After Midnight...

Alright, alright! - lets have some fun. My father always said, "Nothing good happens after midnight." He is a good and wise man, but he missed this one.


This Week's Song - Oh Sheila - Ready For The World - this song topped the charts in 1985, but on a cold night in 1989 it blazed a path to the moon. Turn it up and play it over and over.

The Pi Kappa Alpha House
circa 1989

The dilemma was a big one.  It didn't look good. I stood just outside the circle of decision makers watching the worried look on the faces of the elected officers as they brain-stormed solutions to the great crisis. It was Friday night on Fraternity Park Drive which meant one thing - The Pikes were having a band party. Thanks to the fact my fraternity dedicated 90% of its budget to "social" events, coupled with our election of the greatest Social Chairman in the long history of Pi Kappa Alpha, our house was the place to be in the Spring of 1989. This wasn't just any band party. It was Pike's Peak, a week long party complete with band parties every night, commemorative t-shirts, and no classes to attend. School was in session. The "no class" thing was self-imposed and not officially sanctioned by the University of Tennessee. Fraternity life was simple - go where the party is. These were the days before press conferences and "Butt-Chugging," and a band party was a sacred event. There were other great fraternities and we all went to each other's party's, but during Pike's Peak we were the only game in town and the crowd gathering was testament to that very fact.

Brett Shaw paced in the middle of the circle as all of his subordinate officers and wanna-be advisers harbored looks of panic and despair. "What are we gonna do, man?! We can't have a band party without a band!" said one concerned frat boy. Though there were extreme actions taken to contain the catastrophic news, the whispers of disappointment had already started to run through the ranks of co-eds gathered in the courtyard -  the excellent and heavily anticipated alt-rock band Brett scheduled had been unable to cross the North Carolina mountains due to early spring snow. They weren't going to make it. It was 9:30 on a Friday night. The band was suppose to start in thirty minutes. It looked as though all was lost. The courtyard outside the house and the entire first floor were covered in eager college students who'd been "getting ready" all day. So much hung in the balance.

Shaw wasn't conceding anything. He went to his room, closed the door,  pulled out his magic book and got on the phone. At approximately 10:46 p.m. he emerged from the situation room, clearly worn by the night's events, and announced "I have a band on the way." A collective sigh of relief emanated from the small group and congratulations were bestowed upon the man who had once again come through. Then, as a reflection of how spoiled we were by Brett's efficiency and good taste, our attention quickly turned to what we might expect from a band that was the only one in the book still available at 10:30 on a Friday. "They are called the Chevettes," Shaw announced with a lingering doubt behind the usually optimistic eyes, "and they weren't in the book." Brett was good, and he knew it. He took great pleasure in standing before the chapter during Monday meetings to announce the "excellent" and "in-demand" bands that would be coming. Although things were beyond his control, he simply would not accept this mark on his administration. "These guys were actually referred to us by another East Knoxville band who heard they were looking for gigs." Concerned looks among the group were exchanged. "What kind of music do they play?" asked an exasperated kid from Memphis. "Not REM!" he said to the kid, who listened to almost nothing else. He turned and made his way to the courtyard to make an announcement which would hopefully save our party. The house was packed. The rain began to fall and everyone moved inside. "This is going to be a disaster," said our Treasurer, looking toward the heavens.

After what felt like hours, a collective roar came from those gathered in the house and courtyard as a 1970’s white cargo van pulling what appeared to have once been a U-Haul trailer turned into Fraternity Park. Remarkably, everyone remained at the house and many more came when they heard the band was coming late. Only in college can a 3 hour delay possibly increase your crowd. Brett pointed the van’s driver to a location beside the house where equipment could be unloaded into the basement. The Courtyard was no longer an option because of the rain. A large group of pledges who had been hastily gathered and given instruction prior to the Chevettes arrival moved quickly into place and began assisting in the unloading of speakers, guitars, keyboards, drums and all manner of things that were necessary for The Chevettes to entertain. 

