Few people go through this life with real pragmatism. Taking each day as it comes with either stoic acceptance of true sorrow, or a devil may care attitude with the everyday travails of life. My friend Roger Perkins was not only one of those few, but an outstanding example of same. He never complained about life regardless of which way the tide turned, taking each day as it came.

Roger grew up on a farm south of Malone, NY, near the hamlet of Brushton bordering the Adirondack Park. When he was growing up he followed in the footsteps of countless other farm kids who never had the problem of looking for summer or any other type of work. As soon as he was old enough, every morning at 4:30 his morning slumbers would be abruptly interrupted with his father’s cry of chores carrying up the stairway.

He and wife Beverly were married at an early age and had a tough row to hoe, so to speak. They had three children and life became even tougher when they lost their youngest daughter, Heidi, at age thirteen in an auto accident. Roger worked at various jobs before settling on caretaking as a profession. He loved the woods and yearned to follow in the footsteps of his uncle who was a caretaker on one of the many large private parks in the Preserve. At eighteen, he was working as a boundary line patrolman on a prestigious private estate. He was in-between caretaking jobs, when the premier lodge manager’s position in the whole of the Adirondacks became available. It called for the services of a couple which made it especially ideal for them. They were awarded the job at the Adirondack League Club’s Bisby Lodge, and luck smiled collectively on Roger, Beverly, Bisby Lodge and the Old Forge area in the late spring of 1986.

They entered their new appointment like a duck takes to water. A couple is almost a necessity in the management of an entity with the size and scope of the Lodge. Finding a couple with the aptitude, fortitude and amiability they possessed is akin to finding a needle in a haystack. I know from experience the problems inherent with living seven miles from your nearest neighbor in an area as rugged as First Bisby Lake. They were perfect for the job, needed no training and hit the ground running. They would still be there if Roger’s health had not failed.

My wife and I shared part of a Florida vacation with them and the banter that went on between them was the highlight of the trip. Roger came out with an original one morning as we were entering a diner for breakfast. It cinched for him the award as both the quintessential raconteur and provocateur in my mind. Beverly was taking one of his pronouncements on the present scene rather lightly to say the least. He suddenly struck a pose, finger pointing forcefully to add emphasis to the following and said, Beverly, don’t make the “Jungle Cat” have to uncoil. Beverly answered with a shrug of her shoulders as she nonchalantly sauntered through the door into the restaurant.

Roger had a penchant for giving everyone nicknames that he felt were appropriate as to their general demeanor. They were at times either terms of endearment or derision, depending on his mood. As far as I knew, I was The Old Boy. I will record a few of his favorites that fall in the earlier above category. They were, The Brain, Loafinburger, The Millionaire, The Dry Doe, Oil Baron, Toothless One, Straw Head, The Phantom, Shorty, The Torch and The Buzzard which are all I can remember or dare to use in this epitaph.

He saw humor in nearly everything, and loved to comment and capitalize on it to the fullest. Typical was the time he and a group of likeminded individuals who met frequently for coffee devised a plan to put one over on Jim Herron, another of the group. Jim was notoriously famous for caring for his vehicles. As I understand it, Billy Martin and Tiny Lehnen were to be two of the principals. The plan was for one of them to drip motor oil ominously beneath the motor of Jim’s truck and for the other to bring it to his attention. They were sure he would panic and rush the truck to the dealers in Utica. The laugh was on them, when Jim happened to spot the perpetrator about to drip the oil.

Roger had no regard for rank or status when it came to appeasing his thirst for humor. Local trooper Chuck Ford pulled him over for an infraction he purposefully staged. When Chuck approached the car he took off and pulled on down the road, pulled over and waited for Chuck to overtake him. When he walked up to the car and saw who it was he knew he had been had. Chuck, and Police Chief Dibble got him back real good. He was parked with the Club truck picking up some items left after a party on the Fourth of July at a local motel. They slipped into it and moved it well out of sight. After letting him squirm for a bit they pulled up with the truck.

I was no stranger to his practical jokes even though he worked for me. I had a boat docked at Woodhull Lake and he was forever unlatching the safety link to the motor so that it would not start. I reciprocated after a long work day in our log yard. I beat it home and called the Lodge and asked for Roger. When Beverly informed me he was not home I acted surprised before telling her we finished at noon. Not long after he called me and announced its war Old Boy. I asked why? He described his homecoming in detail. It went something like this. Did you feed the deer? Feed your own dammed deer. What’s for supper? Get your supper where you got your lunch.

Roger worked for nineteen years after I retired. He remained on my speed dial until his death. We talked on a weekly basis all that while. He was not only a co-worker but a good friend.

It was hard seeing a man who loved life so much depart this life so young. Of one thing you can be sure, if there is an afterlife he is helping to make it as interesting as this one. Meanwhile he will be sorely missed by those who knew him until hopefully we meet again further on down the ridge as the old guides were wont to say.