear and the surety of a solution to their problem, but on a few occasions, they would get one of the most colorful cussings and dressing-downs ever heard. Then, he’d agree to help, and he’d always agree to help.

Once Thurston took a fella from Tippah County who had been charged with making whiskey to see Senator Eastland. After Thurston explained the man’s predicament, the Senator agreed to “make some calls” and get him the help he needed but also admonished both men to “Go back home, forget about it, stop making whiskey and don’t ever come back to see me again about this.” They thanked the Senator, parted ways and went back home. About six months later the ole boy from Tippah County got caught making whiskey again. He, of course, called Thurston. After getting a lengthy cussing, Thurston agreed to take him back to see the Senator and seek his help.

As the Senator patiently and expressionlessly listened to Thurston’s second plea for help, the Senator interrupted and said, “Stud, (that’s what the Senator called Thurston) did he poison anybody?”

To which Thurston responded, “No sir, he makes good whiskey.”

Then the Senator slapped the desk and said, “Well, by golly, I guess I’ll have to help him again.”

Thurston and Senator Eastland were big buddies, and Thurston was considered one of the leaders of the much heralded Eastland political machine.

Thurston had a mild case of gout. Senator Eastland had a more severe case of the same malady. Oddly enough whenever Senator Eastland’s gout flared up, so would Thurston’s. They would go to the Eastland plantation in Doddsville and stay for several days to “suffer the gout together.”

Thurston’s daughter Jill, who is now a member of the Mississippi House of Representatives, used to babysit my children. When Thurston learned this, he decided to take her place as babysitter when Debbie and I were both required to be out of town. Our boys loved it when he came to stay with them. They called him “Pops.” When “Pops” came, they knew he would take them anywhere they wanted to go, feed them anything they wanted, and always end the day with ice cream.

My dear friend Thurston had a couple of run-ins with the federal government and served a little time in federal prison. In his last encounter with the Feds, he was being interviewed by the FBI and federal prosecutors, and after a long and exhausting grilling by them, he is reported to have said to them, “Boys, I’ve told you all I know. “Now if that ain’t good enough for you, you can just shoot me in the head and make wallpaper of out me. I’m going to the house!”

I well remember the day he got home from federal prison. A great number of people including me went to welcome him home. I recall simply asking him, “How was it?” Without hesitation he responded, “It was wonderful son! I was in there with several Mafia bosses, and I was able to lead three of them to the Lord!”

Not long after that, Thurston and I attended the funeral of another father figure of mine, “Daddy Buck” Tatum from Ripley. Buck and Thurston were longtime friends and the Tatums had been like family to me my entire life. As we were leaving the cemetery in Thurston’s big Lincoln, Thurston turned to me with a tear in his eye and said, “Son, one day you’ll be laying me in the ground. I want you to promise me you’ll tell them I’m not in that casket. Tell them ole Thurston has gone on to glory to be with the lord.”

About 10 years later, I kept my promise and did just that when I gave the eulogy at his homegoing. Thurston was no saint, few people are, but he was my friend, and I loved him dearly.

REVEREND JESSE JACKSON

I first met the Reverend Jesse Jackson in the late spring of 1984 when my friend Bert Lance, who was then the chairman of the Georgia Democratic Party, summoned me and all the other southern (states of the old confederacy plus Kentucky ) state chairs to Washington, D.C. for a meeting with the Reverend Jackson, who was a candidate for President of the United States. Like me, most of the other southern chairs had already endorsed and were committed to former Vice President Walter Mondale.

At this time it was clear to me and I think to Rev. Jackson too, that he was going to lose the nomination of the Democratic Party to Vice President Mondale, but it was also clear to all of us “the Rev” was likely to win or at least amass significant delegate support in each of our states, especially Mississippi. The purpose of the meeting was to make plans to join forces, engage in voter registration, and prepare for the general election campaign after the convention was over. All of the state chairs were very enthusiastic about the prospects of this new coalition and pledged their support and party resources to the cause.