Basement - Men of PKA

The members of the band and their sizable entourage exited the rear of the van like clowns from a circus car. It looked like a gathering of central casting from the movie Purple Rain. Each of the men wore their hair in a jheri-curl and were adorned in short double-breasted blue and white jackets. It wouldn’t have surprised me in the least if Morris Day, himself, stepped out of the van.  I shook the hand of the keyboardist, who looked like he was still in high school, and picked up a microphone stand and followed him into the basement. The young man was clearly nervous having likely been rousted from bed to play the show. He looked at me and whispered under his breath, “We’ve only been practicing for two weeks. I don’t know how this is gonna go, my man.”

This is how it went -

The tuning of instruments and sound checks rose like smoke into the fraternity house and bled into the rain-soaked courtyard captivating and drawing the throngs of college students to the stairway like moths to a fluorescent light. The earlier disappointment created by the absence of live music was wiped clean and each congregant was filled with a new adrenaline, that special kind of adrenaline held in reserve only by those of the human race under the age of 23. It was well after 1:00 a.m when the pilgrimage to the basement began. 

Basement - Men of PKA

In the light of day, the basement of the pike house could have been mistaken for a medieval death chamber. The stained and sticky concrete floor ran the length of the room beneath a low ceiling supported by haphazardly placed steel poles. A room-length-built-in bench covered the west wall above which small windows, which wouldn’t allow an infant to escape, provided what little light the room received. The bench had one purpose - to support head-banging teenagers trying to get a look at the act occupying the stage. The stage was made of plywood squares supported by rotting five-by-fives, the handy work of inattentive and distracted pledges from years past. The planks were easily transportable and creaked beneath the feet of frat-house rock stars and yesterday's fools. There was an abandoned bar area, where as a pledge I'd been instructed to mix PGA punch in garbage cans with my arm, requiring me to answer questions for days from professors and other students as to why my arm was purple. A descent into the basement, at any time of day, was a trip into a dungeon that smelled of stale beer and bad decisions. During Hell Week, my brothers and I mopped the floor until we collapsed only to find that decades of fight blood and alcohol stains were permanent fixtures. It was so bad that pledges were instructed to paint the floor at one point, an idea that proved to be among one of the worst when brothers tracked paint all over the house and courtyard after a band party. 

However it may have looked in the light of day, everything changed during those hours our house was bathed in the light of moon and stars, especially on those nights of basement band parties. Illuminated only by makeshift stage lighting and the pheromones of a Gen-X crowd, the basement became an ethereal dreamland and temple to the young at a time when magic was our province and the real world and all of its responsibilities were a distant and voluntary destination instead of an on-coming, unstoppable train. We were young, and in those moments, those nights below a low ceiling, overwhelmed by the decibels musical dreams, we learned more than we would in any university classroom.

The room filled. We stood shoulder-to-shoulder, swaying in anticipation of the arrival of music. The Chevettes entered from our right after making a pre-show visit to their van after the sound check. The crowd went nuts. The purple lighting from foot lights did nothing but amp up the level of anticipation as the members of the band all stood erect, eyes to the floor. When the percussion laden introduction to “Oh Shelia” jumped from the speakers, the room exploded. The uninhibited, rain soaked, and energized people, each of whom lived in that utopia between child and adult and stood possessed by hours of unfulfilled anticipation, liquid fuel from bottles, teenage lust, and a mainline infusion of the popping-Billboard-chart-topping R & B, moved like nobody was watching and our very existence depended on it. As the lead singer, in a mock-British accent, stepped to the microphone and said, "what's good for the goose, is always good for the gander... Oh Shelia" I thought the entire universe would collapse on itself.  The band moved in perfect unison to the beat of the electric percussion. Those of us men who didn't so much dance as try to look cool lost total control in the steaming pit. I danced with nobody and everybody at the same time, hands raised in the air, electricity running up and down my spine. When I stepped onto the bench and looked out over the crowd, I was convinced I was witnessing the greatest moment of my college life. At the close of the song, after what can only be described as a virtuoso performance by the boys from East Knoxville, the crowd - and the Chevettes - were convinced the band was the greatest in the history of R & B. Fraternity men high-fived, girls and guys hugged and all screamed in adulation. Then the second song began.

