Let Me Tell Y’all A Story is a weekly column that’s usually not focused on sports. It’s brought to you by our partners at Chuck Owens, Alfa Insurance.

When I was a small child, thanks to a sweet lady who babysat me named Miss Rosie, I thought my name was Buddy.

She’d say, come here buddy or let’s go buddy and I was convinced that my name wasn’t Cliff, but Buddy.

Buddy is a word I love and probably overuse. I don’t mention one of my friends without attaching that description to their name. My buddy Will or my buddy Matt or my buddy Buddy.

The birthday of the greatest buddy of my life, my Papaw, Fred Furr, was a few weeks ago.

One of the first columns I wrote in this space was about my maternal grandfather, EC Garvin, a man I idolized from my earliest memories.

I said I’d write about my other grandparents one day, as I’ve always known how blessed I was to have all four of them in my life while growing up.

My Dad’s Dad, my Papaw, holds a special place in my heart.

If a buddy is a great friend, then Fred Furr needs to have his picture beside the word in the dictionary.

I was telling my wife recently that I don’t ever remember hearing Papaw say one even remotely stern word to me when I was growing up. She said that her memories of her grandfather were the same, as most papaws are known for having affable characters.

And I agreed with that, but I do know some of y’all had grandfathers that could be jerks at time. We’re all human after all.

I guess what makes Fred shine as such a light of good times in my own memories is how kind he was to me, but also the air of mischief he always carried.

He was a man that loved working hard. He did so by building houses in his younger years and then running a dairy and logging after that.

That’s how my Dad got his start in logging, by getting a few loads a day with my Papaw between milkings.

Those two worked together in the woods for many, many years and it was hard for my Papaw to stay away from what can be a dangerous job as he got older.

Not working gave him more time to focus on what he was really good at though, piddling.

Fred Furr was a world class piddler and as he lived a mile down Nola Road from our home and I spent many hours in his shadow, the two of us piddling together.

He taught me to drive in the pasture beside his house when I was 11 or 12. He’d bought some property out towards the western side of the county and he wanted me to chauffeur him back and forth down Highway 84.

What if we get pulled over, I asked him, nervously gripping the steering wheel, sitting up in the seat. You let me worry about that, was his reply.

There were certain laws that he thought didn’t apply to him.

Later, as a young adult, I laughed out loud while walking up to the Piggly Wiggly across from the School of the Arts in Brookhaven.

Papaw had parked so close to the front door that people entering and exiting had to navigate around his Chevy pickup.

Hey, back up a little bit, I said to him, watching behind to make sure no one was in his way, as he did not believe in looking behind himself while in reverse. He’d usually stop when he hit something.

After I got him away from the door, but still clearly in the fire-lane, I tried to scold him.

You can park in that handicap space right there, pointing to an open spot about 20 feet away.

Hush boy, he said with a smile, your Mamaw is in their getting greens and she’ll be right out, they know me around here.

They knew him at Hodges Men’s Shop, where he bought the same staples, a blue dress shirt and his favorite brand of khakis, for years and years.

They knew him at the Sears located at Metrocenter in Jackson. He was a loyal believer in Craftsmen tools for all my life.

They knew him at Dennery’s, one of his favorite restaurants, across from the Mississippi Coliseum. He loved eating shrimp but hated peeling them. Let him find a place with a good shrimp cocktail on the menu and he might reorder it 3-4 times in one meal.

I think about him all the time and it’s always done with a smile. My son and I were eating oysters recently and I was telling him how I don’t eat at a restaurant that offers a basket of crackers without thinking about my buddy Fred.

He’d pounce on a club cracker but could also put away a sleeve of saltines before you could blink.

I was drawn to his home and specifically his living room, as I’d sit there visiting with him and my Mamaw many evenings while they watched Wheel of Fortune.

One of my favorite memories of those slow evenings together was after Papaw had been to Jackson, for a checkup with his cardiologist. After getting the all-clear but also being told that he needed to get his cholesterol numbers in check after turning 80, he stopped at Wilson’s Meat Market on the way back through Crystal Springs and bought five pounds of smoked breakfast sausage.

Mamaw was hot when I walked in the house, calling him stubborn, as he grinned at me from his recliner. They were married for 63 years.

I’ve got a head full of stories involving Fred and I won’t share them all here at this moment, as I’m nearing my goal of 1,000 words.

About how he would buy fries from Wendy’s, a burger from Burger King, and ice cream from Dairy Queen as he treated lunch on Brookway Boulevard like a progressive dinner. About how he lit up a Prince Albert cigar for me when I was a pre-teen after I asked to try it and then died laughing as I choked on the smoke. About how he came to my house nearly every day for the first year of my daughter’s life, so proud of his first great-grandchild.

That’s him holding my son Graham in the picture for this piece.

This space is reserved for positiveness and I’m certain that there has never been a person who made me smile or laugh more than my buddy Fred.

The buddiest person to ever be called buddy.

He was my Dad’s best friend and business partner. He was my Mom’s best friend and confidant.

He was my buddy and even though it’s been 12 years since we last saw each other, I still carry him around in my heart wherever I go.