I was the lone holdout. When it came my turn to speak, I challenged Rev. Jackson rather forcefully because I had a unique situation developing in Mississippi. We also had a senate race on the horizon. My mentor Governor William Winter was going to be the Democratic nominee to face Republican Senator Thad Cochran, and one of Rev. Jackson’s state campaign leaders, state Senator Johnnie Walls, was threatening to run for U. S. Senator as an independent thereby dooming any Democrat’s chance of winning. I made it clear that Rev. Jackson had to get control of his folks and join our entire ticket before I’d agree to anything.

After hearing my concerns, Rev. Jackson surprisingly said he agreed with me. I’ll never forget his response. He laughed, started referring to me as “Mississippi“ (a nickname he used throughout our relationship) and said he’d work with me to get Senator Walls out of the race.

Over the course of the next few weeks, I spoke with Rev. Jackson daily and we developed plans for the path forward.

A huge political rally was planned before the qualifying deadline, on the steps of the South Carolina state capitol. Rev Jackson, South Carlonia Governor Dick Riley, Alabama Governor George Wallace, South Carlonia Senator Fritz Hollings, and Kentucky Governor Martha Lane Collins were all scheduled to speak. My instructions were to get Sen. Walls to the South Carlonia rally, and we would meet and negotiate a plan going forward.

I chartered a small plane and Senator Walls, Senator Henry Kirksey, and a Nation of Islam minister Rev. Eddie X left Jackson for Columbia South Carlonia.

As soon as we arrived on the capitol steps, Rev. Jackson motioned for me to come up on the platform with him. I of course complied. When I made my way to him, he said, “Mississippi, are you scheduled to speak?”

“No sir,” I replied.

“Yes, you are. I’m going to call on you. You’ve got 10 more minutes to prepare, and five minutes to speak.” Then “the Rev” turned away as he was being introduced by Governor Riley.

Sure enough, about midway through his powerful speech, he turned to me and said, “Mississippi, come on up and tell these folks about the new South.”

I have no idea what I said, but I spoke for about five minutes and got respectful applause. The rally was a grand success and was covered by all the networks on the nightly news. At the rally’s conclusion, Rev. Jackson and the Mississippi group I had brought with me adjourned to an office Jesse had secured in the state capitol. There’s a long story about this meeting that puts Rev. Jesse Jackson’s enormous skills as a diplomat/negotiator on full display, but for the purposes of this reminiscing, it suffices to say we were successful. Senator Walls decided not to run and endorsed our efforts going forward. Many years later, as fate would have it, I was the first to support Senator Walls’ election as state party Chair.

Jesse Jackson had absolutely no sense of time. He would often call me at 2:00 or 3:00 o’clock in the morning, usually waking up Debbie, who had grown accustomed to it, with the same questions, “Are the chickens up down there? Where’s ‘Mississippi’?” To which Debbie would always sleepily reply, “I’ll get him for you Reverend Jackson.”

One Saturday in early September 1984, Jesse and I had planned a voter registration drive covering the entire state of Mississippi. I had secured agreements with most of the state’s circuit clerks to keep their offices open on that day and with some to even have remote locations ready to accept new voter registrations.

We started with a rally at Jackson State university where Jesse and I spoke to an estimated crowd of 3,000 unregistered voters and then marched hand-in-hand with the President of Jackson State and Miss Mississippi to the Hinds County courthouse to get in line to register.

We then went to “Freedom Village“ in Washington County that was hosting a huge Blues festival. I have no idea how many folks were in attendance, but it was among the largest crowds I’ve ever seen. Jesse made a rip-roaring speech urging voter registration and announcing remote locations where one could register. After Jesse greeted folks. signed autographs and posed for photographs for a couple of hours, we returned to Jackson Airport for Jesse to take a private plane back to Chicago. News reports the following days reported that it was the most successful voter registration drive in the state’s history.

As several of Jesse’s most ardent supporters gathered to say goodbye at the airport, Jesse turned to me and unexpectedly said, “Mississippi come with me, I need to talk to you.” Of course, I complied and followed him onboard the plane, thinking we would visit a few minutes before take-off. Next thing I knew, we were taxiing down the runway headed north. I offered no protest and stayed engaged in the conservation all the way to Chicago. Jesse thought nothing of it. That was life around this tornado of energy and chaos. Once we arrived in Chicago, I said goodbye to my friend and scurried around to find a flight back home to Jackson.

