Ferrol Sams

“Was it worth it?” they asked.

Was it worth standing in line for two-and-a-half hours to get a dozen barely legible words scribbled in the fly page of a book I hadn’t even seen reviewed?

Let me count the ways.

Yes. Yes. A thousand times, “Yes.”

When the author is a nationally acclaimed novelist whose family literally built Fayette County?

Yes.

When he has a Velcro memory and recalls every conversation, image, or event that he has witnessed, in his entire 85 years?

Yes.

When he has given so much more to his community than just excellent medical care?

Yes.

When he signed books for three solid hours without a break, saying he wouldn’t quit until everyone still in line got theirs signed, because they had waited? (“Just like we did for patients at the office,” he murmured.)

Yes.

The book signing for “Down Town,” Ferrol Sams Jr.’s latest, was brilliantly orchestrated by Friends of the Fayette County Library – on a steaming June Saturday. Well before the 1 p.m. starting time, the driveways and lawns were packed with Sams fans from as far away as the Carolinas and Florida.

He took his place at a table in the Dorothea Redwine meeting room and did not stand up or excuse himself until he had signed an estimated 2,500 books by about 4:15 p.m.

I take that back: When a particularly good friend or former patient stepped into the space in front of him, he rose and stretched across the table to share hugs. He thanked everyone whether or not he knew them, shook a few hands, shared some little quip with many.

I was one of the lucky ones who fell into those last three categories. He told me to turn around, he wanted to see my skirt. Remember my column a few weeks ago about wearing a particularly unfortunate tie-dyed caftan to a party and he has mentioned it every single time we have seen each other in the 34 years since?

He also asked very softly if I was seeing a neurologist, and who it was. Only a caring caregiver would notice a tremor and check to make sure it was being seen to – even though I was not one of his patients.

But back to the book signing. Two lines, shoulder to shoulder, formed under the portico, and as the people moved forward in agonizing torpor, they exchanged information, so that by the time they reached the door, they had discerned that those in the left line had already purchased books, while those in the right were going to have to make a detour to purchase theirs.

It worked out fine. Both the out-of-towners and the Fayette Countians were civilized folks (naturally – they are readers) and scrupulously kept in their proper order until they reached Mecca. There were a few raised eyebrows when someone stacked nearly a dozen books in front of Sambo, new ones plus, I presume, editions of his earlier works. The good doctor did not flinch, or at least did not let anyone notice, but I could just see a new note being posted in that cavernous mind for future use.

It was cooler inside the meeting room, with air conditioning just barely keeping up with the throng and the open double doors. Some of us took advantage of the chairs to sit down as we moved along; many were reading. Strangers saved places for strangers who needed to take potty breaks, but, you know, come to think of it, by the end of the afternoon, all those within conversational distance were no longer strangers.

Fayette Countians shared memories about their beloved doctor and the advice he dispensed over the years. In a 55-year practice, you meet a lot of folks, but who expects questions like, “How’s your Uncle Jake’s back?” of a patient whose Uncle Jake had been in the office once 25 years ago?

The friend I was with that notable Saturday noticed the same thing: When you mention to newcomers to the community, i.e., anyone here less than 10 years, that you’d stood in line most of an afternoon to have a new book signed, it’s really hard to explain why.

How do you explain pages from which rise stories of how it was – and is – in Fayette County, Georgia, even if by another name? How do you explain that he gets the language, the gestures, the scenes exactly right? How do you make them believe that this man wrote by hand early every morning for years to produce his eight novels – then went to the office to work an often 10-hour day?

He and Dr. Helen were the county’s only physicians until about 1971, which may explain why he wouldn’t have had time to start writing until he was 60.

I worry about him. He always said he would not retire until they carried him dead from the office. Not so. He retired last year, and when you ask him how he is, he says, “Fine, fine. Well, not really, but good enough.”

I worry about him. At 85, he’s in the home stretch, of course, but I want him to live forever.

I guess he will, in his books and stories.

Was it worth waiting all afternoon to receive an inscription that says he admires my work too?

Yes. Oh, yes.