Lindsey Beth Evans is the daughter of two of my dearest friends in life, Kirk and Nancy Evans. A kindergarten, first and now second-grade teacher, Lindsey has pursued both education and her job with a passion not easy to predict when she was a little girl, for as the typical fun-loving little girl, she was given credit mainly for being cute. I have never been a boy growing up in this generation’s world, let alone a girl; but I can imagine the pressure to choose between appearance and learning, surface and soul, immediate pleasure and delayed gratification. Lindsey seems to see these as false choices, figuring out how to be both polished and deep, bubbly and grounded, attractive and career-focused, accepting of adult advice and her own person.
This summer, for the fourth time in 16 years, Lindsey will travel to Brazil on a mission trip, once again with her grandfather (her mother’s father). On these trips she trades in her dresses and sandals for jeans, t-shirts, ball caps, work shoes and work tools to help build churches, repair homes and perform other similar tasks. She has gone to Brazil for nearly half her life, and taken similar trips to Cambodia (twice) as well as to Sierra Leone; and performed similar work here in the United States. When asked, many of the young people I know who do service, will say they do it mostly to build their resume. Resume builders do not sustain their effort this long. Something else motivates Lindsey and I suspect it is the same thing that causes her grandfather and brother to take these sorts of trips. They have become enthralled with the prospect of helping other people and have learned, as Martin Luther King said, if you want to be great, you only need a heart full of grace and a soul generated by love. I do not personally know anyone as young as she, who has devoted more time and energy to such causes; and better embodies the word: servant.
When you are around Lindsey’s father you know he could start singing any minute. With Lindsey it is not only a song, but a dance routine, she suppresses until the setting permits. If full-on dancing is not appropriate, she will at least lightly clap her hands, scoot her feet, or weave or bob in time to music playing in her head. I have seldom seen her listening to music through earphones, perhaps because it would have to compete with her natural song. When I am around her I find myself wanting to express myself the same way, until I remember I am a middle-aged man with no sense of rhythm. After she influenced a bunch of us older people out on the dance floor at her brother’s wedding in 2006, and I confessed to having loved the dancing once I got going, she later tried to teach me step routines; but soon gave up after seeing how slowly I was picking it up.
Lindsey’s fashion sense and style instincts are impeccable, something she no doubt gets from her mother, although Lindsey’s sensibilities run less to arts and crafts than to personal expression. The precision of her thinking and speaking match the way she glides and strolls, no doubt due to awareness of the impact she has on others; giving her a type of interpersonal power she could, but does not, exploit.
I have seen video of Lindsey teaching and what I recall are her capacity to attend to the demands of each separate child and the rhythm with which she orchestrates classroom activities. I had precious few teachers with her combination of poise and enthusiasm, but one of the few I did have: Miss Rhodes, I remember fondly to this day. Those Louisville kids are fortunate to have Miss Evans. The impression she makes on many of them will no doubt, be indelible.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Let Me Tell You About My Niece Erin Turner
Let me tell you about my niece Erin Janine Turner (Erin, I sure hope you spell it the way the actress from Northern Exposure does, cause that’s what I went by....Tanga says its Jeanine), sometimes referred to as Erineenee in our immediate family. When she was little they would ask her where she was from and she would say: “Scouat County” (roughly that anyway, give or take a syllable or two).
If you read this, please do so as fast as you can; as a tribute to Erin; since she thinks fast, talks fast, does everything fast; except drive (I hope?). In fact, Erin can usually pretty accurately finish your sentences for you if you don’t talk fast enough to suit her.
If Erin had been born the daughter of someone connected to Hollywood, she most likely would have been on the Academy Awards this past Sunday night. She has the talent, but in show business; you have to know somebody. Her father was (is) a thespian too, but also one without the right connections. Listening to the two of them talk must be a little like listening to a father and daughter from the film industry, without all the messy fame and fortune. When they talk to each other there’s bombast and bravado, subtlety and soliloquy, poetry and poignancy.
Erin was born three weeks before Kentucky won the NCAA title in 1978, so don’t believe her if she says she remembers it. However, I don’t doubt much else she claims to remember. For example, she can name the make, year, model and color of every car Tanga and I have owned; and since August, 1979; Erin and us have not lived in the same state. If you are thinking: how neat a little girl she must have been to remember all her uncle and aunt’s automobiles, then I just caught you being neat; because only a neat person would see how neat that is. (Now you know something of how I define neat people.) Apparently while her peers had their noses in Super-Mario Brothers, Erin was watching what was going on in the world around her.
Erin appreciates the differences among people, caring most deeply for those who struggle to fend for themselves; a compassion not currently in fashion in the United States. Erin is cool but indifferent to prevailing opinion, she keeps up with the latest entertainment-tonight sort of information; but uses it mainly as a source of amusement, preferring to catalog and make sense of what happens to her friends, family and acquaintances. Erin is one of those rare three-in-one characters Malcolm Gladwell describes in his book The Tipping Point: a maven, a salesperson and a connector; that is, she gets deeply interested in minutia/details of events/situations, enthusiastically discusses what is going on with others and serves as a connector between different interest groups.
I have a suggestion. The next time you are feeling your oats, invite Erin for lunch and engage her in a political argument. Before you do, I must warn you. Erin was an award-winning debater, and as her dad says with all the sarcasm he can muster (and nobody musters sarcasm the way he can); “Erin is the shy and retiring type”.
Erin, there is so much more I could write about you, but Kentucky is about to win the SEC, so I must repair to a TV set. I will just wrap up by saying, Happy Selection Sunday, Happy Birthday Patrick Patterson and Happy Birthday, Erineenee.
If you read this, please do so as fast as you can; as a tribute to Erin; since she thinks fast, talks fast, does everything fast; except drive (I hope?). In fact, Erin can usually pretty accurately finish your sentences for you if you don’t talk fast enough to suit her.
If Erin had been born the daughter of someone connected to Hollywood, she most likely would have been on the Academy Awards this past Sunday night. She has the talent, but in show business; you have to know somebody. Her father was (is) a thespian too, but also one without the right connections. Listening to the two of them talk must be a little like listening to a father and daughter from the film industry, without all the messy fame and fortune. When they talk to each other there’s bombast and bravado, subtlety and soliloquy, poetry and poignancy.
Erin was born three weeks before Kentucky won the NCAA title in 1978, so don’t believe her if she says she remembers it. However, I don’t doubt much else she claims to remember. For example, she can name the make, year, model and color of every car Tanga and I have owned; and since August, 1979; Erin and us have not lived in the same state. If you are thinking: how neat a little girl she must have been to remember all her uncle and aunt’s automobiles, then I just caught you being neat; because only a neat person would see how neat that is. (Now you know something of how I define neat people.) Apparently while her peers had their noses in Super-Mario Brothers, Erin was watching what was going on in the world around her.
Erin appreciates the differences among people, caring most deeply for those who struggle to fend for themselves; a compassion not currently in fashion in the United States. Erin is cool but indifferent to prevailing opinion, she keeps up with the latest entertainment-tonight sort of information; but uses it mainly as a source of amusement, preferring to catalog and make sense of what happens to her friends, family and acquaintances. Erin is one of those rare three-in-one characters Malcolm Gladwell describes in his book The Tipping Point: a maven, a salesperson and a connector; that is, she gets deeply interested in minutia/details of events/situations, enthusiastically discusses what is going on with others and serves as a connector between different interest groups.
I have a suggestion. The next time you are feeling your oats, invite Erin for lunch and engage her in a political argument. Before you do, I must warn you. Erin was an award-winning debater, and as her dad says with all the sarcasm he can muster (and nobody musters sarcasm the way he can); “Erin is the shy and retiring type”.
Erin, there is so much more I could write about you, but Kentucky is about to win the SEC, so I must repair to a TV set. I will just wrap up by saying, Happy Selection Sunday, Happy Birthday Patrick Patterson and Happy Birthday, Erineenee.
Let Me Tell You About My Friend Tanga Bea Turner McCullough (the friend I married)
Tanga is an exotic name for a poor white girl from rural northern Kentucky, a name her father had read in a farm magazine. Although her parents never traveled far, by naming her Tanga, they staked a small claim to the bigger world; but as if to apologize for being so bold, they gave her the middle name of Bea. So she is Tanga Bea, both exotic and plain. An internet search shows Tanga is a city in northern Tanzania or a g-string type bikini bottom, and we all remember Aunt Bea from the Andy Griffith Show.
Bea loves gospel music; Tanga tells off-colored stories. Bea collects Vera Bradley; Tanga reads spicy romance novels. Bea gives her nephews backpacks full of goodies on their birthday; Tanga points out the sexual overtones of Michael Bolton’s head. Bea runs her library like a beat cop, no talking, no bad sites on the internet; Tanga, when asked on the library phone if she has seen an escaped mental patient, says: “I’m looking at a roomful of ‘em”.
Tanga Bea is a woman of deep, subtle talents; for example: (1) she scored perfectly on a tone pitch test in school, shocking the teacher; (2) her eye-hand coordination is so good she: will almost never swing and miss a pitched ball…won the foosball tournament at the BSU in around 1976 or so, guys and girls; (3) her memory for faces is stunning, and (4) she can solve those square tile-sliding puzzles like lightning - but as she likes to point out, no one will pay you to do any of those things.
Tanga Bea cares for other people: (1) she is known for finding just the right gift for birthdays or Christmas, (2) she gave a cell-phone to a former student at her college and paid the monthly bill for years, (3) several years ago when I was having a tough time at work, she put together a picture slideshow, playing Mariah Carey’s Hero and (4) for two recent Springs she stayed late after work two nights a week for the months of February, March and half of April; helping do taxes for free.
During the autobiography-sharing phase of our relationship, she told me how her Aunt Silvia picked her up from school the day her father died, when she was nine; of a packed house the next night when all the neighbors came to pay respect with plates of food and words of kindness; of walking into the dark bedroom to get a game her cousin Angie was going to play with her, and tipping over a dish of marbles that loudly hit the linoleum and rolled, people coming running and drawing attention to her; the last thing she wanted to do, on that of all nights.
She spoke of how, a few weeks later, she was asked to quote Bible verses in front of other kids and adults for a GA (girls’ auxiliary later changed to Girls in Action) award; and how when she opened her mouth, tears began to flow until Goldie Bowen stopped the spectacle and told everyone Tanga should get her award anyway because she had heard Tanga say the versus before they started.
And I heard of the "funny" stories of poverty, of a car with a mirror for a gearshift, of a car left out of gear, rolling to the bottom of the hill; of a brick laid on the coal stove to heat and then the foot of the bed to keep her feet warm during cold nights in a poorly-insulated house. I had similar accounts of growing up without much money or material things, so once we knew one another well; we formed a club of two, for poor, hesitant, but determined people.
I pledged early on to try to make her life better than it was before, figuring such a goal might be more doable and worthwhile than many other goals I might set. I am not sure how I have done on it. She grew up surrounded by a loving family of brothers, cousins, aunts, uncles, school and church friends; and due to my jobs, we have lived far from them for over thirty years. In 2005, flying back from England, I half-pretended to shoosh her for laughing so hard at the movie she was watching with headphones on. Her laughter reminded me of how it sounds when she is with friends and family.
I suspect I have been a less-than-easy person with which to live. In the Fall of 1979, Tanga was working at Zayre’s Department Store in Terre Haute, Indiana and I, so engrossed in what I was doing at the University, waited until after my night class to pick her up after her day shift. As we drove to our apartment Supertramp’s “Long Way Home”, came on the radio and I was amused by the irony, but of course, she was not. This story illustrates our marriage pretty well; I make mistakes enjoying the irony in them and she forgives. So, the jury is still out on whether I have “made her life better”, but I hope I still have some years to go.
Fortunately, she is good at taking care of herself and me. One thing she and our friends from college have figured out is how to keep relationships going across miles. Due to their efforts, we have seen those friends at least once a year since we all graduated over thirty years ago and for the last twenty years or so, we have been together at least three times a year. She and those dear friends have made my life better. She never said her goal was to make my life better, but that's her way; less talk, more do.