Over the course of the next several years. I developed a strong bond with the Reverend Jackson. We laughed together, we cried together, we prayed together, and we spent a lot of time together. Whenever he was in Mississippi, I was usually at his side. And if he came to New Orleans or Memphis, I was always his dinner guest. We became buddies and remained so until the last couple of years of his life when our mutual circumstances interfered with much communication.

In my view, Reverend Jesse Jackson was one of the most effective and passionate orators of the last century. He was the very best public speaker I have ever known. He invited me to have dinner with him after both his 1984 and 1988 speeches at the Democratic conventions in San Francisco and Atlanta. Those two speeches, in my view, are the best speeches delivered at a democratic convention since William Jennings Bryan’s Cross of Gold speech in 1896.

One of my most vivid recollections of Jesse was the night of Barrack Obama’s election as President of the United States, when the cameras cast through the crowd and spotted Jesse holding a little American flag with tears flowing down his face, as the newly elected President spoke. I have to admit I cried too when I saw my old friend because I knew more than most that Obama would not have been possible without the tireless years of work Jesse Jackson had given to America.

Reverend Jesse Jackson was a champion for the people. He spoke up for the oppressed and overlooked. He will be remembered as a steadfast example of Christ’s love. I am blessed and proud to have had him as a friend.

MR. FARRELL BERRYHILL

My dear friend Farrell Berryhill was one of the finest gentlemen I have ever known. He demonstrated true friendship unlike anyone else who ever entered my life. Our story is simple and demonstrates loyalty and brotherly love in a manner that today is almost unbelievable and certainly unheard of.

Farrell was the long time President of first National bank of Pontotoc, and one of the most civic-minded men I’ve ever known. He was an old school banker and an old school civic leader that knew how to get things done.

I came to know Farrell when I became Executive Director of the Tombigbee River Valley Water Management District, the Mississippi sponsor of the Tennessee-Tombigbee Waterway. Farrell was on the board of directors representing Pontotoc County. We immediately became friends and worked on conservation and economic development projects throughout north Mississippi for years.
Farrell Berryhill was one of the first people to encourage me to run for State Auditor. He had great faith in my political career and hopes for me helping Mississippi move away from the politics of race and division and into a hopeful twenty-first century. When I announced my candidacy, Farrell was among my most enthusiastic supporters. He campaigned for me everywhere he went and spoke on my behalf many times.

Soon after I announced, Farrell called me and asked that I come see him at the bank in Pontotoc. I did as he asked, and we had a talk that in today’s world could not take place.

“Steve, I’ve opened an account in your name and another in the campaign’s name. From now on, I’m your banker. When you get home, close any accounts you have and send me the deposits.”. He wasn’t asking; he was telling.

His reason for doing this was he knew I needed someone to look out for me, and he also knew my great flaw of getting embroiled in other causes and not keeping up with my own business. Of course, I did exactly as he said, and he saw to it my money management problems were solved.

On the night I was elected, I honestly believe Farrell Berryhill was the happiest man in the state. No one, and I mean no one, ever had as much confidence in me as he did. His enthusiasm was contagious, and any doubts I ever had about my own abilities were quickly put aside with one call to with Farrell.

Several months after I was sworn in as State Auditor, Farrell called and asked that I come see him as soon as I could. I told him I’d be there the next week, and we said goodbye and went on about our business. I thought nothing of it, and assumed he had some banking matters to discuss with me. I had a small personal loan and another small campaign loan needing to be addressed.

The following Monday morning, I went to Farrell’s office on the square in Pontotoc. We greeted each other like always with a handshake and hug. I noticed he closed the door to his office, something I’d never seen him do before.

He began the conversation with a stern, serious look on his face. “Steve, I need you to tell me something. I need you to think about it real hard and real quick. What do you anticipate your financial needs may be in the next couple of years?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m doing OK. My house payment is manageable, and I’m not getting ahead, but I’m OK, I can’t anticipate or foresee anything right now. Why do you ask that?”

Then he hit me with information that knocked me to my knees.

“Steve, I’ve been diagnosed with melanoma cancer. It’s inoperable. I have only a few months to live, and I need to know you are going to be alright,” he said.

