It’ll Do
by Peyton Breckinridge and William J. Conaway
Copyright William J. Conaway, 1989
Epidode 7 – Cherryville’s Citizen of the Year
Well, I just read in the “Cherry Times Record” that Jethro has been named by our Chamber of Commerce as “Cherryville’s Citizen of the Year”, and since I was involved in the whole thing that got him his Award, this is what happened:
It was October and we were all just sort of sitting around the It’ll Do—nothing very unusual about that. It was getting dull. Everyone in the bar, half-drunk or half-sober, was thinking the same thing: the It’ll Do was starting to seem like a Old folks home. Even Sully didn’t have much of a smile and his wife, Vera, had left early in the afternoon to fix supper, even though he didn’t usually get home until about 1:00 in the morning. It was up to someone, anyone, to come up with something.
George Farragut saved us all. Maybe thinking that you’re a direct descendent of the great Admiral Farragut does have some advantages, after all.
Why don’t we sponsor a regatta on Lake Fenian?” he asked, to no-one in particular.
“George,” Sully said, “you know we’re not exactly the famous Something-or-other Yacht Club. What does anyone around here know about sailing except maybe running up and down the lake, usually two-thirds drunk, in some beefed-up bass boat?”
“It’s possible,” Farragut replied, “it’s possible.”
“I don’t see how,” Alice Mae said.
“You should know that my brother-in-Law, Farley, has a boat concession down on Lake Eufala. It’s a slow season for him and he has some catamarans and sunfish, and so on, that we could use. We could haul a bunch of them up here to the public dock and—get this!—not only charge an entrance fee, but rent the boats out too. I know Farley will rent them to us at cost, if we just tell him the proceeds were going for charity.”
Well, we had never thought of that, but it made some kind of sense. Even Alice Mae nodded her head.
“I can set out the course and the rules. You know what it would cost us—beside the hauling, that is?— one big, big trophy, and perhaps two or three smaller ones. Old Henry over at the Sports and Trophy Shop will most likely give us a discount on those, too.”
“Don’t forget the concessions,” Sully added.
“What will we do with the money—provided we make any, that is?” Mavis asked.
That started a pretty good general discussion. Someone, I think it was me, suggested that we take the proceeds and have a really big on the house party. That didn’t get very far. Mavis, Bless Her Heart, suggested that we buy some books for the Library—but we all knew that the City Commission had thrown out all the books in favor of computers and that dog just wouldn’t hunt.
There were more suggestions, but in the end we agreed to donate all the money—if any—to the Madison County Orphanage Fund. Hell, I guess nearly everyone likes kids and wants to give them a chance. That may even apply a little more to the folks at the It’ll Do than it does with some of our CIVIC leaders.
Anyway, one of the guys that comes into the bar once in a while is named Fergus, who works for the newspaper. He just happened to be taking a break that day from chasing down a front-page story of how someone had stolen three geranium plants from the front porch of old Mrs. Fachel. After interviewing Mrs. Fachel he felt in need of a dark beer. He got interested in listening to the rest of us hash out the details of the “First Annual Great Cherryville regatta”.
After about three dark beers, no-one keeps a count except Sully—and possibly Vera, he eased down from his bar stool and said, “If you all can pull this off—I mean really—I’ll personally, Fergus Pease, see to it that every damned paper in the state will promote it.”
We knew Fergus, and we thought he could deliver. So, if some of us might have been a touch skeptical before, now the challenge was on us. You know there is a lot of bar-talk; we became serious right then, right enough.
“How are we going to go about it to make damned well sure it comes off?” I asked George Farragut.
“First, I need to talk to my cousin, Farley. We’ll need him if we’re going to be able to do it. I know Farley, he’ll help. Can you wait, Fergus, until I get his OK.?”
“Sure—but you better get on the stick. Lake Fenian freezes over sometimes in January”.
“All right, we have to have weight advantages. I can do that. Then we’ll need application forms and set up an entry fee schedule. I can make a rough draft of that. Then I need to set out a course and mark it with buoys.”
It was beginning to sound more like The First Annual George Washington Farragut Regatta to some of us. He saw the look on some of our faces.
“Of course, we’ll need timekeepers, some violations officials,and judges. The judges need to know how to work a calculator. We need a starter with a gun.”
“I have a few of those,” Orville said.
“Then we need a place where people can pick up and fill out their forms”.
“The It’ll Do!” we all shouted.
“I think it will take about six to eight weeks to set it all up—how about the 20th of November?”
None of saw any problem in that—except Sully.”George, it’s damned cold on the lake by the end of November. Some folks are taking pot shots at the ducks. How about in the Spring?”
Sully was voted down 10-1. The Regatta would be held on the 20th of November, come hell or cold water. Fergus took turns looking each of us in the eye.
“Can I count on it?”
