Two Years Since the Universe Reached for a Good One

Two years ago today, my brother, Alan “Phred” Rainey, passed away after a long struggle with leukemia. One of the last things he said to me was “The Universe is getting the better end of this deal. It’s taking me away.”

The Universe got a hell of a deal.

After he died, I wrote up a collection of memories of him — you may find it here: “The Universe Takes a Good One” — January 19, 2021 

Time Passages: In Memory of Phred

It was one year ago today that my brother, Alan (a.k.a. Phred), passed away from leukemia. Hard to fathom such a rush of time; it was just the other day, really. In some ways, emotionally, today feels like a rocky ride; in others, it’s easier now to remember the better times, much as it is with Mom’s memory. Here’s my tribute blog that I wrote shortly after he died: The Universe Takes a Good One, January 19, 2021

Some Week!

Today is Brugger’s birthday — which we celebrated at Fleming’s Steakhouse & Wine Bar this past week with friends Stephen and Samaire — and it kind of snuck up on me that it’s also Mother’s Day. Above, you see Mum holding Phred, guarded by a weird little cowpoke, circa 1964. Hard to believe that, of the family I grew up with, I am the last survivor. Never would I have believed such a thing. This week, I’ve reflected a lot on a sometimes tumultuous but essentially rich life. I miss my mom, my dad, and my brother more than words can ever express.

Although, overall, this week hardly seemed much out of the ordinary, it offered a number of unprecedented and/or unusual moments. We began the week with my birthday. Sixty-two great big ’uns, that’s how many of these particular days I have weathered. For my birthday, I bought myself a Godzilla figure — something I’ve done only once in the past four decades. It seemed the thing to do at the time. So, in the same spirit, for Brugger’s birthday, I bought myself a MechaGodzilla (Kiryu) figure. Lord knows, I can’t afford for this kind of thing to become a habit, but at least the MechaGodzilla was pretty much free, due to having all kinds of bonus points to spend at Amazon.com.

Early in the week, a young gray fox came around to visit. I have, on occasion, encountered foxes in the wild, but never one around these parts. It was a lovely critter to see, yet I fear it came over to my yard because the fuckers down the way are cutting down all the woods to make way for yet another goddamn superfluous subdivision. I’m so sick of these shitheads cutting down every inch of green space in this town I could fucking spit. It’s ugly, harmful, disgraceful. You might be forgiven for believing I hold strong opinions on this subject.

On a far more intriguing note, last night, Brugger and I spent a most enjoyable evening at the home of our friends (and geocaching buddies) Tom (a.k.a. Skyhawk63) and Linda (a.k.a. Punkins19). We did, believe it or not, partake of some wine, and our hosts provided a superb kabob dinner, followed by (fresh) strawberry shortcake and an intriguing dessert wine. We had kicked back to relax around their newly built firepit when Linda noticed an unknown phenomenon in the sky: a seemingly endless train of lights in the sky, moving at high speed directly above our heads. At first, we though perhaps it was the wreckage of the Chinese rocket that had been predicted to crash to earth last night; these objects, however, appeared far too uniform and perfectly spaced to be wreckage. And soon, we noticed a perpendicular stream of lights farther south. Brugger immediately took to Google, and we discovered this was almost certainly SpaceX’s StarLink satellite train. Now, I tend to keep up with most such technological developments, but I confess that this one had completely eluded my attention. None of us had any inkling about the existence of such a thing. I found it a bit disappointing that this was not the long-awaited Martian invasion, but then, the odds against anything coming from Mars are a million to one, as the quote goes. Unfortunately, the video I took provided only a black sky and a lot of slightly alcohol-slurred exclamations from the group of eyewitnesses. Similarly, my photos (example above) convey the spectacle only slightly. Regardless, it was an unexpected and, at the time, exciting experience for the lot of us.

Comparatively, it may be far more prosaic, but the house renovation continues to progress slowly but surely. Early in the week, we had the downstairs rooms measured for new flooring and the deck stained, the latter courtesy of Carlos’ Paint Company (the same folks who did a bang-up job on our living room). I’ve put in several evenings on various interior projects, and Brugger and I worked most of the day yesterday, she prepping the downstairs bathroom for painting, I painting doors and trim and putting up new blinds.

Now, I can only hope my houseful of giant monsters don’t get loose and undo the labor and expense Brugger and I have put into all this.

I barely managed to touch Georgia: The Haunting of Tate’s Mill, my Ameri-Scares novel-in-progress, but I hope to get more time in on it this week. There’s still a mess of estate business to deal with too, so we shall see what we shall see. And that, I reckon, is that.

Freshly painted doors in the living room

Downstairs bathroom, walls stripped of wallpaper, ceiling blessedly bereft of popcorn,
mirror removed (so now it looks really tiny in there) 

Grass-a-Lot

Today would have been brother Phred’s birthday — 57th, I believe. I found it gratifying to see many of his friends remembering the occasion on social media. I devoted some time to listening to his music, looking at old photos, and reflecting on our lives together.

