“Hey, Jeff. Scotty Zumwalt here from beautiful Downtown St. Helena.” (How many of you remember—back in ’68—Gary Owens opening “Laugh In” with that line, referring to Burbank). Scotty was being ironic. Because among other things, that’s what Scotty was.

Instinctively, Scotty knew that comparing St. Helena to “beautiful downtown Burbank” was funny. He also knew one had to be a bit of a hipster to get the joke. Not everyone remembers Rowen & Martin. Not everyone got Scotty’s humor. But everyone knew Scotty was a good guy—-a guy without a mean bone in his body—-a guy who liked to laugh a lot—-hug a lot--a player--one willing to join us at Anna’s for a few yucks after bidding up auction items at a Native Sons Crab feed.

Scotty could find yucks, anywhere. Truly, his father’s son, Scotty was “everyman.” He knew human nature and “people” like no one you’ve ever met.

The American poet, William Carlos Williams was also a doctor—a family practitioner. He grew up in Patterson New Jersey and never left. Williams saw the entirety of God’s creation in the individual patients he saw every day. He didn’t need to travel to Paris for stimulation.

Scotty was like that. His whole world was here. Zumwalt Ford brought him into contact with a kaleidoscope of personalities. Scotty related to them all. He walked with kings, yet “never lost the common touch.”

He was the quintessential small town, community minded guy—-though the “traitor” lived in rival Cloverdale for some years while running his dad’s Ford Business on White Sulphur Springs.

As I’m older, I didn’t know Scotty as a kid. They called him “Scooter.” He had a set of wheels unlike anyone else in the class of ‘81. With Gamble, Densberger, Cutting, Miller, Beltran et al, that was an athletic class.

His greatest moment (I think there was one night we were together when he didn't remind us) was when Miller forced Justin’s QB (Miroglio’s brother, Dan, no less) to fumble on the 10, and Scotty scooped up the ball and ran 90 yards to score. It was called back when it was ruled that the ground can’t cause a fumble. Never fazed Scotty, though. He knew the truth. An injury cut short his athletic career, but Scotty stayed true to the Saints his whole life.

When he couldn’t play, he’d go on the road, take off his shirt and paint an “S” on his chest so he and his posse could spell out “S.A.I.N.T.S” and root on the basketball team from the stands. (Originally, he'd been the "I" but too often they spelled out S.I.A.N.T.S. So they gave him the "S" because it gave him two out of five chances to spell it right).

He called a few years ago to find out how many touchdowns the Saints Scored each year. An odd question, I thought, until he told me he wanted to donate $100 for each score. Typical Scotty.

He had no airs. He was truly a “people person” in every sense of the word. He was also a man’s man. He had that gravelly voice of a onetime smoker.

Scotty liked being with the guys. He loved sports, poker, and telling stories that men like to tell one another, but don’t dare—in public—because they are so politically incorrect.

Like thee and me, he had his demons, but disliking people wasn’t one of them.

Scotty was a “winker.” He’d say something—then wink. He was speaking in code--code which was “just between us.” He made you feel like an insider—like you were a part of a special club.

When the City Council threatened to pull a Kelo vs. New London and condemn some of his dealership’s land, he struck a deal with the developer and looked for a new house. Scotty loved the Goobs so they looked at house after house with Karen—even made a few offers.

“Hey, that’s fair,” he’d say if an offer was turned down. “That’s just business. That’s not personal. I’d do the same thing.” He was always fair—so understanding of the other person’s point of view. He gave everyone the benefit of the doubt.

Scotty was like his Dad. (We all remember Dave offering up that free acre of land on Mee Lane for the Ag program). Honest. Generous. Loyal. It’s one of life’s ironies that the words “Honest” and “Car Dealer,” are not often used in the same sentence.

Once again, Scotty was the exception to the rule. He understood small towns. He loved community. He loved people. He loved Karen, Will, Victoria and Shelby. That’s wrong. He worshiped them.

At 47, he left us too soon.