Open Writing

Colonel Beauregard Quincy Pugh, whose pomaded presence had both shocked and delighted the citizens of Washburn, Kentucky, for longer than many could remember, was a man whose career should have gone much, much further than it did. Indeed, as most of the community would vouch, few men anywhere matched Beau Pugh's rare amalgam of wealth, prestige, wit, and charm. Specifically envied was the fashion in which he faithfully adhered to the much-admired Pugh family motto, Usum Inus Weebit ("There's a little bit of ourselves in each of us") which had passed directly down from his great-great grandfather, our 13th President, Millard Fillmore.

Also kept alive in the community by the Pughs was the ancestral family heritage of "kite worship," as the entire family had for generations remained firm and loyal devotees of the "Hailakite" faith. (The Hailakites, as their name implies, worship kites. They believe as a cornerstone of their faith that when human beings die, our souls get stuck in the branches of huge trees, from which it is all but impossible to get them back down. President Fillmore was our only chief executive to have worshiped thusly).

For sixty years and more, however, the Colonel had been burdened by a physical defect of sorts, unrecognized through the years by those around him who had, so to speak, grown accustomed to his face. Simply put, Beau Pugh had a decidedly dishonest look about him. He did not, by any stretch of the imagination, give off the warm and reassuring glow of a man in whom one could reasonably have even nominal faith.

As long as he stayed in his own community, things were fine. When venturing among strangers, however, Beau's luckless facial features invariably created an aura of suspicion and outright distrust. There was no reason for it. It was just that kind of face.

When traveling, for instance, it was not uncommon for the Colonel, despite always being immaculately groomed, to pay cash at, say, a cafeteria, and still be asked for identification. Or for a perfect stranger to approach him (as one indeed did last spring in Vidalia), and growl something on the order of, "Aren't you the creep who sold me that lousy Studebaker?"

Particularly distressing to Colonel Beau were those not infrequent occasions when, for example, a saleslady not known to him might nervously say something like, "I'm not sure we have enough cash on hand to change a five," her voice trailing off as she frantically (and obviously) looked around for store security.

It was, as we've said, just that kind of face.

The sad part of the story was the fact that, despite the early-on self-acknowledgement of a face that was considerably short of confidence-inducing, it had always been Beau's dream to someday, somehow enter statewide politics. It was a deep-felt desire that went as far back as second grade, when a noble teacher named Miss Jinx had given him his first academic dose of "Civics." Even as a straight-A student in both junior and senior high schools, young Beau had routinely forsaken Friday night games and weekend sock-hops to withdraw instead into the newest book on politics or politicians. Biographies were his favorite, the Civil War his specialty, Robert E. Lee and Jeff Davis his lifelong idols.

He had no illusions of becoming president or anything like that. Not even governor, necessarily. It was just that he loved the very notion of running for political office. Any office! And, while he didn't exactly reek of self-confidence as a youth, he was not completely lacking in it either. This, of course, was before his realization of the full magnitude of the problems inherent in the way he looked.

In any event, as he dispiritedly discovered by his mid-twenties, his was a face too dishonest even for politics! In the single try he ever made for public office, he quickly (and jarringly) ascertained that absolutely no one who did not know him personally would ever vote for a face like his! (Nor did the fact that he completely froze during his only public debate help things any. Endeavoring to comment on his opponent's inarticulate ramblings, Beau stopped short, unable for the life of him to come up with the phrase, "mental block").

Beau persisted, however, eventually graduating at the top of his class from law school. After that, he served a short apprenticeship with a prestigious Washburn law firm, eventually emerging as a full-fledged and highly competent patent attorney. During these years, his work in the community and his sound judgment as a playground volunteer would become near-legendary.

Examples of his dedication and caring were abundant, and included such innovative improvements as not permitting too many kites to be flown at any one time. His gentle admonition to the kids, typical of his easygoing and considerate ways, would be something like, "Remember, kids, we must always save some breeze for the others." It was downright typical of the sort of citizen Beau Pugh in fact had become.

Meanwhile, his financial rewards continued to multiply, particularly after he successfully landed the much-coveted Lodestar Chemical account. (They, as most of you know, are the folks who isolated the rare kiwi enzyme, later to be used in the well-known shoe polish).

Colonel Beau finally married, and, although it would take his docile wife nearly ten years to fully believe him when he said something like, "I'll be back in half an hour," the marriage, like almost everything in Beau's life, was a keeper. In 2009, he and Furfy will celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary.

Moreover, they have two healthy daughters, Walola and Citronella, who, although normal in every respect (they mercifully did not inherit their father's "dishonest" genes), nonetheless remain maiden ladies well into their forties. To be perfectly candid, their continuing "single" status undoubtedly had something to do with the fact that eligible strangers never knew for certain just who the girls were. When Beau would introduce them by saying, "These are my daughters," no one, of course, believed him.

Such was the magnitude of the cruel joke played by nature on Beau Pugh.

Despite the aura of distrust his presence continually created, Beau Pugh remained to and through his retirement an elegantly honest man. In fact, the only remotely misleading he did during his entire adult life was to include the honorary "Colonel" title on his business cards, a completely accepted practice in the region.

There were times, of course, when the family would encounter an air-pocket or two. It was not an altogether happy occasion, for example, when on their dad's 45th birthday, Walola and Citronella presented him with a card that read:

The doc said it behooved
That Beau's lungs should be removed
A pronouncement that exploded from the blue
Beau pleaded to doc's minion
"Could I get one more opinion?"
And the nurse replied, "Okay...you're ugly, too!"
HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAD!

On that day Beau told Furfy in confidence that his real preference was for religious messages on holiday and birthday cards. And from that day on, Furfy saw to it.

His retirement in 2003 eased things a good bit. Indeed, for a few years there the guy carpe-ed the hell out of each and every diem, one lackadaisical chunk at a time. After a lifetime of unwarranted scepticism on the part of strangers, he could finally sit back, nurse a julep, and not concern himself much one way or the other concerning the state of AT&T, food costs, or the universe. Every now and then, though, the old problem still nears its odious head. Seeing a new face in his old law office one day last summer, for example, he approached the man and greeted him.

"Hi," he said, extending a friendly hand, "I'm Beau Pugh."

"Sure you are, Mac," the stranger growled, "and I'm Queen Isabella."