In Memory of John Knauer

We arrived in Accra, Ghana, late at night. We stepped out of the plane into the hot, humid, and pungent air. Echoing across the tarmac we heard the eerily breathtaking chant of "Peace Corps, Peace Corps, Peace Corps." Our greeting from the second year volunteers. That next afternoon, at the bar of the Black Star Hotel, John Knauer, wearing his pressed white chinos--always well-dressed and put together--ordered a beer. We had all spent the morning being pricked like pincushions with various vaccinations. It was hot. Very hot. John took a sip of his beer and promptly passed out on the bar counter. Welcome to Peace Corps Ghana.

That is the story I always tell of John. And I will always remember how he and Jerry Perez would team up and tease me to see if they could get me flustered (and they always could). And now he's really gone. What a wonderful, quirky and funny guy he was--and smart. I can't imagine how a family fills the gap that a person like that leaves. But I take some comfort in knowing that so much of him must live on through his three children and wife.

Here's to John...

In Pursuit of Ginny

It's 2am, in Arkadelphia, Arkansas. 1994. Two male friends of mine, both gay, are crashed next to me in sleeping bags on the floor in the living room of Papa Hare's two-room assisted living apartment. We're all moving to Portland, Oregon, and we've driven from Clemson, South Carolina that day and are headed out to Amarillo, Texas the next morning. Papa Hare is about 88 years old.

Papa Hare drops down into his Lazy Boy recliner and asks, "Now you kids don't mind if I watch a little TV do you?" We mumble, "No." He clicks on The Wheel of Fortune. The volume is what you'd expect it to be for an Octogenarian. The next morning, bleary-eyed, we drink coffee with Papa Hare. He turns to the stove to get bacon, eggs, or sausage out of a pan. As he turns around, he's on fire. Or rather, the towel he's using as an oven mitt is on fire. I quickly put it out before he realizes what's happened.

After breakfast, I take a quick shower. As I come out of the bathroom, I hear him ask my friends, "Now which one of you is sweet on Ginny?"

It's Just Not Fair

Sixth grade. Houston, Texas. The other side of the tracks. Landrum Junior High. Waiting in line in the lunchroom and a girl cut in front of me. I told her she couldn't do that. She wouldn't move back. I stepped in front. She pushed me. I tattled to a teacher. The teacher showed no interest. She just said we'd both better stop it. BUT I WASN'T DOING ANYTHING!

Black Magic

In the air-conditioned Peace Corps office in Accra, Ghana. 1991. Preparing to return to the US. Printing out my resume from the Macintosh computer. How bizarre. Mark Matteson tells me to click something. You mean you're telling me that you just click this thing right down here in the office and then the paper spits out from a machine upstairs?

White Levi's Cords

I went with the Ulbrichs to the Anderson Mall. Shopping for clothes before going to the 7th grade. They must have seen the look in my eyes. I wanted those white Levi's cords with the orangish-brown stitching. Everyone was wearing them, including Joe Martini, the kid at our school who could dance. They bought them for me. Thanks Mr. and Mrs. Ulbrich.