My Cuz

article by Dan Chason

MOST OF US IN MY AGE BRACKET CAN identify with me on some of my life experiences. One of these is the word vacation. When I was a kid, a vacation was when you left home and made the loop via various extended family members’ towns to a final destination, which usually meant Grandma’s house. Such was the case for our family. You see, my parents were from two different states. My dad was from Bainbridge, Georgia, and my Mom was from Drew, Mississippi. They met and married in Nashville, Tennessee (my birthplace) and embarked on a 57 year marriage where my dad earned his living as a minister. We spent my entire life in the South, including Mississippi, Alabama, Tennessee and Louisiana. Summertime was always the time that we took one week of vacation as a family. I have to let you know that it was not what I consider to be a vacation in the true sense. I only remember staying in a motel one time (because our car broke down) and can rarely remember “eating out” or even stopping for a hamburger. Mom packed sandwiches and “road food” and we made do. It was either 500 miles to Georgia or a shorter trip to the Delta of Mississippi to visit the Partridge clan, my Mom’s maiden name. The Partridge family was large. My mom had 14 brothers and sisters, so the number of cousins I had and have far outnumbered my ability to remember names or who they belonged to which carries on to this day. I will never forget a family reunion there, where a lovely blonde headed girl came up to me at the age of 15. I instantly began to envision long walks through the cotton fields around my Granny’s house and the moon light basking through her delicate blonde hair. That was until I learned she was my cousin. So went my summers for most of my pre-teen years. Fishing with my Pop (Dad’s father) and watching my Papaw (Mom’s father) as he took used metal and made amazing things with just a hammer and anvil in his blacksmith shop.

We had two grandmothers. We had skinny granny in Georgia and fat granny in Mississippi. Mary Nell Partridge, my Mom’s mother was by far the most amazing woman I had ever met. I think that she woke up cooking and went to bed cooking. Her house always smelled like food. There was always “company” which in her house meant some poor soul who was down on their luck that she had taken in to help along. I remember at her funeral just how many folks of every color, creed and background came to pay respects and to thank her for her kind deeds. She was a great woman with one special feature for her grandkids. She had to have some “sugar” every time you walked by. Her “sugar” was a bite on the cheek. Most of the other grandkids would avoid it, but I loved it. But I wasn’t her favorite, as I guess my cousin Mark had better sugar.

As a kid on a trip far from home, a young man is always looking for something to get into. You can imagine how many grandkids were at Granny’s for the reunions. One year, the grandkids got bored. Granny’s house was small, so we were delegated to the yard to play. That year, my uncle Sonny (only 4 years older than me) decided to put on a BB gun war. Long story short, the war ended when my brother caught a round between the eyes. My Papaw lined up grandsons, and we each had our turn with the razor strap. Gun safety became paramount after that, and I will never forget that day and that strap.

One of the benefactors of that strap was the cousin that became my favorite and best friend. Mark Yarborough was about my age and just about as mischievous. Mark and I just had a way of finding trouble, or it found us. My brother, Steve and his brothers, Ronnie and Doug, were a little more laid back or were just slicker than Mark and me. That young friendship has lasted for over 50 years and to this day, Mark and I share a lot of common interests. One of these is turkey hunting.

I don’t consider myself to be a turkey expert. But Mark is to turkeys what I came to be to a bass. He eats, sleeps and lives to turkey hunt. That is not hard to do when you make your living as he does, managing a Wildlife Management Area for the Mississippi Dept of Wildlife, Fisheries and Parks.

I remember the first time we went turkey hunting. Mark was going to teach me how to use a mouth call. After many tries, I was ready for my audition with Mark. I clucked, I purred and quite honestly, thought I was doing pretty good. Mark’s only reaction was “pretty good, cuz. Sounds like a turkey….just different.” I put the turkey call up and left the calling to Mark. On one trip to West Texas, we awoke early to set up on a roosting bird. The bird gobbled on the roost and I would swear he was two counties away. I looked at Mark and smiled only to hear him say, “Roosting ain’t roasted.” After walking 145 miles, we did harvest the bird. I will have to admit, the next morning I played like I didn’t hear one that was a long way off. I was tired. Mark may be a big boy, but don’t let size fool you. He will slap walk you to death.

Mark has spent his life chasing the long beards. He has always spent his time sharing this gift with friends, family and fellow professionals. I was watching an episode of “Truth” with Will Primos the other day and heard Will give Mark credit for his famous “Roosting” quote. It made me smile. I remembered a healthy young man, with a glint of mischief in his blue eyes, smiling from ear to ear at the sound of a gobbling bird. I didn’t have thoughts of a moonlit night that time, as I knew and know that this man is my cousin but most of all he is my friend.