No matter what was for sale, he sold it. Most recently, he adopted his church fish fry as a pet project.

Tickets cost $7 for a plate of fried whiting, hush puppies, coleslaw and cake. He would sell 1,000 plates, more than everyone else combined.

He didn't take "no" for an answer. He was a get-to-know-you kind of guy who gained first your confidence, then your seven bucks.

"He could meet you on the street and talk to you five minutes and have you sold," said Tommy Highsmith, who oversees the fish fry.

Burnarr W. "Bud" Garska died Jan. 5 of cardiac arrest. He was 83 and had sold his last fish fry ticket a few months earlier.

As he drew near the end of his life, he rifled through his collection of business cards in search of customers he had yet to contact about the most recent fish fry. Dementia meant that he would sometimes call the same person three or four times. His wife, Deloris, suggested he mark cards "SOLD" and stash them in a cigar box she gave him.

Sometimes he remembered.

Selling was in his stars

Garska was born in 1924 in Nebraska. He married his brother's wife's sister and followed his brother's lead again when he went to work for Vita Craft, marching door to door and trumpeting the virtues of the company's stainless steel pots and pans.

Vita Craft led him to Georgia and eventually to North Carolina, where he landed in Raleigh in 1954.

It wasn't Vita Craft he loved so much; it was talking to people, chitchatting with brides-to-be assembling their hope chests and, in later years, sharing astrological tidbits.

His mother got him interested in horoscopes when he moved her here from Nebraska so he could look after her. She shared her astrology books, and he was hooked.

It was rare for him not to ask potential customers when and where they were born. With that information, he would divine all sorts of details. Eventually, he attracted a following -- people wanting to know whether their health would last, whether their jobs were safe, whether the stars smiled on a match between a guy and his gal.

Vita Craft showed its appreciation for Garska's work, awarding him a set of flatware, new luggage and a 1950 New Year's Eve cruise to Cuba.

Into the frying pan

Eventually Garska got tired of traveling, leaving town every week, sometimes heading out on Monday morning and returning Saturday evening.

When he retired in 1975, he had invested 30 years in selling cookware. He wasn't one to sit idle, so he took a job with Precision Wall, hanging office doors.

But the salesman streak ran deep. When he learned of a fish fry that his church, Westover United Methodist, held twice a year, he was back in the game.

Garska stopped by not long after Pam Brown moved to his neighborhood. "When's your birthday?" he asked her, and he never forgot it.

"He almost always remembered your birthday," she said. "It was kind of shocking, actually, and a little bit tedious sometimes."

Despite the banter, Garska was there for a reason. He wasn't leaving until the Browns bought tickets, and they did.

Few neighbors could turn him down.

"He'd say, 'I'm looking for someone,' and they would go scurrying," she said.

Sharing his talents

He was tethered to oxygen around the clock during the last few fundraisers, but that didn't slow his drive to sell. He simply refined his technique, working the phones instead of making visits. He shared his customer list with Highsmith, the fish fry organizer, and told him to drop by the workplaces or homes of those whose phone numbers he lacked.

"I am not the salesman Bud was," Highsmith said. "If they wanted to buy one, OK. If they didn't, I was gone. Bud wasn't that way. He'd stand there and talk to the person and then he'd sell the ticket."

Once, Garska and Highsmith were at a Harris Teeter.

"Know this lady?" Garska asked, gesturing to a woman walking by.

"Nope," Highsmith answered.

"I don't either," Garska said, "but I'm going to sell her some tickets."

Smiling confidently, he approached her. "Ma'am, do you know about our fish fry?" he asked.

He rattled off the details and then said, "I just happen to have some tickets. How many would you like?" She took two.

In May, the church will hold its first post-Garska fish fry. Ticket sales may be way down. But Highsmith, no shabby salesman himself, has an ace in the hole he hopes will generate some interest. May's fundraiser will be a memorial to Bud Garska.

Bud Garska is survived by his wife of 63 years, Deloris; a son and three daughters; 11 grandchildren and 12 great-grandchildren.