Papa Ed was a country doctor, and his home was just an extension of his modest office, at first downtown, and later, next to Jefferson Davis Memorial Hospital, now Natchez Regional.

When you arrived at his home, there was usually a patient in the driveway dropping off a payment on account &045;&045; corn, squash, lady peas or other means of barter.

And usually, if Papa Ed was not treating a patient in the carport or in the driveway, stethoscope and all, you found him not by looking for him but by listening for sounds associated with him &045;&045; his fourth or 10th revision to the latest piece of music he was writing or rewriting at the moment.

Even if you could determine where he was, it was never easy to corner him; as he sat playing and writing the numerous musical scores he copyrighted himself, he was also building the next small water boat for a particular fishing hole, perfecting his current fishing lure designs for patent applications or running yet another electrical circuit somewhere because none of the lights were where he needed them.

He might also be writing a critique of an article in a medical magazine or modifying his own shotguns with his lathes and shooting a few clay targets just outside the kitchen door.

Papa Ed just knew that Werlein’s in New Orleans would finally break down and buy this latest piece of music, and he would soon be in the company of Irving Berlin or somewhere in the French countryside where he had served in World War I.

He had friends of every economic status, race and religion everywhere, simply avoided people he did not like and never spoke ill of anyone.

He was not social in the sense of being a party man. He was too busy with ideas, learning, building projects, new adventures and &uot;doing&uot; to spend his free time idly.

Once darkness fell, there was always one glass of sherry or wine, and he always ate dessert. He ate more fried and baked chicken than anyone I have ever known. There must have been something to it, as he lived to just short of 90 years.

There were some light-hearted puns at the table, a few jokes that went right over your head, and he would then just as suddenly announce his departure and retire to his room to read medical journals, write plays and scribble down ideas and drawings of boats and furniture he was going to build &045;&045; or dreaming of the perfect duck blind for an east wind on Black Lake, all the while listening to music by the masters unless &uot;The Lawrence Welk Show&uot; was under way.

His bedroom light was always the last to go out in the evening. Then, after a few hours of silence, you would awaken to the sound of a piano in the night, and he would then come to you and roust you out of bed for breakfast, dressing and final fishing trip preparations while he was off to make his early morning rounds at the hospitals.

When you were with Papa Ed, the only Renaissance man I have ever known, there was never a need for an alarm clock.