For at least a fair portion of his Industrial Soldier days, Phred lived in the sticks outside of Blacksburg, VA, following four years and some change at Virginia Tech. Although I believe he wrote “Grass-a-Lot” while he was in college, probably dwelling on campus, he preferred remote, relatively isolated living, which is what his later residence outside of Blacksburg offered him. In the late 1980s, after moving back south from Chicago, I spent a considerable time with him out there in the sticks, and I rate those days as among the best we ever shared. “Grass-a-Lot,” for its youthful, mildly rebellious tone, could have been his musical banner during that period, not to mention the days and years that followed. The sentiment is one he and I have had in common. That sense of belonging to a place — even a time — is as powerful in me now as it was then, and hearing this particular song after something like three decades brings me around full circle, emotionally. Its power comes largely from a youthful perspective that speaks just as loudly to the old fart in at least some of us.

In those days, Phred’s vocals were raw and untamed, but the composition and musicianship, as with everything Industrial Soldier, more than stands up to critical listening.

You can check out “Grass-a-Lot” on Dropbox here.

Grass-a-Lot
©Phred Rainey, Industrial Soldier

Behind this fence we dig our trench
And grab our part of the land
We got here first, and here we are
And now get out of hand

It’s occupied, now we’re on our own
We’ll take it off the map
And place it here
Far as eyes can see

We could give the neighbors something to talk about
Perhaps they’ll make a law someday and make it safe to live loud
Are we far away?
Do we owe them any sleep?
Not today

They come from miles around to see if we are real
If the creeps are in our yard, we’ll down ’em
And bury them in the field
We know what's right and this is why we know what’s at stake
Our lives are here
To a bitter end

We could give the neighbors something to think about
Perhaps they’ll make a law someday and make it safe to live loud
Are we far away?
Do we owe them any sleep?
Not today

Inside the fence we raise our fists and grab our part of the land
We got here first and here we are
So get off our land
Truth to tell, we’re doing well in a place we can call our own
Our lives are here
Our grass is here

We could give the neighbors something to talk about
Perhaps they’ll make a law someday and make it safe to live loud

This Way It’s Easy

Before Joe the Fireman, there was Industrial Soldier, a wonderful little band my brother and several of his compadres formed in their college days, early- to mid-1980s. In 1986, when I lived in Chicago, Phred sent me a cassette tape of Industrial Soldier, which I listened to no end because it was freaking good. The musicianship was incredible, far better than any college town band I ever heard back in my day, save REM, whom I saw semi-frequently in my UGA days in Athens, GA. Sadly, despite having turned this house upside-down, I have been unable to locate that old cassette. I know it’s got to be here... somewhere. I played it for Brugger several years ago — so wherever I put it back then, that is no doubt where it is now.

This is one I believe Phred wrote while he was in college. An awesome tune. You can listen to it on Dropbox here: This Way It’s Easy

This Way It’s Easy
©Phred Rainey, Industrial Soldier

Wheel up in my eye
Offends the sky

Take my space to fill this place among
The pioneers of waste
Anything you had to do and more
That way was hard

Do what you would never do if
You didn't have time to do it
The real kind of patriot's dream I see
Is mine, you're welcome to it
I got no damn complaints
Whiskey ain't for saints
Or me

Dog's back in town
Pushed me around

Take my space to fill this place among
The pioneers of waste
Anything you had to do and more
That way was hard

Do what you would never do if
You didn't have time to do it
The real kind of patriot's dream I see
Is mine, you're welcome to it
I got no damn complaints
Whiskey ain't for saints
Or me

Last Night, the Stars Fell All Apart

Although my brother didn’t professionally record many of his tunes, he did release a few songs on vinyl, CD, and MP3. His best-known song would probably be “Orange Kid,” which goes back to his Industrial Soldier days, mid- to late-1980s. In the early 1990s, he recorded it and released it as an orange vinyl 45 rpm record, with a superb tune on side B called “A Smash” (the lyrics to which I shall endeavor to transcribe when I can). In more recent years, he recorded and most frequently performed “Last Night, the Stars Fell All Apart,” another moody, melodic ballad that speaks of his personal experiences and feelings. His vocals on this one are particularly heart-rending.

You can listen to the audio file of “Last Night, the Stars Fell All Apart” here.

Last Night, the Stars Fell All Apart
©Phred Rainey/Joe the Fireman

Honeysuckle came and went
Faraway evenings spent
In my castle without a moat
Smelled just like May-times do
And midnight lovers do
When they’re lucky enough to have and hold

Couldn't send a message far enough
Just waiting around for you to call my bluff

Last night, the stars fell all apart
It means a man don’t dream
It means man will cry
For stars to fill an evening sky
If only just to break your heart

Back then when pigs could fly
I rose above that other guy
I was willing to flash and burn
Like Red River fireworks fly
I stole a kiss and let it ride
Before I lost my nerve and lost my turn

There’s no better time to feel like a winning man
Could it be to cheat myself was part of my plan?

