Eulis

Yesterday a friend came by and said her husband was at the funeral parlor, one of his friends from the Mutual breakfast gang had died. The Mutual is the diner that time decided to ignore. Two eggs and coffee are $2.50, and the booths are dark fake wood Formica. The staff are cheerfully surly and the regulars are mostly retired guys in seed caps.

Jack is a regular (but he wears a flat cap) so of course we were startled, and asked in unison, “WHO?”

Eulis was a Korean War Veteran, a long haul truck driver (as was his son after him) a loving husband and an attentive father. He made trips with his son John until about 3 months before the last stroke laid him low. Eulis was the only guy I ever knew who swore coffee tasted different in Styrofoam cups than in ceramic mugs.

Over the years Eulis never said much to me beyond, “Waaalll, there she is; how’s Mrs. Jack today?” Sometimes he’d say, “You know, your husband’s a fine man, Missy, a fine man.” And I’d smile and agree.

Naturally, Jack loved Eulis.

Through the years of measuring out our lives with Mutual coffee spoons, we watched Eulis walk tall and proud, then with a hearing aid, then a cane, and finally a slow, booth-to-booth shuffle, stopping to regain his balance with a hand clamped to each seat back.

His wife Annie was brilliant. “That the best you can do?” she’d goad him when he slumped or rested over-long. Annie used to be a nurse. She’d been married to Eulis many years, and she knew how to keep him standing to the very end. He was a proud man.

And a fixture to us, here in the community. Eulis was as much a part of Mutual mornings as the chipped ceramic mugs he drank from. His cap with the “Korean Veteran” lettering. His wire frame glasses. His quiet, tall presence.

About two months ago a mutual (Mutual) acquaintance came by the shop and said, “Wendy, you know who’d make a really good book? Eulis. He’s got some life story. And he’s such a nice guy. You should go talk to him. I think he’d do it.”

“Sure,” I said, my mind going to the slow shuffle I’d last seen him doing. Step. Hand clamp. Rest. Shift. Step. Annie behind him all the way, holding him up with her careful, aimed teasing. I resolved to find time soon.

There’s an African proverb that says, “When an old person dies, a library burns.”

In his obituary, Eulis made all his fellow coffee drinkers from the Mutual honorary pallbearers.

Love hurts – or does it?

Jack’s usual weekly guest blog post -

It’s funny how connections can get made across time and distance.

When I was attending primary school, back in the 1950s in Dunfermline, Scotland, one of my best friends was Manuel Charlton. We stayed in touch off and on over the next twenty years or so as he developed his musical skills and began playing with a rock band called the Shadettes that played regularly in the local dance halls. They never recorded, I don’t think, and were rarely commented on in the music press – just an anonymous small town band playing covers of current hits.

Then they changed their name to Nazareth (named for the opening line of ‘The Weight’ by The Band) and almost immediately were signed by a major recording label. One of their early singles was ‘Love Hurts’ and this was a massive world-wide hit for them. These four guys from Dunfermline went on to record numerous albums and hit singles.

Just a couple of years ago my good friend and marvelous fiddle player Pete Clark was invited to join them on stage for a celebration concert in the original Carnegie Hall in Dunfermline (birthplace of Andrew Carnegie) – it shouldn’t have worked, but it did. Pete wove seamlessly into their best known hits and cavorted around the stage as if born to the life!

Just a few years earlier I was being interviewed on radio in Slovakia and the record played immediately before (completely by coincidence) was ‘Love Hurts’ by Nazareth.

Back to the point – one of our most loyal customers here in the bookstore is a guy who is seriously into rock music and I was able to bring him from Scotland a signed copy of a poster for the concert that Pete took part in. When Wendy and I , as we often do, visited Mackay’s bookstore in Knoxville this last Sunday (whenever we visit with her parents we head to Mackay’s afterwards), I headed upstairs to their music department. There, in the LP section, staring me in the face, was Manny Charlton – for a dollar fifty!

I immediately thought of ‘the loyal customer’ and handed it over to him this morning – to his great delight.

So, Manny Charlton – although we haven’t spoken in a long time, we continue to connect and you continue to bring great pleasure to your fans.

Manny in full flow.