As I tried to respond, he interrupted and said, “I haven’t told folks in the bank yet, so don’t you say anything.”

Finally, I was able to respond and said, “I don’t need anything but by golly I’ve never known love like what you just did – How can I help you?”

Farrell’s answer to my lame offer to help still rings in my ears –“Just do good, Steve. Just do good.”

I wept all the way home. Two months later my friend Farrell Berryhill went home to be with theLord.

I often wonder how my life would have been different had my friend Farrell lived.

K9 FILIPICH

I’ve known lots of folks with nicknames, and I usually know where their names originated by their physical appearance or personality traits. K9, Crash, Sunshine, Popcorn, Light Pole, Disco, Flick, Backhoe, Spider, Junebug, And Redbone are but a few of the folks with colorful nicknames I’ve known and loved.

I have no idea where my friend K9 (pronounced canine) got his name, nor do I know his real name.

K 9 was a dear friend who literally knew everyone in Biloxi and most of the folks in the three coast counties. If he didn’t know them, it’s a good bet they knew him. Or of him. In fact, I knew about him long before I actually knew him. K 9 was a bookie. He took sports bets all over the state and, as he would sometimes say, “spent a little time in the joint.”

I first met K9 through my friends Jerry O’keefe, the former mayor of Biloxi and political powerhouse on the Coast, and Fred LaRue of Watergate fame. I was running for State Auditor, and they thought it would be a good idea for me to spend an afternoon with K9.

We were scheduled to make late afternoon and early evening stops at The French Club, in Biloxi, better known as the Fleur de Lis Society, which was the hang out for all those of French descent, and then go to the Slavonian Lodge, which had been founded by Croatian and Slavic immigrants generations earlier. The Slavonian lodge is commonly referred to today by the locals as “Red Square.”

K9 and I went to the bar of the French Club first. The lounge is a nicely appointed, spotlessly clean space with a huge, beveled mirror behind the actual bar. The very first thing I noticed was one of my bumper stickers placed strategically on that spotless mirror. After visiting with about a dozen folks, mainly oyster and shrimp fishermen, I turned my attention back to K9. He was in a heated conversation using his well-known colorful language explaining that having my bumper sticker on the mirror was surely a violation of club rules. The bartender behind the bar was having none of it and explained in equally colorful language that he was in charge of this bar and, “Ain’t nobody taking that bumper sticker down.” Then he topped it off by saying “We don’t operate like you silly Slavs over at your lodge, to uproarious laughter from everyone in the bar. K9 calmly responded “Well, we’ll see about that.” And changed the subject. We spent about another hour telling stories, laughing and having fun.

Then we went to K9’s home turf, the Slavonian lodge where we had an equally good time and stayed until well after midnight.

A couple of weeks later, I was back on the Coast campaigning and was told K9 was insistent that I go back to the Slavonian lodge with him.

I somewhat reluctantly agreed, and when I walked in, it became obvious why K9 was so insistent. My bumper stickers were pasted everywhere. On ash trays, on mirrors, on chairs, in the bathrooms– everywhere! K9 was not going to be outdone by those silly Frenchmen.

We of course had a rather large time and made many friends that I still cherish today.

K9 had an extremely foul mouth. He meant nothing by it, but he was the very best cusser I’ve ever known. In fact, his term of endearment was “motherf——-. “Hey you ole motherf——-! “He’s a good ole mother——! That elaboration was simply part of K9’s vocabulary.

As the years passed, I developed a routine with K9. We had a standing arrangement that whenever I was on the Coast, my last stop would be to meet him in the back of the Trophy Lounge in the Broadwater Hotel.

These were very important meetings because K9 would have a list of calls for me to make in the coming days. Complete with phone numbers, and notes that read: “His mama is sick, oldest girl is getting married, son is All-State basketball player, etc.”
If I needed to know the happenings in Harrison county, K9 knew the scoop! He was one of the most brutally honest men I’ve ever known.

One time my wife Debbie and my assistant Lynette Blackburn were with me on the Coast when I made my usual stop to see K9 at the Trophy Lounge. Neither of them had ever met K9, but they both had heard me tell stories about him. As we entered the front of the lounge, we all heard a voice in the distant booming, “Hey you ole motherf_____, I’m back here !”

