BY JEFFERSON WEAVER

A visit with Alton Squires the other day made me think of a fellow I’ll call Jim.

I’ll tell you some more about Jim in a moment. Alton’s much more fun to write about.

I saw Alton leaning against the gate to his goat lot as I drove by, and I had to stop and say hello. One of the advantages to living in a place like Kelly is that people expect you stop and say hello whenever possible. It’s rude not to do so.

Alton lives simply, and it is rare I have not seen him smile. In fact, one of my fellow church members says Alton is possibly the happiest man in the world.

He was completely nonplussed by my visit; it was as if he had expected a hairy newspaperman to pull into his driveway. I had meant to for some time, of course, since I happen to like goats, and Alton is known as “the Goat Man.” He has somewhere around 35 or so.
We watched the goats for a few minutes, I made friends with his dogs, Jack and Russell, and I met the two pigs as well – one a rangy Duroc cross, the other a rather Rubenesque potbelly who refuses to leave her shed. I heard the story of the goat Snowball’s miracle baby and listened to Alton talk about his hunting/plowing/riding horse of 37 years.

We stood in a drizzling rain and watched Jack and Russell chase squirrels. We laughed as baby goats behaved with the wild abandon of baby goats everywhere, and we tried without success to lure the obese potbelly pig out to play.

Alton was waiting for someone to come by with a faulty water pump, but he told me he would have been out visiting with his livestock anyway.

“I wouldn’t know what to do if I couldn’t mess with my animals,” he said. “They’re my friends, and they know when people care about them. If somebody’s got them an animal that cares for them, that’s all a man needs, I think.”

Alton’s philosophy made me think of Jim.

I won’t use Jim’s real name, but you’ve seen him on the Wilmington TV news before. He’s a Yankee, but when we lived in Wilmington, if I needed him I could count on him. He was that kind of a friend.

Jim had a couple of dogs when I knew him, and I think he had two very haughty cats, but I was never sure if he truly loved his critters. Oh, he cared for them, and sent them to an animal spa for baths and other luxuries, but what Jim really cared about (and I suppose still does) was money.

The last I heard from Jim, he was, without a doubt, rich. Not relatively rich, not almost rich, not upper-middle class rich, but stinking-like-a-three-day-old-fish rich. While he started out with some money (his father, who was much more like Alton, worked long and hard and had some good breaks) Jim has the touch to cause money to reproduce.

He owns houses, a couple of successful businesses, at least two really nice boats and an impressive yacht. Jim spends winters in Florida on another boat, which he occasionally takes to the Bahamas and elsewhere. He spends a lot of time fighting with the city over development of property (which is why you may have seen him on the news).

He was contemplating buying a horse the last time we talked – not just an old country nag, mind you, but some thoroughbred critter that cost more than one or two of Jim’s smaller houses.

Where Alton hunted deer from his horse with a plain old country shotgun, Jim (when he takes time to hunt) uses a custom-built German rifle from a climate-controlled deer stand he reaches via a chauffer-driven four-wheel-drive. Jim has an absolutely gorgeous wife, a couple of classic cars, and a home full of antiques.

When last Jim and I spoke, he said he was the happiest man alive.

I wonder.

I sincerely doubt Jim has ever stood in the rain with a neighbor and looked at goats. I never saw Jim wear overalls, and I know he has never been closer to a pig than the butcher counter at an exclusive grocery store.

Jim’s smile was always as perfect as his dentist could make it. Alton’s smile, however, has a sincerity no amount of whitening and caps could ever create.

Jim’s idea of a perfect Sunday morning is sitting on the deck of his boat in Florida. If Alton wasn’t in church on a Sunday morning, people would wonder what was wrong.

I don’t mean this to disparage either Jim’s wealth or his happiness; while he had the ability to be cruelly sarcastic and is even more arrogant than I’ve ever been, Jim was always a reliable friend, and if he says he’s happy, then he’s happy.

But while I wouldn’t mind having a few extra dollars like Jim, I think I’d rather watch goats with Alton.

When all is said and done, I don’t have to wonder who’s happier, since dollar bills never play leapfrog, butt heads, or run across a rainy morning’s pasture to tell you hello.

Jefferson Weaver is a staff writer at The News reporter. He may be reached at jeffweaver@newsreporter.biz,