Remembering Butch
By Gary D. Kerbow
LHS Class of 1976
The news of him being engulfed by a killer such as cancer shocked me more than his eventual passing did. By the time the dark angel of death arrived to escort Mr. Lamb off to eternity, I was prepared, emotionally, to adjust to his absence.
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He had cancer of the pancreas. The “C” word. And by the time his illness had been diagnosed, the extent of the cancer was too great and had waged its war against virtually all the major organs of his digestive system, much the same way a general would stage a successful ambush, leaving death as the only merciful alternative.
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I stopped briefly in the foyer to sign the guest register before entering through the rear door of the modest sized chapel of the First United Methodist Church of Lewisville, Texas. Later, I thought, some endearing family member would review the register and send thank you notes in appreciation for remembering their loved one. Maybe I would receive one; maybe not. It did not matter to me at that time, and only now have I ever considered it a possibility. Perhaps at a time years later, maybe an anniversary, a birthday or holiday, that same family member would retrieve that guest book, dust it off and re-read the names of those who had paid their respects to the man who had touched so many lives, including mine. Perhaps.
I hesitated to enter the chapel. I remember gazing over the tops of the mahogany pews at the body that occupied the half-opened casket from my position at the back of the room. It was open, I said, internally, satisfying the question I had asked myself earlier that week. I had not been to very many funerals, and I did not know if the decay his body had finally succumbed to would permit an open casket.
My first funeral was that of a classmate during the summer between my eighth and ninth grade years. He was killed in an automobile accident as a result of carelessness, although the boy’s father did not blame the driver of the vehicle, who survived. The wreck was pretty nasty, but the body was intact, except for a small piece of his left ear, which was replaced in the funeral parlor, satisfactorily, such that his body could be viewed. I did not know if I was ready to view death from such a close proximity. My mother said it would be good for me. I could not figure how that would be so, but I went to pay respects to my fallen classmate, without hesitation. I’m glad I went.
This funeral, Mr. Lamb’s, would be my third funeral.
Although I knew whose body lay in that copper-plated coffin, I could not distinctly identify it from my position at the back of the room. The only thing I could clearly distinguish were the glasses that rested against his rather strong looking nose, and that the deceased had brown colored hair. My limited view of the body was caused by the position of the casket and the distance that fell between where I stood at the back of the room and the altar, where the casket was placed in the gold pallbearers’ cradle. Later, my visibility would be limited by my tears.
The coffin was half-covered with an America flag, identifying Butch as a former member of the armed forces. His name was Mike, Michael Joe, to be exact, but everyone who knew him called him either Butch, or Mr. Lamb, depending on how well they knew him. If you spoke to him once, you called him Mr. Lamb; if you spoke to him more than once, you ended up calling him Butch. It was that simple. There was not much formality where Mr. Lamb, “Butch,” was concerned.
I knew that the time I dreaded since hearing of the news of Mr. Lamb’s terminal illness had come to present itself. I had to face this horrible reality and pay my last respects to him and his family. I mustered up enough fortitude to totally enter the chapel after standing in the doorway for a few minutes. There were no other visitors to encourage me, or instruct me, or force me to proceed; this was something I had to do on my own. I started down the center aisle of the chapel, flanked by those same mahogany pews on either side. I walked like an old man, with my head bowed, as if in some pious form of meditation. As I walked, I noticed the khaki colored carpet. The carpet looked old and worn, somehow befitting this place and this setting. It was sculptured shag, once stylish and chic, but its durability had outlived its vogue, and would fit no other room, except this one. Yes, the carpet belonged in this room.
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With the exception of a wadded up gum wrapper under the third pew on the right, counting from the back of the room, the floor was spotless, still old. I stopped and gazed over the entire décor. The walls were eggshell white, not their original color. From my estimation it looked like the room was last painted a decade prior and it had yellowed with age. It seemed as if the room died a little with each funeral performed there, resulting in the dismal environment. There were no drapes to cover the stained glass windows, and rightly so, as they were the only things that added a hint of life with their bright colors, compared to the otherwise drab setting. In an odd sort of way, they symbolized hope in a time of darkness. There were five such windows on each side, and outside a light shined from across the street, peering through the first two windows on the right as if to be paying its respects as well. Other than the lights in the foyer and the lamps positioned over the casket, this was the only light available. I wondered if anyone else had noticed this.