They both turned to each other and in unison said “K9!”

I loved K9. He was the very definition of a loyal friend. Apparently, as Shakespeare once said, “I’m bewitched by the company of rogues.”

CONGRESSMAN FRANK SMITH

My friend Frank Smith was one of the truly great public servants to ever serve Mississippi. His full potential for leadership likely will never be known by the broader public except in the annals of history. He was truly an amazing gentleman with both a heart and, importantly, a creative brain for public service. His career in public service was cut short not because of his actions or deeds but because of the stains of segregation during the time he served.

Frank Smith was a World War II veteran, who served six terms in the United States House of Representatives from the Delta region of Mississippi. He was born in 1918 in Sidon, Mississippi, and grew up in Greenwood. His father was a Leflore County deputy sheriff who was killed by a prisoner when Frank was only eight years old.

Frank was managing editor of the liberal-leaning Greenwood Morning Call newspaper in 1946 and 1947. When John C. Stennis was first elected to the U.S. Senate, he hired Frank as a legislative assistant, a job I would fill some 25 years later.

Frank was elected as a Democrat to the Congress in 1950 and served until he was defeated in 1962 by Jamie Whitten. After Mississippi lost a seat in Congress due to reapportionment, Frank was slated to run against the politically powerful congressman Jamie Whitten, and the rest is history. Frank, of course, lost the race to Congressman Whitten who had been in Congress since 1941.

As a member of Congress, Frank was noted as a leader in the areas of conservation, education, flood control, low tariffs, and support of the cotton industry. He was also an outspoken proponent of the United Nations. He, along with Arkansas Democrat Brooks Hayes, Alabama Democrat Carl Elliott, and several other Southerners made up a group of progressive southern congressmen pledged to support John F. Kennedy’s election as President and his policies for the nation.

After Frank lost his bid for re-election in 1962, President Kennedy appointed him to the Tennessee Valley Authority Board of Directors where he became a leading advocate for conservation and environmental awareness. He served in that capacity until 1972.

Frank was a real policy wonk and would focus much energy on small details and intricate data of every policy proposal. He was active In Mississippi politics for well over 50 years and was known for his advocacy of civil rights and environmental issues.

My friendship with Frank Smith grew into a close bond with him when Governor William Winter appointed him to join our staff as a special assistant. His office was next door to mine on the top floor of the Sillers building where all the Governor’s staff was located.

At first I was not exactly sure what Frank’s role was. As time passed, I began to realize Frank Smith was Governor William Winter’s one-man think tank. Frank would stay closeted in his office frantically typing away and then one day emerge at my door with what could pass for a PhD dissertation on some policy matter. He would ask me to read the document, and we would spend the next day discussing it before he presented it to the Governor. Those sessions convinced me that Frank Smith was absolutely brilliant and Mississippi had lost a giant by not reelecting him.

Frank suffered from a mild form of narcolepsy. We would be talking and sometimes he would fall asleep mid-sentence only to wake up a few minutes later and complete his thought. I spent countless hours talking to him about everything under the sun and relished the pure joy of learning at the feet of this great man.

When Frank retired in 1983, he and his son opened a used/rare bookstore, Choctaw Books in Jackson. The bookstore specialized in old rare books about Mississippi, and Mississippi history and literature. I spent many Saturday afternoons with Frank enjoying his friendship and his excitement over the new treasures he had found.

On the day after my election as State Auditor, one of the first calls I got was from Frank Smith. He asked that I come by the bookstore as soon as my schedule permitted. He said he had something he wanted to give me.

Several days later I went to see Frank at Choctaw Books. We greeted one another, and he began rummaging through the enormous stacks of papers on his desk and finally emerged with a thirty page memo to me on how to reform the Auditor’s Office and make it a source of progressive change for the state.

I remember thanking Frank for preparing this outline for me and joking with him that it must have taken considerable time to put it all together, and asked, “But how did you know I was going to win?”

Frank’s reply was short and sweet. “I started working on it a year ago when you announced. Then I stopped and asked myself what if he doesn’t win? Then I just kept working in the knowledge that someone was going to win, and I’d share it with them!” Then he dozed off for a few minutes.

