The Very Tall Tales of Jim Bagly

Welcome to Milford, Tennessee set in the foothills of the idyllic Smokie Mountains. With a population of around six thousand. Most of the good citizens of Milford have roots that go back before the American Revolution. I had sent here about a curious story of a legendary man named Jim Bagly. It was during the summer of 1962 as I recall when I was still just a rookie stringer for a Nashville publication.

“Could you send in Lathers?” Mr. Nash asked his secretary over the intercom.

“Certainly, Mr. Nash.” She acknowledged.

That was my first call since starting at Nash Publications. We do stories highlight some extraordinary citizens you may or may not have heard of.

“Yes, boss.” I knocked at his open door.

“Come on in, Norman.” He waved and for the first time, I entered the chief editor’s sanctum. It was impressive.

“I want you to go to Milford where there is a man named Jim Bagly whom I want you to interview. I have his bio right here and directions to the small hamlet.” He handed me a folder that I felt came directly from the hand of God. “There are several plaques commemorating his heroic life. From what I have read about him; he should be a household name. So, I want you to go find out about him.”

“Will do, Mr. Nash.” I nodded.

“That’s the spirit, kid.” He gave me a thumbs up as I went left his office.

“Heard you got an assignment.” Carl Bently said when I got back to my desk.

“Yup, going to interview an extraordinary man.” I got my briefcase packet with supplies I would need when I got to Milford.

“Must be nice.” He shrugged, “All I get are pet stories.”

“Yes and you are the best.” I pointed my finger at him like a pistol.

“Don’t patronize me, Walt.” He shook his head, “I know when I am at the bottom of the totem pole.”

“No, no, you write a column a lot of people read.” I tried to be upbeat, but I could see Carl was feeling down. I was trying not to sound too optimistic since this could be my big break and since I started here a month ago, Carl had done nothing except make a chain of paper clips.

“Here is the keys to the company car.” Aubrey our administration assistant handed me the keys, “And here is the company card. Make sure to keep all receipts you use while on your assignment.”

:” Alright.” I glanced at Walt who just sighed. Though I felt bad for him, I wasn’t going to let this get in the way of this important assignment.

Since I wasn’t married at the time, I got on the Interstate that would take me directly to Milford by lunchtime.

Ah, to be on the open road with the windows open and light traffic at this time of the morning. It did strike me as odd that there were a dozen plaques all over the small town of all of his accomplishments. I wondered if he was the only person there who did anything. I would soon find out.

The company car was a brand-new 1963 Chevy Impala, and it drove like a dream. I was tempted to put my foot on the gas pedal to find out what she could do, but as I got close to the foothills, I heard rumors that the highway patrol like to inhabit the rural roads out here. It would be better if I just played it cool.

As I drove I daydreamed about my interview with the president once I made the big time. There were so many things I wanted to know, but that would have to wait until I was famous like Walter Kronkite.

In an hour, I was approaching the exit to Milford. I could not wait to meet Jim Bagly in person. When I got to Milford, I would need to get gas at the Shell station the exit signed posted their logo. Gas was up to almost a quarter a gallon which I thought was outrageous since it was under twenty cents a year ago.

When I exited the interstate, I pulled right into the station as I round the curve that led into the town. When I pulled up to one of the pumps, a man wearing overalls came out immediately.

“What can I getcha?” He smiled pushing back his cap.

“Filler her up with regular.” I told him.

“Right away.” He tipped his cap. He put the nozzle into the opening ofthe gas tank. “Please open your hood, sir.”

I did as he asked so he could check the oil before he would clean my windshield.

“Do you know where Jim Bagly lives?” I asked.

He scrunched his face as he finished cleaning the windshield. “Never heard of no one by that name.”

“How long have you lived here?” I was shocked by his answer.

“All of my life.” He answered as I handed him my card.

“Oh, you work for Nash Publications?” He glance at the card.

“Yes Surh.” I smiled..

“Jim Bagly, huh?” He walked inside shaking his head. A minute later he reappeared with the company card and my receipt. “You have a nice day, ya hear?”

“You the same.” I pulled away. The paper Mr. Nash had given me suggested I check out Lyle’s Grill on Main Street. So I pulled into the parking lot. The sign said to seat myself, so I sat on an empty stool at the counter.

“What can I getcha, sugar?” An attractive waitress with her name “Sophie” in white lettering printed on her name tag.