That night, the stars fell all apart
It means a man don’t dream
It means man will cry
For stars to fill an evening sky
If only just to break your heart

Then on the beach your pleasant hand
Told me that I’m the man
To make or break or take you home
Then I sang a September song
But the names and dates were wrong
Too much, too soon, and all alone

There’s no more waiting now, my cover’s blown
Twelve hundred miles away, I guess you're on your own

Last night, the stars fell all apart
It means a man don’t dream
It means man will cry
For stars to fill an evening sky
If only just to break your heart

The High Life Beckons

My brother Phred was a flawed angel; some would say with an emphasis on flawed. He struggled mightily with his own foibles, and sometimes, even when he won against them, he did so only to introduce a set of unforeseen side effects. Per his custom — his drive — he described these things in his songs, bluntly and without whitewashing. He kept so much private, yet he confessed his very soul to his listeners. I knew much of what was going on in Phred’s life at any given time, but it was only after hearing him sing that I felt I could truly understand what he was going through. “The High Life Beckons” is a perfect case in point. Here are his lyrics.

“The High Life Beckons”
©Phred Rainey

Some night sharp, and some nights dull

Some half empty, some half full

If I could only drink wine

     But not all the time

And not fall from grace

     Or on my face

But that just ain’t to be

     Such is me

Sometimes I think I’d rather be in handcuffs

Strolling down the avenue in handcuffs

     Whistling a merry tune I’d be

     Wondering what it’s like to be free

Each night I let the bottle down

And every single bar in town

It’s part of the daily grind

     My body aches for wine

The comfort that it brings

     And not those other things

But that just ain’t to be

     Woe is me

You people ought to see me in my handcuffs

I’ll never get out of these handcuffs

     A wretched life awaits if I do

     So hard to believe, but it’s true

Back for Swing

I’ve long said that attempting to psychoanalyze or ascribe specific motivations to an author based on his or her work is an exercise in futility or outright mistake. Some years ago, my depiction of a character in a short story prompted a reviewer to accuse me of antisemitism — which I can only decry as a baseless and utterly foolish claim, far more revealing of the reviewer’s prejudices and preconceived notions than the author’s. However, songs — poetry in general — and straight fiction are wholly different animals. My brother, Phred, used his lyrics to reveal his deepest feelings, undisguised, vividly painted and paired with his most wistful, poignant melodies. I so hope to get some of his recordings preserved digitally, though I fear that even high-quality analog versions will prove few and far between. There is still much material to sort through.

“Back for a Swing” is one of Phred’s most revealing compositions, a brutally honest confession of his own objective glimpses of himself. This song — a beautiful ballad that rings of something between Neil Young and Tindersticks — makes me weepy every time I listen to it.

Back for a Swing
©Phred Rainey

Take a pull on that wine
And pull on my sleeve
You know that I
Would never make you leave

That’s what I want you to say
It’s what I dreamed about
It’s what I want you to say
That’s what I want to hear
All I want to hear

My clothes on the floor
A dead car in the yard
All those things that you see

It shouldn’t be so hard
To change the things that you see
And get a spark out of me

You want to change what you see
To get the most out of me

It shouldn’t be so hard
To make a man out of me

You see I don’t come across
Like a normal man
I keep too much to myself
As much as anyone can
But I can’t hide anything from you
Can’t hide anything from you

I wish I could say you’re responsible
I wish I could say you’re impossible
But it’s too easy to
And God knows it ain’t true

I took what I saw
I didn’t think you’d care
I thought of laying them back
I saw you lying there

You shouldn’t be so hard
You’ll make a man out of me

I tried to walk through a swamp
I tried to make my own way
It’s just the things that I do
That make a lie of what I say

I can’t hide anything from you
Can’t hide anything from you
I can’t hide anything from you
Can’t hide anything from you

If I Were a Carp & Other Unpopular Opinions

It’s a song I particularly enjoy, although it is a bit fishy.

This week, I have had a regular moment (or several) of grief for my brother’s death each day, usually in the morning while I am working and listening to music. So much of what I listen to (mostly eclectic tunes on Pandora or Amazon Music) is due either directly or indirectly to my brother’s influence, or it reminds me of certain times together with him. But the feelings are not quite as raw as they were the previous week. Well, at least, most of the time they are not. I have no deadline or expectation for grieving. Grief comes as it will, and I embrace it right now. It feels...necessary.

Yesterday morning, I awoke to find a new geocache had been published in town — at UNCG, in one of the parking garages, which do tend to be challenging, since they frequently offer a choice of levels for hunting. Initially, I did not read the cache description as thoroughly as I should have (shameful for a writer of such ill repute!), and thus I ended up spending considerably more time and energy on the hunt than was necessary. In the end, I did find my quarry; in fact, I snagged the almost-coveted first-to-find slot. As I was logging my find, a group of geocachers I had never previously met (they were from the Raleigh area, it turned out) showed up on the scene. Sadly for them, they had missed out on the FTF, but they appeared to have an enjoyable time on the hunt. They clearly found it in far less time than it had taken me.

