Howard Ivey Coker July 9, 1930 - August 13, 2019

He smiled and told stories. He sang and played guitar. He drew and he painted fantastic scenes with complex themes. In some ways, Howard Coker was an unremarkable man; and probably the happiest. His favorite quote was, “Time don’t wait on nobody.”

He was in the army and served during the Korean War. He never saw combat but he built pontoon bridges. I never knew where these bridges were or how many he was involved with. The story he told the most was that he’d play anyone’s guitar while taking breaks during boot camp. He did not have one of his own at that time. He told how Elvis Presley gave him a guitar at some point during his early months of training. There is no picture of the guitar. Howard said it was stolen before he even got out of boot camp. Of course I always wondered if this was one of Howard’s “Big Fish” stories, but I always went along.

After the war, Howard came back home to Powder Springs and started working with Tommy Barnes, Ray Padgett and Billy Hall in the landscaping business. One spring day in the early 1970’s, Howard was cutting ivy vines away from a house with a chainsaw. Naturally, the saw got tangled in the vines and he nearly lost his leg as a result. His recovery took over a year and when he did go back to work, Tommy gave him a really easy position as the landscape caretaker of the personal residence of J. Leonard Reinsch, the president and CEO of Cox Communications. The Reinsch family treated Howard like one of their own. Mr. Reinsch would give Howard his retired fedoras, shoes and jackets. Howard worked for Mr. Reinsch for the remainder of his career and one day, he just stopped going in. He had bought some land in Cedartown and decided he’d build a cabin.

Howard shoveled out a hillside by hand and started there with his cinderblock walls. In that back wall, he built in an iron stove for heat. The one room cabin was crude in every way. It had two windows and one, solid door. He still lived in his mother’s home in Powder Springs and he’d drive to Cedartown to work on his cabin once or twice a week. As soon as he managed to get a metal roof up, he’d go up and spend the night. He’d talk about the rain on the roof and how he loved that sound. He found the perfect girl to share the cabin with. Thelma was one of a kind. She was as tough as Howard and she was the only one I ever knew who could keep him in line. I’ll never forget my first trip up to the cabin. There was a lake down below where we fished. While Howard maintained there were catfish in that lake as long as his arm, all I caught was a cold. Bill and I were there that Saturday and it started raining. We sat in the rustic old cabin and listened to the rain on the metal roof. It was as amazing as Howard said. Going home that day, the old green, 1958 Chevy squeaked as Howard tried his best to maneuver the ruts coming down Everett Mountain. The wipers were squeaking too. With the rain and wind, it almost seemed as if we were out at sea. At the foot of the mountain, we came upon two long-haired hippies staring under the hood of an even older car than Howard’s. Of course Howard pulled over to see if he could help. They tried to get their car going but it was no use. The two hippies, dripping wet, climbed into the back seat with Bill and me. I was terrified. I think Bill was too. As soon as Howard started rolling again, one of the hippies leaned forward and reached into his back pocket. I looked over at Bill and he looked at me. I’ll never forget the look Bill gave me. We were both considering whether we should open the door and just roll out right there. Thankfully, it was a comb and not a knife.

Howard carved and painted and drew. He allowed nature to reclaim his old cabin. A few blocks remain to this day. He spent several years in the old home-place. He rode his bicycle everywhere he went and he was a familiar sight around Powder Springs. So much so that he inspired our local historian to write a story about him. He was harassed for riding his bicycle on the sidewalk once. Myra called one of her friends at The Powder Springs Police Department. He assured her that Howard would be an exception and he was allowed to ride on the sidewalk from then on.

After many joyful years in the old farm-house, Howard’s mental health finally declined to the point where he could no longer take care of himself. Myra and I found a nice facility for him and we oversaw his care as much as possible through the years. A few years ago, I took Susan by to see him and I asked, “Howard, do you remember Susan?”

“I remember Susan Hayward.” Was his reply.

We got the call yesterday evening. Myra and I headed to Cedartown. On our way, we noticed lightening in the distance. When we arrived, the power was out at the facility and two workers came out to the parking lot with flashlights. Walking in with us, they told us that the power went out the very moment Howard died. We made our way to his room and one of the flashlights revealed that his clock had stopped at midnight or noon. Either way, I think it was Howard’s way of saying that sometimes, time does stop.

After making some arrangements, we headed out and there on the sidewalk, watching the power crew working on the lines, was an elderly man on a bicycle. What an odd thing to see in the middle of the night. I saw it. Myra saw it. I don’t know; but it gave us comfort. 

