When is a politician like a duck?

(Note: For those interested, Mattie Somer Smith, a graduate of Marshall High, gave birth on May 25 to Colton Andres Cummins. Mattie is executive director of the Brain Injury Association of Arizona. Her and her husband Kyle live in Mesa, AZ. Since I am first-time grandfather, this column is dedicated to my grandfather, the late George Logan Andres of Sutton, Arkansas.)


My grandfather, Daddy George Andres, a south Arkansas pineywoods philosopher with magnolia-leaf clusters, didn’t have much truck with politicians.

He was a political kingpin for two counties in the Natural State back in the day when sweet gum sap was chewed more than Wrigley’s. Daddy George was a justice of peace for a long piece and held court with the likes of Arkansas Gov. Orval Faubus, and U.S. Sens. J. William Fulbright and John McClellan.

Daddy George, by then into his 90s, told a young man named Bill Clinton that he had a way of “stirrin’ up a crowd,” which was not an oxymoron.

Even though he was elected umpteen times to the Nevada County Quorum Court, he did not consider himself a politician. He only worked for Democratic candidates – Republicans were a scarce and closeted breed 40 years ago – and then only for those candidates whom he considered “too good to be in politics."

He was a story-teller and often regaled relatives with political stories, never stopping to say which ones were true. The matter or truth vs. myth or plain-out lies didn’t matter as the stories flowed off the front porch of his shotgun-style house. The beauty was in the story telling; facts would just have gotten in the way of a good story.

A couple of Daddy George stories come to mind:

-- There was this little feller who told his daddy in a clear, loud voice: “Daddy, I know what I want to be when I grow up?

“What’s that, Son,” his daddy said.

“I want to be a politician.”

“Sorry, son,” the daddy said, putting a hand on the little tyke’s head and ruffling his hair. “You can’t be a politician. You’re a Christian.”

-- A young man running for state office once showed up on my porch,
trying to get me to support him. It wasn’t so much as I was important, but that I knew a lot of folks and some thought I knew a little about politicking.

He was a nice, young man and he made a fine speech. To tell you the truth, he cut a fine figure of a man.

After his pleadings, I told him I couldn’t support him. He wanted a reason but I couldn’t tell him the truth. The truth would have been cruel, to tell you the truth.

It wasn’t his education; he was one smart feller. He spoke well and made a good impression and all.

He couldn’t win because of the way he was dressed: No voter could trust a politician who wears brown shoes with a blue suit.”

And finally,

-- A politician is like a duck. You can thump either one on the head real hard and neither one will be a bit smarter from the experience.