Oh, dear me
Robert Fitzgerald Nash taught English at McCormick County High School for thirty years, until he realized he preferred drinking to teaching.
by John Doriot
Robert Fitzgerald Nash taught English at McCormick County High School for thirty years, until he realized he preferred drinking to teaching. He had loved reading his entire life, his parents were teachers, and he meandered through college for several years until he realized his academic studies were directing him into the teaching profession. When asked why he became a teacher, he would always say it was “genetic engineering” and prompt a smile with the response. The response was a joke referencing his parent’s influence. Still, since changing professions, he truly believed his alcoholic endeavors were indeed genetic and referred to it as “chromosomal fate” thinking one day, he might write a book reflective of his family’s drinking history.
“Fitz” as he was known to his teaching coworkers and now his drinking buddies, was once a handsome man. He had a well-groomed chestnut brown beard, complementing his similarly colored thick hair and hazel eyes. His smile charmed old and young alike and as if wired to his smile, his eyes sparkled each time the warm grin or laugh filled his face. His nose was perfectly positioned and proportionately for his mustache and mouth. It was hard not to like Fitz whether he was teaching Dickinson, Poe, Frost, Dickens, or even Bradbury one of his favorite short story writers, or citing poetry from memory over a rusty barrel fire, drinking robust white liquor made from several stills in the county.
Once he retired from teaching, he sold his parent’s home and moved into the Lake Thurmond RV Park in Plum Branch, South Carolina. His parents had both died within one year of each other. His mother died from lung cancer; his father from a broken heart, Fitz believed, even though, the physicians said his father died from cirrhosis of the liver. The sale of his parent’s home, the money they had saved, and his early retirement pension enabled him to live without worrying about not having a roof over his head, food to eat, and most importantly, a drink in his hand.
Plum Branch was only six miles from the McCormick County Library, down South Carolina Highway 28 South, and he knew everyone who worked there very well, checking out at least two to five books a week. He was especially fond of the volunteer who worked at the front desk on Wednesday and Thursday afternoons. Her name was Mrs. Sara Rockett and she was a small petite widow with gray hair which had a sheen like molten silver, a smile reflecting a kind heart, and the blue eyes of a cloudless summer day. She and Fitz always talked about the books he checked out and she found it fascinating he knew so much about the authors’ lives or even some of the books he was rereading for the third or fourth time. She was also the first one who recognized the change in Fitz.
She first asked him if he was eating all the right foods and he assured he was but as the days progressed, she noticed the sallow look on his face and the gleam in his eyes disappearing. He looked thin, and his beard now reflected someone’s forgetfulness to shave. His hazel eyes, once beautiful autumn trees, now possessed red limbs which suggested they were dying. Sometimes, she thought she even smelled alcohol on his breath and told him he needed to be careful driving on these narrow country roads, especially at night.
“I’ve had many friends have run-ins with deer on these roads at night Fitz, and they were lucky, they came away with only a few bruises and dents in their cars.”
“Don’t need to worry with me, Miss Sara. I will be fine. I am familiar with every little twist and turn within them and I seldom drive fast enough to be injured by an encounter with an ardent deer.”
What he was telling Miss Sara was true. He knew all the two-lane roads very well and even the dirt roads, only familiar to moonshiners and law enforcement. He had driven them drunk hundreds of times and he knew when and where to go to avoid the police when necessary. Fitz was not concerned with DUI but his temerity with driving during all seasons was absolute, and not subject to consideration of irresponsible and reckless behavior, telling himself, that not driving over twenty miles per hour, reduced his chance of harm to almost an impossibility.
The October in McCormick was spectacular as the summer weather had not been too hot, rain plentiful, and the leaves reflected colors that Sherwin Williams tried to emulate but chemically could not. The dirt road was dark and he had been drinking since noon, with nothing to eat. The impassioned buck leaped from the woods and hit his windshield with his three-hundred-pound body. The large antlers broke through the glass and impaled Fitz's head to his seat. Not yet dead, the dear thrashed around for several minutes, making Fitz’s face unrecognizable and almost decapitating him.
Fitz’s final breaths crackled and with each movement of his lungs, blood bubbled out of his throat with gasps and coughs. He knew he was dying and with a last second of desperation, he prayed. He tried closing his eyes but they were in the floorboard next to his feet, but it didn’t matter. All he saw was darkness as he began his prayer by saying “Oh Dear God,” and then stopped. The irony of his words made him laugh and he thought it would be a perfect ending to the last chapter of his book as his body’s heart stopped and the sorrow of ignorance filled the woods.
When Miss Sara heard of the tragic incident several days later, her first words were “Oh, dear me,” and she hoped he died in a repentant manner. It was a topic of discussion among his former friends and his current colleagues for many months.