Editor’s note: This op-ed is by Bob Stannard, a lobbyist and author.
I’ve known Rodger for quite some time. I think the first time I met him he was working for a lawn and garden company, a company similar to the one I had many years ago. He had a look in his eye that could be pretty intimidating. His dark hair was cropped short. He was a pretty big guy, not a guy you’d want to cross without giving some pretty serious thoughts to the outcome.
Years later he would come up to my house, generally in the early spring, just to check and see how my wood supply was holding up. He’d sit in his truck with his equally intimidating Rottweiler, Dekon, by his side. Dekon had a very similar look to that of his owner. Not a dog you’d mess with.
Rodger’s cheek would be puffed out on one side and invariably at some point in our conversation he’d spit. He wouldn’t spit out his window. No sir, that’d be pretty rude to spit right out the window at your customer. Instead, he spit on the floor of his truck, or at least so it seemed.
After a couple of spits on the floor I said, “Don’t you think you should be a little careful about spitting on the floor of your truck? It could get mighty slippery and you might fall getting out.”
“I ain’t spittin’ on the floor of my truck.”
I gave him a confused look. He gave me what I came to learn to be a smile. The arm that had been resting on the door extended out and his index finger pointed to the ground.
I looked down and there on my driveway was a fairly substantial brown puddle. Rodger had been spitting through a large hole in the floor of his pickup truck. I never said anything. It’s best not to comment on Vermont manners, especially with a Rottweiler staring you down.
Over the years I got to be friends with Rodger Secoy, and as is true with most Vermonters, I learned that he was not the man that he appeared to be. Oh, don’t get me wrong. He was as tough as he appeared to be; tougher really. Rodger contracted a rare form of cancer when he was around 35 years old. He had very large tumors growing in his legs. He had lord knows how many operations at Dartmouth. A titanium shaft down one leg kept him erect, but not without a noticeable limp.
One summer day we were talking about his medication. “It sucks,” was all he said about it. “I quit takin’ the painkillers ‘cause they were makin’ me feel like s*%t.”
“So what are you doing about the pain,” I asked.
“I go and lie down in the brook up by Tollgate.”
“Really? That’s gotta be cold.”
“It’s only cold for the first minute or two. After an hour you don’t even feel it.”
He stopped by one day a couple of years ago, presumably to check on my wood supply.
“What’s going on today, Rodg?” (Rodg was his nickname. As you know, a two-syllable word must always be reduced down to one.)
“Drivin’ a newbie,” he replied.
“What? What’s a newbie and where are you taking it?”
“We have another person here in town who’s been diagnosed. You ever been to the cancer center at Dartmouth? It’s a huge place. A scary place and when it’s your first time it’s a lot scarier. I’ve been there hundreds of times. I know the place and the folks over there know me. I’ll go over with a newbie help them with the fear.”
I was stunned. “Who you taking?”
“I can’t tell you that, but I can tell you it’s one of the ‘well-heeled’ people here in town,” he said.
I was thinking about one of our more wealthy citizens riding over to New Hampshire with Rodger spitting through the hole in his floor. That thought caused me to smile.
“You taking them over in your truck?” I asked.
“No, we’re going in their car.”
“How you going to deal with spitting?”
He half-smiled and said, “I’ll spit when I get there.”
I tried many times to get Rodger to appear on my television show to share his experiences. He told me that the hospital wasn’t keen on him doing so; I’m not sure why. I always felt that Rodger had a good story to tell. His was a story of persevering. I doubt there was a day that went by that he wasn’t in great pain, yet he continued to trap, hunt, deliver firewood and maintain a life that would be a struggle for anyone, even without cancer.
To many, Rodger Secoy was just a regular guy, a Vermonter who sold firewood. To me, Rodger Secoy was a hero. I’ve had the privilege of knowing some incredible people, but let me assure you that I have never known anyone any better than Rodger Secoy. He will always be a man amongst men, a true Vermonter if there ever was one. It was an honor to call him my friend.
Editor’s note: Rodger Secoy died Jan. 12 at age 46.
