During the thirty years I lived in South Florida, I met my share of “characters.” In retrospect, though, none of them could beat the dyed-in-the-wool, stubborn, independent and odd Yankees I have known in Connecticut.
I was one of those kids who walked a rural mile to school each day so I became well acquainted with the neighbors along the way. The farmer just up the road had a Polish surname beginning with Gud but was widely known as Johnny ByGod because of his colorful language after a bit of drink. Evidently his driver’s license had long since been surrendered because he drove his ancient tractor to the local package store for his Saturday night supplies. Sometimes he brought his hired hand along for the ride, perched on a fender. This elderly gentleman, known only as Adam, lived in a tiny building on the property. My father said it had previously been a smokehouse. The idea of someone living in a “dollhouse” where sausage was once made fascinated me and my siblings.