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I continued down the aisle toward the altar where the body lay. As I got closer, my feet became heavier, as if to be wearing shoes of cement. Each step grew slower and further apart as I approached my destination. A tear fell onto the right sleeve of my pale blue shirt, and there was a dark spot where it landed. If there were no others to join it, I thought, it would evaporate and be gone in a few minutes.
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As I stood before the body of Mr. Lamb, I raised my head and saw it clearly for the first time. I examined everything about it. It was dressed in a beige, three-pieced suit with a dark brown handkerchief placed neatly in the breast pocket. It was folded in a way so that the point of the handkerchief was aimed in the direction of his left shoulder, much the way you would see Orson Wells wear one. There was a gold chain strung between his vest pockets, threaded through the third buttonhole from the bottom. I assumed that, on one end of that chain, the pocket watch my class had given to him at Christmas in 1975 was attached.
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We had given him that watch because he was special to us. When he broke the tape that bound the package containing the watch and opened that little brown box, I will never forget the expression on his face. For the only time I can recall, Michael Joe Lamb was speechless. He removed the gold timepiece from its package and studied it without uttering a sound. After a few moments passed, he reached into the pocket on the red and blue flannel shirt he was wearing, and retrieved a handkerchief that had been unbothered since he placed it there earlier that morning. I could tell it had not been used yet that day because it contained no wrinkles when he unfolded it. He then took his glasses off and I saw two red marks on the bridge of his nose where they were affixed. With that same handkerchief, it appeared he attempted to erase those red marks from his nose, and then he wiped the perspiration from the frame of his glasses. Finally, he wiped the lenses, and was careful not to leave any fingerprints on them as he replaced those wire-rimmed spectacles on his face. All he could say was, “I appreciate this, ya’ll.”
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I felt good. We’d contemplated getting him a decorative, brass spittoon since Mr. Lamb indulged in “smokeless tobacco.” “No, let’s get him the watch. Let’s give him something that will last when we’re gone,” I pleaded. My debate paid off and I felt good. I never expected then that just five years later I would be standing in front of his body wondering to which end of the chain that watch was fastened.
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My eyes moved from the chain, across his chest, to his right lapel where a carnation had been pinned. It was white with green leaves. I was hypnotized by it for just a moment as I stared unconsciously at it. I was saddened all over again as I thought of the transitory nature of life the flower symbolized. I knew that in a few hours it, too, would be gone. It was a reminder that nothing lasts forever.
The second tear rolled down my freshly shaven cheek and fell from my jaw onto the edge of the casket that is hidden when the lid is closed. Instead of spreading, the tear beaded up, as it lay there, forming, what appeared to me, a tiny crystal ball. I looked longingly into it as a Medium might gaze into that mystical orb when looking into the future. My motive was just the opposite: I chose to look into the past.
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As I stared at my teardrop, I couldn’t help remembering the first time I met Mr. Lamb. I was a freshman in high school and was eager to be an ace reporter for the school newspaper, “The Farmer’s Harvest” the following year. Mr. Lamb was the journalism instructor and I heard some interesting things about his class. I heard how fun it was to be on the newspaper staff because Mr. Lamb had a different way of teaching. A few months into my sophomore year, he gave me my own column, which he affectionately entitled, “Kerbow’s Korner.” It was uncommon for a first year journalism student to be entrusted with so much real estate on the two pages that made up the Farmer’s Harvest weekly publication, but he valued my writing style and skills and I was amazed at how generous he was with this column. He never interfered with the topics I chose to write about, nor did he reduce the length of my narratives. Editorial writing had different rules and he encouraged me to follow my instincts and let him worry about the editors. This was a demonstration of trust and I was thankful for this opportunity.
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Not only was he my instructor, he was my friend. The companionship he provided out of the classroom is what became special to me. We often went to watch the Texas Rangers play baseball in old Arlington Stadium. We were not so much Ranger fans as we were baseball fans (although that has changed for me over the years. I am the biggest die-hard Texas Ranger fan in all of Ranger-dom.) We used to sit in the left field bleachers for two reasons: one, those were the cheapest seats, and two, Butch said that’s where most of the home run balls landed and it would increase our chances of returning home with a souvenir baseball. I hate that he departed us before being able to see real playoff baseball in Arlington in the form of consecutive World Series appearances in 2010 and 2011. Somehow, I suspect, Butch was able to tear himself away from heavenly activities in order to pull up a stool, have a seat and enjoy the best years in Texas Ranger history. Yes, I’m certain he didn’t miss a pitch.