Back when she was working me through graduate school, some of our friends told her she was a saint to stay with me. Maybe then, I have accomplished my goal of making her life better; I mean, how many husbands give their wives the chance to be a saint?
Happy Birthday, Saint Tanga Bea Turner McCullough
Bea loves gospel music; Tanga tells off-colored stories. Bea collects Vera Bradley; Tanga reads spicy romance novels. Bea gives her nephews backpacks full of goodies on their birthday; Tanga points out the sexual overtones of Michael Bolton’s head. Bea runs her library like a beat cop, no talking, no bad sites on the internet; Tanga, when asked on the library phone if she has seen an escaped mental patient, says: “I’m looking at a roomful of ‘em”.
Tanga Bea is a woman of deep, subtle talents; for example: (1) she scored perfectly on a tone pitch test in school, shocking the teacher; (2) her eye-hand coordination is so good she: will almost never swing and miss a pitched ball…won the foosball tournament at the BSU in around 1976 or so, guys and girls; (3) her memory for faces is stunning, and (4) she can solve those square tile-sliding puzzles like lightning - but as she likes to point out, no one will pay you to do any of those things.
Tanga Bea cares for other people: (1) she is known for finding just the right gift for birthdays or Christmas, (2) she gave a cell-phone to a former student at her college and paid the monthly bill for years, (3) several years ago when I was having a tough time at work, she put together a picture slideshow, playing Mariah Carey’s Hero and (4) for two recent Springs she stayed late after work two nights a week for the months of February, March and half of April; helping do taxes for free.
During the autobiography-sharing phase of our relationship, she told me how her Aunt Silvia picked her up from school the day her father died, when she was nine; of a packed house the next night when all the neighbors came to pay respect with plates of food and words of kindness; of walking into the dark bedroom to get a game her cousin Angie was going to play with her, and tipping over a dish of marbles that loudly hit the linoleum and rolled, people coming running and drawing attention to her; the last thing she wanted to do, on that of all nights.
She spoke of how, a few weeks later, she was asked to quote Bible verses in front of other kids and adults for a GA (girls’ auxiliary later changed to Girls in Action) award; and how when she opened her mouth, tears began to flow until Goldie Bowen stopped the spectacle and told everyone Tanga should get her award anyway because she had heard Tanga say the versus before they started.
And I heard of the "funny" stories of poverty, of a car with a mirror for a gearshift, of a car left out of gear, rolling to the bottom of the hill; of a brick laid on the coal stove to heat and then the foot of the bed to keep her feet warm during cold nights in a poorly-insulated house. I had similar accounts of growing up without much money or material things, so once we knew one another well; we formed a club of two, for poor, hesitant, but determined people.
I pledged early on to try to make her life better than it was before, figuring such a goal might be more doable and worthwhile than many other goals I might set. I am not sure how I have done on it. She grew up surrounded by a loving family of brothers, cousins, aunts, uncles, school and church friends; and due to my jobs, we have lived far from them for over thirty years. In 2005, flying back from England, I half-pretended to shoosh her for laughing so hard at the movie she was watching with headphones on. Her laughter reminded me of how it sounds when she is with friends and family.
I suspect I have been a less-than-easy person with which to live. In the Fall of 1979, Tanga was working at Zayre’s Department Store in Terre Haute, Indiana and I, so engrossed in what I was doing at the University, waited until after my night class to pick her up after her day shift. As we drove to our apartment Supertramp’s “Long Way Home”, came on the radio and I was amused by the irony, but of course, she was not. This story illustrates our marriage pretty well; I make mistakes enjoying the irony in them and she forgives. So, the jury is still out on whether I have “made her life better”, but I hope I still have some years to go.
Fortunately, she is good at taking care of herself and me. One thing she and our friends from college have figured out is how to keep relationships going across miles. Due to their efforts, we have seen those friends at least once a year since we all graduated over thirty years ago and for the last twenty years or so, we have been together at least three times a year. She and those dear friends have made my life better. She never said her goal was to make my life better, but that's her way; less talk, more do.
Back when she was working me through graduate school, some of our friends told her she was a saint to stay with me. Maybe then, I have accomplished my goal of making her life better; I mean, how many husbands give their wives the chance to be a saint?
Happy Birthday, Saint Tanga Bea Turner McCullough
Let Me Tell You About My Friend Nancy Dearwater Evans
It is one of nature's rules that her best work can only be fully appreciated with careful attention. Nancy is such a work. She seems easy to understand, but then you see her hands perform magical art, her eyes find just the right color for a vase, or her creation of a handcraft with elegant beauty; and you realize the mysteries of the soul operating in her, will take some study. Even her maiden name makes you think.
Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against Evans, a terrific Welsh name that serves well, but can you think of many names lovelier than Dearwater? It makes you want to swim with your friends.
Nancy’s my quiet friend. She’s it. I don’t have another quiet friend, but I am on the lookout. If you know someone who is quiet, have them send me a Facebook friend request and I will look over their profile and make my decision, no promises. Quiet is nice, but it’s not the only thing.
I say Nancy is quiet because she does not talk much. - I’m sure you figured that, but I say it too because when she talks her voice is not loud, so she is quiet in both ways; and these days, that is a precious commodity. Don’t get me wrong, I love my loud friends; but as I get older my nerves get worse, I’m sure you know what I mean. I love loud, talkative people who are funny and kind; but the loud, talkative mean people are starting to wear me out.
Nancy is not only quiet, but funny and kind too, and how could she help but be given her DNA? Nancy fits well between her mother and daughter; her father and son: with her mother foreshadowing gentleness of spirit and her daughter continuing calm joy; her father anticipating concern for others, and her son reflecting kindness.
Nancy has raised two children, one of whom, Nathan, is sort of quiet, unless he lives with you; and then when he lets himself in with his own key, he stomps up the stairs to let you know he is in the house, rather than to surprise you; and he says a lot of things that make you laugh, so he is only sort of quiet; but he is just as kind as his mother; and the other child, Lindsey, is thoughtfully talkative but not loud; a cross between her father and mother; surprise, surprise.
Aggressive marketing of products or oneself is a common part of our lives, but ever so often I run into a person or a company so far removed from the schmoozing, the apparent trickery, the exaggeration of salesmanship; that I think: would every company or every person not be better served by being honest and unpretentious, since ultimately, unadorned grace is more attractive than all the ballyhooing?
Nancy is as far from a salesperson as one can be, which helps explain why when this past spring she announced on Facebook her intention to walk a half-marathon to raise money for the hospital where her son’s life was saved fourteen years ago, she shattered her modest fundraising goal; perhaps because those of us who know her, saw how far from a natural she was at raising money; and loved her even more for it.
So many of us love you because you are: Nancy.
Picture-book housekeeper
Reliable trip planner
Always there for friends
Nasty bunco player
Creative genius
Young forever
Nancy
Artiste
Nancy
Craftsperson
You
Happy Birthday Nancy DEARWATER Evans
Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against Evans, a terrific Welsh name that serves well, but can you think of many names lovelier than Dearwater? It makes you want to swim with your friends.
Nancy’s my quiet friend. She’s it. I don’t have another quiet friend, but I am on the lookout. If you know someone who is quiet, have them send me a Facebook friend request and I will look over their profile and make my decision, no promises. Quiet is nice, but it’s not the only thing.
I say Nancy is quiet because she does not talk much. - I’m sure you figured that, but I say it too because when she talks her voice is not loud, so she is quiet in both ways; and these days, that is a precious commodity. Don’t get me wrong, I love my loud friends; but as I get older my nerves get worse, I’m sure you know what I mean. I love loud, talkative people who are funny and kind; but the loud, talkative mean people are starting to wear me out.
Nancy is not only quiet, but funny and kind too, and how could she help but be given her DNA? Nancy fits well between her mother and daughter; her father and son: with her mother foreshadowing gentleness of spirit and her daughter continuing calm joy; her father anticipating concern for others, and her son reflecting kindness.
Nancy has raised two children, one of whom, Nathan, is sort of quiet, unless he lives with you; and then when he lets himself in with his own key, he stomps up the stairs to let you know he is in the house, rather than to surprise you; and he says a lot of things that make you laugh, so he is only sort of quiet; but he is just as kind as his mother; and the other child, Lindsey, is thoughtfully talkative but not loud; a cross between her father and mother; surprise, surprise.
Aggressive marketing of products or oneself is a common part of our lives, but ever so often I run into a person or a company so far removed from the schmoozing, the apparent trickery, the exaggeration of salesmanship; that I think: would every company or every person not be better served by being honest and unpretentious, since ultimately, unadorned grace is more attractive than all the ballyhooing?
Nancy is as far from a salesperson as one can be, which helps explain why when this past spring she announced on Facebook her intention to walk a half-marathon to raise money for the hospital where her son’s life was saved fourteen years ago, she shattered her modest fundraising goal; perhaps because those of us who know her, saw how far from a natural she was at raising money; and loved her even more for it.
So many of us love you because you are: Nancy.
Picture-book housekeeper
Reliable trip planner
Always there for friends
Nasty bunco player
Creative genius
Young forever
Nancy
Artiste
Nancy
Craftsperson
You
Happy Birthday Nancy DEARWATER Evans
Let Me Tell You About My Brother-in-law Bennie Turner
It’s a lovely morning on March 23rd, spring has sprung, the days are getting longer, the long-cold winter is behind us, we live in the land of the free and the home of the brave, home-home on the range, where seldom is heard a discouraging word and the skies are not cloudy all day, life is like a song, oh de do da day. What a bunch of #@$#@#@$, that is. Sorry, you caught me channeling my inner Bennie Turner.
Years ago Bennie declared himself a soldier in the war on hypocrisy. If you have a load of BS to sell, drive by Bennie’s house cause he ain’t buying. If, on the other hand, you want to hear his stories on how ridiculous life can be, call him up and see if you can arrange a road trip to Alaska and back.
While you’re riding along, to spice things up; ask him to tell you why meat balls don’t bounce, what the purpose of soap is (to make water wetter), how effective it is to bite into an electrical cord, the funniest joke you can play on someone who wears a hearing aid, whether leaving your car parked in neutral at the top of a steep hill is a good idea and just how scary a possum on the back porch can be.
We humans have created many myths to mollify the harshness of our condition, that is; to be conscious on a little rock in a vast universe. How many of those myths does Bennie Turner live by? None. Bennie is an anti-philosophical philosopher - a truth seeker cautious to never bring up the search. You will have to study what he does to discern the code he lives by, because he is not likely to tell you.
Bennie’s search for truth (he will surely laugh at such a word) has probably always been part of him, but it must have started in earnest after the events of the Spring of 1966. He turned fifteen on March 23rd and by tax day, three weeks later: his beloved Kentucky Wildcats had lost to Texas Western in the NCAA finals and his Aunt May Wallace (he was her favorite) had picked him up at school to tell him his father had died of a massive heart attack - collapsing at work where he rebuilt automobile generators. It was as if the vast universe paid a visit and said: “Happy fifteenth birthday, Bennie Len Turner”. He could not sleep for some time afterwards, so they took him to the doctor who said, “He’ll sleep when he’s tired.” Healthcare at its finest, huh?
Bennie must have been forever altered, which may help explain how he became his family’s pioneer. His family, friends, pretty much everybody he grew up with, had no desire to attend college. Bennie, on the other hand, was determined to go. No doubt he got the desire from his mother who had been denied the chance to continue her education past the eighth grade because she was needed in the tobacco fields. She had made straight A’s in school and persuaded her parents to let her repeat the eighth grade, before finally succumbing to the family pressure to work on the farm. Bennie figured out all the hoops you had to jump through and went to college; and because he did, his younger brother went too and his younger sister followed. None of it would have happened had it not been for Bennie’s courage to break away from what everybody expected.
I came to know Bennie in around 1976, when his sister took me home from college and introduced me as her boyfriend. I can only imagine what he might have thought of me then. It’s not often two grown men share recollected impressions of one another the first time they met, let alone what they think of one another right now. I suppose our ignorance permits us to move ahead in situations where we otherwise might have turned back.
