I grew up a mile from the small country church I attended with my family.  Oak Chapel Evangelical United Brethren Church was about ten miles from the city on a narrow winding road on the way to no place in particular.  The parishioners were solid folks who, for the most part, worked their 160 acre quarter sections and drove the school bus or worked second trick factory jobs in town.  The church still stands with its front door just a free throw from the road’s edge.  The structure is unimpressive with a bell tower (I used to get to pull the rope) in front backed by a small sanctuary.  We sang all the standard hymns and when I hear the old church music start the words come back with some clarity.  The music steeled us for the excruciatingly long sermons which followed.  The memories are good.

In a small country church there was a high attrition rate of ministers.  We called them preachers.  I suppose it was a matter of economics and preaching being a part time job for most, or preachers aspiring to larger congregations closer to civilization.  They were not exactly itinerant preachers, but they turned over on a regular basis.  One constant was that they often seemed to have boys about the same age as my brothers and me.  And, because our state of sinfulness required us to attend church both Sunday morning and evening, these PK’s (Preachers’ Kids) often spent Sunday afternoon at our old farm.  Although I am generally against making stereotypical judgments on groups of people, I can say in this case it is absolutely justified.  These PK’s were wild men.  They would pull all sorts of crazy stunts on these Sunday afternoons and then turn meek as church mice when it was time for adults to assign blame.  I supposed everything got all pent up from living in the presence of a preacher all week.  What else could explain such aberrant behavior?

So, in 1968 when I heard Dusty Springfield (Man! That hair!) singing in her sexy moan of a voice about learning about the facts of life from a PK, I knew very well what she was talking about.  I can just hear her mother.  “Well Dusty why don’t you and the Reverend Haskel’s boy just go out for a little walk.  Billy-Ray do you mind looking after Dusty for a while?” “Why, it would be my pleasure Mrs. Springfield.  Come on Dusty.  Let’s go for a walk in the back yard and over in to the woods.  We’ll identify some of those trees for your biology class.”  Then it would start.  And, who would suspect the PK? I am certain that if the adults ever found out about the youngsters’ amorous dalliances that Dusty would have been assigned full blame.

Listening to Dusty sing, The only one who could ever teach me/ Was the son of a preacher man, always made me sweat just a little.  I was sure I could do the same for Dusty or any other willing girl, but didn’t have the same cover that a PK had.  In the song, Dusty takes us verse after verse to the lusty brink; Learnin’ from each other’s knowing/ Lookin’ to see how much we’ve grown/ And the only one who could ever reach me/ Was the son of a preacher man.  The beauty of the lyrics is that they are highly descriptive with little specificity about what was happening on these walks, but the brush strokes in my head painted a very clear picture.  I’ll spare you the details here, but let’s just say that those images the song stirred in my adolescent mind helped me through many a long sermon.

Now, when I hear the late Dusty sigh and moan about how, Being good isn’t always easy/ No matter how hard I try, I am thankful for the imagery she provided for me as a young man.  I wonder too, where all those PK boys are today that led me to trouble on Sunday afternoons.  Are they preachers themselves?  Have they turned in to responsible adults or did their orneriness turn them in to felons?  And why couldn’t our preachers have had daughters my age?  I wonder what PK girls were like?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Explanation:  Mo Rocca’s podcast, Mobituaries, has become a personal favorite. My wife and I listened to most all of the episodes on a recent two day trip.  Mo is entertaining, insightful, and funny, with a self-effacing style of delivery.  Each episode is a history lesson come alive.  One episode is delivered with a live audience, and recounts the history of the obituary through an in depth interview with the retired New York Times obituary writer Margalit Fox.

I will leave you to listen to the episode, but get this; obituaries for the well known are written in advance of their deaths.  Even as they are perfectly healthy.  So when the Grim Reaper strikes, obit writers just open the drawer of the famous, make any last minute changes, and go to the break room. Like a sous chef doing prep ahead of time for the final plating by the heralded five-star chef.  The tomatoes are already diced and the onions chopped.

I am not famous.  Closer to infamous.  And since I retired some time ago, I am not even well known in my own small hometown.  My circle of influence has dwindled.  I too suspect that if I were a buffalo in a buffalo herd (stick with me here) that a predator, such as a lion, might notice that I am limping from arthritic knees, a little jowly, and having trouble keeping up during the daily stampede.  We all know what that means.  Lunch for the pride.  Start the obituary.  I am, after all, one step from septuagenarianism.  (Webster says it is not a word, but I am using it anyway.)

I love the newspaper and spend time daily in the obituary section.  It is not a morbid nor sad activity at all.  Except for the young.  It is difficult to see those going out of order.  The reader can easily sense the mourning family as it prepares for the unthinkable reality.  However, it is fascinating to see a person’s history written concisely in a few hundred words, or to see the volume of accomplishments in a life well lived, or to see those who have dedicated their lives to others.  Very uplifting.

I don’t know so much about heaven and hell, as I have struggled with these concepts my entire life.  Call it a shortcoming if you wish.  I do know, however, that I can spot an obituary written by a close family member.  Please do not let my wife or children write in my obituary that I am now sitting in the presence of God.  Leave Saint Peter something to do. A good obituary is better accomplished by an objective observer.  In the event of my death, do not use the familiar passed away euphemism. Just say I died.  I appreciate your cooperation in that matter.