Paperwork

I hate taxes and paperwork the way a fourth-grader hates homework. It is agony to me. It is damn near painful. In fact, if you said I could get out of ever doing any kind of paperwork ever again if I would just agree to drive spikes on a new rail system, I believe you would be calling me John Henry in no time. And, like John Henry, there would soon be a death and then a legend. And, as with Henry, there would be so many legends that you would never know the truth about what happened to me as a result of hating paperwork. The legend of Mark Coker would serve as a lesson for young people who want to get out of paperwork. Grownups would assume that if they told the story of Mark Coker, and how he died an untimely death because of his reluctance to take paper and ink in hand, they’d be more apt to follow through with their paperwork and finish clerical and contractual jobs. Ah, but anyone who hates paperwork as much as me would not be swayed by any such warnings. They’d follow me to their own early graves just so they too could get out of paperwork.

Look, it is a lot like cleaning windows or painting walls in a stranger’s home. You know they won’t be happy so why do it?

I remember Joshua Burkett, who now tours and plays guitar for one Sam Hunt. When he was but a little boy, I dated his mother, Karen. He hated paperwork so much that it was obvious agony whenever asked to do his homework. You could tell that his his pain was as real any pain endured by any measure of torture. Josh would hurt less when he crashed his bike and landed on the concrete driveway. Homework was horrifying to him. I get it. But when Josh got a guitar, he had no problem figuring out how to chord a minor or a seventh. He learned how to bar-chord and play lead. His timing improved with much practice and he finally found himself onstage with some of the south’s finest musicians.

I’ll tell you why John Henry wanted to go against that steam-driller in the first place: they brought the shiny, new machine to the tunnel there in Virginia and asked him to look carefully at the instructions which were printed on several pages. Like me, John Henry looked at the instructions and then he looked at his hammer and said, “Screw it! Give me my hammer.”

What A Ride

It was called The Dahlonega Mine Train, and at five, my first roller coaster ride was with my dad. I was barely old enough to get on. I recall it being debatable as the worker stood me up to the sign that said, “You must be this tall to ride this ride.”

I knew I could not tiptoe, but I stood as straight as I could, trying to make my spine stretch like a Slinky. Daddy was wearing his khaki pants and a matching shirt, his dark glasses and a hat. I cannot really remember standing in the line, but I remember getting in the car that would jerk and rattle us around the track. I was terrified. The worker pushed the bar down to our laps and I held on for dear life. The ride started with a jolt and then it was up a small incline, “Click-click-click-click…” and then the clicking stopped. Almost silently, the train felt as if it were in freefall, but in those days, the fall was more gradual. Next, it was into a curve. As I recall, the first curve put me all the way against my dad, but the next turn was an extreme turn that would cause him to slide into me. I was pinned, if only for a moment, by the weight of my grown papa. And then, in the next jerk to the right, I was back in his space again. It was a painful ride. My dad swore he’d never get on another roller coaster in his life; that was a promise he would keep.

As a little boy, I could not have known anything about the life that was in store for me. Not that my experiences were all that uncommon, but I was barely tall enough to experience the clicking of that first incline, when I would go and sit beside Uncle Roy’s bedside. We would whisper to each other because Uncle Roy could not speak above a whisper in his final days. He was my first buddy in life. I got off the bus on Tuesday afternoon, February 16, 1971, and I went to see him as usual. I sat my books down on the old glider and noticed a lot of people around, but had no idea why. Going into the living room of my grandmother’s old house, I said, “I’m going to see Roy.”

All of the womenfolk burst out in tears all at once, but nobody knew what to say to me. They didn’t have to tell me. I was only seven, but I knew this was freefall number one.

Later that same year, I found myself in the first hard turn. Myra and Bill had a secret. They’d been snooping around in Mom’s room and found some diapers and other baby-related things. I can still see them, taking turns cupping their sneaky little hands to each other’s ears. Mom was well into her third trimester when she finally told me that I was going to have a brother or a sister pretty soon. In 1971, I lost a wonderful uncle and gained a great brother, but at the time, both events seemed like tragedies to me. I wasn’t the baby of the family anymore.

In May of 1973, Grandma Coker slipped away and I stood by her casket with my Dad. I saw a tear slowly falling down his cheek. It was the only tear he would ever shed in my presence. It was when I realized that my Dad was not quite invincible. We were in another hard curve and this time, Daddy was the one sliding.

