2
t's cold and rainy this cruel March day, yet a line of people snakes from the back of a refrigerated panel truck parked next to Altman Furniture on Byrd Street. "He comes in the darndest, coldest, roughest weather," says Johnny Altman shaking his head from side to side in increduli- ty. "I've been coming here a long time," chimes in former town treasurer, Barbara Scott. "We're old buddies." "He's a legend," adds Dr. Randy Merrick, who, by the way, has played a significant role in saving that legend. "I guess I've been coming for as long as he's been coming," says Fred Sherman, who comes, well…every Friday. In fact if Newt doesn't see Fred on Friday he assumes Fred's either sick or away, or worse...dead. Newt's full name is Newton Williams. ("Some call me Newton, some call me Newt. Some call me Fig Newton. I answer to anything.") But most know him simply as Mr. Williams or the Fish Man. He is almost 78 years old and he has been coming to Orange and sell- ing fish out of his truck every Friday since Sept. 15, 38 years ago. "This is the first place I came, right here," says Newton emphatically. And it will be his last too. When it's time for Mr. Williams to hang up his scales, Orange will be the last place he gives up, because of his loyalty to his loyal customers. "They don't call themselves cus- tomers," he points to the growing wait line of people. "They call themselves friends… because they are friends. If I break down, it doesn't worry me a bit in the world, because people will loan me Old Dominion Insurance Company, "and the company was get- ting bigger and bigger and bigger. And when I first worked there they knew you by name, they called me Newton. And that last year, when I won that trip (to Acapulco), they didn't even know what my name was. My number was 6135, and that's all they knew you by, by your number." That's when he and Frances went into the fish business full-time. And that worked fine until there was the wreck. It was Aug. 23, 1991, 7 p.m. Newton, driving a brand new truck, was coming home from another full day selling fish. "A drunk hit me head on." It happened on Rt. 33 near Montpelier in Hanover County. "It busted me up right smart bad…chest, neck, everything else…Everybody thought I was dead because it tore a brand new truck all to pieces." The drunk driver had no license; the Olds 98 he was driving was registered to a dead man. "It was a mess." A sympa- thetic state trooper straightened it out, but Newton was out of work for three months. But he recovered. He also recovered from an aneurysm in 1998 that left him almost completely blind in his right eye. Two surgeries later, he has regained most of that sight. And then Frances had a stroke. Eventually, Newton sold the farms out near Saluda and they bought a house in Mechanicsville so that Frances could be closer to the hospital. "You get 78 years old, you don't feel like working as much as you used to," he says a tad wearily. "Orange was the first place I ever come when I started in business…If it hadn't been for Orange, I never would have made it. But Orange was a good spot and always has been a good spot…Orange has been good to me….This will be the last place I give up." And when will that be? "Till I get a hundred," he winks mischievously. "When I get a century, I'm going to quit." He laughs out loud at the very thought of it. "Three pounds of medium shrimp, please," a customer, cor- rection, a friend gives his order. "300 pounds," he deadpans in return. FISH

˘ˇ ˆ˙˙ˇ FISH - AudibertPhoto · I ever come when I started in business…If it hadn't been for Orange, I never would have made it. But Orange was a good spot and always has

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�� t's cold and rainy this cruel Marchday, yet a line of people snakesfrom the back of a refrigerated

panel truck parked next to AltmanFurniture on Byrd Street. "He comesin the darndest, coldest, roughestweather," says Johnny Altman shakinghis head from side to side in increduli-ty.

"I've been coming here a long time,"chimes in former town treasurer,Barbara Scott. "We're old buddies."

"He's a legend," adds Dr. RandyMerrick, who, by the way, has played asignificant role in saving that legend.

"I guess I've been coming for aslong as he's been coming," says FredSherman, who comes, well…everyFriday. In fact if Newt doesn't see Fredon Friday he assumes Fred's eithersick or away, or worse...dead.

Newt's full name is NewtonWilliams. ("Some call me Newton,some call me Newt. Some call me FigNewton. I answer to anything.") Butmost know him simply as Mr. Williamsor the Fish Man.

He is almost 78 years old and hehas been coming to Orange and sell-ing fish out of his truck every Fridaysince Sept. 15, 38 years ago. "This isthe first place I came, right here," saysNewton emphatically. And it will be hislast too. When it's time for Mr. Williamsto hang up his scales, Orange will bethe last place he gives up, because ofhis loyalty to his loyal customers.