“Sophie, could you tell e where I might find Mr. Jim Bagly?” I asked.

“Haven’t heard that name in quite some time.” She exhaled.

“I was told he frequents this place.”

“Use to, but I haven’t seen him in quite a while.” She held a coffee pot as she shook her head.

“Is he still alive?” I asked.

“Dunno.” She pursed her lips.

“He’s at the Senior Center.” Another waitress answered.

“where would that be?” I asked.

“A little further down Main.” Sophie pointed with her coffee pot.

“Much obliged.” I tipped my hat.

“Doncha want no coffee.” She held up the pot.

“No thank you. I’m on business.” I nodded and left a tip even though I did not order anything.

“Thank you and come back soon.” She called after me.

Whalen’s Senior Community Center was a couple blocks away. I parked the car and walked in the front door. When I got inside, I heard someone calling BINGO with a roomful of silver haired ladies witting at long table with their cards out in front of them.

“Can I help you?” A lady approached me.

“I am looking for Jim Bagly.” I said showing my press card.

“Jim is in the game room playing checkers just like he always does just before lunch.” She led me down the hall. “Jim!”

“Yeah.” Answered a silver-haired balding man with a cane playing checkers with someone who looked a lot like him. “Whadda want?”

“Someone here to see you.” She pointed to me.

“Whadda want? I ain’t gonna buy nothin.’”

“Good cause I ain’t selling nothing.”

“So, Whadda want kid?”

“I am here to interview you.” I looked him in the eye.

“Is that so?” He put his hand to his chin, “What on earth for?”

“On account you’re famous.” I shook my head. His laugh was at a very high pitch, it nearly hurt my ears.

“Are ya sure you ain’t sellin’ nothing?” He chuckled a few more times, before he looked back at me, “Somone done pull ya leg, sonny.”

“Whadda mean?” I was flabbergasted.

“I ain’t famous.” He smirked a rueful smirk. “My brother-in-law was on the town council back about twenty years ago. I told him I ain’t never been out of Milford. He took it upon himself to make me Milford’s most famous citizen.”

“How come?” I scrunched my face up.

“Ask him. Sorry, he passed away six years ago.” He shrugged, “Now it’s been a while, but I have taken folks on my walk of fame. Sounds like you need to go. I got fifteen plaques testifying to my extraordinary life.”

“This sounds like a ruse.” I shook my head.

“No, no, it’s real enough, but most of them plaques are bunk.” He laughed as he used his cane to help steady his bum left leg. “After the war, Artie, my brother-in law returned from Europe. They had a parade for all the soldier boys. Flags were waving everywhere in town. He wore his uniform to get himself on the Town Counsil. He told me they had more money than they knew what to do with. If they didn’t spend it, the state was gonna take it from them. So, they spent it. They put plaques up with my name on it. None of it was true.”

We walked out the front door of the building.

“Where are you going Mr. Bagly?” A black woman in a smock was sitting with one of the women patients from the center.

“Got to take this young man on a tour.” He grinned at her.

“Been a while.” She smiled back at him. “Just take care and have fun.”

“Will do, Miss Agnes.” He continued walking next to me. We stopped at a old building with a plaque affixed to the northside.

“Ah, the Battle of Willis Ranch.” He pointed to the plaque, “Now in this one I was an officer in charge of a regiment in the Civil War.”

“You were?”

“Do I look that old to you?” He snapped at me.

“Well…no.” I shook my head, “You can’t believe everything you read, now can ya?”

“Suppose not.” I had to walk fast to catch up to him.

“During the battle, my horse was shot from under me. Came as quite a shock.” He said dramatically.

“I thought you said there was no battle.” I shrugged.

“Weren’t, but that don’t mean I can’t elaborated on my story none.” He chuckled.

“This one over here.” He pointed to the house next door, “Says I stopped a violent labor riot.”

I squinted to read the details on the plaque.

“Says you negotiated with law enforcement to let the workers protest.” I read it to him.

“Yes, yes. Things got pretty heated, but I sat down with the chief of police, and we had us a game of checkers.” He pulled his hat to the back of his head. “They was striking the coal mine.”

“The coal mine? Where is that?”

There ain’t no coal mine.” He chuckled.

“So, none of this is true?”

“Just wait.” He held out his hand

There was a plaque on a post on the side of the road. He pointed to it, “This is the one when I save twenty folks when a train jumped the tracks.”

