BOB KORNEGAY: When I’m lost, I’m very good company

Mr. John L. Mercer was a delightful old gentleman, one of my favorite grownups during my youth. He was my family’s across-the-road neighbor during those formative years.

Back in those halcyon days, when most adults regarded most young folks as subhuman entities, mere Homo sapiens subspecies unworthy of participation in grownup conversation, Mr. John L. actually enjoyed talking with me. I’m grateful for that. He was a fair listener and a great storyteller.

Mr. John L. was a master of the one-liner. His “philosophical” observations of circular grain silos is an example.

“You know, boy,” he said, “if you ever get yourself shut up in one of them things, you’ll walk yourself to death huntin’ a corner to tinkle in.”

Another remembered gem is, “That land we lived on was so poor we had to tote a mule apple in our pockets just to make a dollar watch run.”

And then there was, “I kept comp’ny with a gal one time who had a rear end so broad you couldn’t span it with an axe handle.”

Yep, Mr. John L. was, as they say, a dirt road “spote,” not to mention the perfect raconteur for a little boy with a great appreciation for scatology and the mildly risqué.

I still occasionally entertain thoughts of my old neighbor, especially when I find myself in unfamiliar surroundings wondering how the heck I got there and how the heck I’ll ever manage to find my way back to where I started.

You see, when it comes to getting lost, I am a master. As an outdoorsman, I have had ample opportunity to perfect this “skill” and today, after 50-plus years of experience, I might just be the world’s best at it. I mean, here’s a man who can lose his way in a one-acre woodlot in full view of a major highway and a city skyline. Now just imagine this same guy in, say, the Chattahoochee National Forest or the Okefenokee Swamp. Been there and done it, friends. Several times. With no one to give me directions except the occasional bear or alligator.

I’ve been lost so often while fishing, hunting, or hiking that my loved ones long ago ceased being concerned whenever my return is delayed.

“I’ll be home this afternoon,” I say as I walk out the door.

“Okay,” comes the answer, “but take a jacket. It’s supposed to get cold sometime next month.”

I can’t recall a single journey, in a vehicle or afoot, upon which I didn’t get lost at least three times. It’s embarrassing. I’m nearly 64 years old and have hunting and fishing buddies who refuse to let me out of their sight in the woods or on the lake. A few even insist on holding my hand. Cletus Monroe, who owns a pair of Walker coonhounds, once purchased three electronic tracking collars. Need I tell you who the third one was for?

“I’d hate to have to decide which one to look for first if you all three get lost at the same time,” he explained.

My getting lost is not a recent phenomenon. It has plagued me forever. As a youngster, I once shared my concern about it with Mr. John L. His being a retired long-haul trucker, I figured maybe he’d have a few pointers on avoiding losing my way every time I ventured afield. Truck drivers, I surmised, never lose their way.

“You’re barkin’ up the wrong tree, son,” he said. “That truck drivin’ don’t mean a thing. I’ve been lost everywhere from Bangor, Maine to Bainbridge, Georgia. I reckon you and me just ain’t got much direction sense.”

Mr. John L. said the worst he was ever lost was in Omaha (“Omyhaw”), Nebraska.

“Yep,” he said, “Got myself all turned around downtown and didn’t know which end was up. The futher I went, the loster I got.”

Looking back, for me, that says it all. To this day I just keep going “futher” and keep getting “loster.”

That’s not all bad, though. Mr. John L. would no doubt be proud I’m keeping the tradition alive.