And among them there lives a poet

Posted Nov 24, 2006 by Mike DeWitt

Updated Nov 26, 2006 at 07:01 PM

Happy Thanksgiving, Hikers!

The turkey and ham came through the door in yard-long aluminum pans and their much-anticipated arrival instantly put the finishing touches on the mouth-watering Thanksgiving aroma that had been wafting through the Midget lounge since the first pot-luck sides began to land upon the banquet table.

That delicious dinner, enjoyed in heaping hiker platefuls in the company of 50 good people, is one that I’ll remember always.

Until the dinner bell sounded, I’d spent the day with my gear spread out on my poncho.  Thanksgiving Day brought with it the first warm and sunny day in weeks, and I happily took advantage of it to inspect and maintain the contents of my pack and, just as importantly, the feet that carry it down the trail.

I hope your Thanksgiving Day was just as good.

But hikers, Thanksgiving is not the theme of today’s blog. No, this turns on my time with John “Happy” Fenn.  I referred to him in my most recent post as the man who once worked as Mick Jagger’s bodyguard. 

He wanted to share his story with me, and invited me into his home for the night.  “You need to write a book about me,” he boomed. “I’ll tell you some stories you won’t believe.”

He wasn’t exaggerating. And I look forward to writing that book.

Gruff and hard-edged, Fenn is an unlikely poet, but a poet he is. One of the best I’ve ever read.  His words are tightly-issued in ball point pen on lined, dog-eared paper.  They are his tears and his blood rendered with unflinching honesty into gritty, rhythmic verse. 

A lifelong musician, Fenn has put a few of is poems to music.  The gentle notes of his six-string cannot mask the pain of a life that has left Vietnam, his wives, his health and his fortunes in its two-fisted wake.  He accepts my praise with an uncharacteristically shy shrug and a beer.

He unfolds his 6-foot 4 inch frame and heads for the kitchen to make us a steak sandwich on toast piled high with grilled onions and mushrooms.  An unapologetic Yankee from Branford, Connecticut, he doesn’t just make sandwiches, he crafts them. He makes three, including one for his dog, Bear.  The three of us eat together.  I am a firm believer that you call tell much about a man by how he treats his dog.  ‘Nuff said.

Tomorrow I head for Blountstown, but I now know that I will return to this place, which Fenn calls “a paradise for underachievers.”  That leaves nothing else to write but..

Cheers, from the Florida Trail, Mike