Humor is the best medicine...usually

Yesterday, as I was driving home from magistrate’s court, where I pleaded for leniency after receiving my first speeding ticket in nearly 20 years, I concluded that people have been right all along when they say I am one strange bird. For as long as I can remember, which sadly isn’t as long as it once was, close friends, new acquaintances and even my children have always cowered when we head out in public together. “What is he going to say this time?” or “I hope he doesn’t embarrass me” tops the list of fears they all seem to have in common.

If you’re wondering what happened in court that took my thought process down this road, all I can say is my excuse for going a tad over the speed limit has probably never been heard in any courtroom in the country, maybe even the world. Because I am almost 100% positive my editor would strike it from my column before publication, I’ll simply say it had to do with a medical procedure near, and maybe in, my posterior that had me rushing home. I described it in extremely graphic terms to a fully packed courtroom. With that said, my ticket was reduced, and when I turned to leave, every person in the courtroom sat in stunned silence, mouths wide open and eyes as large as saucers.

I have two main philosophies in life that I often tried to teach my children. The first is: “Don’t shy away from saying something people might, or might not, find offensive because odds are you’ll never cross paths with them again.” The second, which also deals with saying something uncomfortable that may take you down the wrong path, is: “Go ahead and say it because you have everything to gain and nothing to lose.”

Unlike today, when you’re vacationing somewhere far away, even in another country, and people ask where you’re from, your answer of “Hilton Head Island, South Carolina,” almost always brings a response like, “Boy, are you lucky!” or “You must be rich.” Oh, how different that answer was when I was a kid. Not only was Hilton Head not known nationally, but those of us who lived on the island were considered country bumpkins by many of the kids I went to school with in Savannah.

I attended grade school in Bluffton until shortly after the school burned down. From then on, I commuted to Savannah each day with my brothers and sisters, along with some of the Fraser and Hack kids. While I wore blue jeans, T-shirts and Converse sneakers, the Savannah kids made fashion statements in khaki pants, alligator belts, tasseled wingtip shoes and barracuda jackets. I had some good friends, but overall, we islanders were viewed as outsiders. The “rich kid” comments didn’t start until the late 1970s and early 1980s.

Looking back, I believe it was during that slightly scorned period that I adopted my “what the heck” philosophy of saying whatever, and I mean whatever, was on my mind. Since I probably shouldn’t tell you exactly what I said in court, I’ll tell you about another episode from my formative years that no doubt added to my reputation for being weird, or more directly, goofy.

I was in seventh-grade science class when the teacher gave each of us a petri dish and told us to press a finger into the gel, put the lid back on and place it in a cabinet. He said we’d check on them in a week to see what had grown.

A week later, the teacher opened the cabinet and removed the tray of petri dishes. Every single one had a little mold growing in the middle except one. There it sat, and boy, was there mold. Actually, there was so much mold it had popped the lid right off the dish. My classmates gasped as the teacher donned rubber gloves and picked up the hairy specimen.

Handwritten on a piece of tape on the bottom of the dish was the name “Collins Doughtie.”

In my defense, and I swear this is the truth, I had eaten a lollipop right before class the day we did the experiment. Sadly for me, that excuse didn’t fly with my classmates.

Seventh grade was tough because it was also when I realized girls were actually pretty. All I can say is that darn petri dish postponed my puberty by a good two years. After that day, I’m pretty sure the girls in my class whispered, “Collins? Ick, no way. He has cooties!”

But despite the challenges of growing up here, when common everyday items often required long trips to buy, I wouldn’t trade my childhood for anyone else’s. I certainly wasn’t socially polished, but the culture I experienced was incredible. From ox-drawn wagons loaded with fresh shrimp and homegrown vegetables to the Gullah language and way of life, it was an exceptional education that few people have had the opportunity to experience.

Do I still have cooties? Probably. Am I weird? Absolutely!

Collins Doughtie is a 60-year resident of the Lowcountry, is a sportsman, graphic artist, and lover of nature. collinsdoughtie@icloud.com.