Later, Ms. B. came round to put in a shift working on our kitchen upgrade project. On a trip to Home Depot, we stopped for another newly published cache, which I managed to find in short order. But as with the other cache I found this day — both created by the madman known as cachecredit (a.k.a. Ken) — accessing the log required some additional time and effort (although this one proved less complicated than its brethren at UNCG).

Unpopular opinion time:

I have very little appreciation for the "classic" 1961 film, The Innocents, based on Henry James’s “Turn of the Screw.” I had never much cared for it on previous viewings from many, many years ago, but having found the recent The Haunting of Bly Manor a brilliant, masterful work, Ms. B. and I decided to revisit The Innocents and give it another look. Despite exquisite cinematography and extraordinary performances by the two kids, the film itself is one of the most unengaging, overwrought, self-conscious works ever. There are perhaps two scenes that qualify as “creepy.” The characters, to the last, remain too distant to relate to, their identities largely defined by how much noise and blather they can emit — so unlike the sensitive portrayals of emotionally traumatized individuals in Bly Manor. It’s exceedingly difficult to resist comparing The Innocents, not so much to Bly Manor, but to Robert Wise’s The Haunting (1963), which is, to my mind, a classic that gives The Innocents a pounding rivaling Abigail Crain’s cane on the walls of Hill House.

Between last night and this morning, we had significant precipitation, some rain, some snow, some sleet. Mostly, it made mud. Today, I spent some time working on a new short story for an upcoming anthology. Since the sun came out midday and the temperature turned out tolerable, I took a nice break and headed out to Triad Park to hunt a trio of relatively new caches. I went, I saw, I signed logs. A fine outing, to be sure. And now it is back to the story, for our deadline, she be tight.

Despite mucho precipitation during the night and early morning, the afternoon
weather turned out perfect for geocaching.

The cache was not in “there,” but the pipe made for a nice, muggle-free environment to sign the cache log.

That Lucky Old Moon and I

My brother, Phred, was a songwriter. He composed and performed dozens, if not hundreds, of his own compositions over the years, usually under the moniker Joe the Fireman. Sometimes Joe the Fireman was a band, comprising widely varying personnel; other times, Joe the Fireman was Phred going solo.

Phred’s songs tell his life’s story. Sometimes, they’re in cryptic code; sometimes, they spell out, in raw, graphic fashion, every struggle of his oftentimes troubled soul. Since his passing a couple of weeks ago, I’ve been reacquainting myself with his music, inasmuch as it is possible. I have a few cassette tapes of his songs, some performed solo, some with a backup band. I don’t know whether he ever wrote out lyrics, or set down chords, or left any kind of record, other than random tapes, a couple of vinyl pressings, and a few digital files that can be found here and there. I’m taking it upon myself to transcribe as many of his lyrics as I can manage, so that in some fashion, at least some of the story he related via his music may yet be preserved for posterity.

Here are the lyrics to “That Lucky Old Moon,” which rates high among my personal favorites.

That Lucky Old Moon

©Phred Rainey

I guess I might like the things she did

At least the things that I thought I saw

Rolled out the carpet, at least I think I did

Was purely open-hearted, that’s my tragic flaw

Came time to split the difference

Pared down to half a pair

I found a color to match her name

Fit her eyes like it filled the skies

Saw it brighten and I saw it fade

She wandered off and I wondered why

Came time to feel the distance

Who was I not to know the difference?

That lucky old moon and I

Get to count the stars at night

And count the reasons why

Fall in the lake

Hide in the hills

Then the spotlight became my friend

And lit the things that I turned to see

A brighter color and a brighter end

And got me off the ground that could bury me

New time to feel the difference

I found passion, no despair

Now that lucky old moon and I

Get to count the stars at night

And smile at the reasons why

Float on the lake

Make love in the hills

Phred Comes Home

Yesterday morning, I picked up my brother’s ashes from the funeral home in Winston-Salem. From there, I headed to Triad Park to get in some much-needed hiking and geocaching. It was a stroke of fair fortune that I ran into fellow cacher and friend Dave (a.k.a. Rhodorooter), who happened to be going after some of the same caches as I. A little later, I set a course for the old homestead in Martinsville, this time by way of the residence of friends and fellow geocachers Tom & Linda (a.k.a. Skyhawk63 & Punkins19). They had a nice little care package for me, which I greatly appreciate. Among the goodies were some chips and ghost pepper salsa, which fiercely hit the spot (although I might have overdone the salsa a bit).