Frank Smiths memo served as a guide for me in those first few months of my service. I shared the memo with my Deputy State Auditor Tommy Dyson, who ironically had been on Congressman Smith’s staff years before. We referred to the memo often and implemented many of his recommendations.

I loved Frank Smith. Recently I uncovered the copy of Frank’s entertaining and informative book Congressman from Mississippi he gave me years ago. I find wisdom in its pages every time I revisit it. I recommend it to anyone interested in Mississippi and national politics from the perspective of a truly great man.

CHARLES EVERS

I’m not sure who would be the biggest, larger-than-life character I’ve ever known. After all, I’ve been blessed with some one- of- a- kind characters as friends. Without doubt, my friend Charles Evers would be near the top of my list.

The first line of any biography worth reading about Charles Evers would surely and simply read Medgar’s brother, Charles…

Charles was a man whose banner screamed, “Follow me, I’m Medgar’s brother. I ain’t no better than you, I am you! Get up, don’t be scared, Medgar died for you! Let’s go!” That sums up this complex man about as well as anything I can imagine. I see my old friend as Mississippi’s Moses who led an oppressed, fearful people, his people, out of bondage.

Charles Evers was as complex a man as I ever knew. In him there was a sadness as revealing as the Mississippi Delta Blues, a strength as strong as a live oak and a nature as unpredictable as the southern wind. He was no saint. He was fearless. I honestly think he never uttered a word that he didn’t absolutely believe to be true. His greatest contribution to his fellow man was his display of courage, which inspired courage in his people despite generations of fear, abuse and injustice. He gave them the courage to overcome when no one else could. He was a medley of many impressions, a mixture of strength and humility, courage and self-doubt, all wrapped up in a bewildered mind and soul.

Charles was a civil rights activist, businessman, radio personality and politician. He was also my dear friend.

In 1954 Charles was named by the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People ( NAACP ) as Mississippi chairman for voter registration. With his brother Medgar’s assassination  in 1963, Charles took over his position as field director of the Mississippi branch of the NAACP. In that role he organized and led many demonstrations for the rights of African Americans. He courageously did this while his own life was constantly being threatened. Charles partnered with a group of physically imposing black men from Natchez, known as the “Deacons for Defense and Justice” and relied on them for his personal protection.

In 1969 Charles was named NAACP Man of the Year after being elected as the first Black mayor of a bi-racial southern town since Reconstruction, with his election as mayor of Fayette, Mississippi.

While being a Kennedy Democrat in his early life, and holding several prominent positions with the Democratic National Committee, Charles bounced all over the political spectrum. He was very close to Robert F. Kennedy and traveled everywhere he went during his 1968 bid for the presidency. He was at Kennedy’s side when he was assassinated in Los Angeles.

Yet, he ran for Governor in 1971 and the U.S. senate in 1978 as an independent candidate. In his later life he became identified as a Republican and endorsed Ronald Reagan in 1980 and Donald Trump in 2016. This diversity in party affiliations throughout his life reflects his fostering of friendships from a wide array of political backgrounds and perspectives. Everyone who really got to know Charles liked him. He had supporters even in the ranks of his old racist Klan detractors.

In fact, when I ran for re-election for State Auditor in 1995, he endorsed the entire Republican ticket — except for my Republican opponent. Charles endorsed me separately and promoted my candidacy with enthusiasm on his radio talk show.

I will never forget the first time I met Charles Evers. My dear friend, Ms. Winson Hudson, who was the matriarch of the civil rights movement in the state, gave me tickets to the Medgar Evers homecoming celebration hosted by Charles Evers and BB King, in Fayette, in 1974.

As I entered Charles’ apartment in Fayette, a big, tall, well-dressed African American greeted me at the door and introduced himself as Henry Aaron.
My embarrassing reply to him was to laugh and say, “You look familiar, but you are not Aaron Henry. I know Aaron Henry and you are not him.”

By this time a small crowd had surrounded us laughing with Charles leading the chorus, when he finally explained that the gentleman was Hank Aaron, the Hall of Fame baseball player who had just broken Babe Ruth’s home run record, and not the Clarksdale civil rights activist Dr. Aaron Henry! Charles never failed to tell that story whenever I was in his presence, much to my chagrin.

