The Many Reinventions of DBeazy
Well, I guess it is all true. I mean, looking at it now, I don’t think I can make an argument against it. And while I haven’t taken the time to work my way back, putting beginning and ending dates to each segment, I think I must admit that at a glance, it seems true. The thing about it is that I can’t believe I never saw it from that point-of-view. I pride myself on, even brag on the fact that I am in the frequent evaluation of my situation, even so, though, I admit that I never looked at it that way. I mean, I think sort of, but never saw it as being as uniform in the perspective of time.
Wait, I’m sorry, I’m a little ahead of myself at the moment. It happens when I drink coffee late in the evening. It is one of the ways that I come about formulating stories in my head. Often, someone says something, casually or even directly and it strikes a chord in my mind. Hopefully, at that point, I will stop and make a quick note. But often, I return to the note and it makes little sense. Ideally, I will have a minute to make a pretty solid note and then maybe pick up the thread of thought and begin to follow it.
I’m sorry again. I still have not explained what I am talking about, so here it is. Yesterday a couple of friends invited me over to partake in a beer or two and to catch up. In this day of social media and of instant information, well, I suppose that we are never that far behind, but admit it or not, there is still something about the art of the face-to-face and the partaking of good cold beer. The fact that these two guys are former golf partners of mine is where the conversation got beyond the simple “What’s going on? And what ya been up to?”
The last time I teed up a golf ball with serious intentions of making a proper swing was late September or early October of 2017. The reason why is long and not particularly important to this story so I’ll leave it here. Suffice it to say that a problem with 4 of my fingers has left me unable to swing a golf club until corrective surgery is done. But the question from my friends is almost always as it was today, “When are you gonna play golf with us again?” The standard answer is always, “Whenever I get these fingers fixed.”
It has been months, or maybe even a year since the three of us have communed, and time allowed for a follow-up question and another, and farther discussion from there. The conversation came to, “Are you even interested in playing golf again?” I replied honestly that it was doubtful, and without a lot of detail, citing that since now I have the Harley, I am usually otherwise occupied.
The reply though planted a thought-provoking seed in my mind. The younger of my two friends said, “That Bracey. About every 5 or 6 years, he totally reinvents himself and becomes a completely different guy.” (I should note that there is a universal phenomenon that if your surname is Bracey, it is likely that male or female, you will often be referred to simply as, “Bracey.”)
But the statement momentarily halted me in my tracks, a quick rewind kicked off in my mind’s eye and in a bit, I pressed the “play” button. He was right. Yep, dude hit the nail on the head. More squarely on the head than he knows, because our friendship only goes back about 11 years or so.
Later, I hit the rack after a long and productive day. I reflected on the day and specifically, the comment about reinventing myself. I played the extracurricular portion of my life over, not really paying attention to the length of participation, but just kind of making notations.
I don’t think I’m really much different from other guys. I mean, we all try on different hats from time to time. We walk around, look in the mirror, maybe make a round or two around the room, come back, look again, and decide if the look suits. If so, then we take it out and run with it for a while. A lot of folks do that.
And for me, I guess the trend started when my father died. He loved basketball and was a coach for more than 30 years. He loved farming and worked as hard as he possibly could and did farming in a pretty big way for many years. Then sometime in the 1970s, he bought an English Setter bird dog for the purpose of doing a little quail hunting in the fall when the cotton was harvested. I recall him saying that the dog was of the same bloodline of a dog he had owned as a boy and that the pup was the spitting image of his dog Jack. So this white with brown ears gangly looking puppy became the catalyst for what began the singular passion of Avon Earl Bracey for many years to come. Then the empty nest years came for my parents and other dogs and my dad began training bird dogs, first for himself, then for other people. His reputation grew and men would come from miles around to hunt with my dad and they would leave their dogs with him so that he could work with them. And it was quite comical too because often these high classed men would show in their 4 wheel drive trucks and their aluminum dog boxes, wearing their 5 or 6 hundred dollar hunting get-ups and carrying $1200 shotguns. Then there was Avon, sporting a torn flannel shirt under some denim overalls and the 12 gauge shotgun that he bought my mother for their first wedding anniversary. After introductions and small talk, he’d call up his dogs, (they didn’t require a pen), open the trunk of a 1977 blue and white Ford LTD and the dogs would bail-in and he’d close the trunk. I’ll say this, though; those often, uppity men received a lesson in the art of quail hunting and enjoyed every moment.
We buried my father in the summer of 1991 in an oak coffin, with a beautiful spray of flowers and a statue of an English Setter. Weeks passed and my mother decided the time had come to order the tombstone. She decided on a headstone with a picture of some grasses and a bird dog, and a quail rising in flight. Everyone agreed that is was the most fitting for my dad, and for my mom, because while she didn’t hunt, she was known to get up in the middle of the night and cook beef liver and a pawn of cornbread for a sick dog.
I know it seems as though I have ventured off on a rabbit trail and gotten away from the subject matter, but I assure you, we are right on point.
So the day came that the headstone was delivered and set into place. By then it was well into July or possibly August in South Mississippi and the summer heat was sultry. It is for this reason that we waited until late to go to the cemetery to have a look. Tears rolled for the first time since my dad’s death as I saw the stone, and I hugged my mom and told her how perfect it was for them both.
