There Goes the Colonel

Though many a newcomer’s ode would tell you different, Door County is not a peninsula of perfection.

We are a community defined not so much by the beauty of our shores, our tourist haunts or lighthouses; but rather, when one spends a little time here and digs a little below the visitor guide surface, you find a community of quirks and characters much more central to who we are.

Earlier this month, we lost one of those characters.

Like our community, Richard S. Davis, Jr. was not perfect. He had his scars and he had his vices. He was sometimes loud when quiet was the better fit. But he was also generous, fun-loving, and caring.

In recent years, his car parked in front of Al’s, with American flags billowing out every crease and crevice, became as much a fixture of the Sister Bay morning as the sunrise. His car was unmistakable – whether parked with its windows and doors thrown wide open, a military or patriotic march blaring onto the street, or simply rolling down main street – inevitably inspiring someone in the party to utter “There goes the Colonel.”

He was a constant at events and ceremonies honoring his fellow veterans, and many a young man and woman has learned a little more about the sacrifices and heroism of our servicemen and women from “The Colonel’s” wayward stories and tutorials.

His obituary said, “During World War II, Dick served as a forward observer in Patton’s Third Army. He was wounded and was awarded the Purple Heart. He served in the Army Reserve for 19 years.”

Well, I don’t know much about his service, just that he was about as proud of it, and his fellow veterans, as any person I’ve ever met.

He had nicknames for just about everyone, though the named didn’t always know the inspiration. Little matter. There are worse things to be called than Irish or Gretchen.

He had arguments, which could become especially heated with liberals, and maybe more so if you told him what to do. But he was responsible for a lot of laughter, too, and to the end this grizzled man maintained a boyish charm and a spark in his eyes.

He loved music, and was easy to break into song, or take over the piano – like it or not. When he did, it seemed he was taken to another place.

On December 9, as Mr. Davis was in his 83rd year, that often-uttered phrase, “There goes the Colonel,” took on new meaning.

Hearing the news, I thought of his business cards, which no doubt stuff the wallets of hundreds of folks in Door County. I heard his growling voice, his insistence on you taking the card (no matter how many you already carried), and introducing himself, “Richard S. Davis, Jr., Over.”