My wife and I recently received the sad news that our friend Dave Vincent has passed away. Dave was one of the most interesting people we’ve ever met.

I became acquainted with Dave when he was working for a major advertising firm. Most of his job involved doing PR work for a major agricultural chemical company.

Dave was born north of the Mason-Dixon line but was raised in Memphis. “Born Northen but Southern by the grace of God,” he often said.

Dave took up scuba diving as a teenager and eventually became a professional diver.

“I was hired by a boat repair company to replace the propellor seals on tugboats,” Dave said. “It was dangerous work; the Mississippi River is so muddy that you can’t see more than a foot or so. I was paid extremely well, but it was cheaper and faster than putting the boats into drydock.”

Dave was also a scuba instructor at the Memphis YMCA.

“The job included carrying the empty air tanks down a long stairwell to a refilling station in the basement,” Dave recalled. “One night I was going down the stairs with an empty tank when I met Elvis and his entourage coming up. Elvis had decided to play racquetball at the Y.”

Whoa! What did you say when you passed the King of Rock n’ Roll?

“I said ‘hey.'”

What did Elvis say?

“He said ‘hey.'”

After graduating from college, Dave went to New York to launch a career in the PR business.

“As soon as I opened my mouth people would make fun of my Southern accent,” Dave said. “They would ask if I was from Dogpatch or if this was the first time I wore shoes. I consulted a speech coach about getting rid of my accent, but she said that I should keep it, that it would prove advantageous in the long run. She was right.”

After chatting with Dave numerous times on the phone, I finally met him in person when he came to Sioux Falls to interview a local farmer. During the interview Dave asked some very intelligent and insightful crop care questions. The farmer asked Dave where his family had farmed.

“To tell you the truth, I’ve never even sat on a tractor seat,” Dave replied. “I’ve learned everything I know about farming by talking to folks like you.”

My wife and I vacationed in Memphis one summer and met Dave’s parents, Don and Betty. As Don and Betty squired us around in their Cadillac, a thumping noise arose from the trunk.

“Did you forget to take that dead body out of the trunk?” Betty asked accusingly.

“I’m afraid so,” Don answered. They were only joking. I think.

Elvis was just a colorful local character for the Vincents.

“One night, Jerry Lee Lewis showed up at the gates of Graceland, drunk,” Don said. “Elvis was home, but wouldn’t let him in. Jerry Lee took out his pistol, fired a few rounds into the air and left. We just shook our heads and said, ‘That’s Elvis for you.'”

A dentist had an office on the top floor of the building where Don worked.

“The lobby was filled with young ladies one morning,” Don said. “The rumor had spread that the dentist was seeing a particularly famous patient that day.”

My wife and I had opted to stay in a tacky hotel – an inn that featured a guitar-shaped swimming pool and TV sets that only played Elvis movies – located across the boulevard from Graceland. As Don dropped us off, he drawled, “Y’all know better than to go out here at night, don’t you?”

Yes, we do now.

Dave was immensely proud of his children, Austin and Kelsey. He must have been doubly proud when Kelsey followed his footsteps into the PR biz.

Even though Dave and I grew up in vastly different cultures, we connected through our passion for reading and writing. We would recommend authors to one another during our long-winded phone conversations.

Dave and Don and half a dozen of their buddies came to a Wessington, South Dakota hunting reserve one fall to shoot pheasants. I hung out with them for an evening that was filled with “y’all’s” and “dawags.”

Dave’s Southern accent was so infectious that I would unconsciously mimic him after I got off the phone. “Cut that out,” my wife would say at length, “You’re wrecking it for me.”

Dave and I spoke less and less as the years wore on. In one of his last emails, he mentioned that he was dealing with some serious health issues. He didn’t say how serious.

Rest well, old friend. Say ‘hey’ to Elvis for me.

— Jerry’s book, “Dear County Agent Guy” can be found at www.workman.com and in bookstores nationwide.