When an obituary starts, “He loved Jesus!”,  it is a pretty good sign that a cover-up is in the making, hoping against hope that the Omniscient One might assign a higher score on the basis of this or a similar opening sentence.  The embezzlement and unkind thoughts of a lifetime swept under the proverbial heavenly doormat.  A better approach is to state historical facts of family, associations, and career milestones, and then allow the reader to make up his own mind.  A few platitudes are fine, but too many cause suspicion.  It is absolutely fine for me to drink from my, “World’s Greatest Dad!”, coffee mug at home, but please do not try to convince others through my obituary, because on the other side of that mug it should say, “But He’s Got Some Issues!”.  I know that well from the looks of disappointment my lovely wife shoots my way everyday.  She has one of those mugs too that seemed to be delivered with much more gusto by the children and grandchildren.  But let me tell you, there is definitely another statement on the other side of the cup – that I will not share with you at this time.

While I sit here, we are sheltered in place due to the coronavirus pandemic.  Very annoying, if not frightening.  Fear is quite the motivator as it turns out.  We are hoping that the Wicked Witch does not point her long crooked green finger our direction.  Like a good church service this is an opportunity for meditation, self-reflection, and to wonder how my own obituary might be written.  Maybe I could give it a go:

Kenneth Leon Ballinger, 1951 – ____

Attempt #1:  For when the one Great Scorer comes to write against your name, He writes not whether you won or lost, but how you played he game.  Grantland Rice

As a lover of sports this was Ballinger’s favorite quote of all time by the greatest sportswriter of all time.  And although he fell short by comparison to many other competitors, let us just say that he played the ball down in life, most of the time.  Oh yes, did I mention that he loved golf too, but not as much as his wife, and she did not like golf at all except that it got him out of the house for extended periods.  He truly missed her at the end of a five hour round.  And, let’s be honest, he was not a great golfer.

 

Attempt #2:  “Outlined against a blue-gray March 10, 1951 sky …..”  (Did I mentioned he liked Grantland Rice?), Ballinger was born in Marion, Indiana, fourth in a family of six kids.  As he was the first male born into his family, his three older sisters spoiled him to the extent that he seemed to carry with him for life a sense of entitlement, undeserved.  His father , that same day, was so excited on his birth that he bought a brand new Studebaker Hawk. His father loved cars, and kept several of them on blocks around the barn for parts.  It was the last new vehicle that the family would ever own.

Attempt #3:  He loved basketball, baseball, golf, tennis and his family.  Especially his family.  Ballinger daydreamed through most church services and lectures, unless they were good lectures.  You know, something interesting.  He got lost in movies, but seldom admitted it. He read many books and loved words to the point of being pretentious. Some friends and family called him pompous, which he did not mind because it is such a good word. He had the innocuous habit of using big words and correcting others’ grammar of speech in an unsolicited manner that would often result in cocktail party disinvitations.  He got a C- in his high school Senior English class.

 

Attempt #4: Ballinger was raised in the town of Jonesboro, Indiana on the banks of the Mississinewa River.  Jonesboro was the twin city to Gas City on the more affluent side of the river.  Has there ever been a more alluring city name than Gas City?  Sounds like a magical place, but it was not. He was a quiet boy, who seldom spoke.  Moved to the farm at age seven.  Ballinger learned many lessons on the farm, a few of them good.  His family, especially his mom and sisters, did not want to move to the farm, but that story would not be appropriate here in this obituary.  Graduated from Eastbrook High School, Manchester College on the banks of the Eel River, and spent his entire career in education in Bluffton, Indiana while living on the banks of the Wabash River, which is fed downstream by both the Mississinewa River and the Eel River in the Mississippi watershed.  One of his favorite books was Life on the Mississippi, by Mark Twain.  That and Huckelberry Finn, which takes place entirely on the Mississippi River.  Ballinger suggests that you read both of them before it is time for your own obituary.

Attempt #5:  Ballinger grew up a huge fan of the Milwaukee Braves and followed them daily as if his life depended upon their success.  He loved Hank Aaron and Eddie Mathews, and imagined that he could hit just like them.  He would not give up his memories of playing high school baseball and basketball for anything. The day his dog Pooch died and the day the Braves moved to Atlanta still haunt his memory.  School was a good place for him and he decided to spend his professional life in a high school where he was in the presence of many wonderful people. He said just before he died that kids today have not changed that much from kids of yesterday.   Perspectives of the viewers have changed.  Kids are still kids. I’m just reporting what he said.

 

Attempt #6:  Manchester College was a big influence on Ballinger throughout his adult life. MC was a Church of the Brethern supported college and the curriculum was infused with an emphasis on social justice during a very tumultuous time.  He was challenged to think about perspectives and events that he had never considered before.  He would want me to say he is thankful for the friends and experiences he had there.  When people used words like liberal or progressive in a pejorative fashion to describe him he tried to smile and say, “Thank you.”  He tended to get along with everyone, and had many friends who did not agree with him.  He wanted to make sure I included that.

He was lucky in love, and thought the the word blessing was overused. After all, rain falls on the just and the unjust alike.  He had a great bunch of five kids and a wife who everyone loved much more than him.  He was OK with that.

The service will be held at _____ o’clock on _____________________________.  Dress will be casual.  Beer will be served afterward.  He asks that someone will tell his in-laws that beer will be served.

 

 

 

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