I do know this, Bennie hates phonies. He sizes people up, figures out how to make his summary of them funny; and the humor can be caustic if the person exhibits pretention or self-importance, and keeps the summary on hand for whenever he needs it. He has a beloved friend who is, shall we say; less than industrious, but who tries to hide his lack of desire to work, so when Bennie sees another “lazy person”, say Sue Smith; he will say: “Sue Smith must have gone to the John Doe (not his real name) school of looking busy”. If he knows you, rest assured; he has you summarized. (We all do this, I imagine; but Bennie raises it to the level of art.)
My wife recently sent he and other friends the link to a website where I am pictured and listed as “Director” of a program, asking: “Do you know this man?” He emailed her back immediately and said: “Is it Joseph Mengele?” If you do not know (we didn’t until we googled it), Josef Mengele was nicknamed “The Doctor of Death” for his role in Nazi concentration camps of WWII. In a later email Bennie explained: ‘Sorry, I just saw that and thought, "I am zee Directoooor, you Vill do vat i Saaaaayyyy!!!!!" So, I guess I have a glimpse into Bennie’s summary of me.
That sort of humor endears Bennie to me, and a host of others; but probably makes him threatening to some. Bennie would prefer certain people remain in the dark on what makes him tick, bending over backwards to show them his cynical side.
I have often said there are only about five or six types of people in the world. Bennie is in a group where the numbers are small. I have only known a handful of other people like Bennie; his daughter being one, and my former boss in Knoxville another. These types (see I’m summarizing him now) seem to not be as trapped in a time or a place the way most people are. They’re interested in the whole world, not just their own little section of it. If we are all living in a room we call our self; and some have big picture windows, while others have tiny little submarine windows only reached by step stool, the walls of Bennie’s room are made of one-way mirrors. He can see you and the rest of the world clearly, but you will need to knock on the door and spend time inside to understand who he is. And when you think you understand him and are walking back out the door; you might hear him mumbling something and know - you’ve been punked.
Bennie, his brother JR, a friend and I; were on hand when Johnny Bench was inducted into the hall of fame in 1989, taking in Niagara Falls together on the way home. Bennie was the first of us to get to the Falls. He is deathly afraid of heights; so by the time the others of us walked up to the viewing platform, he had seen enough and said: “That’s enough of this, wanna go get some pizza?”
Once, on the ride over; when he was driving across New York state from Courtland to Cooperstown, the song: “Bird, bird, bird, bird’s the word” came on, and Bennie proceeded to regale us with his version of it, complete with gestures - both hands fully involved. When he is in the mood to entertain, he is like all great comedians or actors; he can make time stand still for everybody in the audience and have them thinking: why can’t life always be this much fun? He’s one of those people you want others to meet, just so you can observe their reaction to him.
I have learned a lot from Bennie over the years, but the thing I have probably learned most is to be who you are and not something you want people to think you are. The only problem is, in Bennie’s case; whatever he is, is far from clear. But isn’t that true of all the most interesting people - a little something to puzzle over.
Happy Birthday Bennie
Years ago Bennie declared himself a soldier in the war on hypocrisy. If you have a load of BS to sell, drive by Bennie’s house cause he ain’t buying. If, on the other hand, you want to hear his stories on how ridiculous life can be, call him up and see if you can arrange a road trip to Alaska and back.
While you’re riding along, to spice things up; ask him to tell you why meat balls don’t bounce, what the purpose of soap is (to make water wetter), how effective it is to bite into an electrical cord, the funniest joke you can play on someone who wears a hearing aid, whether leaving your car parked in neutral at the top of a steep hill is a good idea and just how scary a possum on the back porch can be.
We humans have created many myths to mollify the harshness of our condition, that is; to be conscious on a little rock in a vast universe. How many of those myths does Bennie Turner live by? None. Bennie is an anti-philosophical philosopher - a truth seeker cautious to never bring up the search. You will have to study what he does to discern the code he lives by, because he is not likely to tell you.
Bennie’s search for truth (he will surely laugh at such a word) has probably always been part of him, but it must have started in earnest after the events of the Spring of 1966. He turned fifteen on March 23rd and by tax day, three weeks later: his beloved Kentucky Wildcats had lost to Texas Western in the NCAA finals and his Aunt May Wallace (he was her favorite) had picked him up at school to tell him his father had died of a massive heart attack - collapsing at work where he rebuilt automobile generators. It was as if the vast universe paid a visit and said: “Happy fifteenth birthday, Bennie Len Turner”. He could not sleep for some time afterwards, so they took him to the doctor who said, “He’ll sleep when he’s tired.” Healthcare at its finest, huh?
Bennie must have been forever altered, which may help explain how he became his family’s pioneer. His family, friends, pretty much everybody he grew up with, had no desire to attend college. Bennie, on the other hand, was determined to go. No doubt he got the desire from his mother who had been denied the chance to continue her education past the eighth grade because she was needed in the tobacco fields. She had made straight A’s in school and persuaded her parents to let her repeat the eighth grade, before finally succumbing to the family pressure to work on the farm. Bennie figured out all the hoops you had to jump through and went to college; and because he did, his younger brother went too and his younger sister followed. None of it would have happened had it not been for Bennie’s courage to break away from what everybody expected.
I came to know Bennie in around 1976, when his sister took me home from college and introduced me as her boyfriend. I can only imagine what he might have thought of me then. It’s not often two grown men share recollected impressions of one another the first time they met, let alone what they think of one another right now. I suppose our ignorance permits us to move ahead in situations where we otherwise might have turned back.
I do know this, Bennie hates phonies. He sizes people up, figures out how to make his summary of them funny; and the humor can be caustic if the person exhibits pretention or self-importance, and keeps the summary on hand for whenever he needs it. He has a beloved friend who is, shall we say; less than industrious, but who tries to hide his lack of desire to work, so when Bennie sees another “lazy person”, say Sue Smith; he will say: “Sue Smith must have gone to the John Doe (not his real name) school of looking busy”. If he knows you, rest assured; he has you summarized. (We all do this, I imagine; but Bennie raises it to the level of art.)
My wife recently sent he and other friends the link to a website where I am pictured and listed as “Director” of a program, asking: “Do you know this man?” He emailed her back immediately and said: “Is it Joseph Mengele?” If you do not know (we didn’t until we googled it), Josef Mengele was nicknamed “The Doctor of Death” for his role in Nazi concentration camps of WWII. In a later email Bennie explained: ‘Sorry, I just saw that and thought, "I am zee Directoooor, you Vill do vat i Saaaaayyyy!!!!!" So, I guess I have a glimpse into Bennie’s summary of me.
That sort of humor endears Bennie to me, and a host of others; but probably makes him threatening to some. Bennie would prefer certain people remain in the dark on what makes him tick, bending over backwards to show them his cynical side.
I have often said there are only about five or six types of people in the world. Bennie is in a group where the numbers are small. I have only known a handful of other people like Bennie; his daughter being one, and my former boss in Knoxville another. These types (see I’m summarizing him now) seem to not be as trapped in a time or a place the way most people are. They’re interested in the whole world, not just their own little section of it. If we are all living in a room we call our self; and some have big picture windows, while others have tiny little submarine windows only reached by step stool, the walls of Bennie’s room are made of one-way mirrors. He can see you and the rest of the world clearly, but you will need to knock on the door and spend time inside to understand who he is. And when you think you understand him and are walking back out the door; you might hear him mumbling something and know - you’ve been punked.
Bennie, his brother JR, a friend and I; were on hand when Johnny Bench was inducted into the hall of fame in 1989, taking in Niagara Falls together on the way home. Bennie was the first of us to get to the Falls. He is deathly afraid of heights; so by the time the others of us walked up to the viewing platform, he had seen enough and said: “That’s enough of this, wanna go get some pizza?”
Once, on the ride over; when he was driving across New York state from Courtland to Cooperstown, the song: “Bird, bird, bird, bird’s the word” came on, and Bennie proceeded to regale us with his version of it, complete with gestures - both hands fully involved. When he is in the mood to entertain, he is like all great comedians or actors; he can make time stand still for everybody in the audience and have them thinking: why can’t life always be this much fun? He’s one of those people you want others to meet, just so you can observe their reaction to him.
I have learned a lot from Bennie over the years, but the thing I have probably learned most is to be who you are and not something you want people to think you are. The only problem is, in Bennie’s case; whatever he is, is far from clear. But isn’t that true of all the most interesting people - a little something to puzzle over.
Happy Birthday Bennie
Let Me Tell You About My Friend Ed Wilson
Let me tell you about my friend Joel Edward Wilson (JEW). When Ed and I met in 1975 or so, we were scrawny, insecure and in our late teens; but full of plans. We had both delivered The Grit (national weekly newspaper) in our little eastern Kentucky hometowns. And today we both teach at regional Universities, having grown up in families where education was not that prevalent.
As I said we were insecure. I showed mine by being quiet (not necessarily my normal way of being I now know, but I did not know it then) and some might say standoffish. I was certain of a few things like my ability to play baseball, run fast, sing and pick up what was taught in classes. I wrapped myself in these securities as protection against my baffling social fears.
For his part, Ed was a crack math student but he showed his insecurity far differently from the way I did. Ed invited others to use him as their source of mirth. He would make sundaes on his head, complete with fudge, nuts, whip cream, the works, while all of us friends laughed uproariously. He did a wonderfully funny imitation of Kermit the Frog and played the opening notes of Color My World as a solo with much fanfare. We called him Ed the Head, not the most noble of nicknames, but it fit him okay because it rhymed and because he was smart.
Ed wound up being the President of our Baptist Student Union his senior year. That would have seemed unlikely if you had seen the way he was vilified during his early BSU days. He grew on us.
As the years have gone by Ed and I have become loyal running partners, turning out 13 marathons between us, and several other halfs, 10ks and 5ks. A core group of friends who surrounded us in the 70s still get together and once a few years ago Ed and I happened to be sharing a hot-tub,with others of the friends either in there with us or standing nearby. We were all trying to make out something on a distant Smokey Mountain and Ed could see it plainly while most of the rest of us were straining to do so. I said, “Ed you have amazing eyes.” Of course, that is not the most heterosexual-sounding thing to say to another guy in a hot tub.
I don’t mind when they kid me now about saying Ed has amazing eyes. Somehow it makes me know a little more what it must have felt like to have been Ed all those years ago, kidded but given credit for “how you take it” at the same time. If I know how to serve as a good butt of a joke, I learned it at the feet of the master.
Happy Birthday my good friend Ed “The Head” Wilson with the Amazing Eyes.
As I said we were insecure. I showed mine by being quiet (not necessarily my normal way of being I now know, but I did not know it then) and some might say standoffish. I was certain of a few things like my ability to play baseball, run fast, sing and pick up what was taught in classes. I wrapped myself in these securities as protection against my baffling social fears.
For his part, Ed was a crack math student but he showed his insecurity far differently from the way I did. Ed invited others to use him as their source of mirth. He would make sundaes on his head, complete with fudge, nuts, whip cream, the works, while all of us friends laughed uproariously. He did a wonderfully funny imitation of Kermit the Frog and played the opening notes of Color My World as a solo with much fanfare. We called him Ed the Head, not the most noble of nicknames, but it fit him okay because it rhymed and because he was smart.
Ed wound up being the President of our Baptist Student Union his senior year. That would have seemed unlikely if you had seen the way he was vilified during his early BSU days. He grew on us.
As the years have gone by Ed and I have become loyal running partners, turning out 13 marathons between us, and several other halfs, 10ks and 5ks. A core group of friends who surrounded us in the 70s still get together and once a few years ago Ed and I happened to be sharing a hot-tub,with others of the friends either in there with us or standing nearby. We were all trying to make out something on a distant Smokey Mountain and Ed could see it plainly while most of the rest of us were straining to do so. I said, “Ed you have amazing eyes.” Of course, that is not the most heterosexual-sounding thing to say to another guy in a hot tub.
I don’t mind when they kid me now about saying Ed has amazing eyes. Somehow it makes me know a little more what it must have felt like to have been Ed all those years ago, kidded but given credit for “how you take it” at the same time. If I know how to serve as a good butt of a joke, I learned it at the feet of the master.