Once at Pleasant Hill, I carried in Phred’s ashes, which I have put into a nice rosewood container. I carried him up the same stairs from the basement to the kitchen that Mom carried him up when she brought him home from the hospital for the very first time in 1964. This simple act somehow felt like... symmetry. My little brother was home once again, this time for the last time. Just after dark, I scattered some of his ashes in the front yard, where as kids we loved sledding when it snowed. Then I scattered some in the woods where we used to camp out in warmer weather.

Phred’s longtime friend Jon had contacted me a while back, and we decided to spend some time together at the first opportunity. That was last night. He came over to the house for a while, and we set ourselves up at opposite ends of the downstairs family room to avoid sharing any death cooties. We did share lots of memories of times together when he and Phred were pretty much inseparable. We raised and sank a few drinks in the process. It was the best kind of quality time during a sad time.

Headed back to Greensboro this afternoon by way of Danville and a new geocache. Despite the hard, sad time dealing with Phred’s loss, in the past couple of weeks, there have also been many wonderful, important celebrations and remembrances of his life that lifted my spirits.

Here is a video I sent to Tom & Linda, which chronicles my first taste of the Ocracoke Variety Store Ghost Pepper Salsa they gave me.

Phred’s Posthumous Profile in the Winston-Salem Journal

 

A nice posthumous profile of my brother in the Winston-Salem Journal today:

Alan “Phred” Rainey, Owner of Earshot Music, Has Died

I most appreciate that the piece features a video of him from 2014, when he was healthy. And I love being able to hear his voice again.

The Universe Takes a Good One

It is with the greatest sorrow that I must announce that my younger brother, Alan “Phred” Rainey, has passed away following a long struggle with leukemia. He had been hospitalized for quite some time, and we had hoped he might get to a point where he could go back home. But over the past several days, his condition worsened, and a couple of days ago, he was admitted to hospice care. This evening, he slipped away peacefully.

Old dude (pre-old), Oolie-Poolie, Dad

Phred was born in May 1964, five years and two days after me (we always figured our folks might have been aiming for the same month and day; they never told). I well remember Mum bringing him home from the hospital for the first time. She came up the stairs to the kitchen from the basement, bearing a weird, prune-like bundle wearing only diapers. My first words to him were “Hello, dye-dees!” (Some derivation of “diapers,” I suppose it was.) Brother had lots of nicknames as a wee young’un. My 1969 diary indicates that “Oolie-Poolie” was the preferred sobriquet of the day. Countless entries refer to Oolie-Poolie and our beloved dog, Patty (“Patty bit Oolie-Poolie” appearing most frequently). “Phred” didn’t come along until his adult years, sometime post-college. I can’t recall the origin or significance of “Phred,” but he surely made it his own. To this day, I think few people, even his good friends, know his given name was Alan.

Oppressing the peasants

 
Brother and I had a fairly idyllic childhood, and we got along in the typical way of siblings with an age difference of several years. One of my favorite recollections of brotherly love was when I was 11 or 12, which put him at 6 or 7. Our parents had finally warmed to the idea of letting me stay alone with him for fairly short periods. One night, they went out and left me in charge for about an hour, after which a young lady named Sherry was to come round to babysit us for the rest of the evening. During that hour, due entirely to circumstances beyond my control, I locked Oolie-Poolie out of the house. Before I knew it, a brick came crashing through the backdoor window. Against my better judgment, I let him back in so he could clean up the glass. At this point, marginally peeved, I threatened to stab him with my pocket knife. I ran my thumb along the blade to test its sharpness (I mean, who would want to stab his little brother with a dull blade?), and in the process sliced my finger wide open. So, for a fair spell, I stood there, fussing and bleeding, trying to make sure he understood that his behavior was unacceptable. Soon enough, Sherry arrived to find a broken window, a brick, and a mess of glass and blood in the floor. She bandaged my gaping wound, taped Saran Wrap over the door’s, and told us she never wanted to see either of our faces again. (This was not true, of course; she babysat for us many times in the coming days, and only rarely did Oolie-Poolie cause as much trouble as on that particular night.) Once reconciled (all thanks to Sherry), brother and I devised the perfect alibi: we decided to blame the property damage on Dwayne Sigmon, our mortal enemy from the neighborhood. So, first thing next morning, when pressed to explain events, I told my understandably irate Mum and Dad that Dwayne had come out of the woods and heaved a brick through our backdoor window.

“Really? Why?”

 “Oolie-Poolie must have upset him.”

To this day, I will never understand why Mum and Dad refused to accept this interpretation of events, or why they wouldn’t allow me to babysit for my brother until I was 15 years old.

Despite the harmonious relationship between my brother and I, which you may have sensed from the preceding anecdotes, we did have the occasional rocky moment. Early 1972: I had painstakingly created an audio cassette recording of one of my monster stories, complete with music and sound effects. When I went to play it back, I discovered, not my monster story, but Oolie-Poolie singing along to The Partridge Family Sound Magazine album. Of the unforgivable offenses from childhood, this ranks near the top.