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I am forever grateful to Butch for giving me an assignment that aligned my love for baseball and journalism. Each year the Texas Rangers hosted high school journalism students from the Dallas Fort-Worth Metroplex for a day at the park where those fortunate enough to be chosen for this were invited to attend a press conference designed especially for this group. We were treated the same as the regular press and given a ticket to attend the game later that night. I was thrilled with the surprise of riding up in the elevator with then Ranger Manager Frank Lucchesi. We made small talk and he was polite enough to make me feel as if this event was planned exclusively for me. Once the elevator reached its destination, the doors opened and spilled into a modest size room, half filled with eager cub reporters and wannabe beat writers for the local daily. What thrilled me was having access to my favorite team; what disappointed me was that, while I was interested in learning from Ranger management the many ways middle infielders could cover second base on a steal, or how to properly execute a squeeze play, all the other writers seemed only to want to discuss were contract talks, labor disputes and other “business” matters related to the game. The business of baseball did not interest me in the least bit, and still does not to this day, if I can be honest. Baseball is a game…. the great game….and it needs to be preserved as such. That’s the game that I fell in love with and the game that Mr. Lamb and I enjoyed together many times.
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I continued to stare into that same teardrop, looking for more memories to mull over before it evaporated in the heat generated by the two overhead lamps. As my mind crept back to our times on the golf course, I couldn’t help but visualize him on the tee box. He was a scratch golfer, which means he shot right around par, which was more than good enough to beat me any day. I was a recreational golfer; still am. Butch was a serious golfer, and the battles between him, me and Johnny McGregor, another LHS teacher that often joined us, were anti-climactic, to say the least. I was terrible, Johnny Mac, which is what we called him, was much better than me, but neither of us could touch Butch. Mr. McGregor was twice the size as Butch and me, all muscle, and could hit the ball a ton, but never could get the best of Butch. It was frustrating to me, irritating to Johnny and amusing to Mr. Lamb. I now realize the reason they brought me along was to make Johnny feel better. Nevertheless, we played as often as we could and I am better off for it.
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His funeral was not the only one of Butch’s life events I attended. I was part of a small group of friends invited to his wedding the year following my graduation from LHS. Mr. Lamb was married once before at a time when the judgement and scorn of divorce was much stronger, but he never talked about it and we never ask. The stigma of divorce had not settled on him and he had the ability to move on and seemed happy with where he was in his life.
Butch married Patrice Holden at Double Tree Ranch in Highland Village on April 2, 1977. It was an informal ceremony, as far as weddings go, but it was laced with his personality and taste throughout. Each made up their own vows, and Butch spoke his from the heart with a touch of vulnerability I had never seen before. What set the proper mood, perhaps, were the shotguns firing off in the distance from the skeet shooting range nearby that was part of the Double Tree. Rev. Herb Sprowls officiated and alluded to the fact that he always wondered what a shotgun wedding was like and was glad to be a part of this one.
Reverend Sprowls also officiated Butch’s funeral. I don’t remember very much about the actual ceremony itself, except that it was brief, which fit the style of Michael Joe Lamb. Butch was not a very formal person. He knew how to enjoy life and how to teach others to do so. He taught us of the five W’s of Journalism, how to set the F-stop and shutter speed on a single lens camera at the proper settings, and how to write headlines according to professional journalistic style. His taste in music was prominent and all of us fell in love with Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, Jerry Jeff Walker, Asleep at the Wheel and, his favorite band, Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys. He wore a leather belt with a big belt buckle and cowboy boots. I wouldn’t describe him as a cowboy or a “goat roper,” which is the term for those who dressed in starched jeans and cowboy boots during the 70s. The best way to describe him is, “Texan.”
Michael Joe Lamb was born on December 22, 1944 in Houston, Texas, at a time when virtually all young men his age were drafted into the armed forces, and he was no exception. He died October 10, 1980, just under two months shy of his 36th birthday.
He was just 35 at the time of his passing. There were only 13 years that separated our births. As my teacher, he did not seem that young. As my friend, he seemed very much so. He was an old soul who was young at heart.
He was laid to rest in Hondo, Texas on October 11, 1980.
Goodbye, Butch. Thank you for being our friend.