Happy Birthday my good friend Ed “The Head” Wilson with the Amazing Eyes.
Let Me Tell You About My Friend George Olsen
It was in Hoffman's Art Appreciation class I first heard the NY accent of one George Olsen. It was a tiered classroom usually darkened for slideshows and I sat toward the front. One day the lights were up and Hoffman was fielding questions when a voice came from behind me and I turned around to see the sound coming from the head of what looked like the photos I had seen of Dwight L. Moody. I don't recall what he said but I am sure it got a laugh from the room, which was full of mostly people like me who spoke with no accent at all, that is to say, we talked like we were from Eastern Kentucky.
George, a singer, intramural football player/organizer, and novelty northerner; took the Baptist Student Union by storm in 1974, after transferring from Kentucky Christian College. He was exotic. Most of us who had not traveled much to the northeast were thrilled to think we could pal around with someone from the urbane north. It was not until years later we learned George was more similar to us than different. He had not grown up wealthy or privileged any more than most of us. He, like others of us at the Union, had simply been raised in a religious family and learned to find humor rather than despair in life struggles.
George moved to Louisville, Tupelo, Mississippi and then to his current home in Greenup., Kentucky, taking tours through seminary, church youth work, and finally to insurance sales. His head is stuffed with knowledge of most movies that have come out since the early 1970s. It's also full of forty years of popular music, TV programs, baseball trivia, and a bevy of facts and opinions on everything to have transpired in popular culture during our common lifetime.
One icy December night after the wedding of one of our friends, he started out on I-64 from Morehead to Greenup. He flipped his SUV into the median when it careened out of control after hitting black ice. He had called me for some reason just before he had taken off, so I was the one who took the call from a strange man who had found George's phone in the wreckage and decided to dial the most recent number. The guy explained he had found the phone and that George was being taken by ambulance to the hospital in Ashland, Kentucky.
For a while that night our group of friends had our eyes open to a stark reality. Every time you say goodbye to a friend, it could be the last time. A little stronger blow to the head and we could have gone straight from wedding celebration to memorial service. As I write this, though, George is still the liveliest spirit of us all and the world is still getting the benefit of that head full of cultural knowledge.
Ray Kurzweil (The Singularity Is Near) says if we baby boomers can hang on long enough, the day may be coming when science will make it possible for nano-technology to combine with our biology to keep us alive for centuries, not just decades. Not only will people live longer but our knowledges will be combined and redistributed to the advantage of us all in a fashion similar to how the internet works. I am hoping George and other friends of mine with heads full of knowledge can hang around long enough for me to be able to be hooked straight up to what they know and their compendium of facts. Once I am equipped with what they know, I will be more comfortable with them taking off on ice slick roads, or other forms of risky behavior.
But George, if you will agree to stop texting on your Blackberry while you drive I will stop it on my I-phone, deal? Deal. Happy 55th Birthday. As Sammy Hagar might say, you don't have to "drive 55", but do be careful out there at least a few more decades.
George, a singer, intramural football player/organizer, and novelty northerner; took the Baptist Student Union by storm in 1974, after transferring from Kentucky Christian College. He was exotic. Most of us who had not traveled much to the northeast were thrilled to think we could pal around with someone from the urbane north. It was not until years later we learned George was more similar to us than different. He had not grown up wealthy or privileged any more than most of us. He, like others of us at the Union, had simply been raised in a religious family and learned to find humor rather than despair in life struggles.
George moved to Louisville, Tupelo, Mississippi and then to his current home in Greenup., Kentucky, taking tours through seminary, church youth work, and finally to insurance sales. His head is stuffed with knowledge of most movies that have come out since the early 1970s. It's also full of forty years of popular music, TV programs, baseball trivia, and a bevy of facts and opinions on everything to have transpired in popular culture during our common lifetime.
One icy December night after the wedding of one of our friends, he started out on I-64 from Morehead to Greenup. He flipped his SUV into the median when it careened out of control after hitting black ice. He had called me for some reason just before he had taken off, so I was the one who took the call from a strange man who had found George's phone in the wreckage and decided to dial the most recent number. The guy explained he had found the phone and that George was being taken by ambulance to the hospital in Ashland, Kentucky.
For a while that night our group of friends had our eyes open to a stark reality. Every time you say goodbye to a friend, it could be the last time. A little stronger blow to the head and we could have gone straight from wedding celebration to memorial service. As I write this, though, George is still the liveliest spirit of us all and the world is still getting the benefit of that head full of cultural knowledge.
Ray Kurzweil (The Singularity Is Near) says if we baby boomers can hang on long enough, the day may be coming when science will make it possible for nano-technology to combine with our biology to keep us alive for centuries, not just decades. Not only will people live longer but our knowledges will be combined and redistributed to the advantage of us all in a fashion similar to how the internet works. I am hoping George and other friends of mine with heads full of knowledge can hang around long enough for me to be able to be hooked straight up to what they know and their compendium of facts. Once I am equipped with what they know, I will be more comfortable with them taking off on ice slick roads, or other forms of risky behavior.
But George, if you will agree to stop texting on your Blackberry while you drive I will stop it on my I-phone, deal? Deal. Happy 55th Birthday. As Sammy Hagar might say, you don't have to "drive 55", but do be careful out there at least a few more decades.
Let Me Tell You About My Friend Becky Mays Wilson
Here are my credentials as someone to tell you about Becky Mays Wilson. Becky and I went to Lee County High School in Kentucky, where we played in the same marching/concert band, she clarinet me tuba. We also went to the same college, sang in the same choir there, and married people we met at that college, Morehead State University in Morehead, Kentucky. She called us from San Francisco, where she was a summer missionary, the night of our wedding rehearsal dinner. A few months later I sang at her wedding held in our hometown of Beattyville.
Before our marriages, she rode with me to and from college a good deal and we attended a memorable concert together at Eastern Kentucky University, with Sly and the Family Stone and Bob Marley and the Wailers. I will not go into all the details of our days of running around together, but suffice it to say, I know her well enough to be writing this.
Becky’s mother was a woman of regal charm, calm spirit, humble dignity and keen mind. Her words were measured and carefully chosen. Becky’s father passed before I knew the family well, but Becky and her brothers Sam and Greg were endowed with those same traits. Sam has now passed, but Greg and Becky still exude their mother’s charm. Don’t imagine they are trying to sell you something, when you talk to them. They can’t help it. They are filled with the milk of human kindness. These qualities are showing up in another generation in her nephew Ivan. I saw Ivan as a toddler, so I have witnessed how such spirits grow up in the world.
Becky decided to retire long before she was old (I have to say that since she is almost exactly my age) and her retirement celebration was my only opportunity to interact with those with whom she had worked. The love and respect she commanded in the room that day, testified to both to the discernment of her coworkers and the magic of her personality.
It doesn’t hurt we each married someone the other loves. If ever there were candidates for communal living, we would be the ones, were it not for our upbringing in capitalism and Christian-sanctified Eastern Kentucky.
We now live over three-hundred miles apart, far enough to make the four-or-five-times a year we see one another that much more precious. Becky is a key reason so many of those of us who went to college together remain close. She acts like glue. She has lost father and mother, brother and nephew, and a host of other more distant relatives. But those who remain she watches like a shepherd does a flock.
Here is what I suspect Becky has learned: the quiet left by those we’ve lost makes sweeter the voices of those who remain.
Sometimes in the middle of my busy schedule, I remind myself to be grateful for those who need what I can do and just today I thought of my friends who have retired and I wondered if they miss being in the action. It will be theirs to figure out how to stay present in each moment and not lost in memories or worry for the future.
A few years ago when we went on vacation with Becky and Ed, her mom, Greg and some friends of theirs, I had my best chance to observe her mother. She was a lady who had figured out how to “do the later years”. I have a feeling Becky will figure it out too (when the time comes).
Becky, I hope your birthday is great. Tomorrow marks another beginning of the annual three-week period when you are older than me. Got any advice for a youngster?
Before our marriages, she rode with me to and from college a good deal and we attended a memorable concert together at Eastern Kentucky University, with Sly and the Family Stone and Bob Marley and the Wailers. I will not go into all the details of our days of running around together, but suffice it to say, I know her well enough to be writing this.
Becky’s mother was a woman of regal charm, calm spirit, humble dignity and keen mind. Her words were measured and carefully chosen. Becky’s father passed before I knew the family well, but Becky and her brothers Sam and Greg were endowed with those same traits. Sam has now passed, but Greg and Becky still exude their mother’s charm. Don’t imagine they are trying to sell you something, when you talk to them. They can’t help it. They are filled with the milk of human kindness. These qualities are showing up in another generation in her nephew Ivan. I saw Ivan as a toddler, so I have witnessed how such spirits grow up in the world.
Becky decided to retire long before she was old (I have to say that since she is almost exactly my age) and her retirement celebration was my only opportunity to interact with those with whom she had worked. The love and respect she commanded in the room that day, testified to both to the discernment of her coworkers and the magic of her personality.
It doesn’t hurt we each married someone the other loves. If ever there were candidates for communal living, we would be the ones, were it not for our upbringing in capitalism and Christian-sanctified Eastern Kentucky.
We now live over three-hundred miles apart, far enough to make the four-or-five-times a year we see one another that much more precious. Becky is a key reason so many of those of us who went to college together remain close. She acts like glue. She has lost father and mother, brother and nephew, and a host of other more distant relatives. But those who remain she watches like a shepherd does a flock.
Here is what I suspect Becky has learned: the quiet left by those we’ve lost makes sweeter the voices of those who remain.
Sometimes in the middle of my busy schedule, I remind myself to be grateful for those who need what I can do and just today I thought of my friends who have retired and I wondered if they miss being in the action. It will be theirs to figure out how to stay present in each moment and not lost in memories or worry for the future.
A few years ago when we went on vacation with Becky and Ed, her mom, Greg and some friends of theirs, I had my best chance to observe her mother. She was a lady who had figured out how to “do the later years”. I have a feeling Becky will figure it out too (when the time comes).
Becky, I hope your birthday is great. Tomorrow marks another beginning of the annual three-week period when you are older than me. Got any advice for a youngster?
Let Me Tell You About My Friend Raleigh Kincaid
Before I moved to Beattyville, Raleigh’s mother told him his IQ had been tested as the second highest in Lee County. His mother must have been sad to see me enter the picture, in as much as number three does not sound nearly so good. Raleigh and I both declare the other to be more intelligent, but he almost always outfoxes me and wins that argument. I could go on and on this way, but I would be here all week.
So let’s get this party started up in here.
I have a quiz for you. (Great way to start a piece you want somebody to read, right?)
First, when’s the last time you had a conversation with Raleigh Kincaid?
1. Did he seem distracted?
2. Did his words come out haltingly?
3. Did his voice sound frail and adolescent?
4. Were his sentences vapid?
5. Were his ideas inane?
6. Did he ask you to repeat yourself often?
7. Did you walk away thinking, “What a shallow man?”
8. Did he seem to have a narrow view of the world?
9. Did he have absolutely no sense of humor?
If you answered in the affirmative to any of the questions, there are several possibilities: you may be a Republican (I’m just saying), you have probably also seen Halley’s comet three times, right? ; you found him to be short and scrawny too, I bet. Otherwise, I’m going all Joe Wilson on you.
Everything Raleigh is, he owes to me. (Ask him.) He wanted to be lazy, but I got him off his duff. He wanted to be dumb, but I filled him with wisdom. He wanted to be a shiftless parent, but I sat him down and gave him a good talking to. He wanted to be a derelict husband (I tried Kim, I honestly did.) He wanted to sing without resonance, but I modeled the opposite. He wanted to stop learning the guitar, but I reminded him the ladies love it. Back in the day, he started taking pills that make you short, but I found them and flushed them. He hated his mother until I pointed out a few of her nicer points. He tried to say he would never learn to stroke a golf ball, but I would not let him quit practicing. He hated fly fishing (still does) but I told him to stop whining and learn to tolerate it. He had no insight into people’s problems, so I gave him a few pointers on how to read others. He hates people in general, but I swore him to secrecy. He wanted to be a narrow-minded hick, but I introduced him to the world of sophistication. So that he would seem more genuine toward his friends, I gave him acting lessons. (Other clients of mine have been Mandy, or maybe it’s Meryl, yeah Meryl Streep, I told her “emote damn it”; that Hanks man that got stranded on the Island, I told him, get into the character; and Patino, Pacino, whatever his name is….I said buddy why don’t’ you say “I’ll take a flame thrower to this place” with a little more conviction.)