Like so many little brothers, young Phred tended to follow me around, often annoying me to the point that I wanted to shoot him in the butt with my BB gun. One time — I think I was in ninth grade — I shot him in the butt with my BB gun. To my eternal mortification (and yours too, I’ll wager), he violated the sacred trust between brothers and tattled, which resulted in my BB gun being confiscated for a period of two weeks. It may be worth noting that Mum was not known for her ingenuity when it came to hiding things, so whenever she wasn’t around, I grabbed the gun from her closet, shot things to my heart’s content (not little brothers at this point), and re-hid it before she returned.

As kids, we loved visiting our grandparents in Georgia, and we spent every Christmas with both sets of them until they passed away. (Most of the furniture in Phred’s house originally belonged to one set of grandparents or the other.) I would venture to say that, for both Phred and me, spending time at our grandparents’ was truly our version of heaven. Now, Mum’s mother, whom we called “Neenie,” was not necessarily slight of frame. In those days, we always said the blessing before every meal, and it was customary for our grandfather (“Papa”) to ask “Who’s going to say the blessing?” On one visit, four-year-old Phred brought the house down by pointing to Neenie and shouting, “Let Chubby say it!”

In the bedroom where he and I slept at Neenie & Papa’s house, the door to the living room had glass panes, which were covered by a diaphanous drape. One Christmas Eve, Neenie was wearing a chain belt that jingled, and she happened to walk by the door just after we had gone to bed. Upon seeing her silhouette on the translucent drape, Phred shot out of bed and cried, “Santa!” He suffered marginal disappointment to discover it was only Neenie, but Santa that year (as he was every year), proved very good to both us young rascals. 

A typical Christmas: Dude with gun and brother blowing his bugle

In elementary school, Phred developed a special affinity for music. I taught him to play guitar, and it wasn’t long before his proficiency surpassed mine. He also played clarinet in the school concert and marching bands, so people started calling him “Pete Fountain.” Over the years, he learned to play other instruments, including bass guitar, keyboards, and drums.

In his high school, college, and post-college years, Phred formed a number of bands with similarly talented musician friends. He headed up The Stars & Bars Band, Industrial Soldier, Joe the Fireman, and countless unnamed duets and trios. He wrote, performed, and recorded craploads of songs, sometimes with other folks, sometimes solo. Wherever he lived — from Blacksburg, VA, to Chapel Hill, NC, to Winston-Salem, NC — Phred attracted a considerable local following. A decade or so ago, he played frequently at a club called The Garage (sadly, now defunct) in Winston-Salem, which inspired Brugger and me to play music of our own there from time to time.

Phred provides musical accompaniment to Mum’s reading of The Night Before Christmas

During his Virginia Tech years — and for a long spell afterward — Phred worked for a music shop called The Record Exchange in Blacksburg, VA. In the late 1980s and early 1990s, he ended up living several miles out of Blacksburg near Craig Creek in the Jefferson National Forest, where he introduced my (now ex-)wife and me to the joys of exploring endless networks of narrow, winding mountain roads in his pickup truck. We discovered what turned out to be one of our favorite places on Earth: a huge wall of slate cliffs above Craig Creek, with a clearing at its base perfect for camping out — which we did countless times over a couple of decades. On one of our truck outings, we took some random dirt road through the forest and happened upon a stone memorial, standing out there in the middle of nowhere. This turned out to be the site where legendary actor and WWII veteran Audie Murphy had died in a plane crash. Nowadays, the road to the memorial is more heavily traveled (and there is a geocache there), but back then, as near as we could tell, we were the only living human beings for miles around. For me, it was a transcendent experience.

In the early 1990s, Phred acquired a beautiful black lab, whom he named Luther. He loved Luther deeply, and that sweet dog was his constant companion whether he was at home or traveling. When Phred and I got together on our many rural excursions, Luther always accompanied us. One time, though, while just the two of them were out roaming along Marrowbone Creek in rural Henry County, VA, Luther went running after something and, as he often did, joyously leaped into the river. On this occasion — after a period of excessive rainfall — the water was high and fast, and the current swept Luther away. Panicked, Phred ran along the riverbank, trying to keep up with him. When it was clear that Luther was not going to be able to get out on his own, Phred, with no thought of his own safety, jumped into the river and swam after him. Eventually, he caught up to Luther, grabbed his collar, and managed to drag him to the bank and safety. I still get chills thinking about what might have happened to one or both of them. But you know what? I understand it. Like me, Phred loved animals and was fiercely loyal to those in his care (even Patty, who took such pleasure in gnawing on his bones).

Phred and Luther

After Blacksburg, Phred moved to Chapel Hill, NC, to manage The Record Exchange store there. He and I got together there a number of times, but by then, his busy schedule precluded sharing as much social time as he had in the past. After a couple of years in Chapel Hill, he moved to Winston-Salem, again to manage the local Record Exchange store. Unfortunately, it wasn’t long before the Record Exchange went out of business. However, this ended up offering Phred an opportunity that was too good to pass up: he became owner/manager of Earshot Music, which opened in the same space The Record Exchange had occupied.

