Those who know me personally or have been following me the past several years know that I celebrate the first week of December as a memorial to my late, great big brother Craig, who passed away at age 49 in 2002.
Craig was born on Dec. 4 and died on Dec. 6 — much too soon — of colon cancer. Now, it has been 18 years and I can hardly believe it.
Craig LOVED Music!
We grew up in Kansas, and at the time, you could drink 3.2% beer (or tavern beer as opposed to 5% beer from liquor stores) and buy cigarettes at age 18. To really make myself feel old, I’ll tell you that Craig and I could buy a six-pack of beer and a pack of cigarettes for $5.00 and havea great Saturday night! Ahhh those were the days.
But Craig is gone now, beer and cigarettes are expensive, and I’ve quit both vices over the years. Yes, the times change.
One strong bond Craig and I had was music. Being two years (and a few months) older, he led the way. He was a music fan from an early age, and the early 60s were the golden years of American pop music.
It was also the era when transistor radios were relatively new, but the prices had gone down. He had a small radio that would fit in his shirt pocket and with an ear bud (music was all mono, not stereo), he could listen music any time he wanted.
Craig carried the local paper after school, and while walking his route, he had his radio plugged into his ear.
One sweet old lady on his route knew our grandmother, and told her, “It’s a shame that someone so young has to wear a hearing aid.” Such innocent times we lived in.
Of course, if Craig got interested in something, then I got dragged in (or went willingly most of the time). We talked music a lot, bought the magazines like Hit Parader that printed the lyrics (with horrible typos), and we bought records — 45 RPM singles.
Most songs were called by the first line of the lyrics, even if that wasn’t the title. For example, it’s Christmas season now, and everyone knows “Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire.” But that’s not really the title of the song — it’s “The Christmas Song” (creative, huh?).
Craig had a wacky sense of humor, so he would refer to songs by some lyrics that might be deeply buried within the song. Usually I knew what he was talking about. But he would really try to stump me by calling a tune by an obscure rhyme in the last verse. When we started playing guitars, he’d say something like, “Let’s do ‘Loudmouth Yankee.'” I knew he meant the Monkees ‘song “What Am I Doing Hanging ‘Round” that started out with the lyrics:
“Just a loud-mouthed Yankee, I went down to Mexico.”
He could get a laugh out of me by doing something silly — like calling the Elvis Presley song “All Shook Up” by the title “Itching Like A Bug On A Fuzzy Tree.”
With all the transitions in his life, there was always music as a constant. I believe I got my love of music genetically, but it was one of the very strong bonds I had with my brother.
And so we say “Farewell” to Craig Week for another year.
Although his life was cut short, Craig lived it to the fullest. I believe he accomplished everything he ever wanted.
When he was young, he went through phases like everyone else. In Jr. High he wanted to be a Hell’s Angel. He read the Hunter Thompson book and became fascinated with the lifestyle it portrayed — outlaw rebellion that suited a teenager in the 60s. But he never bought a motorcycle and I don’t believe he ever learned to ride one.
Likewise, he was wild about tattoos — from the Hell’s Angels age through when he owned a tavern with a magazine stand and got all of the motorcycle and tattoo magazines they offered. But he never did get around to getting a tattoo.
He wanted to be a truck driver, and starting during the CB radio craze of the late 70s, he went overboard (as he did with all of his passions), erecting an antenna tower at our home and establishing a base station, making sure all of our family cars (mine, Dad’s and his) had radios and we all used them (with proper “handles” or code names). Even Bart Ward, who was too young to drive, had a CB handle and new how to use the radio.
He finally went to driving school in the early 80s and became an over the road trucker — which he romanticized as a “knight of the road.” That spilled over into his love of movies and videos and music.
Yes, his main dream was to be a music man — and that he did. From his early days in elementary school during the “British Invasion” led by the Beatles, he dreamed of being in a band, and he even assembled a few — before he knew how to play an instrument.
But he did learn and became a professional musician, starting the Legend-In-Their-Own-Mind country rock group, The Bunk House Boys. He bought music equipment, including many guitars and basses, and sound systems, and even a tour bus. More than that, he guided his brothers into making music and buying MORE guitars.
