(Gene and Michael)

For the longest time, whenever someone would say to me that so-in-so is a good man, I would offer a quick and snappy response, which I always thought was half jest and mostly truth. I thought it was funny, to a certain extent. I thought it was accurate to a bigger one.

I would respond with a sentence that went something like this:

“Well, you know there is no such thing as a good man,” I would say.

We would laugh and giggle. We would acknowledge the meaning and the shortcomings of the majority of my gender. And, after a second to pause and think about the retort, we would simply move on — either in the direction of the conversation or the path that laid ahead for the remainder of the day.

Such is life.

Such has become of our lives.

Such is what we have allowed to happen in our lives of today.

On rare occasions, that seemingly grow more and more few, we will pause. We will think. We will sometimes laugh. We will sometimes cry. Yet, inevitably, only after a second or a minute to reflect, we will move on.

Rarely do we think or remember the encounter. We all have more important things to go and do. We all have more critical things on our minds and our schedules. We have far more pressing issues to tend to and tackle. Or so we think, at the time. So, we hustle on. Leaving the conversation and our friends behind in order to address our own mission of the moment.

But this afternoon, I must go to the funeral home in Mayfield, KY to say goodbye to James “Michael” Brown, the uncle to my lovely wife Leigh Ann and her beautiful sister Jamie; the brother to my mother-in-law Debra; the brother-in-law to Johnny Sears; the husband of his wife Janet; and the lone son of the lovely lady I only knew as Nana.

Michael passed earlier this week, after suffering a horrific fall at his house about 10 days ago, or so. He was 66 years young, and until he was diagnosed with a rare brain disease about a year ago, he was about as fit and young as anybody I have ever met who was approaching retirement with vigor and plans.

Ever since the news of Michael’s passing came from a phone call from Leigh, the thought of Michael has not been a second away from rapid recall or an inch from my tongue. The memories flew by bank like a slide show on fast forward. The shutters clicking rapidly and never stopping. Each photo showcasing a man full of stories; full of laughs; full of fun; full of life. Just full. Each time, I caught myself smiling. The only thing that interrupted my joy of yesterday, was the salty taste of the tears falling down my face.

On this day, I will go and say goodbye.

I have wondered what I would say to him.

I have struggled with what I want him to know from me.

I have found a latch in my throat and, more often than not, a constant stoppage of my fingers on the keyboard of life on what I want to say or type.

All I know is that Michael Brown is a good man. Michael Brown was a good man. A damn good man.

Don’t wait for the little jingle or the impromptu saying of mine. Not this time. Not this day. It won’t be coming. Not today. Maybe not ever again. If there ever was one before, Michael Brown was a good man. A damn good man.

Michael, you see, worked damn near all of his life. Not because he had to, although he did. But because he wanted to and he liked to, as well.

He liked getting up early. He liked getting his work clothes on. He liked putting his hands on something that needed fixing or doing. He liked leaving the day with doing a job well done. In fact, he would not leave the day or the work site unless the job was done. Done right. Done well. Done. He knew that was the only way to please his bosses, throughout the years. More importantly, though, that was the only way to please his mind, too.

No job was too small.

No job was too big.

Every job was important.

Every job had to be done.

And, every job had to be done right.

I don’t know where this incredible work ethic came from, or when this “drive” was first instilled. I don’t even know who inspired such an incredible sense of commitment. But it was as much a part of Michael Brown as his name, and it was the only resume that the man ever needed as his reputation proceeded him every where he went — both professionally and personally.

If anyone asked the question, the answer was always the same.

“Michael Brown?”

“Oh, he’s a good man. He’s a damn good man.”

Don’t know how Michael came about his trademark. How he learned to become the person he would become. How he cobbled together the character to be better and do better than others. How to build from the ground up. How to help others do the same.

It certainly didn’t come easily. When he was just barely in his teens, his own father passed from a massive heart attack, leaving his mom, his older sister and him to carry on in a world and an age where someone had the crazy notion that only men were supposed to be the bread winners; that only men were the leaders. Despite the fallacy of that myth, I have a sneaking suspicion that his Mom, the lovely Nana, and his doting sister, Debra, gave young Michael all the instructions and directions he needed to carry on.

There were no other choices for young Michael. No other options. No other alternatives. Nana was heaven-bent to make sure her kids grew up strong; grew up right; grew up knowing right from wrong; grew up choosing right more often than not.

