THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT 
              Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.

DATE: Friday, January 19, 1996               TAG: 9601190605
SECTION: LOCAL                    PAGE: B1   EDITION: FINAL 
TYPE: Column 
SOURCE: Guy Friddell 
                                             LENGTH: Medium:   59 lines

TUCK SELDOM HAD TO CHECK HIS LIST TWICE FOR A NAME

Throughout Southside Virginia, people remembered with joy Gov. William M. Tuck (1946-1950) in a display of his mementos at the South Boston-Halifax County Historical Museum.

It took place during the holidays, which was fit, because the late Bill Tuck had the girth and mirth of a Santa Claus.

And he never, ever forgot a name.

Frequently, an admirer would ask if Tuck remembered his name, at which the governor would rise slowly, lifting his arms high, like a majestic elephant trumpeting his delight, his mind, meanwhile, more sensitive than the most sophisticated computer, searching the recesses of his memory. So when he brought down his hands on the man's shoulders, the name rose, magically, to his lips, and one more soul went away consoled that he was remembered by Bill Tuck.

One time Tuck was with a neighboring state's lieutenant governor when a constituent confronted that worthy with a dare that he didn't know his name. The lieutenant governor turned to an aide and snapped, ``Tell this damn fool his name! He don't know and I don't know either.''

That wasn't Bill Tuck's style. He was shocked at the official's insensitivity to the man's appeal for confirmation of worth. A man's name, his most cherished - sometimes only - possession, deserves remembrance. A kindness in Tuck, as well as the pride of an old pro, impelled him to dredge up the name, embrace the bearer and set him at ease, at pride, remembered by the mighty Ajax of political wars.

One time a man, feet apart, chin raised, challenged him at a county fair, as if Tuck were the weight and age guesser, and said he bet Tuck didn't know his name. The hands rose high in the air, a smile wreathed the governor's jovial face, but, for once, the infallible memory faltered, failed to offer a clue. As a crowd gathered, Tuck shouted: ``Don't know your name? Why I could pick that face out of the multitude on the peopled plain at Judgment Day and name it!''

All the while his ears were fanning the crowd, flapping, testing, turning intently this way and that to pick up a hint, and, just as he concluded his response, Tuck heard, way out on the fringe, somebody yell, ``That oughta tell ole Fred!'' And that turned the key in the gates of recollection and the full name came flooding back to Tuck so that when his hands came down on Fred's shoulders, with such force as to almost buckle his knees, Tuck called his last name as well as his first and then inquired politely after the health of his wife, Sallie. The crowd roared with applause.

And Fred, face flushed, strutted off as if he had done it all.

Thirteen years after his death, anybody who ever met Bill Tuck remembers him. ILLUSTRATION: Photo

William M. Tuck...

by CNB