Chris Potts  is an annual contender for the hotly contested title of “Most Blessed Man On Earth.” (He’s won 26 times.) Of the 500 most remarkable people who’ve tred the globe in his lifetime, he’s been blessed to know 61.

 

Not coincidentally, he’s married to the most wonderful girl in the world (though evidence accumulates that the most wonderful boy in the world is probably still available). Idaho has yet to forgive him for taking her away.

 

He is, by trade and inclination, a writer. He is, by blood, the scion of a Southern family distinguished for the depths of its stubbornness and affections. He is a direct descendent of Pocahontas, and a cousin a couple of centuries removed to Thomas Jefferson and Abraham Lincoln, whose writing talents he can only aspire to from afar.

 

He was taught to think about things he thinks about, to laugh easily and often, and to suffer fools patiently, if not gladly, seeing’s how he has so much in common with most of them. He is, his kinder friends say, a maverick: hard to brand, hard to herd, hard to figure.

 

He is especially fond of rain, good books, old movies, iced tea, certain sociable corners of southwestern Brazil, and the color green.