Ten and one-half beer mugs were lifted in his direction. Fergus downed the last of his (dark beer) and, stopping only long enough to remind George to call him, walked purposely out the door. In fact, he left so quickly that he forgot to pay his tab. Sully just chalked it up on an old school black board where he keeps note of such things.
November came around faster than you’d expect. By the 15th we had 105 entries. Whatever happened, we figured the orphans would have a good Christmas. Farragut had set out some buoys in a more-or-less triangular fashion and Sully had contracted with the summer rodeo concessionaire to serve hot dogs, chips, and soft drinks for anyone who showed up. Sully, off to the side a little ways, set up another tent to sell beer—and dark beer to the people we knew.
We rented the hell out of those sailing boats that Farley had provided us. I don’t know why, but a lot of farmers suddenly thought they were some better than Admiral Halsey. This was OK. by us. So some of them rented these boats two or three days in advance and floundered around Lake Fenian, trying to learn how to work them. It was funny—provided you had hard dry ground under your feet.
On November 20th George Farragut, with his bull-horn we had rented, told them:
“Ladies and Gentlemen and Sailors all; the First Annual Great Cherryville Regatta will begin in ten minutes, so take your positions. You all have your printed instructions. Just think! One craft and crew will be the very first to win! I must tell you that I will not be a judge or time keeper. The ‘Mobile Bay’, myself commanding, will be in competition with you. May the best sailors win! Good sailing to you all!”
Well, the whole bay where the boats had assembled looked in worse shape than the Sears parking lot after an ice storm. Everyone was friendly to everyone else and there weren’t any fights, or anything like that. I saw people throwing cans of beer over to other boats for those who had been caught short—even one bottle of Jack Daniels changed hands. We’re basically a friendly bunch.
Orville was standing up on a point with a .357 Magnum. All the crews should be able to hear that one. Down on the rocky beach George prepared his craft. He was wearing that old sword and the old naval hat of his. He had asked Fergus, Thad, and me to crew for him. God knows why, because not a one of us knew anything at all about boats. We all agreed to do it. I think we all did so because there wasn’t a single one of us who thought George was playing with a full deck (cards, that is, not the boat) and we didn’t want him to get himself into anything he couldn’t get out of.
There was one more who must have had the same thing in mind, Jethro. He made such a fuss trying to get on the boat. (George had named it “Mobile Bay”) that George let him come along, but told him to stay out of the way.
The time was getting close for us to set out, Orville’s pistol had already sounded, but we were working on an elapsed time basis and George had decided to let most of the traffic get out of the way before we began. Somehow-or-other, we got those sails up and the Mobile Bay headed out into the lake.
What none of us knew was that George was just giving them a head-start and he meant not only to win the trophy, but be first across the finish line too.
By God! George Farragut was making good time! Of course we were all doing everything he told us to do, as best we could. Most of us had worked places where, if your boss yelled at you to shut a gate, you didn’t ask questions—you just ran (or rode) like hell to get the damned thing shut.
There were three power boats looking after the rest of us, just for safety. By this time, our sailing boats were spread out all over the lake.
Admiral Farragut’s great-great grandson (so he said) wasn’t about to be beaten by a bunch of local farmers. He was pushing the Mobile Bay as hard as it would go.
We had had (wouldn’t you know it?) a norther come in just two days ago—there was even some ice on the lake—and we were getting wet and cold and maybe just a little bit scared at the way George was pushing us. Even Jethro was hunkered up in the far front end of the boat to keep out of the wind and spray.
Perhaps Sully was right, and we should have waited for Spring. Fergus, good to his word, had rounded up reporters and TV people and we had signed up a bunch of contestants, so we couldn’t very well put the race off until then, but it was cold!
George finally pushed the Mobile Bay just too hard. First thing we all knew, the mast and sails were down in the water and the deck was filling up like a man who just spent the week-end in the drunk tank. There didn’t seem to be anyplace to go except into the lake. Jethro, as I said, is a smart dog. He knew he could make it to shore; an so, naturally, he headed toward the nearest one.
We followed Jethro. Even George Farragut abandoned ship—he said later it was to look after our safety, but I figured it was more of a matter that sitting out in the middle of the lake freezing his rear end off didn’t exactly appeal to him.
Jethro is, no doubt about it, a good dog, a loyal one. He likes humans better than he likes other dogs, I think—but he’s no Albert Swietzer. That’s why he was the first one off the boat and swimming to shore. He was cursed with this long yellow tail. Before he knew it, four pairs of hands grabbed onto it. When he wants to go someplace, he generally does.
He made it, even with all that weight on his tail. Well, Jethro is a big dog, and strong. We four (five, really) stumbled up on the shore. We were all damned glad to be there, too.
It happened that there was one of those news photographers right there when Jethro dragged the rest of us to shore. You can guess the photos and stories that came out: DOG SAVES FOUR LIVES! “Cherryville’s Citizen of the Year?”
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