"They don't call themselves cus-tomers," he points to the growing waitline of people. "They call themselvesfriends… because they are friends. If Ibreak down, it doesn't worry me a bit inthe world, because people will loan me

Old Dominion Insurance Company, "and the company was get-ting bigger and bigger and bigger. And when I first worked therethey knew you by name, they called me Newton. And that lastyear, when I won that trip (to Acapulco), they didn't even knowwhat my name was. My number was 6135, and that's all theyknew you by, by your number." That's when he and Frances wentinto the fish business full-time.

And that worked fine until there was the wreck. It was Aug. 23,1991, 7 p.m. Newton, driving a brand new truck, was cominghome from another full day selling fish. "A drunk hit me head on."

It happened on Rt. 33near Montpelier inHanover County. "Itbusted me up rightsmart bad…chest,neck, everythinge l s e … E ve r y b o d ythought I was deadbecause it tore abrand new truck all topieces." The drunkdriver had no license;the Olds 98 he wasdriving was registeredto a dead man. "It wasa mess." A sympa-thetic state trooperstraightened it out,but Newton was outof work for threemonths.

But he recovered.He also recoveredfrom an aneurysm in1998 that left himalmost completelyblind in his right eye.Two surgeries later,he has regainedmost of that sight.And then Franceshad a stroke.Eventually, Newtonsold the farms outnear Saluda and they

bought a house in Mechanicsville so that Frances could becloser to the hospital.

"You get 78 years old, you don't feel like working as much asyou used to," he says a tad wearily. "Orange was the first placeI ever come when I started in business…If it hadn't been forOrange, I never would have made it. But Orange was a goodspot and always has been a good spot…Orange has beengood to me….This will be the last place I give up." And whenwill that be?

"Till I get a hundred," he winks mischievously. "When I get acentury, I'm going to quit." He laughs out loud at the very thoughtof it.

"Three pounds of medium shrimp, please," a customer, cor-rection, a friend gives his order. "300 pounds," he deadpans inreturn.

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a truck or carry me home." And that is no lie.Take Neal Robertson of the Ruritan Club in

Barboursville, for example. "We buy a lot of fishfrom him now and used to buy a lot of oystersfrom him, 10, 12 gallons at a time," he relatesa story from years ago. Newton called him oneFriday morning to say, "I've got the oysters, butthey're not shucked." Instead, he said he'dfound someone to shuck them near his home-town of Saluda, adding, "I'll bring them back toyou on Friday night."

Now it's Neal's turn to shake his head inincredulity. After the day was done, Mr.Williams was going to drive home to Saluda,load up on the now shucked oysters, and driveall the way back here like he promised. Nealarranged to meet him in Zion's Crossroads,and he remembers saying, "'You mean to tellme you're standing in Louisa County tonight,and you're going to be back here tomorrowmorning? I could have come to Louisa tomor-row morning,'" Neal protested.

"He said, 'that's not the point.' He said 'I toldyou I would have them Friday.'" Neal pauses abeat; shakes his head again. "That's the kind ofguy he is."

When reminded of this story later, the FishMan simply says, "I always say you know aperson by his word."

He dips his hand into a cooler, extracts aplastic bag full of thebiggest scallops youever saw, places themon the scale and turnsthe scale so the cus-tomer can see theweight. "That'll be$3,500," he jokes.Everyone in linelaughs. They've heardthis before, becauseNewt likes to see ifyou're paying attention.This dynamo with theinfectious grin andpiercing blue eyes,greets most of his cus-tomers by name. Heinquires after theirspouses, pokes gentlemischief, softlyexpresses condo-lences to a grievingwidow.

And they return thegreetings. "How's thewife?" asks one. "Backin the hospital," shrugsNewt, resignedly. Nextweek, they'll ask thesame question and he

will brighten and relatethat Frances has comehome and is feeling bet-ter. Newt's customers–oops friends–arerelieved.

Frances had a strokesome time ago, butbefore that, she andNewt ran this businesstogether. In fact it wasone snowy morning,"My wife said, 'let's dosomething.'

"And I said, 'Alright,let's get some oystersand start out.' We wentand got 100 quarts ofoysters that day andsold them," he remem-bers. They went back tothe supplier and soldout again…and again.And because he hadtwo pick-up trucks,Frances issued a chal-lenge.

"'You work one storeand I'll work one; seewho can get the most,'"

she reportedly said. His eyes crease in mirthand he bursts out laughing. "Ha, ha ha…com-pe-tition!" he roars.

