Good Manners Among The Deceased posted 3/11/2009 4:59:38 PM | 9 kudos what's this?     report abuse

ttomtarr

I always pour a beer for Marvin, despite the fact that he is no longer alive.

About six miles above town, the Apalachicola River is joined by the Jackson river, and their union is not a peaceful one. Like newlyweds, they wrestle and play, fight and strive for dominance, before finally joining and flowing peacefully down toward the Gulf of Mexico. The result of their violent lovemaking is a scoured out hole locally known as the Pinhook. This wide junction is known for its deep holes, strong currents, and eddies that can spin a boat around in circles. Floating logs can be drawn down, and pop up some distance away from where they had disappeared.

Many of the favorite partying camps, and a lot of houseboats, are upstream of the Pinhook, and you have to navigate through it to get to them; likewise, you come through it coming home. Most goodbyes at the upriver parties include the words “and be careful going through the Pinhook”.

My friend Marvin was a big man, with a belly that reflected a love of Budweiser. His deep gravely voice became almost impossible to understand after a six pack or so, and it was a regular joke to ask him to speak English, when he was garbling his way through one of his stories. He would growl that he was already speaking English, and throw in a string of very basic Anglo-Saxon words to emphasize his point. When he got excited, he would raise hell with all of us, and in turn, be asked again to talk in English. Then he’d rant some more. For all that, he was usually excellent company, and had a heart of gold.

Marvin was on his boat passing through the Pinhook one night, when his adult son fell out of the boat. Marvin jumped in to save him, but the currents took them, carrying the son to the safety of the bank, and Marvin to his death at the bottom of the river. Having died violently there, I believe that at least a part of his spirit remains there.

He loved fishing and partying on the river. He also loved to down a Budweiser in life, and I have no doubt that his spirit can enjoy a cold one even now. So, whenever I am steering my boat through those churning waters , I let go of the steering tiller long enough to pop open a beer, and pour a generous swig into those swirling brown waters for good old Marvin. Then I drink the rest. I wouldn’t want him to take too much, and start raising hell with all those catfish down there.

The last time I slowed down to pour him one, I saw an almost new Rapala fishing lure floating in an eddy. When I retrieved it, it had a line on it, and hauling in the line, I found a fishing rod with a fine Daiwa reel mounted on it.

At the time, I thought it very good luck, me finding that fishing rig. But later that night, as I sat staring into a campfire, sipping a few brews, and reflecting on the day’s events, I realized that the rod was really a gift from old Marvin, saying thanks for the beer.

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