Debra did.

Michael did, too.

Debra’s kids did, as well.

Debra’s kids’ kids did, too.

In each, in all, you can see the magic of Nana live on. Out of lessons learned, for sure. But out of love and respect, too. It was and is in their DNA; it was and is in their upbringing; it was and is in theirs souls.

Michael was no exception.

Just like his mom, Michael loved unconditionally.

He loved his jobs, as we have already discussed.

He loved his family. Never a time did they convene that he wasn’t there to celebrate, too.

He loved his motorcycles. He often rode the backroads to let the air fly through the hair that wasn’t there any more.

He loved his friends. He would meet up and enjoy a libation or two.

He loved his community. He organized charity “poker runs” to raise money for the less fortunate.

He loved his God. He worked tirelessly on remodeling, painting, and restoring his church and his church family, in each time of crisis.

He loved.

Michael Brown was a good man. He was a damn good man.

Just like his mom, Michael was faithful.

Michael didn’t call in sick to work. To him, the job had to be done. Sick could wait for another day.

Michael didn’t waiver in his words, either. To him, his word was his bond. And, his bond was his life.

Michael didn’t let the world get in the way of what really was important, either. He was always there for his mother; his family; his wife. And, all the children that came along with them. Although he never had kids of his own, he could often be found playing with those of others. And, “those of others,” always loved Michael, too. To the core.

Michael Brown was a good man. He was a damn good man.

And, just like his mom, Michael loved his stories. And, he could tell them all with a homespun style that made people hang on every word and find peace in the valley with every meaning.

I loved to hear the stories of how Michael would recruit old kitchen appliances and turn them into modern-day barbecue pits. He was especially fond of his conversion of dish washers into smokers. I made Michael promise that he would make me one so that I could put it on the front porch for the world to see. We never got around to actually doing it, but I always wanted to, for sure. I always wanted to.

I loved to hear the stories of how Michael would train his quarter horses and how he would ship them all over the Midwest to race and compete. I always knew we had this love of the horse in common and we would sneak off from every family function to  chat about the races of both life and the horse.

I loved to hear him talk about his trips out West to ride his motorcycles — his steel horses. About going to both Sturgis, South Dakota and Sturgis, Kentucky. About riding the hills of Yellowstone and the mountains of Colorado. About jumping on his motorcycle with Janet and going all over West Kentucky and driving heaven’s highways.

And, I loved to tell the story about how Michael was seriously thinking about breaking up with a girlfriend because she put the toilet paper on the roller the wrong way. He liked it to come over the top. Seemingly, his girlfriend would always put the new roll on where it would come off the bottom. Did I mention the word “seriously?” He was serious. And, I often asked him about that. He would laugh and I would too. After all, that girlfriend ended up being his wife, too.

Most of all, I loved to watch him and listen to him talk about the construction of his new barn. It was his life’s mission. He wanted to tear down the old one on his farm and replace it with a new one where he could park his truck, his motorcycles and his memories. He wanted a place to carefully place each of his tools; hang each of his riding garments; hang on to his memories. He wanted a place to store all of his personal belongings — yes. But he wanted a place to store all of his most personal thoughts, stories, and precious times, too. He waited until his retirement to build his own place. And, truthfully, he never got to truly enjoy it.

When he tore down the old barn, I asked what he was going to do with the barn wood. He said he was either going to give it away to a neighbor down the road or burn it. I begged him to give me a chance to come and get it. I wanted some of it to refurbish and put on my basement walls. Michael agreed to save it for me.

Until Leigh Ann found out about our hare-brained scheme. She put a halt to it. She knew better. And, she was right.

Still, all in all, I wish I had one piece of that old barn wood. Just to hang on the wall. Just as a reminder. After all, some things are meant to last a lifetime.

Michael Brown was one of those things. He was meant to last a lifetime. At least, my lifetime.

I never heard the man utter a bad word about another.

I always found him to be happy and with a ready smile.

I never saw him  curse the day.

I always found him to be a joyful soul.

I will miss Michael Brown. More than he would know or think. He meant more to me than he would ever admit.

After all, there is one thing about Michael Brown that this world needs a whole lot more of — especially today.

Michael Brown was a good man. He was a damn good man.