I know, you are probably asking, Mike McCullough, you inspiring man, what motivates you? You see, I love helping pitiful people try to fashion some semblance of a life. My one big request is for you to please be patient with Raleigh. He is a work in progress. I am not finished with him yet.
(He is 6 feet 6 inches now, I am shooting for 7 feet.)
Warning: some serious stuff
Raleigh Kincaid and I were inseparable between Nov 27, 1967 and August 6, 1977. That’s it, ten of our first twenty-one years. We were practically born on the same day, I three days before, but in different states, he in Kentucky, me in South Carolina. But when my family moved to Beattyville on Thanksgiving of ’67, we met in the sixth grade of Beattyville Grade School.
I wore my hair slicked back with Vaseline hair tonic, was yet to grow into my eyes and featured heel-taps on my pointed cowboy boots. Raleigh was already 5 feet 6 inches tall and weighed something on the order of twice my weight, with me being around five feet tall and weighing 90 pounds or so. Raleigh looked like he could use the size eyes I had, when he took off his glasses.
By that time I had led six souls to Jesus, all my age or younger, and no doubt had designs on Raleigh’s larger-than-life eternal spirit. But that proved unnecessary, as his mother and New Springs Methodist Church in Primrose, Kentucky had already won him over.
On the way to Primrose, you drove through St. Helens and around Horse Shoe Bend, the curve where his brother Davy was thrown out the back window of his car in a wreck. A few miles before Primrose, to get to his house, you could take a dive back to the right, on a one-car width lightly paved “road” across the North Fork of the Kentucky River on a wooden swinging bridge. His family owned acreage on the other side of the river in an idyllic green bowl with a large pond and four brick houses, in one of which Raleigh lived with his mother, brother and father.
Raleigh’s father Ernest would lay on the glassed-in porch at the back of the house inside from where his mother Betty tended flowers dotted with hummingbird feeders, so when the little flitting birds showed up, Ernest could enjoy them from his bed. By the time I paid my first visit to his house, Raleigh’s father’s multiple sclerosis had rendered him an invalid. He had been diagnosed shortly after Raleigh was born, so it had debilitated him for a decade and would do so for another fifteen years or so until it took him.
My most lasting memories of those visits are Ernest constantly mumbling, “Betty Jo”, Betty reading paperbacks, taking care of whichever Boston Terrier she had at the time, and refereeing between Raleigh and Davy; and Raleigh and me staying up late talking about how the world is, how it got that way and how it might be changed.
Betty Kincaid waited on Ernest hand and foot for twenty-five years as the disease rendered him increasingly helpless. The first time I saw Ernest was when Betty rolled his wheel chair behind home plate at the baseball field where we played little league. Raleigh tended first base and when I wasn’t pitching, I played shortstop. I batted third and he batted fourth. I was a punch and judy hitter, he hit the ball farther than anyone else, owing to his size. Betty and Ernest never missed a game. For all those years, Betty Kincaid sat like Rosa Parks on a “stand-by-your man” bus.
Raleigh and I became like brothers. He was best man at my wedding in 1977 and I at his in 1986. A few years after I had married, he visited my mother in the hospital and when she saw him walk into the room, she said, “Well, Raleigh Martin Kincay (she takes liberties with his real name, Raleigh Mark Kincaid), get in here boy, I’ve not seen you since you and Michael got a divorce.”
Anyways, I will not bore you with more serious stuff, but I will tell you this. Those who know us both have surely picked up on the total irony of me claiming I made Raleigh. We might be said to have made one another, sort of the way low pressure and high water-surface temperatures make a hurricane (not the best metaphor, huh?) We were as close as two flaming heterosexual males could be for nearly ten years. In the time it took Odysseus to get back home, Raleigh and I worked out how to make a friendship eternal.
Happy Birthday Raleigh Mark Kincaid
So let’s get this party started up in here.
I have a quiz for you. (Great way to start a piece you want somebody to read, right?)
First, when’s the last time you had a conversation with Raleigh Kincaid?
1. Did he seem distracted?
2. Did his words come out haltingly?
3. Did his voice sound frail and adolescent?
4. Were his sentences vapid?
5. Were his ideas inane?
6. Did he ask you to repeat yourself often?
7. Did you walk away thinking, “What a shallow man?”
8. Did he seem to have a narrow view of the world?
9. Did he have absolutely no sense of humor?
If you answered in the affirmative to any of the questions, there are several possibilities: you may be a Republican (I’m just saying), you have probably also seen Halley’s comet three times, right? ; you found him to be short and scrawny too, I bet. Otherwise, I’m going all Joe Wilson on you.
Everything Raleigh is, he owes to me. (Ask him.) He wanted to be lazy, but I got him off his duff. He wanted to be dumb, but I filled him with wisdom. He wanted to be a shiftless parent, but I sat him down and gave him a good talking to. He wanted to be a derelict husband (I tried Kim, I honestly did.) He wanted to sing without resonance, but I modeled the opposite. He wanted to stop learning the guitar, but I reminded him the ladies love it. Back in the day, he started taking pills that make you short, but I found them and flushed them. He hated his mother until I pointed out a few of her nicer points. He tried to say he would never learn to stroke a golf ball, but I would not let him quit practicing. He hated fly fishing (still does) but I told him to stop whining and learn to tolerate it. He had no insight into people’s problems, so I gave him a few pointers on how to read others. He hates people in general, but I swore him to secrecy. He wanted to be a narrow-minded hick, but I introduced him to the world of sophistication. So that he would seem more genuine toward his friends, I gave him acting lessons. (Other clients of mine have been Mandy, or maybe it’s Meryl, yeah Meryl Streep, I told her “emote damn it”; that Hanks man that got stranded on the Island, I told him, get into the character; and Patino, Pacino, whatever his name is….I said buddy why don’t’ you say “I’ll take a flame thrower to this place” with a little more conviction.)
I know, you are probably asking, Mike McCullough, you inspiring man, what motivates you? You see, I love helping pitiful people try to fashion some semblance of a life. My one big request is for you to please be patient with Raleigh. He is a work in progress. I am not finished with him yet.
(He is 6 feet 6 inches now, I am shooting for 7 feet.)
Warning: some serious stuff
Raleigh Kincaid and I were inseparable between Nov 27, 1967 and August 6, 1977. That’s it, ten of our first twenty-one years. We were practically born on the same day, I three days before, but in different states, he in Kentucky, me in South Carolina. But when my family moved to Beattyville on Thanksgiving of ’67, we met in the sixth grade of Beattyville Grade School.
I wore my hair slicked back with Vaseline hair tonic, was yet to grow into my eyes and featured heel-taps on my pointed cowboy boots. Raleigh was already 5 feet 6 inches tall and weighed something on the order of twice my weight, with me being around five feet tall and weighing 90 pounds or so. Raleigh looked like he could use the size eyes I had, when he took off his glasses.
By that time I had led six souls to Jesus, all my age or younger, and no doubt had designs on Raleigh’s larger-than-life eternal spirit. But that proved unnecessary, as his mother and New Springs Methodist Church in Primrose, Kentucky had already won him over.
On the way to Primrose, you drove through St. Helens and around Horse Shoe Bend, the curve where his brother Davy was thrown out the back window of his car in a wreck. A few miles before Primrose, to get to his house, you could take a dive back to the right, on a one-car width lightly paved “road” across the North Fork of the Kentucky River on a wooden swinging bridge. His family owned acreage on the other side of the river in an idyllic green bowl with a large pond and four brick houses, in one of which Raleigh lived with his mother, brother and father.
Raleigh’s father Ernest would lay on the glassed-in porch at the back of the house inside from where his mother Betty tended flowers dotted with hummingbird feeders, so when the little flitting birds showed up, Ernest could enjoy them from his bed. By the time I paid my first visit to his house, Raleigh’s father’s multiple sclerosis had rendered him an invalid. He had been diagnosed shortly after Raleigh was born, so it had debilitated him for a decade and would do so for another fifteen years or so until it took him.
My most lasting memories of those visits are Ernest constantly mumbling, “Betty Jo”, Betty reading paperbacks, taking care of whichever Boston Terrier she had at the time, and refereeing between Raleigh and Davy; and Raleigh and me staying up late talking about how the world is, how it got that way and how it might be changed.
Betty Kincaid waited on Ernest hand and foot for twenty-five years as the disease rendered him increasingly helpless. The first time I saw Ernest was when Betty rolled his wheel chair behind home plate at the baseball field where we played little league. Raleigh tended first base and when I wasn’t pitching, I played shortstop. I batted third and he batted fourth. I was a punch and judy hitter, he hit the ball farther than anyone else, owing to his size. Betty and Ernest never missed a game. For all those years, Betty Kincaid sat like Rosa Parks on a “stand-by-your man” bus.
Raleigh and I became like brothers. He was best man at my wedding in 1977 and I at his in 1986. A few years after I had married, he visited my mother in the hospital and when she saw him walk into the room, she said, “Well, Raleigh Martin Kincay (she takes liberties with his real name, Raleigh Mark Kincaid), get in here boy, I’ve not seen you since you and Michael got a divorce.”
Anyways, I will not bore you with more serious stuff, but I will tell you this. Those who know us both have surely picked up on the total irony of me claiming I made Raleigh. We might be said to have made one another, sort of the way low pressure and high water-surface temperatures make a hurricane (not the best metaphor, huh?) We were as close as two flaming heterosexual males could be for nearly ten years. In the time it took Odysseus to get back home, Raleigh and I worked out how to make a friendship eternal.
Happy Birthday Raleigh Mark Kincaid
Let Me Tell You About My Friend Kirk Evans
Fast Facts about Kirk Evans
His first name is Phillip
He looked like Paul Michael Glaser (Starsky) for about five to ten years
His father was on board the USS Tennessee in Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941
His mother worked as an assistant to Barry Bingham at the Courier Journal and then Churchill Downs, home of the Kentucky Derby, for many years
When he played third base he looked a lot like Graig Nettles
He likes to ham it up, but don’t let him fool you, he can sing
He repairs and improves houses, in particular basements, so well; he should have his own TV show
He could have given Casey Kasem a run for his money with his knowledge of music
He can navigate a city, whether he knows it well or not, like he has his own internal GPS system
His capacity to give romantic gifts is legendary (and puts the rest of us to shame)
Here is my little tribute to him on his birthday, December 24th.
[Summer breeze, makes me feel fine, blowing with the Jasmine in my mi-ah-i-a-ine]
In the Fall of 1975 Kirk Evans moved back to Kentucky from Denton, Texas where he had attended North Texas State University. When he arrived at Morehead State University, a clerical error made him, instead of me, Raleigh Kincaid’s roommate that semester. He impressed Raleigh with his ping-pong skills -better than mine, and his inattention to housekeeping - worse than mine. I was tidy compared to them both, as I recall.
[Does anybody really know what time it is, does anybody really care…]
After the roommate issue was resolved in January, we remained friends by frequenting the Baptist Student Union. Like most of the rest of our now long-standing friends, you could catch Kirk at the BSU from noon on, most days from Fall, ‘75 until Fall, ‘78. Kirk scheduled most of his classes in the morning so they would not interfere with his social life (afternoons and evenings) or sleep (mornings).
[I guess my feet know where they want me to go, walking on a country road…]
Although technically in Kentucky, Louisville is not part of Appalachia. People east of a line from Cincinnati to Bowling Green are more like people from Indiana or Missouri, talking without a hickish accent, dancing in public, going to State Fairs, and looking down their noses at people from Eastern Kentucky. Somehow Kirk, Louisvillian, wound up at Appalachian Morehead. He was street to my dirt road, ghetto to my trailer park, super fly to my small town.
