DATE: Monday, November 3, 1997              TAG: 9711030042

SECTION: LOCAL                   PAGE: B3   EDITION: FINAL 

TYPE: COLUMN 

SOURCE: GEORGE TUCKER

                                            LENGTH:   75 lines

'HARDTIMES' HUNT WAS A CHARACTER WORTH REMEMBERING

Fame is as evanescent as the flash of a butterfly's wings in the sunlight. To prove my point, a few decades ago Virginian-Pilot readers were kept in constant stitches by a weekly column concerning the shenanigans of the denizens of Oyster, Va., written by Herman ``Hardtimes'' Hunt, their self-appointed chronicler.

Then, after Hunt's death from a heart attack in July 1974, his reputation as a racy raconteur quickly plummeted. Even so, I'd like to go on record by stating that my memories of Hardtimes were not quite that fickle. Having relished his zany approach to the absurdities of life while he was alive and kicking, I frequently share some of his more preposterous tales with other colleagues with long memories.

Still, I never felt the urge to share these recollections publicly until a recent stroke of luck took me on a visit to Virginia's Eastern Shore. Fortunately, my driving companion shared my enthusiasm for country roads. So, instead of trying to negotiate traffic-congested Route 13, we opted for the more picturesque Seaside Road that begins a few miles beyond the northern terminus of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel.

Before we realized what was happening, we were smack dab in the middle of Oyster, the tiny fishing village that was formerly Hunt's bailiwick. At that point, I decided it was high time to resurrect Hunt for those of you who never had the privilege of knowing him personally.

Standing 6 foot 3 in his stocking feet, if and when he ever got around to wearing a pair of socks, Hunt, whom a newspaper wit once dubbed ``the baroque pearl of Oyster,'' was a gangling, toothy American physical facsimile of George Orwell (1903-1950), of ``1984'' fame. But Hunt did Orwell one better. Realizing that 1984 and the continuous eagle-eyed surveillance of Big Brother was already firmly established in America long before Orwell anticipated it elsewhere, he turned the tables on the British novelist's fictitious cynical observer of the daily doings of his fellow men by playing the same game according to his own, more tolerant, rules.

As the organizer of the Oyster Chamber of Commerce, that had no officers, no dues, and no bylaws, Hunt regulated his friendships like the membership of his club, which had no connections with Robert's ``Rules of Order.'' If a person wished to join, he merely scribbled his name on the wall of McCready's Beanery, the Oyster greasy spoon in which the club held its unbridled meetings. Should he desire to resign, all he had to do was to borrow a dishrag and wipe his name from the wall.

That was Hunt's way of doing things. If he liked you, he inscribed your name and peculiarities immediately on the walls of his memory. If, at some later date, he decided there should be a parting of the ways, he erased your name and went on to add the warmth and friendship of another more interesting character to the lengthy roster of his friends.

A native of Capeville, in Northampton County, where he was presented to his parents as a belated Christmas gift on Dec. 26, 1904, Hunt was by turns a waterman, deep-sea diver, hash house manager, newspaperman, and advertising copy writer, all of which jobs he performed with a Rabelaisian gusto uniquely his own. Always more or less a legend, Hunt's unbuttoned approach to life spawned a crop of offbeat anecdotes in which he - of course - played a major role. Unfortunately, space problems permit me to include only one printable example that took place when he was a correspondent for The Virginian-Pilot.

During the time that R.K.T. ``Kit'' Larson was the managing editor of the paper, a woman wrote him a letter after reading one of Hunt's whoppers, indignantly demanding if there was actually a place named Oyster, Va., if there was a bona fide writer by the name of Hardtimes Hunt, and if the yarns he related were true happenings.

Larson dropped the woman a note, telling her that he was forwarding her letter to Hunt in Oyster, adding that he was certain the columnist would answer her inquiries to her satisfaction. He wasn't wrong in his assumption either, for after a short time had elapsed, the woman mailed Hunt's reply, scribbled on a grocery bag, to Larson. It read:

``Dear Madam: ``In regard to your questions about my stories - if they ain't true now, they will be someday. ``Yours truly,

``Hardtimes Hunt of Oyster, Va.'' ILLUSTRATION: Herman Hunt

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