Johnny Aaron has been sipping some fine Scotch lately thanks to his long-time friend Steve Wiggins.
Wiggins, the free-wheeling, flamboyant local beer distributor who died last month, went in with old buddy George Ethridge to purchase the aged whiskey 35 years ago.
They agreed that whichever one outlived the other would get the big-ticket bottle of Scotch.
Ethridge became Wiggins’ little brother in Pi Kappa Phi fraternity at Northwestern in the late 1960s and came as close as anybody to keeping up with him in their prime partying days.
But Ethridge gave up alcohol a good while back and had no need for the premium Scotch he and Wiggins bought all those years ago. It made sense to give it to Aaron.
Johnny has a well-stocked bar at his home on Cane River, and Wiggins, his wife Kim and other friends have dropped by on Friday afternoons for years to celebrate the end of the week…or whatever.
There is talk about LSU football at those get-togethers, and the Tigers gave them plenty to chat about this year. Aaron was captain of the LSU team that won the 1966 Cotton Bowl.
Wiggins loved football all his life and lettered as a defensive back at Jesuit in Shreveport when he was just a sophomore. But his football career ended when his family moved to Spain the next year.
He liked LSU too and went to school there for a while before moving to Northwestern and getting involved in the fraternity, electronic engineering classes and military training programs.
Earning his pilot’s wings in the U.S. Air Force after college and flying transport planes across the nation and world expanded Steve’s lifelong spirit of patriotism.
With his charisma, confidence and competitiveness, it didn’t take Wiggins long to land a good job in sales after completing his military service.
He went to work for Miller Brewing Company in Shreveport, where he had attended St. Theresa’s grade school and church as a kid. That led to a partnership at Natchitoches Beverage in a town he treasured among folks who were captivated by him.
Steve, Layne Miller and a couple of other guys who liked sports decided Northwestern needed tailgating at football games like the big schools were doing.
They fired up barbeque pits, pumped loud music into the areas by the stadium and got folks to come out early for games. Those parking lots and practice fields are packed with tailgaters now, continuing the tradition Steve helped start.
Wiggins, Miller and others decided in 1990 to lead boatloads of friends to the south end of Cane River 34 miles away to celebrate the July 4 holiday.
Boats and barges draped in the U.S. flags that Steve displayed every chance he got still make the festive trip down river every year. Wiggins, always in his muscle shirt and shorts holding a Miller Lite, will forever be the honorary captain of the Dam Run.
Steve was a good friend. We rode barges on Cane River, took our kids waterskiing, played terrible golf, and splashed in lakes and pools with friends while jambalaya simmered and sausage smoked.
We were members of a Mardi Gras Krewe and enjoyed all that mirth and madness. In the midst of a physical fitness craze, we joined a women’s aerobics class but quit it in pain the next day. I saw Wiggins’ walk away intact from ultra-light plane wrecks.
There was fishing on Toledo Bend with basketball coach James Smith. We filled the boat with striped bass and blackened them in iron skillets for people who liked to hang around with Wiggins.
And trips to Hawaii and Reno to watch Smith’s teams play and go deep sea fishing and snow skiing between games. Somehow, Wiggins got me on stage in Honolulu to sing with Don Ho.
Steve, Smith, Alexandria sports editor Bill Carter and I stayed up all night with Aaron roasting pigs for his football team reunions. Those evenings we all spent by the fire talking convinced us that if we ever needed anything our first call would be to Steve.
Mostly we just laughed out loud a lot like the big crowd did at the funeral home when they were running all those pictures of Steve that reminded folks of happy times they spent with him.
I’m sad Steve Wiggins is gone, but I smile every time I think of him.
REPRINTED FROM THE NATCHITOCHES TIMES