Despite having established himself as a mature and responsible adult,* Phred enjoyed releasing his inner child whenever possible. From our school days until my dad’s death in the early 2000s, our family owned a timeshare condo at Myrtle Beach, where we all met every summer. Phred loved that place and looked forward to going every year. One time in the late 1990s, when he lived in Chapel Hill, he and I rode down to the beach together. When we got there, he got so excited that he did an expert handstand in the middle of the living room. Did I say expert? Actually, he overbalanced... kept going over...  and CRASH! — right into the lovely glass-topped coffee table. Glass everywhere! Finger-pointing at Dwayne Sigmon! Groundings! Okay, well, no groundings, not this time. My folks were by now pretty well accustomed to Phred’s excesses and simply made him call maintenance and explain to them what had happened.

*No.

In the mid-2000s, Phred decided to revisit his fondness for acting. In high school, he had acted in several school plays and proved himself quite adept. In Winston, he joined up with two or three acting companies and performed in a number of stage productions, some comedy, some drama. There was one production at small venue in Winston called The Stained-Glass Theater, which had once been a church. I cannot recall the name of the production, but it was a two-man drama, with him playing one of the two leads. He knocked that role right out of the ballpark.

Unfortunately, the rigors of managing a music store eventually crowded out most of Phred’s favorite creative endeavors. Acting went by the wayside, as did his forays into making music. Still, over the years, Phred became something of a local legend — for his talent, his knowledge, his warmth, and his passion. Since his passing the other day, seeing so many comments from people whose lives he impacted has brought me to tears. 

When we lost our mother last summer, the blow hit us both, but he took it particularly hard. He did not see her as regularly as I did, so on those occasions that he did, her decline appeared far more dramatic. I believe this devastated him, and he became somewhat more withdrawn.

When Phred was diagnosed with Leukemia, he was stoic, determined to overcome the challenges he knew he would face. For a long time, with all the treatments he was getting, he held out hope that he could eventually have a stem cell transplant, which would offer him a new lease on life. However, he continually suffered infections that resisted antibiotic treatment, and it was clear they were inflicting greater and greater damage. The past nine months, he spent more time in the hospital than out of it.

Last week, he and I had been shooting a few messages back and forth regarding Mum’s estate, which is still a long way from resolution. The tone of his texts were “normal,” with an occasional lighthearted quip. We were about done for the evening when he asked if we could talk on the phone. Of course we could, I said.

When I heard his voice — weak, pained — I knew it was bad. “Mark, it’s about time for me to say goodbye.”

Those words hit me like none ever spoken to me. He told me in some detail how he badly he had declined physically; the doctors gave him only a few more days. He asked if I would care to come see him in the hospital the next day, so I headed over to Winston very first thing.

We had a meaningful visit. He was lucid, which wasn’t always the case, given the meds he was on. He couldn’t speak much, as it hurt him and brought on serious coughing. A while back, I had found some of his old diaries in Martinsville, so I took them along and read him some passages that I thought he might find uplifting. I believe he did. The last thing he said before I left was, “The universe is getting the better end of this deal. It’s taking me away.”

Two days later, Phred was moved to hospice care. Once again, I went to see him, and this time, it was clear how little time he had left. He mostly slipped in and out of consciousness, though — thankfully — he was aware of my presence. I sat next to him while he listened to ambient music, which he appeared to find relaxing. When we were kids, back when we visited Neenie & Papa, if either of us didn’t feel well, Neenie would lightly rub our heads, which we both found soothing. So I rubbed his head for a while and reminded him of how Neenie did that way back when. He seemed to find genuine solace in this, and he told me that it really did feel good. After that, he faded away a bit; he just listened to his music and hummed.

Before I left, he reached out and, for the very last time, I held my brother’s hand.

Phred desired to be cremated (as do I, when the time comes), so his wishes are being honored. He asked that his ashes be scattered in several places that were special to him, including some of those I have written about here. Those wishes too will be lovingly honored.

I will never say that my relationship with Phred was without serious complications. We sometimes had them. Outside his more social relationships, he was an intensely private person, and he habitually kept those he loved — and who loved him — at arm’s length. Sometimes, we did not understand each other, and the results weren’t necessarily pretty. Yet, he and I shared a deep, unbreakable bond that I always valued and now treasure. The universe did get the better end of this deal, for it is taking back a gentle, warm, generous, formidably intelligent, sometimes frightened, oftentimes insecure, youthful soul whose life clearly touched many, many people. I can’t count how many of his friends have followed up to check on me. Each and every one has my gratitude.

I will miss my brother till the day I die. Wherever he is right now, I imagine he is running from Patty, who is surely ecstatic to be able to again engage in her favorite activity: chomping on Oolie-Poolie’s leg.

The Day I Burned Up Martinsville

...or damn near.