[Teacher, leave those kids alone…]
After student teaching in social studies, Kirk opted to not teach, fearing the harm he might do a kid who gave him lip; though now, his daughter teaches brilliantly in a challenging inner-city school; making me wonder how a parent of such smart and socially-adept children, would not have been a great teacher himself.
[Oh very young what will you leave us this time, you’re only dancing on this earth for a short while…]
During 2004-06, Nathan, Kirk and Nancy’s son, lived with us while finishing his last two years at Union University, which happens to be in our adopted hometown of Jackson, Tennessee. Having Nathan in our house was a gift of Evans’ perspective, namely that: (1) irony is everywhere and needs pointing out, (2) things are funniest when people take them seriously, and (3) the funniest thing is how seriously some people take themselves.
For example, if Nathan’s favorite team is down big, he likes to say: “We got ‘em right where we want ‘em.”
We still have a room in our house called: “Nathan’s room”.
[I write the songs that make the whole world sing, I write the songs of love and special things…]
Here are some activities I have shared with Kirk, during which he sang, mainly songs from the 1970s: funeral-home visitations, wedding rehearsals and weddings, home-repair projects, various sports, driving in vehicles, sitting on chairs/couches, lying on the floor (me, not him), cooking, doing the dishwasher, other forms of cleaning, running a tenth of a mile together at the end of a marathon wherein he was asked to deliver the sign I had prepared for my wife (The Theme from Rocky was his chosen song on that occasion), holiday get-togethers, and many others.
Activity I shared with Kirk when he did not sing: funerals.
[Let me be your salty dog, or I won’t be your man at all, honey let me be your salty dog]
I defy anyone to stump Kirk with a question regarding the Andy Griffith Show. He knows other trivia (think Cliff Clavin of Cheers), but the Andy Griffith Show is his specialty. His fascination with things Appalachian may come from being an outsider. For me, shows like Andy and the Beverly Hillbillies hit too close to home.
[This is major Tom to ground control, I’m stepping through the door…]
Kirk pulls for a basketball team referred to as the little brother of my team. I will not name his team much as he would not get on Facebook and tell people I had lice or a STD. [The Health Information Privacy Act (HIPA) covers medical information and I believe there should be something called SIPA for sports information.] A few years back the coach at the school I root for decided to go to the school he cheers for (after coaching a while in the pros). I was glad his team got our former coach, since I figured he would bring them back to prominence and thus bring joy to my friends. It has not happened, but I really did want it to.
[Every breath you take, every move you make, every bond you break, every step you take, I’ll be watching you…]
Kirk is the speech policeman of our group of friends. His rules are: speak clearly, enunciate every word, get your facts straight, give the story a rousing punch line, and keep it brief. If you break a rule, Kirk will make you wonder why you considered opening your mouth.
For example, a group member says, “Last Friday morning I got up and went to work and…”
Kirk: “Oh, I would of thought you could have gone to work without getting up…”
All laugh, the speaking group member looks around for someone not laughing, for an ally, finding none, he or she proceeds with greater caution…
“Anyways…”
Kirk: “Is it anyways or anyway? Does anyone know? I say anyway, what do you say J?”
JR: “I believe anyway is correct.”
Kirk: “Phil?”
Phil: “Anyway? It depends, I’m lucky to think of either one, anyways.”
Talking group member: “Okay, sorry… so I was getting ready for work and I put a piece of toast in the toaster…”
Kirk: “Oh… huge mistake, if your bread was already toasted, toasting it again would burn it.”
All laugh… the talking group member looks around for sympathy…this time somebody appears ready to help…
Helpful friend: “I think we all know what [s/he] meant…keep going, we want to hear your story”
Kirk: “Let’s take a vote, do I hear a motion in favor of letting this story go on with all its problems? No… hearing none, the story is tabled until the speaker can tell the fixed version. Next?”
[Muskrat, Muskrat, candle light, doing the town and doing it right in the evening…]
If you want to see a Vaudeville-level comedy routine, spend time with Kirk, Nancy, Lindsey and Nathan.
You will see a riff of mock insults, play slaps, dance routines [usually a version of the River Dance by Kirk, to see Kirk dance go to this link: http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=516414620642], pretend threats and funny one-liners, not so much from Nancy, as she is usually audience, referee, straight person, or bewildered onlooker. [Nancy is funny too, just more subtle.]
They will build a humor fortress, invisible as an electric fence and just as shocking if you stick your nose in. Those of us closest to them, love their verbal and physical dexterity and realize they have earned the right to spontaneously retreat to their private club; created, I theorize; out of necessity over a decade ago when a member of their family got the sort of medical news (remember HIPA, so I can’t be specific) no family should ever get. They ALL survived with their faith stronger and their bond – you just try to break it.
[I would like you to dance—Birthday, Take a cha-cha-cha-chance-Birthday
I would like you to dance—Birthday, Dance]
Happy Birthday Kirk Evans
His first name is Phillip
He looked like Paul Michael Glaser (Starsky) for about five to ten years
His father was on board the USS Tennessee in Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941
His mother worked as an assistant to Barry Bingham at the Courier Journal and then Churchill Downs, home of the Kentucky Derby, for many years
When he played third base he looked a lot like Graig Nettles
He likes to ham it up, but don’t let him fool you, he can sing
He repairs and improves houses, in particular basements, so well; he should have his own TV show
He could have given Casey Kasem a run for his money with his knowledge of music
He can navigate a city, whether he knows it well or not, like he has his own internal GPS system
His capacity to give romantic gifts is legendary (and puts the rest of us to shame)
Here is my little tribute to him on his birthday, December 24th.
[Summer breeze, makes me feel fine, blowing with the Jasmine in my mi-ah-i-a-ine]
In the Fall of 1975 Kirk Evans moved back to Kentucky from Denton, Texas where he had attended North Texas State University. When he arrived at Morehead State University, a clerical error made him, instead of me, Raleigh Kincaid’s roommate that semester. He impressed Raleigh with his ping-pong skills -better than mine, and his inattention to housekeeping - worse than mine. I was tidy compared to them both, as I recall.
[Does anybody really know what time it is, does anybody really care…]
After the roommate issue was resolved in January, we remained friends by frequenting the Baptist Student Union. Like most of the rest of our now long-standing friends, you could catch Kirk at the BSU from noon on, most days from Fall, ‘75 until Fall, ‘78. Kirk scheduled most of his classes in the morning so they would not interfere with his social life (afternoons and evenings) or sleep (mornings).
[I guess my feet know where they want me to go, walking on a country road…]
Although technically in Kentucky, Louisville is not part of Appalachia. People east of a line from Cincinnati to Bowling Green are more like people from Indiana or Missouri, talking without a hickish accent, dancing in public, going to State Fairs, and looking down their noses at people from Eastern Kentucky. Somehow Kirk, Louisvillian, wound up at Appalachian Morehead. He was street to my dirt road, ghetto to my trailer park, super fly to my small town.
[Teacher, leave those kids alone…]
After student teaching in social studies, Kirk opted to not teach, fearing the harm he might do a kid who gave him lip; though now, his daughter teaches brilliantly in a challenging inner-city school; making me wonder how a parent of such smart and socially-adept children, would not have been a great teacher himself.
[Oh very young what will you leave us this time, you’re only dancing on this earth for a short while…]
During 2004-06, Nathan, Kirk and Nancy’s son, lived with us while finishing his last two years at Union University, which happens to be in our adopted hometown of Jackson, Tennessee. Having Nathan in our house was a gift of Evans’ perspective, namely that: (1) irony is everywhere and needs pointing out, (2) things are funniest when people take them seriously, and (3) the funniest thing is how seriously some people take themselves.
For example, if Nathan’s favorite team is down big, he likes to say: “We got ‘em right where we want ‘em.”
We still have a room in our house called: “Nathan’s room”.
[I write the songs that make the whole world sing, I write the songs of love and special things…]
Here are some activities I have shared with Kirk, during which he sang, mainly songs from the 1970s: funeral-home visitations, wedding rehearsals and weddings, home-repair projects, various sports, driving in vehicles, sitting on chairs/couches, lying on the floor (me, not him), cooking, doing the dishwasher, other forms of cleaning, running a tenth of a mile together at the end of a marathon wherein he was asked to deliver the sign I had prepared for my wife (The Theme from Rocky was his chosen song on that occasion), holiday get-togethers, and many others.
Activity I shared with Kirk when he did not sing: funerals.
[Let me be your salty dog, or I won’t be your man at all, honey let me be your salty dog]
I defy anyone to stump Kirk with a question regarding the Andy Griffith Show. He knows other trivia (think Cliff Clavin of Cheers), but the Andy Griffith Show is his specialty. His fascination with things Appalachian may come from being an outsider. For me, shows like Andy and the Beverly Hillbillies hit too close to home.
[This is major Tom to ground control, I’m stepping through the door…]
Kirk pulls for a basketball team referred to as the little brother of my team. I will not name his team much as he would not get on Facebook and tell people I had lice or a STD. [The Health Information Privacy Act (HIPA) covers medical information and I believe there should be something called SIPA for sports information.] A few years back the coach at the school I root for decided to go to the school he cheers for (after coaching a while in the pros). I was glad his team got our former coach, since I figured he would bring them back to prominence and thus bring joy to my friends. It has not happened, but I really did want it to.
[Every breath you take, every move you make, every bond you break, every step you take, I’ll be watching you…]
Kirk is the speech policeman of our group of friends. His rules are: speak clearly, enunciate every word, get your facts straight, give the story a rousing punch line, and keep it brief. If you break a rule, Kirk will make you wonder why you considered opening your mouth.
For example, a group member says, “Last Friday morning I got up and went to work and…”
Kirk: “Oh, I would of thought you could have gone to work without getting up…”
All laugh, the speaking group member looks around for someone not laughing, for an ally, finding none, he or she proceeds with greater caution…
“Anyways…”
Kirk: “Is it anyways or anyway? Does anyone know? I say anyway, what do you say J?”
JR: “I believe anyway is correct.”
Kirk: “Phil?”
Phil: “Anyway? It depends, I’m lucky to think of either one, anyways.”
Talking group member: “Okay, sorry… so I was getting ready for work and I put a piece of toast in the toaster…”
Kirk: “Oh… huge mistake, if your bread was already toasted, toasting it again would burn it.”
All laugh… the talking group member looks around for sympathy…this time somebody appears ready to help…
Helpful friend: “I think we all know what [s/he] meant…keep going, we want to hear your story”
Kirk: “Let’s take a vote, do I hear a motion in favor of letting this story go on with all its problems? No… hearing none, the story is tabled until the speaker can tell the fixed version. Next?”
[Muskrat, Muskrat, candle light, doing the town and doing it right in the evening…]
If you want to see a Vaudeville-level comedy routine, spend time with Kirk, Nancy, Lindsey and Nathan.
You will see a riff of mock insults, play slaps, dance routines [usually a version of the River Dance by Kirk, to see Kirk dance go to this link: http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=516414620642], pretend threats and funny one-liners, not so much from Nancy, as she is usually audience, referee, straight person, or bewildered onlooker. [Nancy is funny too, just more subtle.]
They will build a humor fortress, invisible as an electric fence and just as shocking if you stick your nose in. Those of us closest to them, love their verbal and physical dexterity and realize they have earned the right to spontaneously retreat to their private club; created, I theorize; out of necessity over a decade ago when a member of their family got the sort of medical news (remember HIPA, so I can’t be specific) no family should ever get. They ALL survived with their faith stronger and their bond – you just try to break it.
[I would like you to dance—Birthday, Take a cha-cha-cha-chance-Birthday
I would like you to dance—Birthday, Dance]
Happy Birthday Kirk Evans
Let Me Tell You About My Friend Denise Holbrook Ashcraft
Denise would be the first to tell you, she can hold up her end of a conversation; and, if for some reason as you talked to her you were stricken dumb, the average number of words spoken per minute would not noticeably decrease. I’m not saying she is a talker, but then, yes by golly I am too, she is a talker.