Later, alone in my bed in those truthful moments before awareness gives way to slumber, I pictured the stone. I contemplated my own demise and wondered what my family might consider in choosing my stone. In near panic, I wrestled with the answer and determined that there was nothing identifiable about me. At least nothing that could be engraved on a stone and that would bring a pleasant smile to those who knew me. So it was this revelation that triggered my search for a meaningful pastime that in the end, would, for prosperity, identify one Donny J. Bracey, the way the bird dog scene identified my parents.
There was a time when my brother-in-law found a ski boat for sale and wanted a partner. Late one evening in very early spring, we met the guy to do a little trial run. After taking a spin around the lake, we backed up to a sandy beach area and the guy threw out a single ski and a rope. Now at this point, many years had elapsed since I was last pulled behind a boat and never was very good at it. I had skied on one ski before but always started out in deep water. My brother-in-law quickly volunteered me to go first and male pride wouldn’t let me back down. It was only then that I realized that the method of departure would be with me standing in the shallows on one foot and holding the ski at the surface. Again, male pride and a few beers prevented me from mentioning that I had never taken off like this. Before I knew it I had the life jacket on and had assumed the position and gave the signal. Luckily, I pulled it off, though it surprised the crap out of me. Stephen gave it a try and based on my accomplishment alone, I was ready to throw in my half.
The next day, I was co-owner of a ski boat and began an adventure. First, though, we realized we had a problem. One of us would be required to purchase a truck to pull the boat, and that someone was me. That meant that I was always the sober one because, at the end of a long day on the water, somebody would have to pull the boat home. We had three or four good years with the boat and for the most part, it was an enjoyable time. My skills got better and once, I imagined a boating scene on the front of my headstone. Truer words have never been spoken than the old saying about the two happiest days in a boat owner’s life.
Around that time, I picked up a copy of “Backpacker” magazine in one of our local grocery stores. I don’t know if I ever opened it and subsequently, gave it to my twin brother Johnny when he visited from the Nashville, Tennessee area.
Weeks or months, or maybe a year or more passed and my brother called to report about how he had read the magazine, had gotten inspired, read books, and purchased equipment and had planned his first overnight trip. Early the next spring, I got inspired, read books, purchased equipment, and planned to meet Johnny for my first trip. For the next several years, backpacking became my extra-curricular activity. As I lay one night in the top bunk of a three-sided backpacker’s shelter, unable to sleep due to noise of the rain pounding upon the tin roof above, the lightning flashed and the thunder rolled, I thought, “this pastime is suitable for generating a good a tombstone scene.”
But time and life happened. We were raising a second child along with the first, and I was dealing with the financial constraints associated with being a parent. For the next several years, I identified as a guy with a Ford F-350 hauling lawnmowers and lawn equipment under the guise of “Yardboy Lawn Care.” I’d work weekdays at Marion General Hospital and mow yards until dark. Then Saturdays were spent mowing and cleaning the grounds of 5 apartment complexes in Hattiesburg, Mississippi, 50 miles to the East. The opportunity for backpacking trips became all but non-existent.
The years came and went. Life ebbed and flowed. Time was spent with dance and cheerleading, sporting events, pageants, music shows, science projects, proms, dating drama, and graduations. Then college and somewhere in there we found time to survive 9/11 and Hurricane Katrina. As a family, we did our version of living, time traipsed on and on, and life was rushed and hurried and there seemed to be a quickening of the universe and I felt again that missing in me was the identity that my father had found with his hunting dogs.
As my kids grew older and more independent, I chose golf as my next challenge. Golf courses are some of the most beautiful and well-maintained plots of land on the planet, and just to look over a course in the early morning quiet, when the sun is low and irrigation systems do their job is a thing of beauty. Then your party arrives, pleasantries are exchanged, carts loaded, and after what seems like an eternity, you are standing over a little white ball and before you, the beauty of the course and all of the promises that this may be the day; this may be the round when it all comes together.
I spent many hours and a lot of money on the game of golf. Golf allowed me to see some beautiful places and meet some great people and I thoroughly enjoyed the game. I never was very good at it, but I have a hole-in-one to my credit and many, many golfers play a lifetime and never experience that. If I had met my demise during that time, I can see where my family might have chosen a golf scene for my tombstone.
I spent bands of time as a gambler, a golfer, a drinker, and a couple of stints including now as a motorcycle enthusiast. In recent years, I’ve given little thought to an applicable inscription on a rock. It’s not that I don’t care because I do. But as I sit here today in the year of our Lord, 2020, I think about inscriptions on the headstones in cemeteries that I’ve read in the past and the one that sticks is the one that I originally wanted years ago. I don’t know if it is universal, but in the south, one sees the word “Father” on a lot of stones, and at the time, while my children were young, well, let’s just say in my mind, the verdict was still out on me as a father. My life by now has been filled with enough unique experiences that my children could choose any number of scenes for my headstone. I suppose that when my clock counts down to zero here on Earth, it really won’t matter what ends up on my rock. I can’t see where it would concern me one way or another. I guess though, if my girls choose to add anything extra to my headstone, it would be my hope they would choose “Father” because when all is said and done, they are my greatest accomplishment.