It seems like life really sped up from then on. Some moments have been terrifying while others are filled with relief and even laughter. That’s life. What a ride. The climbs seem to take forever and the falls seem to happen way too fast. It can be a painful ride, but thrilling at the same time.

Yesterday, I found myself standing in the shade of the pines that surround The Dahlonega Mine Train. I propped on the wooden fence that kept me out, but I looked in and I thought about the ride I got on fifty years ago. It’s all planned out better than it seems to be. As the “philosopher” Joe Walsh said, “As you live your life, it appears to be anarchy and chaos, and random events, non-related events, smashing into each other and causing this situation or that situation, and then, this happens, and it’s overwhelming, and it just looks like what in the world is going on ? And later, when you look back at it, it looks like a finely crafted novel. But at the time, it don’t.”

Ten Seconds

“All of us have special ones who have helped us into being.” ~ Mr. Rogers

After his much celebrated career with Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood, Fred Rogers received many lifetime awards of one kind or another. He always took those opportunities to acknowledge the people who helped him to become. When time allowed, he would ask the audience, “Take just ten seconds to think about someone who helped you along the way.” He would say, “I’ll watch the time.”

I cannot recall a lot about Uncle Roy, but I can tell you what he looked like. I can tell you where he lived. I recall sitting by his bed when he was sick. In my memory today, it seems he went from walking around in blue overalls to lying in bed very quickly. I can remember him working in his garden. I remember when he parked his Chevy II wagon. Eventually, Uncle Howard bought it and traded it for a blue one which was much newer and nicer. Thelma, Howard’s Wife, wrecked the blue one and totaled it out. I remember a burn-barrel there where the garden was. And I recall a dog named Hobo getting burned there on my watch. Not bad, but he never got near the barrel again. I remember Roy picking a fresh tomato out of his garden, knocking off the red dirt, covering it with salt and biting into it like an apple. Uncle Roy always had Lifesavers. I recall sharpening a knife or two with him on the swing. I remember he’d take the knife and swipe his boots after sharpening it. “Why do you do that?” I asked.

He told me it was to get the burs off. But I heard, “To get the birds off.”

It took me a while to process that.

He showed me how to refill a cartridge but I could not tell you how today. I remember he said, “Never hit a bullet with a hammer. It’ll go off.”

Once bedridden, in an effort to encourage him, I would sit beside his bed and talk about all we’d do when he got better. I really had no idea he was not getting better. That simply never occurred to me. To this day, it breaks my heart to think about how I did not know to say, “goodbye.” But he knew and he didn’t say it either.

Those first seven years of my childhood were very complex. Daddy was an alcoholic and not very dependable. He did have good days, but the bad ones were enough to cancel them all. Roy, I think, was aware of the deficiency and he did a lot to distract me. He allowed me to be near him as often as I liked and I always wanted to be near Roy. Roy was plowing or weeding his garden. He was gathering sticks and burning them. Roy was whittling on a twig. He was cutting grass. In my eyes, Roy was the most productive man in our neighborhood. To anyone else, he may have been less important.

Later in life, I heard that Roy had had quite a temper. Daddy said that he had an X-ray on his chest once and it revealed an old fracture in a rib. “How did that happen?” I asked.

“Aw, Roy and I got in a fight and he took a shovel and hit me right in the rib and cracked it.” He said.

Now he was my dad and I loved him, but I knew enough to know that he probably deserved that crack in his rib. There was, even at that young age, a part of me that thought, “Way to go Uncle Roy.”

Daddy and Roy got in a few more arguments, but I don’t think Daddy ever wanted to push it to that point again. That may be why I felt so safe up there when Daddy was next door; drinking.

I suppose, more than anything else, Roy always seemed to have time for me. Time was what I needed. I recall the day he died. Yes, I was very sad. But I somehow managed to keep Uncle Roy with me all these years.

That was literally decades ago and I can still feel a great deal of love for that man. I do not believe the details of our conversations will come back to me, but the fact that we had them is fixed in my soul. Someone who had nothing in this world to gain by it, took some time to be with me. That point is the point that defined me.

So today, I gave my ten seconds to Roy McBride. I give him credit for sharpening me and knocking the birds off.

At the end of ten seconds, Mr. Rogers would always say,

“Whomever you’ve been thinking about, how pleased they must be to know that you’ve been thinking about them.”

Take ten seconds and do this. I’ll watch the time.