I've always had a fondness for tales, especially those that are stretched to the boundary of believability. Give me a good story and as a courtesy I'll overlook the minor inconsistencies.

Until last week, my next-door neighbor was a reliable source of such tales. But in his case, the stories became more believable as he embellished them. I didn't have to ignore the stuff that didn't seem to be true, because with each tale came that inevitable moment when I realized: "Wow, that really happened."

My neighbor really did meet Jimmy Stewart. He really did know John Kennedy. He really did throw Franklin Roosevelt's fishing pole into the water (although we have a corroboration problem with this one).

His name was J.B. Durham, and he died last week at the Veterans Affairs hospital in Fayetteville. He was a 79-year-old Navy veteran. That he made it to 79 was remarkable, considering the grievous injuries he received in World War II -- more about that in a moment -- and considering the frail image he projected when we first met nine years ago.

We had just moved into our home in Willow Spring, and as he tottered over to introduce himself, I took care to give him a gentle handshake. I was afraid anything too hearty would tip him over the edge.

J.B. was tougher than he looked, though. My late wife often said, "He'll outlive us all," and she was partly correct.

My children quickly discovered that J.B. had an inexhaustible supply of $10 bills. He knew that youngsters loved having cash in their pockets, and he clearly had identified me as a particularly parsimonious allowance-giver, so he took it upon himself to fill that gap. Over the years, he used any excuse to lay a bill on them: Your birthday? Here's $10. A good report card? Here's $10. Spring's arriving? Here's $10.

They got the money. I got the stories.

We were fence buddies. Whenever J.B. spotted me working outside, he'd slowly make his way to the fence between our yards and we'd talk. He told me about being assigned to the presidential yacht Sequoia, where Roosevelt once urged the young sailor to try some casting -- only to watch bemusedly as J.B. accidentally heaved the rod into the water. He also told me about serving on a PT boat in the South Pacific and getting so badly hurt on patrol one night that he spent years in rehabilitation. (J.B. was assigned to PT 333. The more famous PT 109 operated in the same waters, which is how he came to know Kennedy.)

J.B.'s Zeliglike life also included a friendship with Marshall "Carbine" Williams, the North Carolina moonshiner and convicted killer who designed the M1 carbine while in prison. When Williams was eventually pardoned and released from prison, he asked J.B. to tag along on a trip to Hollywood where the film "Carbine Williams" was in production, with Stewart in the lead role. All three chummed around a bit.

As much as I loved these tales, I'll confess that my reporter's skepticism was never far below the surface. But I eventually contacted an association of PT boat veterans, which confirmed the details of J.B.'s service, and found a photograph of J.B. in a chummy pose with Williams.

The fishing-pole story remains uncorroborated, however, since the only two witnesses to the event are now both dead.

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