Remembering John Culler

By Tom Poland

 

I was on the phone with Joey Frazier, South Carolina Wildlife magazine’s editor. “Tom, did you know John Culler died last week?”

I did not. Just like that I found myself back in 1978. Teaching at a small college had lost its shine. I figured I’d move back to Athens, Georgia, but a woman at the college told me about a writer’s position.

“Are you interested?”

I was. I applied to what is now the South Carolina Department of Natural Resources. Being a scriptwriter for natural history films appealed to me, but first I had to submit a “test” script. I had never written a script, so I studied scriptwriting and wrote and rewrote and rewrote. I passed the audition. Next came the hurdle of hurdles. John Culler, a tall Georgian who resembled the Outlaw Josey Wales had turned South Carolina Wildlife into the country’s best conservation magazine. His reputation preceded him. I was a nervous applicant.

John and Billy DuRant interviewed me over lunch at the Sunset Grill. Leaving Sunset Grill we got into Culler’s Plymouth Fury Commando V8. As we crossed the Congaree River, Culler squinted like Clint Eastwood and shot a look my way. He turned to DuRant.

“Hire him.”

–

As soon as Joey and I wrapped things up I found John’s obituary. Born in Macon, Georgia, he grew up in Smithville, Georgia. A left-hander, he threw several no-hitters in high school. Valdosta State University gave him a baseball scholarship, but family responsibilities ended his baseball dreams. His work as a journalist and sportswriter led to a public information officer position at the Georgia Game & Fish Commission. My Uncle George Walker worked there as a fisheries technician. “Did you know my uncle?” He did. I felt a kinship.

John served as editor of Outdoors In Georgia before becoming the editor of South Carolina Wildlife. Among my treasured memories is the last time I fished. It was with John. He had just accepted the editor’s position at Outdoor Life, the beloved magazine of my youth. We didn’t catch any fish that day, but that mattered little. I was sitting side by side with a fellow Georgian who would direct the magazine that thrilled me as a boy. Soon, he was in the Big Apple, overseeing stories sure to fire the dreams of other Southern boys.

John didn’t stay long in New York City. A mugger killed one of his staffers, and from that day on, John walked city streets with a pistol tucked in his boot. He came back to South Carolina and started Sporting Classics and later South Carolina Homes & Gardens. As writing goes, he had the gift. “Memories” is in his book Purple Heaven, a collection of hunting and fishing stories.

“I grew up in a small Southern town with plenty of free time in the summer, a lot of it spent adventuring along various creek banks and around a big old millpond about a mile from home. It was a time when every day was exciting and every new thing an adventure, and some of the very best moments came when I had a fishing pole in my hands.”

John describes the cranky old man who ran the gristmill. “He was covered with a fine white powder all over his bib overalls, from his untied brogans to his grizzled face, which held about a cup of meal in his three-day-old beard and eyebrows. He had a penchant for giving anyone he saw a piece of his mind but all he had ever given me was kindness and a soft smile. Once he even let me put my hands in the fresh ground meal. ‘Feel it,’ he said. ‘It’s warm.’

And so are my memories of John. He insisted staffers wear a necktie. Once, just once, I dared to wear a turtleneck. John asked where my tie was. I went home and put on a nice shirt and tie. Lesson learned from a man who felt we should always be professionals.

He came into this life in October and he left in October. Back in the spring I called him and said I’d come visit him in Camden. I never did and that saddens me. John would have stared at me with those steely eyes, and said six words. “Never set expectations you cannot meet.”

And the old miller? He put John on a bream bed at daybreak where he landed a tremendous bluegill. “My heart was running 500 miles an hour. I heard the mill start up, and I took off to show the miller what I had done. My knees were still weak. It was a tremendous feeling. I haven’t gotten over it yet!”

I know what you mean, John. I know exactly what you mean. You sent me on my long journey of words and images, and I thank you. `

 

Photos by Tom Poland.

Georgia native Tom Poland writes a weekly column about the South, its people, traditions, lifestyle, and culture and speaks frequently to groups in the South. Governor Henry McMaster conferred the Order of the Palmetto upon Tom, South Carolina’s highest civilian honor, stating, “His work is exceptional to the state.” Poland’s work appears in books, magazines, journals, and newspapers throughout the South.

Visit Tom’s website at www.tompoland.net

Email him at tompol@earthlink.net