“You don’t say?” I was beginning to understand.

“Sure, sure.” He grinned, “A couple of them was hurt pretty bad, but I fixed them up and let ‘em go home. This was one that almost really happened.”

“Almost?” I queried.

“Yeah, if you stick around long enough, stuff starts repeating.” He nodded as we walked on. “Some folks use to say nothing ever happens in Milford, but I have proof that ain’t so.”

“Yeah, but none of this ain’t true.” I shook my head.

“So far.” He grinned at me.

“Have you ever been anywhere?” I asked.

He glared at me, “I’m here with you right now, ain’t I?”

“You, you are.” I chuckled.

“When I used to take folks on this tour, I would tell them stories that were amazing, but after a while folks quit coming. And I never told them stories no more.”

“Yeah, but these are some very tall tales.” I countered.

“Some of the best stories ever told never happened, but folks wanted to believe the anyway.” He nudged me with his elbow. “This plaque over here,” says and I quote, ‘Jim Bagly tells the best tall tales of anyone else in Milford.’ Now, that one’s true, ain’t it.”

“I suppose.” I nodded.

“That’s the trouble these days, young folks these days have no appreciation of a well-told story, true or not.”

“It’s just that my boss wanted me to come back with a true story.” I shook my head.

“He did?” Jim seemed amazed, “I’ll bet the one he was hoping for it the one I’m tellin’ ya. I know Nash from way back. He was a pure storyteller back then full of BS and imagination. That’s what he sencha for and that’s what I’m givin’ ya. I know when you go back, he will love what I tolja.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“Knowing him the way I do, he will love it.” He paused as he sat on the bench near a cemetery. “I took him on a tour a while ago. When we got done, he thanked me for what I told him.”

“You’re not just pullin’ my leg like ya did most of the day?”

“I wouldn’t do that, now would I?” He chuckled, “This here is my favorite story.”

He pointed toa headstone that read “Ruth Bagly (1914-1959.”

“See them parenthesis? That was when she was born and the other is when she died.” He shook his head.

“Was she your wife?” I asked sitting on the bench next to him.

“From 1934 until she died.” He sniffed as he wiped a tear from his eye. “She is the best story I can tell. Everyday I felt like the luckiest man in the world.”

“I’m sorry.” I bowed my head.

“What for? She was my best story.” He sighed. “The plaque says so. I come here every day to put flowers on her headstone. It won’t be long now before I join her. Then we can continue our story where we left off.”

“Condolences all the same.” I patted him on his shoulder.

“Thank you.” He smiled. “The real story ain’t always as good as the one that’s made up. My great grandfather fought in the Civil War. He was part of the defense of Nashville, but the Yankees never came his way. He fought during the last week for the war. Charging a union regiment, his horse got shot out from under him. He lost a leg because of it. Now is that story better than the one I tolja?”

“Not in the least.” I turned my head to look at the gray sky above us.

“You’d much rather hear me tell it the way I did.” He chuckled as he elbowed me.

“I came all this way to find to hear you story only to find out all of it isn’t true.” I shook my head, “My job is to ferret out the truth.”

“Don’t be disappointed.” He slapped me shoulder, “The truth is there are fifteen plaques all over Milford.”

“But none of them are true except one.” I held up my index finger.

“How many towns have you been to where they put up plaques to commemorate something that didn’t happen.” He bowed his head as he chuckled. Then it hit me. I was looking for my story in the wrong place. Sometimes the truth isn’t where you expect it to be. Sitting on the bench next to me was Jim Bagly the local hero of the town. It’s not that he did anything extraordinary in his lifetime, it was he was a someone who the people of Milford thought highly of even if they had to invent the stories of his heroic deeds.

“Nice day, ain’t it?” He smiled as he leaned back and closed his eyes. A refreshing breeze blew gently across the cemetery. “Feel that breeze?”

I nodded.

“It’s my Ruth.” He smiled. “Every now and then she lets me know she here. Watching over me.”

“It’s good to have someone watching over you.” I closed my eyes letting the cleansing wind wash over me.

“What is this?” Mr. Nash held my story in his hand. “Do you expect me to print this?”

“It’s the story you sent me for.” I shrugged.

He looked at me through one eye as a smile slowly crawled across his face.

“You’re right.” He nodded, “You can’t believe everything you read even if it’s written on a metal plaque.”

My story was in print the very next day after having learned my lesson about the truth and the thin line betw