Getting tagged by a bunch of ornery yellow jackets yesterday brought to mind a particularly dramatic episode from my sordid youth, the consequences of which I might still be paying to this day had things gone badly. I can't help but suspect I am still here only because of my mom's ever-fervent prayers for the good lord to deliver me from my own stupidity. For most of my childhood, and some would say significantly beyond, I needed as many prayers as any God-fearing soul might offer, perhaps more so than most of my youthful partners in crime.

Witness the following account:

I was about ten, which means my younger brother, Phred, was five-ish. Our house was (and is) surrounded by picturesque woods, about which we did (and still do) love to wander. Apart from Bigfoot, a Wampus Cat, the Zanti Misfits, an Allosaurus, and something called The Ick, I had never encountered anything overtly hostile in those woods, and neither my little brother nor I felt any compunction about roaming them freely. Now, behind the house, there is a sizable hillside, back then completely wooded, now partly cleared for an electrical substation. Phred and I had been out exploring the heretofore undiscovered wilderness a half a block or so up the street. An exciting expedition indeed—until that last fateful moment before we set foot back in our own yard.

We were just making our way down the wooded hill behind the house when my brother stumbled into a hole in the ground and erupted into hellish caterwauling. Oh yes, he had discovered a sizable nest of yellow jackets, and they had discovered him. He came tearing out of those woods as if his head were on fire and his rear end was catching. I recall desperately wanting to rescue him from the swarm, but since there was a huge, seething cloud of the things, I deemed it far wiser to sit back and watch from a distance.

My parents heard the shrieking and came rushing out, and I believe it was Dad who grabbed Phred, swatted him up and down to kill as many yellow jackets as possible, and ran him into the house. The poor boy had I don't know how many stings—dozens, I'd guess. An unhappier camper I'm certain I had never seen up to that point in my young life.

Now, happily, neither of us suffer any severe allergies to critter stings, so after a period of considerable discomfort, Phred made a quick and full recovery. But I found myself guilt-stricken for not having rescued him from that raging swarm, and I quickly began to formulate a plan to dish out some just deserts for the inhabitants of that blasphemous hell-hole.

Step 1 was to pour a large Coca Cola bottle full of gasoline from the can Dad kept in the basement for the lawn mower. Step 2 was to clandestinely procure some matches from the kitchen cabinet. Step 3 was to fill a plastic bucket with water just for good measure. So I hauled myself and my instruments of revenge up the hill until I could see the offending aperture in the earth not far ahead. A few little yellow bastards were buzzing around it, but they appeared to be taking no notice of me. So I crept on up with my bottle of gasoline and, with cool deliberation, poured every last drop of it into the opening. As you might guess, this stirred up a fuss within, and I suspect I was lucky that the gasoline overcame any number of would-be attackers. I took a step back, struck a match, and dropped it into the hole.

WHOOMP!

I didn't know what had just happened. As if in slow motion, this huge ball of golden-red flame came billowing up at me, and only my youthful reflexes saved me from becoming a human torch. I dropped to the ground and skittered away from the inferno, my foremost thought being "charcoal lighter fluid never went up like that!" (I had lots of experience with charcoal lighter fluid.) My second thought was that I'd better get to that bucket of water with all possible haste. I scrambled over to it, lifted it above my head, and dumped the water straight into the newborn volcano. Now, that extinguished some of the blaze, but as you surely know (I did not), gasoline floats, and several little rivers of flame went trickling into the surrounding dry grass and foliage.

That fire was spreading faster than my brain was working. I thought maybe I could go back to the house and refill the bucket, but by that time, most of the woods and possibly our house would have burned up. Knowing I had little choice, I braved the flames and any surviving yellow jackets—I didn't see any, as they had probably all been blown up real good—and started smothering the spreading rings of fires with the bucket. By some miracle (Mom's prayers?), I managed to get the blazes under control, all without either getting flambéed or stung to death. Once the flames were mostly out, I ran back to the house with my bucket, filled it up, and returned to the disaster area, where I once again drenched the scorched earth. I repeated this procedure at least three or four times, and by the time I was finished, the fires were completely out.

The only evidence of what I had done, at this point, was a cloud of smoke hovering over the area and a charred patch of ground roughly ten to twelve feet in diameter. I sat out there for a hour or so to make sure the area didn't spontaneously reignite. I remember praying for my mom not to come outside, but I knew my dad would be getting home from work soon. I did my best to shed myself of all signs of panic, get cleaned up, and go back inside as if nothing had ever happened.

After all that, I will tell you that the true miracle of the day was that neither of my parents ever went down to the lower part of the backyard and looked up at that hillside, because if they had, I would not be here now to tell you that story. Had Dad ever found out, I'm pretty sure I would have preferred getting burned up in the inferno or fatally stung by little yellow bastards to what would have surely followed. I've always hoped my little brother appreciated me laying my life on the line to avenge his agony.

And that was the Day I Burned Up Martinsville.

The old homestead, which I'm glad I managed NOT to burn down.