I did not know if he was still alive, had moved, or possibly was incarcerated over at Parchmen. He could even be in a nursing home as far as I knew. So I did what my four degrees, and my 61 years of living had taught me. I asked a kid. One of my students to be precise.
They know how to Google stuff and snoop around on the internet. In fact they are so good at that stuff that I can't get them not to do it. Plagiarism is a major problem in teaching writing. But I'm off on a rabbit trail. In nothing flat, one of the football players in my 9:25 Tuesday/Thursday class on the Moorhead Campus had me an address for a Jim Dugger in Kosciusko, Mississippi. Is it the same one? I wondered. Is it his son? Do I even have the name right? Reading those handwritten notes left some room for doubt. And if I did have the name right and managed to find him, would he even talk to me? There was only one way to find out: drive over there and start asking questions, and that is exactly what I did.
On Friday morning, I slept in a little late, drank some extra coffee and hung out with the cats. Then I got dressed and headed towards K-town. First, however, I punched in the address on my Maps on my smartphone. Actually, there were two listings so I just typed in the first one and drove off. It dropped a pin on what looked like was probably a gravel road off Highway 19, closer to West than to Kosciusko, but addresses can be strange like that. It was a start and nothing ventured, nothing gained, as they say.
When my GPS signal got even with the pin on my phone map, there was nothing on both sides of the road but pine trees. I stopped and looked for any hint of a vehicle going off road. I looked for a drive, for wheel tracks in the grass, for any hint that someone might live around there. I found nothing. Then I drove slowly down the road. A mile or so later, I came upon an old man in his front yard and stopped and asked him. He did not know any Jim Dugger. "Maybe you want to go back that way to that next bunch of houses and ask them," he suggested. So I did.
At the next bunch of houses I drove into a long narrow, gravel drive past trailer house after trailer house. I came upon an elderly African-American man with white hair. That's when it occurred to me that I didn't know if Dugger was black or white. He was working on an old car and since I was near the pin on the map I stopped and took a shot. "Jim?" I asked in hope.
"No. I'm his son?"
I got out, shook his hand, and introduced myself. "Jim Dugger's son?" I quizzed.
"No. I'm Jim Love's son. But I know Jim Dugger. What do you want with him?"
I was flabbergasted. Could it really go down this easy?
"I am looking for an old friend, and I have reason to believe Jim Dugger knows him."
He studied my face like he was suspicious and was sure he could read me at the same time. After a little bit of a stare down, he went to his car and retrieved his phone from its charger. I watched in anticipation while he dialed and then said, "There is somebody here looking for you." He handed me the phone.
"Jim Dugger?" I spoke. "I am Zane Hodge, and I'm an old friend of Ray's. I'd like to talk with you if you don't mind."
He was silent for what seemed like forever. I was about to ask if he was still there when he spoke and gave me directions to his house. I thanked him and Jim Love's son and left for the other side of Kosciusko.
When my GPS signal got even with the pin on my phone map, there was nothing on both sides of the road but pine trees. I stopped and looked for any hint of a vehicle going off road. I looked for a drive, for wheel tracks in the grass, for any hint that someone might live around there. I found nothing. Then I drove slowly down the road. A mile or so later, I came upon an old man in his front yard and stopped and asked him. He did not know any Jim Dugger. "Maybe you want to go back that way to that next bunch of houses and ask them," he suggested. So I did.
At the next bunch of houses I drove into a long narrow, gravel drive past trailer house after trailer house. I came upon an elderly African-American man with white hair. That's when it occurred to me that I didn't know if Dugger was black or white. He was working on an old car and since I was near the pin on the map I stopped and took a shot. "Jim?" I asked in hope.
"No. I'm his son?"
I got out, shook his hand, and introduced myself. "Jim Dugger's son?" I quizzed.
"No. I'm Jim Love's son. But I know Jim Dugger. What do you want with him?"
I was flabbergasted. Could it really go down this easy?
"I am looking for an old friend, and I have reason to believe Jim Dugger knows him."
He studied my face like he was suspicious and was sure he could read me at the same time. After a little bit of a stare down, he went to his car and retrieved his phone from its charger. I watched in anticipation while he dialed and then said, "There is somebody here looking for you." He handed me the phone.
"Jim Dugger?" I spoke. "I am Zane Hodge, and I'm an old friend of Ray's. I'd like to talk with you if you don't mind."
He was silent for what seemed like forever. I was about to ask if he was still there when he spoke and gave me directions to his house. I thanked him and Jim Love's son and left for the other side of Kosciusko.
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