Charles Evers gave me one of the most interesting nights of my life. He knew I was a somewhat successful boxer in high school and college, so he invited me to have dinner in his home with him and Muhammad Ali. I arrived a few minutes early and Charles introduced me to the champ by saying I had once been a boxer. Ali took my hand into his enormous hand, looked me dead in the eye, winked, and said “This white boy ain’t no boxer.” To which Charles said, “Well he IS a fighter.” Ali laughed and said, “He ain’t no fighter either. I can tell his nose has never been broken.”

We all laughed and that was the last time boxing, much to my dismay, was mentioned the rest of the evening.

On the day I resigned as State Auditor, Charles Evers called and left a message that he wanted to see me at his Radio station on the campus of Tougaloo College. I immediately left my office and drove the short distance to his.

Charles greeted me at the front door and was hopping mad.

He began by telling me what a mistake I had made and kept repeating the phrase “I thought you were a fighter.” You let these SOB’s run you out of office, over a damn car tag.”

Soon he could tell I was in no mood to take his scolding. “My political career is over, Mayor. I simply couldn’t put my family through the humiliation any longer. So, I resigned. I don’t know what I’m going to do now. Politics is all I’ve ever really known.”

When I said my piece, Charles’ mood entirely changed. He sensed I was about to cry.

Charles Evers then rose from his office chair walked toward me and put his huge arm on my shoulder and said “Son, you’re going to keep right on living just like me. You are going to keep on fighting just like me, and we’ll do it together.”

I remember thinking all the pain, all the heartache, all the abuse this man has endured and here I am about to fall apart over the loss of a political office. It took Charles Evers’ tongue lashing to bring me back to the reality of the comparative smallness of what I had just endured.

As I was leaving Charles that early fall day, he asked what I was doing the next day. I told him I had no plans. I can remember him saying as I got in my car “I’m putting on a blues festival in Holmes County tomorrow. I want you to come. It will do you good to be around folks that love you and don’t give a damn that you are no longer in political office. “

I accepted the invitation, and the next day my older son Beau and I joined Mayor Evers in a cattle pasture where Mississippi Delta Blues were rocking. Beau has always said, “The place smelled like crown Royal and looked like a scene from the movie Dolemite.“

We had a blast, ate ribs and chicken and rejoiced in the soulful, passionate sound of the Mississippi Delta Blues all the while thanking God for this magical place and the unconditional love of friends like Charles Evers.

I fought Charles in political battles, without hesitation, several times, but we fought together many more times. Even when we were on opposite sides, sometimes bitterly on different sides, we maintained a strong personal bond that transcended politics.

A documentary is presently being filmed chronicling Charles’ life and contributions. I am honored that the Evers family asked that I be a part of the documentary and I recently spent a day filming at Charles’ home in Jackson.

WILLIAM GARTH “ DOOLEY “ GILCHRIST III

Spending time with my buddy “Dooley” Gilchrist was like spending time with Papa Hemingway, I imagined. In fact, Hemingway summed up my friend “Dooley” pretty succinctly when he said,”Every man’s life ends the same way. It is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguish one man from another.” Living life with overflowing gusto, with wonder, with excitement with self-awareness, is an understated portrait of my pal “Dooley” Gilchrist.

“Dooley” was born in his great-grandmother’s bedroom at Hopewell Plantation on the bank of Steele Bayou, in Issaquena County, Mississippi.

Dooley was the brother of the late National Book Award-winning Southern writer Ellen Gilchrist. His family is listed among the order of first families of Mississippi.

As a high school student, Dooley was an outstanding athlete in football, basketball and baseball, especially baseball. He played on the University of Tennessee golf team and earned a degree in mechanical engineering.

After graduation from UT he worked for his father in the coal mining business in Kentucky, Tennessee and Alabama. His family was also in the construction business in Mississippi.

In the early 1960’s Dooley, his father, his brother Bob, and Ben Puckett (another close friend of mine) bought the caterpillar franchise in Mississippi and turned it into the premier heavy equipment business in the state.