As good as “Oh Shelia” was, the next two songs were absolutely horrible. Forgotten words, poor instrumentation and missed harmonies cut into the night and sucked the electricity from the air of the basement. As disappointment began to filter through the crowd, a realization overcame the fading student body that the Chevettes were not cohesive or talented, that there was indeed a very good reason they were available at midnight on a Friday. They just weren’t ready. Then, something happened - something so simple and brilliant in concept that human ingenuity, the collective genius of human history, could not have come up with it had several weeks been given to solve the riddle.

The Basement - Travis Hill with arm raised 

My friend, my brother - Travis Hill - a man of great musical insight, a man who would go on to write several number-one hits, songs heard by millions, a man well-versed in the importance of pouring gasoline on the dying fire of a party - screamed out the greatest words of his life. “Play Oh Sheila, Again!!!!!” A great deal of debate exists to this day whether the photo to the left actually captures the greatest and most meaningful moment of Travis's life. The crowd, recognizing the genius of the instructions, roared louder than any which had previously visited the basement of the house. The band members knew immediately the request was not only a relief, a solution to their own dilemma, but that it was a revelation.  They immediately broke into the intro, assuming their choreographed positions from the first performance.

For the next glorious hour and a half, the Chevettes played “Oh Sheila” six more times, interrupted only by two terribly played and easily forgotten songs and a break. Like any great memory, that night 26 years ago sneaks up on me every now and then and grabs me by the shirt. When it does I slip my iPhone out, plug it into my living room sound system, and hit play.
 "Like they always say, what's good for the goose...." 

The Author in the Basement

The Board

*Note: I've Been away from the blog for a spell. Life happens. Thanks to all who pestered me for more and the many who've read my previous posts. Hope you enjoy.


This Weeks Song - Half Mile Hill - David Nail. This one was written by my friend Rick Brantley and  recorded by both David and Rick. It's nice to know talented people. Check them out on itunes and their websites. Rick has a new album and podcast coming out this week. Check out Facebook.com/rickbrantleymusic and discover a great talent. When he blows up, you can say you heard him first (unless you are in my presence). I just happened to be listening to his beautiful song when I recently drove by the Board.

The Board

He stood and made his way to the front of the packed chapel. This big and quiet man, this man of faith, this man I'm proud to call friend and brother-in-law rose to deliver his father's eulogy. Mike Turner has never been considered a dynamic public speaker. He is a trained accountant and great businessman, always deliberate and quiet, one who listens and is capable of cutting to the chase with a single well-considered response. However, I never thought of him as possessing great oratorical gifts. I've always respected his mind, appreciated his intellect, admired his faith, and welcomed his wisdom. So there I sat, excited to see two worlds collide in my quiet friend's public reflections on the father he adored.  His first words upon arriving at the microphone warned those gathered that he would be reading his remarks; Not a promising start to what would turn out to be perhaps the best eulogy I've ever heard. Mike captured his father's spirit and love of family in a way that only Monford Turner's son could. It was beautiful. With a scientific precision and order that defines Turner men, he chronicled the life of a good and generous Christian man. Then came the unexpected breaks for emotion. He told us what his father meant to him - the lessons taught for sure, but more importantly, the example he'd been as a husband, father, and man of faith. He covered details of his life, but what was intended to be a man's recounting of another man's life became peppered with glorious moments of a little boy simply talking about his dad. Perhaps it can't be helped when you love and respect someone like that. If you didn't know Monford Paul Turner, you would have known and loved him after hearing the ten minutes of his son's perfectly written and exquisitely told assessment. The words stood testament to and reminded me of how we are shaped by those who pass through our lives. The following day Mr. Turner was driven beyond The Board to his final resting place. The Board and I are old friends.

