Bert

By Timothy Rogers

Bert Gornto loved the Edisto River. He would hop on his motorcycle and, Karen in tow driving the van, beat a path to my doorsteps for an extended weekend.

Once there, Bert set the records for eating BBQ and big-mouth bass and all the other good stuff that goes along with them (no record kept on banana pudding for dessert).

After eating was done, there was music. Grateful Dead and Bob Dylan were favorites, although we didn’t really care as long as it was bluesy or rock-and-roll or both.

Now during football season, the TV set was ours. Bert was not as much a Clemson fan as I was; nevertheless, he tolerated me (although they did not command the airways as they do now).

Every weekend Bert was present, Karen was there too. Made for each other, I always thought. Spats didn’t last long, and they always slept together. Comfort in that.

Daytime provided the opportunity for picking wild blueberries from the bushes in the woods. That was always for avoiding the attacks of the red bugs! If you didn’t get in the shower on time following the exit from the woods, they’d get you! Usually, Bert and Karen got, well, not ear-up, but just enough to warn them from trespassing too long next time.

Often, Dan Todd and Cathy Reciti would come along for the ride. One night we were all underneath a blanket in the front yard with all the lights out so we could really appreciate the stars. We had no competition because no one was present. We were all quiet, aided by a little bottle of Jack Daniels someone snuck in.

We had all fixated on a bright satellite that was moving steadily in a perfect arc across the sky. It seemed to reach the limit of its arc, and stop, suddenly. Then, slowly, it began to reverse its course, and retreat to from whence it came. We watched as it retraced its path and then...disappeared on the horizon.

We all looked silently at each other, and then pledged to maintain our little secret. No one would believe us anyway, we thought. They would just blame it on the Jack Daniels, until that bottle would grow in stature into a half-gallon.

My, my. Time passes.

Bert died Tuesday when his car was involved in an accident as he suffered a massive heart-attack.

“I wish I was there to help her / But I’m not there / I’m gone.” B. Dylan