Sometime in the early 1970’s, Dooley’s love of hunting led him to become a licensed professional hunter in Africa. Becoming a licensed professional hunter is no easy feat; the skills needed for that task are extremely demanding.

Dooley became a legend in his own time. He was one of only a very few hunters to achieve “the grand slam of Africa.” In order to achieve that honor, one must harvest an elephant, lion, cape buffalo, leopard, and rhino in one safari. Dooley did it five times!. Dooley’s safari feats are written and talked about all over the world even now. Apparently, Dooley had a unique style that has never been duplicated. I can guarantee that everyone who ever went on a safari with my friend Dooley had one of the most memorial adventures of their lives.

I was blessed to go on a little adventure with Dooley one early spring day. Dooley had leased some hunting land on the Mississippi River down in Jefferson County with an abundance of turkey. I’ve never been much of a turkey hunter, but how could I refuse a few days in the woods with my ole buddy Dooley?

We left one day about noon from Dooley’s house. I brought my trusty fox shotgun, a box of shells and some camo gear. I was traveling light. Dooley was not. It took us hours to load the truck with gear, food, whiskey, wine, brandy, and all sorts of other treats.

Dooley was a fabulous gourmet cook, so I knew we would be treated well at the dining table. Happy hour started around four in the afternoon. And, believe me, it was a ritual like nothing ever before seen. After cocktails came dessert with brandy. Dooley always served a little dessert before the main courses. Everything that came to the table was delicious and was paired perfectly with a French wine and a story. After gorging ourselves on multiple courses, we retired early for the early morning hunt.

The next morning, Dooley placed me in what he said was a prime spot. He stationed himself about thirty yards behind me and waited for the sun to rise. Only a few minutes after daylight, Dooley let out a couple of yelps on his mouth call and immediately gobblers started talking. Dooley did not over work the turkeys, but waited patiently for the conversation to continue. About 30 minutes later, turkeys were gobbling in every direction. I could have shot a turkey easily, but it was much more entertaining seeing Dooley speak turkey with the gobblers that had us surrounded. After a couple of hours of this amazing display of human to turkey interaction. Dooley hollered at me and said, “Let’s go fix some breakfast! Our hunt was over, no shots had been fired, no turkeys had been bagged, but it was by far the best turkey hunt I’ve ever had.

My friend Dooley Gilchrist was a real character. I loved being with him. He had a personal wine cellar in the Royal Orleans Hotel in New Orleans that he made available to his family and friends.

Dooley had an overflowing cornucopia of memorized poetry stored in his brain. It was something to see when Dooley would take a lady by the hand and sincerely recite poetry to her in a fashion that would make Richard Burton envious. I know because I saw him mesmerize my wife Debbie on many occasions. He could quote Poe, Longfellow, and his favorite Kipling on and for any occasion. Perhaps my favorite Dooley performance was his recitation of “The Cremation of Sam McGee.” I would often goad Dooley into reciting this ballad, although it didn’t take much goading! If you are not familiar with it, you owe it to yourself to read it.

One year, Dooley sent me season tickets to the Jackson Opera. I called him to thank him for the tickets, and knowing that Dooley was a man’s man type, said “Dooley I hadn’t figured you for a fan of the opera!”
To which Dooley sharply replied, “Steve, good sh*t is good sh*t, and opera is good sh*t !” We went to the opera performances that year, and I came to recognize that Dooley was right. I have a horse breeder buddy in Kentucky, who plays Italian opera full blast in his barns all day every day. He always says it is soothing to the horses. I think about my friend Dooley every time I enter his barn. Good sh*t is indeed good sh*t!

Dooley taught Sunday school, and sang in the choir of an Episcopal Church in Jackson. I can only imagine the stories Dooley is telling in the Episcopal neighborhood of heaven!

I miss my old buddy.

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As the sun begins to set on our lives, we begin to remember those who have gone before us more and more. We long to see them again and remember fondly the smiles they brought, the lessons they taught and the friendship they gave. Sentimentality comes with old age, and nostalgia is the tonic for an old man’s soul.

These are but a few of the folks I’ve known and loved. I find myself quoting and mimicking them without even realizing I’m doing it. Such is the nature of the lifelong bonds of friendship.