The Back Door

On Tuesday Renn, Tom and I had lunch in the men’s locker room at the Lodge. It’s not your normal place for lunch since, well, you know what to expect in men’s locker rooms, right? But it is a place we can go dressed inappropriately, jeans and such.

They have a special entrance for people like us…the back door. We dodge golf carts and walk on a well-worn mildewed walkway into the rear of the locker room. Its ambience does little to increase one’s appetite. In most fine dining places, the well-dressed, important diners enter through front doors. Only cigar smoke welcomes us. At least there’s no doorman giving us a sneer and ‘that look.’ You know what I’m saying?

This big event of our day got me to thinking about back doors. If you had one growing up, you’ll understand. If not, a short primer on southern life helps. You may learn something, so stay with me as I reminisce.

In the dark ages of our youth, back doors were as common as gnats. One knew who the visitor was by the door they chose to enter. The only ones who ever came to our front door were those who were selling, soliciting or taking up matters of a child’s indiscretion. I digress here to make a point.

My friend, Robert, and I once stumbled across a large rattlesnake lying in the street. It appeared deader than a door mat. We had compassion for it. Having motor scooters, and vivid imaginations, we decided the proper course of action was to honor the deceased reptile with a proper funeral. So, we tied a rope around its crushed head and conducted a cortege around town, kinda like a movable wake, you might say. Yes, we and the deceased received much attention, which gives excellent insight to the conduct of grown men.

Young boys are easily bored. We searched for a final resting place for this deceased menace. Somehow along the way the rope broke, and the unfortunate creature slid to a stop on one of our teacher’s driveway. You may discern from this the depth of our love for this teacher. Of course, no one in our small town saw this happen, right? Wrong.

My father answered a knock at the front door about 5:00. The teacher’s husband entered. They talked. I hid, sweating. I was called in to answer the charges. My life flashed before me. I pleaded amnesia. The plea wasn’t accepted. I was found guilty. A little later in the back yard I found out my father was religious. He quoted “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” I remained unconscious several hours. I have not been spoiled since that day. So, you see my aversion to front doors?

In South Georgia we lived with the idea that whoever came to the back door usually posed no threat and could be trusted. But soon the door-to-door crowd figured out that the ‘back-door approach’ produced more revenue than the front door one. Being fast-talking slicks, they got a foot in the door, then a body in the hall and finally their butt in a chair at the table. There they sat, a new family member, sucking down sweet iced tea. All the while emptying mama’s pocket of her grocery money. I hate Reader’s Digest to this day!

Hoards of these charlatans descended on a regular basis. They peddled everything from Avon, Fuller brushes, religious tracts, debit insurance and vacuum cleaners. Like anything, the back-door approach got over-used. When these strangers entered the carport, we locked the door. Are you listening? I know whereof I speak…I kept mama’s set of blue World Book Encyclopedias, never used, for remembrance of the old days. What did your mamma buy?

This back-door approach is responsible for my purchasing an awful lot of real estate. I sat at many tables, ate many meals with farmers. The last meal I accepted at a farmer’s table was dinner. It was served very simply…a mason jar of buttermilk with a large piece of cornbread floating inside. It’s amazing what a fast-talking slick will do to make a deal!

The internet has changed things. No more need for back doors. But recently a country-boy partner called with a bank-owned deal. We made several offers, got nowhere. He said, “Let’s back-door ’em.” Some things never die!

I have many memories of the back door of my youth. The last one is the night my father’s lifeless body passed through it. Maybe this is a metaphor for the demise of the old days that lives only in memory. Or, maybe not.


Bud Hearn
December 2, 2010