From there, this promising mobile oystersales sideline morphed into a full-blown busi-ness. During his heyday, Newton and FrancesWilliams were traveling 70,000 miles a year inhis refrigerated truck, supplying grocerystores, restaurants, and lines of people just likethis in parking lots from Culpeper toGoochland, from Louisa to Lynchburg, fromRoanoke to Appomattox. But he always cameto Orange on Fridays, because that's where hestarted. And nowadays, all those other towns,except for Louisa and Orange, have beendropped from his route.

Newt's day typically starts at 5 a.m. at hishome in Mechanicsville, when the truck fromSam Rust Seafood, his steady-eddy supplierin Hampton, pulls up with today's order. Asmany as 47 different items (it just depends onwhat he thinks will sell best today) are trans-ferred to the Fish Man's bleached and sani-tized refrigerator truck.

"We carry two kinds of shrimp, large andmedium, we carry crab meat–different kinds,scallops, you got four kinds of oysters; you gotsalmon; you got tuna; you got sword steaks;you got flounder; you got Tilapia; you got cat-fish; you got perch out of Canada; you've got

rockfish, dolphin; then dressed fish: you gottrout, croaker, spot, perch, clams, steamedcrabs." Newt ticks off the list. Most, but cer-tainly not all of what he sells, comes fromVirginia waters. He even carries frozen snowcrab from the PacificNorthwest and frogs’legs from India andChina.

With the obviousexception of the frozenitems, is what he carriesfresh caught? "I get myfish everyday," heemphasizes. Even theGulf shrimp, which heprefers to Atlantic, are sofresh they're hard topeel. "I've been in busi-ness 38 years andyou've probably heardmore complaints than Ihave," and we haven'theard any. "Very, very,very, very rare have Iheard complaints." Hetells a story of aLynchburg restaurantthat pulled seafood fromits menu when he decid-ed to drop that run.

Much of this reliabilityand freshness has to dowith Sam Rust, whogives our Fish Man pref-erential treatment. "He'lltell you I come first," saysNewton proudly. "He callsme every morning 6o'clock and says 'Whatdo you want? becausewe're going to give youthe choice’….I alwaysget the first choice."

Sam Rust has evencalled Newton Williamsat Altman Furniture tosay he's running low onoysters. "'Newton, I'mgetting really short. Howmany more are yougoing to need forChristmas?' I'll tell himand he says, 'you got'em.'" Newton smilesand adds, "Everybodyelse gets cut off, and a lotof people don't like it, butI've been with the man that long. I've alwayspaid him and I've never had a complaint. Andanother thing, he packs my oysters a little bit

better than he packs anybody’s." The Fish Manstops to consider this for awhile. "Sam Rust isgood to me. I've bought a lot of stuff from thatman."

And he's sold a lot too. Newton's day doesnot end at 6 p.m. when,usually sold out, he packsup and heads for home inMechanicsville. "Then Igot two hours of workwhen I get home to cleanthe truck up. It takes twohours to clean it up. I gotto bleach her down everynight."

Looking at NewtonWilliams with that weath-ered face, those piercingblue eyes, and stoopedback, you'd think he wasan old hand watermanwho'd hung up his oystertongs for a scale and arefrigerated truck; some-one who had switchedfrom the supply side tothe demand side of theseafood business. Buthe's not.

"I was born and raisedand lived in Saluda…." hesquints his eyes andcounts back… "60 years,just about." Saluda islocated on that spit ofland between the Yorkand RappahannockRivers known as theMiddle Peninsula. "I wasa grain farmer and raisedhugs (hogs)," he sayswith a twinge of that dis-tinctive Tidewater/Eastern Shore accentthat can be traced back toElizabethan England. Buthe was never a commer-cial fisherman. "I lived onthe water all my life. I hada farm on the water. Myold home place; that wason the water, and I can'teven swim."

In addition to threefarms, Newton "workedfor an insurance compa-ny, had a service station,and a Greyhound bus

station too." Is there anything he hasn't done?"You name it, I done tried it."

Newton Williams had spent 20 years with

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“Me and a

bee have

a hard time

of it”

The Fish Man grate-fully accepts pay-

ment from a regularcustomer. He

prefers colder weath-er because the bees

aren't buzzingaround yet. Newton

Williams is deathlyallergic to bee

stings, particularlyyellow jackets which

are attracted tocrabs.

Photo by Susie Audibert