Guest column by Ricky Harpole

An old friend tracked me down last weekend, one whom I hadn’t seen in about 12 years. He has a wife now and two charming daughters, Misty and Gail, ages 9 and 6. They were returning home to Columbus, Georgia from vacationing in Texas.

Of course, all the “Redneck Syndrome” stories had to be retold, reminiscing wilder times past. Then Gail, the six-year-old, threw me one straight out of left field. She said, “tell us about Jessie Faye. We have heard a lot about her, but you know everything.”

“Daddy doesn’t make things up, but he forgets sometimes and leaves stuff out,” nine-year-old Misty added.

Their daddy was the Sergeant- at-Arms, for the Twisted Wick Motorcycle Club, and I was the “Cross Country Road Captain.” In those days I was a “cooler” at Jimmy Doyles over in Little Rock. He was subsidizing his bad habits observing the view as a Security Advisor at several entertainment establishments owned by Danny Owens up in Memphis. (Yankee Interpretation: strip club bouncer). Neither subject is conversation fit for the ears of young, southern ladies.

I haven’t spoken about Jessie nor allowed myself to think about our life together with the exception of receiving condolences from time to time and sometimes having to explain why she isn’t with me even these many years later. People I deal with on a casual basis remember her and I am sure some of those who ask about her by name wouldn’t remember my name without my face to look at.

And now after all these years I was forced to eulogize a significant other to a pair of pint-sized romantics who, like all who had known her, are captivated by the legend of Jessie Faye Taylor.

They continued, competing with one another on Jessie Faye trivia, addressing each statement  to me, daring me to them.

“She took your slack in a Baringo Street ambush ‘til Daddy and Jim showed up.”

“Yeah,” the other noted, “and she was the only female in the Motorcycle Club who was a bona fide Patch Holder.”

One said, “She flew to Galveston with you in an open-cockpit, ultra-light aircraft.”

Then the other: “She got a citation for valor, and a Special Detective badge from some town in Arkansas for just being herself,” and, “Daddy said you found her at a bar in North Mississippi and just moved her into the clubhouse with you. He said she was very young and we have pictures of you and her on a Harley Davidson Motorcycle.”

“And on an airplane.”

Good Lord, these children I’d known about thirty minutes knew more about Jess and me than I did. That was the magic of Jess. Most of the above is true, but I now must tell the rest of the story.

I didn’t “pick her up” at a bar, although it is true that she was very young. Five weeks old and the runt of the litter. I moved her into the clubhouse down at Moccasin Bend. It is a fact that we shared the same clothing, clothing which I wore by day and she slept in or on at night.

She was just off the mark for AKC registration, but she was mostly Rottweiler and all soul. I took her home for the first time, tucked in the pistol pocket of my Road Leathers. She would at that time fit inside a 2.00 chicken box.

Later when she came to favor Busch Beer over ice in a wide-mouth whiskey glass and was prone to larceny when tempted by rum and Coke, she rode behind me on that old scooter, lying crossways on the saddlebags (for added stability in the turns, I suppose).

She was a good, loyal and true huntin’ partner and didn’t give a d#@& if the game was standing rabbits or running men. She could smell a bill collector at 125 yards and would make a preemptive strike in a heartbeat.

She had made an over-the-tailgate jump into a full-size Ford truck at 30 mph. She was never leashed and never hesitated to obey a request, although like my beloved ex, she might get a little sticky if she thought it was a command. She has been dead longer than those kids have been alive, but after almost 10 shared years of service, loyalty, affection and shining integrity, she still outscores me.

I miss her, but I guess as long as she can continue to upstage me, she ain’t gone after all. Thank you, Gail, and thank you, Misty. Thank you, Mike and Lila, for bringing her back.

Gone to the Dogs,

Ricky Harpole

(P.S.Since this is Jessie’s article I have to describe her modus operandi for thievery of rum and Coke. She, being early on and innately inclined toward mannerly conduct, would not drink from a “foreign” glass or cup. Furthermore, if she was hungry and you set a tray of steamed shrimp on a coffee table, she would not even sniff it. If it was on the table, it was not hers. I did not teach her this; she was born knowing it.

However, if it was on the floor it was hers. Also a can of beer or a mixed drink belonging to a guest or pest she would not touch, even though it was on the floor. But, she would contrive to look as innocent as Baby Moses walking about from guest to pest until she managed to accidentally spill a beer or other adult beverage of one sort or another. The scheming wench had discovered that while she couldn’t drink from the same fountain, so to speak, she could darn sure get everybody’s fountain on the floor where it was uncontested (especially if there was tequila involved and could look innocent doing it.)

In memory of Jessie Faye Taylor, bitch, Feb., 1990-Nov., 2001. Lock and load, stand and deliver. Remember.

Standing down,
Ricky Harpole