Denise is a story-telling talker, not the gossipy kind, although she will receive and pass along information too; not the teenie-weenie detail sort, although she can be descriptive when it’s called for; no, she tells stories having to do with dumb things done by others, dumb things she has done and her favorite, dumb things done by her husband Phil. If you do something dumb around Denise, you will be featured in one of her upcoming stories, a story more interesting than you recall the events. She does not lie or exaggerate, she embellishes - a slight understatement.
Denise embodies the best of Kentucky, in particular, Carter County Kentucky; meaning almost West Virginia and almost southeastern Ohio; meaning loyal to family and either church or the devil - more the former in her case; meaning kind-hearted servant of those in need; meaning wry observer of the rest of the nation’s people and not a little mystified by their shenanigans; meaning an endearing acceptance of her own shortcomings but a fierce defender of her right to be different.
I have known Denise since the “ball-and-chain-gang” days – I will let the members of that gang on Facebook explain what that was; the Farah Fawcett hair days – sometimes referred to as the Skunk-hair days; days before she and Phil had exchanged the first harsh wordshttp: (for a lump in your throat, see them here: http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=4519575&op=1&o=global&view=global&subj=527596122&id=739548697 ); before they married and started producing intelligent, sensitive and comical young men. Speaking of harsh words, I often wonder if they banter in bed with such things as: “If you don’t go to sleep pretty soon I’m going to knock you out”, or “I don’t want to hear about your stupid dream unless it involves you getting some sense”, or “When was the last time you used mouthwash, Morehead?” Before you ask, no; I do not spend a good deal of time thinking of Phil and Denise in bed, just enough to write this paragraph.
Recent logical-positivistic research on the correlation between human intelligence and happiness suggests as one rises the other declines, a fact which if easy for you to comprehend is apt to make you sad but which if baffling to you, may render you giddy you do not sit around mulling over such things. Somehow Denise Ashcraft is both happy and smart, so smart, I believe, that; although not immune to it, she usually wiggles free of unhappiness.
This is an irony of Denise, that she can be both smart and happy. Another is how she can be totally focused and ADHD at the same time. When she is telling a story, you can interrupt her as often as you like and she will respond with something witty to your comment and be immediately back on to her story. She invites your comments and accepts your challenge to distract her and will even help you by interrupting her own story, but she will get back to the story, finish and you will enjoy every minute of it, unless you are the subject of the story.
Another irony of Denise is how she can seem so hard and cold yet so sensitive and loving. A couple of stories may help explain this point. After our graduation from college, a group of thirty or so of us from the Morehead State BSU continued to have annual reunions for 13 consecutive years. Incidentally, a smaller group of “MSU BSU-produced” couples continues to be close and see one another on a regular basis after 30 years. During one of the first reunions at Kathy and Whamo’s house, someone, probably Randy Howe; had a large motorcycle sitting in the yard, which Phil decided to take for a spin. Unfortunately, he was not savvy enough on the use of the throttle and went from zero to thirty in about forty feet, leaving him beneath a still-running motorcycle at the base of a large shrub. We are all yelling and running to help, when Denise’s voice from the kitchen window sounds above the motorcycle’s blare and everything else with: “Phil Ashcraft get up from there, you know you can’t ride a motorcycle, you are embarrassing me.” That is the hard and cold side of Denise, if I have time I will illustrate the sensitive and loving side.
Denise is what I would call an oral blogger. By blogger I mean someone who gives a running account of his or her life. Denise does not do it online, but orally. A few years ago as she was helping Phil get stuff in their car to leave our house from a visit, our welcome matt slid out from under her and she went down on our brick steps. She was up in a flash and said, “Oh, that’s embarrassing, I usually fall much more gracefully “. Denise falling is funny (as long as she is not hurt), but having her provide immediate commentary, is hilarious. Most of the time when someone falls, everybody else kids them, but when it is Denise; no one else has to say anything, she tears in on herself.
With my several introductions of old friends to new ones on Facebook I have tried to avoid comparisons; since having friends is not a competitive sport. However, in this case, I will make an exception and say Denise Holbrook Ashcraft is, minute-for-minute, the funniest friend I have and furthermore, I would put her up against any of your funny friends, without it getting too messy for all involved (I am illustrating Denise humor with that line). Knowing her, she would probably get quite the thrill being put against your friends, literally and figuratively.
I declare Denise my funniest friend minute for minute at the risk of having the rest of my friends who consider themselves funny start bombarding me with “their best material”; a risk I am happy to assume, since lord knows I can always use a good belly laugh, laughter being the best medicine and medicine being so expensive these days. (again, can’t you just hear Denise delivering that line?)
Denise’s greatest comedy competition might well come from the other three members of her immediate family. Having the four of them to your house is probably a bit like having Chico, Harpo and Groucho drop by with their hilarious sister Deniso, except none of them is as quiet as Harpo and none of them plays the harp.
When we have a large group of our friends at our house, the ladies get together in the dining room and do a craft project, an event almost certainly detectable by seismological instruments. It takes several days for the sound of laughter to subside after they all leave. The majority of the laughter is inspired by Denise, which is good, because I suspect she can only claim around 10% of the craft productivity.
All our mutual friends are funny in different ways, but Denise is the most relentlessly and overtly funny of the group. No matter the topic, she will probe it for all its humorous angles and unless you are a really frigid type, she will have you joining her in pursuit of this humor climax (ooh la la, that sentence had an exciting ending, huh?).
One on one, Denise tries to match you. If you are being serious, she will join you, although in my case, I know the funny Denise is always just a slip of the tongue away. But to offer testimonial to the sensitive, soft side of Denise, she and Phil and I walked along the river, just the three of us, in Augusta, Georgia at Nathan and Kathryn Evans’ wedding in October, 2006; after my dad had died earlier that year. I told them of my having preached on the street in Augusta with my dad nearly forty years before, when I was ten; and how great it felt to be back for such a joyous occasion, but how it seemed like I was coming to get a monkey off my back. They listened compassionately, and as only the great friends can, made my account seem deeper and more meaningful with their heartfelt appreciation for what I was trying to describe, namely; how far I had come in my life. I suspect they understood it so well because of the distance they too have traveled. We went back in for the reception and danced the night away, my first-ever episode of dancing in front of friends. Thanks you guys for listening me to a type of freedom.
I rode in the backseat with Denise to a restaurant recently and it was like being beside twelve people, and no, I do not mean literally, but figuratively; because of the energy she possesses. Talking to her is like pouring gas on the flame of your mind, at least it is for me; because all of a sudden I am trying to match her wit for wit and if for a little while I do, it is exhilarating.
When our group is together and Denise leaves the room for a few minutes, I have noticed we tend to take a few deep breaths and pay attention to the birds singing or notice the air conditioning running or cars passing. And on those rare times when we have gotten together without Phil and Denise, we may go for long stretches with little or nothing to say. (Just the thought of absences from the gang sends cold chills, so as Denise might say, “We got to stop NOT meeting this way.”)
I must end with the acknowledgement that it is Denise’s fault (to her credit?) I have written these things about our friends, because she has said for years: somebody needs to write our story; and she has also said, I might be the one to do it. When someone who communicates as marvelously as Denise suggests you are able to communicate well too, it is inspiring. Denise, you keep talking and I’ll keep writing.
Happy Birthday my Dear Friend.
Denise is a story-telling talker, not the gossipy kind, although she will receive and pass along information too; not the teenie-weenie detail sort, although she can be descriptive when it’s called for; no, she tells stories having to do with dumb things done by others, dumb things she has done and her favorite, dumb things done by her husband Phil. If you do something dumb around Denise, you will be featured in one of her upcoming stories, a story more interesting than you recall the events. She does not lie or exaggerate, she embellishes - a slight understatement.
Denise embodies the best of Kentucky, in particular, Carter County Kentucky; meaning almost West Virginia and almost southeastern Ohio; meaning loyal to family and either church or the devil - more the former in her case; meaning kind-hearted servant of those in need; meaning wry observer of the rest of the nation’s people and not a little mystified by their shenanigans; meaning an endearing acceptance of her own shortcomings but a fierce defender of her right to be different.
I have known Denise since the “ball-and-chain-gang” days – I will let the members of that gang on Facebook explain what that was; the Farah Fawcett hair days – sometimes referred to as the Skunk-hair days; days before she and Phil had exchanged the first harsh wordshttp: (for a lump in your throat, see them here: http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=4519575&op=1&o=global&view=global&subj=527596122&id=739548697 ); before they married and started producing intelligent, sensitive and comical young men. Speaking of harsh words, I often wonder if they banter in bed with such things as: “If you don’t go to sleep pretty soon I’m going to knock you out”, or “I don’t want to hear about your stupid dream unless it involves you getting some sense”, or “When was the last time you used mouthwash, Morehead?” Before you ask, no; I do not spend a good deal of time thinking of Phil and Denise in bed, just enough to write this paragraph.
Recent logical-positivistic research on the correlation between human intelligence and happiness suggests as one rises the other declines, a fact which if easy for you to comprehend is apt to make you sad but which if baffling to you, may render you giddy you do not sit around mulling over such things. Somehow Denise Ashcraft is both happy and smart, so smart, I believe, that; although not immune to it, she usually wiggles free of unhappiness.
This is an irony of Denise, that she can be both smart and happy. Another is how she can be totally focused and ADHD at the same time. When she is telling a story, you can interrupt her as often as you like and she will respond with something witty to your comment and be immediately back on to her story. She invites your comments and accepts your challenge to distract her and will even help you by interrupting her own story, but she will get back to the story, finish and you will enjoy every minute of it, unless you are the subject of the story.
Another irony of Denise is how she can seem so hard and cold yet so sensitive and loving. A couple of stories may help explain this point. After our graduation from college, a group of thirty or so of us from the Morehead State BSU continued to have annual reunions for 13 consecutive years. Incidentally, a smaller group of “MSU BSU-produced” couples continues to be close and see one another on a regular basis after 30 years. During one of the first reunions at Kathy and Whamo’s house, someone, probably Randy Howe; had a large motorcycle sitting in the yard, which Phil decided to take for a spin. Unfortunately, he was not savvy enough on the use of the throttle and went from zero to thirty in about forty feet, leaving him beneath a still-running motorcycle at the base of a large shrub. We are all yelling and running to help, when Denise’s voice from the kitchen window sounds above the motorcycle’s blare and everything else with: “Phil Ashcraft get up from there, you know you can’t ride a motorcycle, you are embarrassing me.” That is the hard and cold side of Denise, if I have time I will illustrate the sensitive and loving side.
Denise is what I would call an oral blogger. By blogger I mean someone who gives a running account of his or her life. Denise does not do it online, but orally. A few years ago as she was helping Phil get stuff in their car to leave our house from a visit, our welcome matt slid out from under her and she went down on our brick steps. She was up in a flash and said, “Oh, that’s embarrassing, I usually fall much more gracefully “. Denise falling is funny (as long as she is not hurt), but having her provide immediate commentary, is hilarious. Most of the time when someone falls, everybody else kids them, but when it is Denise; no one else has to say anything, she tears in on herself.
With my several introductions of old friends to new ones on Facebook I have tried to avoid comparisons; since having friends is not a competitive sport. However, in this case, I will make an exception and say Denise Holbrook Ashcraft is, minute-for-minute, the funniest friend I have and furthermore, I would put her up against any of your funny friends, without it getting too messy for all involved (I am illustrating Denise humor with that line). Knowing her, she would probably get quite the thrill being put against your friends, literally and figuratively.
I declare Denise my funniest friend minute for minute at the risk of having the rest of my friends who consider themselves funny start bombarding me with “their best material”; a risk I am happy to assume, since lord knows I can always use a good belly laugh, laughter being the best medicine and medicine being so expensive these days. (again, can’t you just hear Denise delivering that line?)
Denise’s greatest comedy competition might well come from the other three members of her immediate family. Having the four of them to your house is probably a bit like having Chico, Harpo and Groucho drop by with their hilarious sister Deniso, except none of them is as quiet as Harpo and none of them plays the harp.
When we have a large group of our friends at our house, the ladies get together in the dining room and do a craft project, an event almost certainly detectable by seismological instruments. It takes several days for the sound of laughter to subside after they all leave. The majority of the laughter is inspired by Denise, which is good, because I suspect she can only claim around 10% of the craft productivity.