It's made of wood, painted black, and stands in the shade of a small tree. The white letters adorning its facade are interchangeable. The Board silently, and without a hint of apology, greets all visitors and future permanent residents of Highland Memorial Cemetery. On the last occasion I rolled by, it simply read Johnson and Hinton, announcing the ascendance of two souls and the arrival of their earthly vessels to reside forever beneath the East Tennessee clay.  I've entered many times, more often since that day in the Fall of 2000 when I buried my wife and the mother of my children. The Board always has at least one name. Always. Beyond it are many I've known and several I've loved.

Betsy Coffey became my mother's best friend during a time when a friend was desperately needed. The Coffeys lived next door to my parents when I came along in 1968, the first-born child. Betsy already had two boys of her own. While my mother was equipped with the love, dedication, and the enthusiasm required of a new mother, she was, as most first-time mothers, ill-equipped when it came to the practicalities of caring for a new baby boy. Betsy was a steel magnolia planted at the end of Columbine Circle in Rocky Hill. She was a West Tennessee beauty, a farm girl with an infectious laugh and a dominating, irreverent personality. She became my mother's sounding board, confidant and coach in all matters, including dealing with mother-in-laws, managing a grocery budget, and keeping other women away from their men. They were twenty-somethings without two nickels to rub together, married to law school buddies.

My very first memory in life is standing in Betsy's Volkswagon Bus as we made our way to get ice cream on a hot summer day. In the world of a child, can you tell me something that holds more excitement? I couldn't have been 4-years old when I stood between the seats of the hippie bus transfixed by the woman behind the wheel, her beautiful blonde hair in a bandanna. She laughed and barked out orders to her boys telling all of us to sit down as the bus pulled onto Northshore Drive. Seat belts? I don't think so. She steered with her left hand, using her right to shift gears and hold onto a lit cigarette, its smoke pierced by the voice of a young Michael Jackson declaring "I Want You Back" via eight-track tape. The notes of the Motown sound played in harmony with the laughter of little boys and their mothers and the unforgettable rumble of rear-mounted German ingenuity. When I let the memory take me I can still smell the mix of gasoline and unfiltered cigarettes, a scent that will always conjure feelings of excitement and adventure. I know now that Betsy was the type of woman men write songs about, a poet's muse. She had a raspy commanding voice, a youthful and beautiful face and a rare confidence that captivated anyone in her presence. I cannot for the life of me remember that voice without the beautiful sound of my mother's laugh.

I was in love with and continue to crave the sound of my mother's laughter. It brings joy to anyone who hears it and has the power to heal. Betsy always made her laugh - not a polite laugh, not the laugh drawn in the company of important people - but the laugh of unrestrained and unguarded joy that comes only in the presence of a dear friend. I was never around Betsy in my life that I didn't smile, too. She continued to be one of my mother's best friends long after Columbine Circle was in all of our rear view mirrors.  Betsy was the best kind of friend - one that not only brought laughter but longed to serve. She kept and tended to my young children on that terrible Wednesday in 2000 when "Pryor" made its debut on The Board. She insisted - and when Betsy insisted, you didn't question her - on staying with my young children as the rest of my family and friends made their way to Highland Memorial on an overcast October day to lay my wife to rest on a hill. When Betsy made her journey beyond The Board for the last time 10 years later,  felled by a cancer she'd fought for years, I sat by my mother as she succumbed to the unguarded and beautiful grief that comes only in the company of a lost friend like Betsy Coffey. It was the only time Betsy made her cry.

