The parson had been going here and there about his parish. He drove down one particular road and passed the house where Bugg Ellis used to live.
Now Bugg Ellis was Ms. Parson’s uncle. But when the parson knew Bugg Ms. Parson was not a romantic interest; she was a parishioner. But, nevertheless, the parson enjoyed visiting with Bugg Ellis. That’s what triggered the memories when he passed Bugg’s old house.
Some folks might think that the Parson was a dedicated cleric, in that he visited the old widower Bugg Ellis so often. And should one want to hang the mantle of dedicated cleric around the parson’s neck, he wouldn’t take it off. But there was a more blatant truth.
The parson visited Bugg Ellis often because Bugg had a hobby. Basically, the hobby was this: If it would ferment, Bugg would make a gallon or two of it. Blackberry wine, masculine wine, pear wine, apple wine, the list was endless. In fact, Bugg’s living room was carpeted with gallon jugs of various wines. And so, the Parson often visited Bugg.
They’d meander through the living room. Bugg would point out a particular fermentation he was proud of. They would pour a mason jar full of the liquid and then retire to the front porch, sit in the swing and contemplate the theological implications of the county commissioner’s latest screw up. Sometimes, vehicles would pass, honking their horns as the did so; most likely thinking it was a dedicated parson who visited the widowers so much.
One day, as the mason jar of pear wine was almost depleted, the Parson, in a fuzzy and nostalgic mood, said, “So, Bugg, tell me about the ‘good old days.’”
The swing went back and forth three, maybe four, maybe five times. Then Bugg Ellis, one of the great philosophers of Northwest Georgia, said: “Well, let’s see. The good old days. Now, I was born in 1888. They must have been before that.”
Bugg made good wine. Bugg spoke the truth.