All our mutual friends are funny in different ways, but Denise is the most relentlessly and overtly funny of the group. No matter the topic, she will probe it for all its humorous angles and unless you are a really frigid type, she will have you joining her in pursuit of this humor climax (ooh la la, that sentence had an exciting ending, huh?).
One on one, Denise tries to match you. If you are being serious, she will join you, although in my case, I know the funny Denise is always just a slip of the tongue away. But to offer testimonial to the sensitive, soft side of Denise, she and Phil and I walked along the river, just the three of us, in Augusta, Georgia at Nathan and Kathryn Evans’ wedding in October, 2006; after my dad had died earlier that year. I told them of my having preached on the street in Augusta with my dad nearly forty years before, when I was ten; and how great it felt to be back for such a joyous occasion, but how it seemed like I was coming to get a monkey off my back. They listened compassionately, and as only the great friends can, made my account seem deeper and more meaningful with their heartfelt appreciation for what I was trying to describe, namely; how far I had come in my life. I suspect they understood it so well because of the distance they too have traveled. We went back in for the reception and danced the night away, my first-ever episode of dancing in front of friends. Thanks you guys for listening me to a type of freedom.
I rode in the backseat with Denise to a restaurant recently and it was like being beside twelve people, and no, I do not mean literally, but figuratively; because of the energy she possesses. Talking to her is like pouring gas on the flame of your mind, at least it is for me; because all of a sudden I am trying to match her wit for wit and if for a little while I do, it is exhilarating.
When our group is together and Denise leaves the room for a few minutes, I have noticed we tend to take a few deep breaths and pay attention to the birds singing or notice the air conditioning running or cars passing. And on those rare times when we have gotten together without Phil and Denise, we may go for long stretches with little or nothing to say. (Just the thought of absences from the gang sends cold chills, so as Denise might say, “We got to stop NOT meeting this way.”)
I must end with the acknowledgement that it is Denise’s fault (to her credit?) I have written these things about our friends, because she has said for years: somebody needs to write our story; and she has also said, I might be the one to do it. When someone who communicates as marvelously as Denise suggests you are able to communicate well too, it is inspiring. Denise, you keep talking and I’ll keep writing.
Happy Birthday my Dear Friend.
Let Me Tell You About My Friend Phil Ashcraft
I love Phil, but of course; it is frowned on, by many; for a man to say that about another, so I will just say; I deeply admire and appreciate my good friend Phil Ashcraft. We differ in many ways and are alike in others.
First of all, Phil will eat anything, and I mean anything; not necessarily in large quantities, but he is the ultimate omnivore. I know because I have visited places with him where vendors sell food and he is drawn to the most exotic meats, cheeses, savory concoctions or sweet confections. I, on the other hand, do not eat meat nor anything with lots of fat; and I have even recently started curtailing my salt intake. From that, you might conclude Phil and I would not hit it off; but you would be wrong. In the words of my immortal late baseball coach, Charles Duncil: “Phil, whatever turns you on just tickles me to death.”
Another difference between us is that Phil drives the speed limit and I, well let’s just say I am a little like Sammy Haggar when it comes to speed limits. If I drove the speed Phil drives, I would still be back in New Jersey (where we lived in 1985). Yet, when I have ridden with him driving, it has relaxed me if anything; and it certainly has not frustrated me. Go figure. As Coach Duncil answered when I asked him in the hallway one day what he was up to: “Just riding around, hop in.”
I mention coach Duncil in a piece about Phil, because they are no doubt alike in that young people look up to them and can remember things they said years later. I wonder how many of the thousands of young people who have sat in his classes, who are now grown; could quote you some “Mr. Ashcraft”.
Another difference between Phil and me, is that Phil knows more about movies and TV from this past year than I know about movies and TV from all of history. You would think we would have little or nothing to talk about, since if he starts talking Star Wars or Gunsmoke or some of the more recent shows; I am pretty much relegated to nodding and listening. But such is not the case, because there is always Kentucky basketball, the Cincinnati Reds and all the good times we have had together over the years.
There are some ways in which Phil and I are quite alike, however. For example, he has kissed my wife; actually, even before I did (I would assume so, since they dated before we married and who dates without kissing?) So, that’s one person we have both kissed. I am not aware of another. On this matter of us having my wife as a friend in common, I went to him in his dorm room late one night and asked if I could take Tanga, my wife, out for a date; knowing he and she were dating off and on at the time. He said he was fine with it. So, he did not exactly make us a match but he didn’t stand in the way of it either.
Phil and I first saw Niagara Falls, the old Cleveland baseball stadium, lake Erie, Cedar Point and the Blue hole; together, and I ate my first Chinese food with him; way back in 1979 or 80. I can still remember the shrimp Rangoon. We ordered family style in St. Louis where we also went up in the arch and visited Six Flags over mid-America, and where he loaned me forty dollars; which to my knowledge, I never repaid.
Phil is a far better swimmer than me, has a much better memory for facts than I do, and takes a charge better (not electricity, basketball). We should all be thankful he never discovered body building, since his physique is naturally reminiscent of a car from the year he was born, 1955. I wrecked one of those cars when I was ten years old, so I can be trusted when I say his shoulders are like the front quarter panels on a 1955 Olds Super 88.
Phil read and collected comic books as a boy, a collection so large he financed a few family vacations decades later by selling them in large batches. His love of reading and acquiring knowledge led him to study and teach middle-school history and the other social studies. He still reads voraciously and remembers most of it, giving him something of the aura of a sage when you talk to him. This love of knowledge has been passed to the next generation in his two sons and countless other young people from Ripley, Ohio.
Comic book super heroes fly, stretch, flame or scale buildings with webs; but although he can do none of those things; Phil is one of hundreds of unheralded teachers of this nation’s children who inspire, inform and encourage our young people without recognition or pay commensurate with the value they add to our society. In a just world, Phil could have inked a large signing bonus out of college and a few years later declared himself a free agent with schools bidding for his services all over the land; with the winner paying him what, in unjust reality; only athletes and movie stars get.
He grew up without his biological father, who was killed in a helicopter crash before Phil was even in school; but he was heavily influenced by his mother, Blanche; who was as devoutly religious as my father.
In my fantasy they know each other in the afterlife and are able to make the connection their sons are friends.
Paul McCullough – It’s a beautiful day the lord has made isn’t it mam?
Blanche Parsons – It sure is. I don’t believe I know you.
Paul – I am Paul McCullough, formerly of Beattyville, Kentucky.
Blanche – I am from Kentucky too, a little town called Falmouth.
Paul – My son Mike married a girl from that town.
Blanche – Oh yea, what was her name.
Paul – Tanga Turner.
Blanche – That was one of Phil’s good friends in high school.
Paul – Then I bet they know each other.
Blanche – Maybe, but I never heard Phil say anything about a friend named Mike.
Paul – I believe I have heard Mike mention Phil. By the way, if you are not doing anything later this evening why don’t you come to our prayer meeting?
Blanche – You mean you are still having church even here in heaven?
Paul – Oh sure, I would rather burn out for Jesus than rust out for the devil.
Blanche – Amen brother. I’ll try to be there. I can tell I would like the way you preach. I will bring you an application for membership into a group I started called: Former saints of the commonwealth for the advancement of the kingdom.
From one son of a Kentucky saint to another, Happy Birthday my good friend Phil.
First of all, Phil will eat anything, and I mean anything; not necessarily in large quantities, but he is the ultimate omnivore. I know because I have visited places with him where vendors sell food and he is drawn to the most exotic meats, cheeses, savory concoctions or sweet confections. I, on the other hand, do not eat meat nor anything with lots of fat; and I have even recently started curtailing my salt intake. From that, you might conclude Phil and I would not hit it off; but you would be wrong. In the words of my immortal late baseball coach, Charles Duncil: “Phil, whatever turns you on just tickles me to death.”
Another difference between us is that Phil drives the speed limit and I, well let’s just say I am a little like Sammy Haggar when it comes to speed limits. If I drove the speed Phil drives, I would still be back in New Jersey (where we lived in 1985). Yet, when I have ridden with him driving, it has relaxed me if anything; and it certainly has not frustrated me. Go figure. As Coach Duncil answered when I asked him in the hallway one day what he was up to: “Just riding around, hop in.”
I mention coach Duncil in a piece about Phil, because they are no doubt alike in that young people look up to them and can remember things they said years later. I wonder how many of the thousands of young people who have sat in his classes, who are now grown; could quote you some “Mr. Ashcraft”.
Another difference between Phil and me, is that Phil knows more about movies and TV from this past year than I know about movies and TV from all of history. You would think we would have little or nothing to talk about, since if he starts talking Star Wars or Gunsmoke or some of the more recent shows; I am pretty much relegated to nodding and listening. But such is not the case, because there is always Kentucky basketball, the Cincinnati Reds and all the good times we have had together over the years.
There are some ways in which Phil and I are quite alike, however. For example, he has kissed my wife; actually, even before I did (I would assume so, since they dated before we married and who dates without kissing?) So, that’s one person we have both kissed. I am not aware of another. On this matter of us having my wife as a friend in common, I went to him in his dorm room late one night and asked if I could take Tanga, my wife, out for a date; knowing he and she were dating off and on at the time. He said he was fine with it. So, he did not exactly make us a match but he didn’t stand in the way of it either.
Phil and I first saw Niagara Falls, the old Cleveland baseball stadium, lake Erie, Cedar Point and the Blue hole; together, and I ate my first Chinese food with him; way back in 1979 or 80. I can still remember the shrimp Rangoon. We ordered family style in St. Louis where we also went up in the arch and visited Six Flags over mid-America, and where he loaned me forty dollars; which to my knowledge, I never repaid.
Phil is a far better swimmer than me, has a much better memory for facts than I do, and takes a charge better (not electricity, basketball). We should all be thankful he never discovered body building, since his physique is naturally reminiscent of a car from the year he was born, 1955. I wrecked one of those cars when I was ten years old, so I can be trusted when I say his shoulders are like the front quarter panels on a 1955 Olds Super 88.
Phil read and collected comic books as a boy, a collection so large he financed a few family vacations decades later by selling them in large batches. His love of reading and acquiring knowledge led him to study and teach middle-school history and the other social studies. He still reads voraciously and remembers most of it, giving him something of the aura of a sage when you talk to him. This love of knowledge has been passed to the next generation in his two sons and countless other young people from Ripley, Ohio.
Comic book super heroes fly, stretch, flame or scale buildings with webs; but although he can do none of those things; Phil is one of hundreds of unheralded teachers of this nation’s children who inspire, inform and encourage our young people without recognition or pay commensurate with the value they add to our society. In a just world, Phil could have inked a large signing bonus out of college and a few years later declared himself a free agent with schools bidding for his services all over the land; with the winner paying him what, in unjust reality; only athletes and movie stars get.
He grew up without his biological father, who was killed in a helicopter crash before Phil was even in school; but he was heavily influenced by his mother, Blanche; who was as devoutly religious as my father.
In my fantasy they know each other in the afterlife and are able to make the connection their sons are friends.
Paul McCullough – It’s a beautiful day the lord has made isn’t it mam?
Blanche Parsons – It sure is. I don’t believe I know you.
Paul – I am Paul McCullough, formerly of Beattyville, Kentucky.
Blanche – I am from Kentucky too, a little town called Falmouth.
Paul – My son Mike married a girl from that town.
Blanche – Oh yea, what was her name.
Paul – Tanga Turner.
Blanche – That was one of Phil’s good friends in high school.
Paul – Then I bet they know each other.
Blanche – Maybe, but I never heard Phil say anything about a friend named Mike.
Paul – I believe I have heard Mike mention Phil. By the way, if you are not doing anything later this evening why don’t you come to our prayer meeting?
Blanche – You mean you are still having church even here in heaven?
Paul – Oh sure, I would rather burn out for Jesus than rust out for the devil.
Blanche – Amen brother. I’ll try to be there. I can tell I would like the way you preach. I will bring you an application for membership into a group I started called: Former saints of the commonwealth for the advancement of the kingdom.
From one son of a Kentucky saint to another, Happy Birthday my good friend Phil.
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