My grandmother, Louise Pierce Hammer, had a difficult life. She was a frail and generally unhappy person, but I never knew it. None of her five grandchildren knew it. Her name adorned The Board in 1991, the same year I graduated from college. She loved me. She was the greatest example of the transformative power of becoming a grandparent. It returned her to the joyful and sweet soul she was always meant to be, one that poured out God's word and a lifetime of love whenever we were around. When I was in her presence, the light in her eyes belied the years of hardship she'd suffered. She never talked about the husband who left her with two young girls to raise or the health problems that plagued her in the last decade of life. She threw the pitches a grandfather should have pitched, once taking a line drive from the end of my bat to the face, leaving her glasses broken and her face badly bruised. She drove like a NASCAR driver without a sense of direction. She had such an abiding faith in the Lord that she trusted He would deliver us to our destination in one piece regardless of what the traffic laws required or driving conditions dictated. It was during one of these trips that I first found and secured a seat belt.

I think of her most often these days when I'm struggling with sleep. She lived on a busy street when I was a little boy. In the quiet darkness she'd put me to bed on those nights I was privileged to stay over and together we'd sing "Jesus Loves Me." Before I'd drift off we took turns making up stories about the shadows that formed on the walls of her bedroom when headlights of passing cars passed through the blinds. The power of imagination, the enjoyment of story-telling and an abiding love of one's savior are lessons she bestowed, perhaps without even knowing it. It is a hearty inheritance.

Mr. Turner joins many others I've known and several I've loved beyond The Board. I don't list them here and I don't visit them all when I go, but there is always one more who calls to me before I leave.

I never met Lily Claire Felton. She is the smallest of my loves beyond The Board. When my good friend, Johnna Comer Felton, delivered triplets just three months after Cheryl died, all who knew her and her wonderful family rejoiced. I visited Johnna and her husband, John, in the hospital in the midst of my dark days, searching for a bit of happiness in the joyous gift of children delivered to good friends. After my visit and prompt return to grief, I was shocked and saddened to hear that Lily, the smallest of the three Felton triplets, tragically succumbed to an unexpected infection only 18 days into her life. 18 days. I was further astonished a few days later when I realized she had traveled beyond The Board and resided only 40 yards from Cheryl. I placed one rose from Cheryl's bouquet on her grave that cold February day. It has been a secret ritual I've repeated for 14 years.

When I decided to write this piece I called my dear childhood friend, Johnna. I'd lost touch and wanted to tell her how her daughter's death impacted me, reveal my secret relationship, and learn how my tiny friend's family was fairing in her absence. Facebook is an amazing thing but it rarely affords us a true view of our friends. It can never replace human interaction and the blessing of sitting and talking with a dear friend. Johnna and I had lunch and discussed those beyond The Board. We shared laughter and tears, our beliefs about those we've loved and lost, and the well-being of our families. She spoke of our shared season of grief and of the years that have followed. She spoke with great affection for the two children who survived (Hannah and Kate) and the two who followed (Sadie and Jack). She spoke with palpable love of her family and the everlasting hole in the family portrait created by the absence of my little friend. People who have lost a child deserve a special place in the scrolls of the grieved. I know many. I'm so amazed by those special people who have found their footing in a world that no longer includes their child. Lily's death made Johnna an overprotective mother. She knows she says "no" too much. She's allowed. We spoke of loss, the kind you hold close for no one to see, so close that few remember you have been brought to your knees in this life. She told me about a simple lone birthday cake that sits on the table with the one for the surviving triplets on each birthday and her sacred and sweet belief that a found penny is a smile and a "Hello" from her sweet baby beyond The Board.  Then, I told her about Lily's lessons for me. Simply put, Lily taught me then, in February of 2001, and every time I visit, to get over myself. She taught me death does not discriminate, that the pain of others we walk among cannot be compared, calculated or underestimated. Johnna also reminded me of a simple universal truth - nothing abides like a mother's love.

Lily's siblings - Sadie (11), Hannah (14), Kate (14) and Jack (9)

I go beyond the board to honor one and remember others. I go because it is where I'm reminded of their impact on my life and feel them push me to the point where my thoughts of them cannot remain confined to that hallowed ground. I am pushed to find them in those places they truly reside - in the eyes of my children, in the sweet sound of my mother's laugh, in the darkness of a sleepless night's shadow, or in what others simply think of as lost pennies on the ground.