By MICHAEL MOSLEY, Special to the Journal
Recently, last May, this writer acquired on the cheap a factory-wrapped DVD of Duck Dynasty in Magnolia, Arkansas, at a charitable place for stray dogs called CCAPS. This $1 purchase happened a day or two before I learned of Phil Robertson’s death on May 25.
I thought it peculiar timing once I saw the sad news online that charismatic patriarch of the Robertsons in West Monroe had left us for greener pastures. He lived a rewarding life as a redeemed “scumbag” in his own words to champion the eternal truths of our risen savior, Jesus Christ, in a self-seeking godless culture that seems hellbent on the Devil’s terms.
I’m going to get around to watching every episode of Season 1 on that Duck Dynasty DVD before getting to subsequent seasons of the hit show that I chose not to watch during its original A&E run. I’d experienced a contractual “falling out” with a Los Angeles film producer that worked on the Robertson’s reality show and opted not to be a fan. Honestly, I don’t follow reality shows. But I’m getting my ducks in a row, as they say, when it comes to Duck Commander ways.
By the way, Phil Robertson founded the wildly successful Duck Commander company before becoming a New York Times best-selling author and podcast extraordinaire on the fly.
Both Mr. Phil and Miss Kay taught me how to cook a little for myself around the house as a confirmed bachelor. Online iPhone instruction. “YouTube University.”
Phil Robertson loved the outdoor life as well as the scents of a country kitchen. He enjoyed glory days in the mid-1960s zipping TDs as starting QB for the Louisiana Tech Bulldogs.
His freshman backup was a raw-boned stud from Woodlawn High School, Terry Bradshaw.
Robertson gave up wide receivers for retrievers around the backwoods of Oil City north of Shreveport after his sophomore year at Tech. There’re just some guys born to the world that can’t keep themselves from a duck first light on a Saturday morn.
I kick-started my appreciation for Robertson when I discovered a “knock-off” DVD release titled A Fistful of Ducks, as a local media hound knocking around Bossier City at a relaxing place called 2nd & Charles.
The special features on the disc included Mr. Phil teaching “step by step” how to throw a dead chicken the size of a football in a pot and make jambalaya the Phil Robertson way.
He left no pepper shaker unturned. I became captivated by his infallible discipline among pots and pans and peanut oil (which he insisted was healthy if lectins are your pleasure).
Want to learn how to make 10-minute hot water cornbread like the pioneers of old wolfed down on the trail?
Let Mr. Phil show you how on YouTube as he did me. He has over 1 million followers entertained by his meticulous recipe dishes served with a homespun flair.
And let it be known that Mama’s potato salad recipe is Miss Kay’s specialty for the entire Robertson household.
A $3 “Duck” bar courtesy of the gas station with two X’s to its name was once my indulgence on a sugary whim.
And somehow that super rich thick chocolate bar with Phil and family on the wrapping got away from me upon purchase.
You know you’re playing 98 Rocks too loud when you lose a Duck bar the same dang day you bought it. ZZ Top does something to my brain.
When I learned that Mr. Phil had passed on, I made it back to that gas station in Haughton to hopefully buy another Duck bar for sentimental reasons, even though they add a hidden surcharge for each swipe on your monthly bill if you’re dumb enough to pay with plastic.
I’m dumb enough.
The old cigarette lady with a million wrinkles working the counter told me with the grimmest and gruffest tones, “Buddy, we ain’t been carryin’ them kind of fancy candy bars no more.”
Got back to my house with the best Poison Ivy in the neighborhood and wanted to make me some iced tea from the fridge (Uncle Si Robertson’s tea bag recipe) to settle the heck down.
Shot to the freezer to get my homemade Mountain Valley spring water ice cubes from a tray when I laid eyes on Phil Robertson’s steely glare.
Man-o-man, I forgot that I froze the lost Duck bar.
Lord, I ain’t afraid of no ghosts!
Contact Michael at michaelmosley1225@yahoo.com