OvertonFenton R. Kay Overton—a small Mormon (Latter Day S...
Overton—a small Mormon (Latter Day Saints) agricultural community along the Muddy River in extreme southeastern Nevada. Marshland, fields, irrigation ditches—totally rural, but close to Lake Mead. At the end of the road, at the lake, a small dock, a café, and a tackle shop catered to fishermen.
The Overton Arm of the lake, named for the town, was known for its largemouth bass fishery, and boats would come up the arm from launch points closer to Las Vegas and Boulder City. They often needed fuel, and the people on them would be hungry and looking for a potty. The Overton boat dock provided fuel, food, and restrooms. Overton, the town, offered limited tourist conveniences: a gas station, a small motel, and beer at the local grocery store. A small bar served beer and had a pool table in the back.
Overton was a great place for a boy to grow up. There was fishing in Lake Mead, swimming in the irrigation ditches, and duck hunting in the Muddy River marsh in the fall. Stanley Jones had grown up in Overton. The Jones family had a long history in the area. Stan’s grandparents had lived in St. Thomas and were relocated to Overton when the lake inundated the town. Stan was known as a Jack Mormon. He was from an LDS family and had been raised in the church. However, he had discovered the wonders of beer and whiskey somewhere in his journey, probably during his time in the Army. Stan was a regular in the tiny beer bar and always had a bottle of Jim Beam in his garage. Stan’s garage was the only gas station and auto repair shop in Overton.
Stan was addicted to waterfowl, duck and goose, hunting. When he wasn’t sitting around the wood stove in his garage swapping lies with his good old boy buddies, he was getting ready for waterfowl season. Whenever there was time between trucks, tractors, harvesters, and cars, he would be cleaning his shotguns, making or repairing decoys, or fixing his duck blind in the marsh. During the long, hot summers, when not cussing a broken engine, Stan would often sit in the shade at front of the gas station, and read magazines and books dedicated to ducks and geese, where they lived, what they did, and why they flew north in the spring and south in the winter. Even though Stan loved to hunt waterfowl, he often daydreamed of becoming a great goose and leading a vee. Stan would lean back in his chair, put his feet up on an old five-gallon Quaker Oil can, close his eyes, and drift into a semi-dream state where he was a Canada goose.
Stan was not bashful about his addiction and was more than happy to share his stories and knowledge with anyone who would listen. That applied especially to the young men and boys hanging out at his garage. He seldom, however, said anything to anyone about his goose dreams. Now, understand that Stan liked his beer and a shot of whiskey. His remedy for almost everything was a stiff shot of bourbon, especially winter morning chills or sitting in the duck blind in an autumn frost. Stan did not—ever—offer booze to the young boys and men that hung around. He and his old cronies were one thing; the young males of Overton were quite another. He was not a practicing Mormon, but he didn’t believe he should defy the rules.
Stanley Jones could be found outside his garage on any crisp early fall morning watching the vees of Canada geese winging over Overton. He would stand, enraptured by their calls, head tilted back, eyes closed, breathing deeply. He knew every kind of duck that used the Muddy River marsh and could name them from their calls as they passed overhead. He could do an imitation of most of their calls without the aid of a duck caller. He was the most successful waterfowl hunter in the area. Stan was generous to a fault, and provided Christmas and Thanksgiving duck and goose dinners to many of Overton’s less fortunate.
Stan, despite his drinking and lack of church attendance, was well-liked by the community and was known throughout Overton for his passion for waterfowl hunting. He was also known and valued for his ability as a mechanic. Stan was an excellent mechanic who kept the town’s cars, trucks, and tractors working. Stan could fix almost anything that had a gasoline or diesel engine, and because he was a capable blacksmith, he often made parts for broken farm machinery, cars, and trucks.
Stan’s son, Little Stan, was also a good mechanic. He had grown up at his father’s garage, helping his dad and pumping gas. Little Stan went off to college, where he earned a degree in mechanical engineering and worked as an engineer for a few years. Little Stan also loved to hunt—especially geese. The marshes and the vees of geese called to Little Stan, much as they did to his dad. The younger Jones returned to Overton and took over his dad’s business. Stan retired—sort of. He would come to the shop daily, sit in his big chair, and reminisce with his cronies. In early fall, he would often sit outside the garage and watch the vees of Canada geese winging overhead, calling to them in their language.
One crisp November morning, Little Stan went to open the garage and found the side door unlocked and ajar. Inside, in front of the cold, dead stove, he found his dad. Stan was as he had often been, head tilted back, eyes closed, feet stretched out in front of him, a small smile on his face, and a bottle of Jim Beam in his lap.
Stan’s funeral was well attended. All of his old cronies and many of Overton’s younger folks were there. Many of those young males had spent hours in the garage listening to Stan and his buddies tell tales of almost magical duck and goose hunts.
After the funeral, a bunch of Stan’s old cronies gathered at the garage. They were standing around the stove, just as they had in times past. Stan’s last bottle of Beam was being passed around, when they heard the honking of Canadas on the wing. The group stood up, went outside, and looked up to see what must have been the biggest vee of Canada geese any of them could remember. Another honk, but near them. They looked across the parking area. There stood Stan, decked out in a great feathered overcoat. As they watched, Stan honked loudly; the vee overhead circled and came back; Stan spread his now-feathered arms, leaped up, and winged into the sky, where he joined the vee. The huge vee circled again and, with much honking, continued flying south, an extra-large goose honking loudly at the head.
