Sunday, September 13, 1998

Remembering Burt at his dead level best

By Sharon Randall

I never really knew the man. What I'm about to tell you is secondhand at best, except for one encounter, the night I met him. It's a night I'll not soon forget.

Burt was a living legend in the town where I grew up. Travelers passing through would pull into the Texaco and pull out with a full tank and a story about Burt. And if they came back, they'd hear another, better than the last.

So it goes with legends. We make of them what we will.

Everybody knew him.

Everybody loved him.

Everybody but me.

It's a mystery how I could grow up in that town without knowing its favorite son. I left the South when I was 20, moved to California, seldom went back except for brief visits or funerals. Whenever I went home, I heard stories about Burt. I wish I had written them down.

All right. I'll tell you one, as it was told to me.

One time Burt and a buddy went down to Florida to fish. Didn't catch much, but did some serious drinking, always a given with Burt. Driving home, drunk as skunks, they felt a bump in the road.

"Burt," said the buddy, "was that an alligator?"

"I believe it was," said Burt. "Let's go see."

They nearly killed each other wrestling their road victim into the trunk of Burt's car. Then they drove to a motel and passed out.

Come morning the buddy said "Did we put an alligator in the trunk of your car?"

"I believe we did," said Burt. "Let's go see."

Sober, they were wary. Inch by inch, they opened the trunk -- and found a 6-ft. long tire tread from a semi-truck.

It could be

I have no idea if that story is true. But I have no doubt that it could be. I could tell you other stories about how Burt befriended people, got them jobs, helped them out, made them laugh.

Ask those people why they loved him, and they'll give you a look, as if trying to decide just which planet you're from. Then they'll shrug and say, "You should've known him."

My chance came at last a few years ago. While visiting family, I was invited with some friends to dinner at Burt's house. Freezing rain glazed the road, and I was late -- too late to catch Burt sober. I tried not to stare, but I wanted very much to see in him what everyone else saw.

When he offered to show me his still, I said, "Uh, thanks," grabbed my coat and skated after him up an icy path into the woods. It was no joke. There was a still, bubbling and pumping out moonshine.

He offered me a sample. I declined. Then he pulled out a gun and I thought I was going to die. I'd be just another story at the Texaco.

But he only shot the trees. Said he loved to see icicles fall. I was not amused.

Later, everyone apologized for him, said it was a shame I didn't see him at his best.

I thought of that recently when I heard that Burt had died of liver failure. Instead of a funeral, he arranged a big party for all his friends.

I wish I could have been there to hear to the stories.

I wish he could have drunk less and lived longer.

I wish I could have known him at his best.

Sharon Randall is a winner of the American Association of Sunday and Feature Editors and the Best of the West commentary awards.

Scripps Howard News Service