He also found true love with his wife Joy, and spent the last years of his life with her. After marrying Craig, Joy also went to truck driving school and they became a driving team, crossing the country in every direction from their home base in Wichita.
They were able to buy a wonderful house together, and when they decided that life on the road didn’t fulfill everything they wanted, They bought an Old-Time-Photo business in historic Old Town Wichita. He proclaimed himself Col. Ward, and then turned his love of Western lore and history to historical re-creation and re-enactments.
Although his last couple of years were not comfortable, he seemed to find peace in the face of death.
As his younger brother, I can truly say that Craig taught me all about life and how to get the most out of it — and he also taught me that when death is inevitable, the best thing you can do is die with dignity.
And now, maybe you understand what a marvelous fellow he was, and why the ones he left behind cherish and celebrate his memory.
To quote a song from his favorite band, The Eagles:
I once knew a man, very talented guy He’d sing for the people and people would cry They knew that his song came from deep down inside You could hear it in his voice and see it in his eyes
And so he traveled along, touch your heart, then be gone Like a flower, he bloomed till that old hickory wind Called him home
My man’s got it made He’s gone far beyond the pain And we who must remain go on living just the same We who must remain go on laughing just the same.
One of the most memorable gigs of the BHB was a trip somewhat out of the ordinary — to Dodge City.
People the world over know about Dodge from the long-running TV show “Gunsmoke.” From roughly a year before I was born until the year the BHB formed (1955-1975) Marshall Dillon, Miss Kitty, Festus, and Doc Adams were a powerhouse in TV ratings — the longest running network TV series at the time, and it was exported to every country on the globe that had TV sets.
The town made the most of their (fictional) fame. Dodge was — and probably still is — a tourist trap based largely on the TV show as well as the myths and legends of the “old west.”
However, I doubt that people are still talking about the weekend when The Bunk House Boys rode into town.
We were not on stallions or even geldings. We convoyed into town with a few vehicles (I can’t remember if we had our bus at this time.) The lineup was the same one in the picture on my Bunk House Boys web page — Ron Bailey on drums, Barry Green on lead guitar, Gary Mater on pedal steel guitar, Craig on bass, and me playing rhythm and singing. The time was the late 1970s.
The drive was an easy 95 miles. I remember Barry took his own car down, along with his wife and puppy. They had a station wagon, and Barry laid down in the back with his double-neck guitar and put on new strings — which might have made an amusing video if we had such technology in those days.
And now — over 40 years later — I can’t really remember if we had our bus at the time (a converted 1956 Chevrolet school bus with four bunks, a kitchenette, and a potty), or if Gail Bailey or Gloria Collier went with us. I don’t think the ladies were along — for reasons which will be clear by the end of this tale.
The gig — Friday and Saturday nights — was at a roadhouse dive bar called Tom & Jerry’s or Mutt & Jeff’s or something like that. We arrived in the afternoon and went by the place to see if we could set up the equipment. Before we had the bus, Dave Collier hauled our gear in a custom-made trailer that was formerly the rear-end of a pickup truck, so that might have been how we got everything to the gig.
We pulled up at the bar and went inside to see what awaited us. In our five years together, The BHB played some real holes — but this one took the cake.
The stage was up against a wall that looked like all the paneling was taken off of it — and replaced with tin foil! The electrical outlets were bare — no decorative fixture plates around them, just sticking out of holes in the wall. I could easily imagine this being my final performance, ending in a shocking finale.
In addition — the stage was filled with the gear from the previous night’s band. As we scouted for somebody to instruct us (or warn us to run for our lives), the previous band arrived and started tearing down their equipment. They had an open trailer behind a car — it looked like a welder’s mobile rig — and were tossing things into it. No equipment cases, they just disassembled the drums and dumped them in along with amplifiers and loudspeakers and mic stands. At least they cleared the way for us.
We set up, plugged in and were testing the sound, when Gary (who always had an eye for and a line for the ladies) brought a couple of young things up to the stage. He proceeded to point us out to the girls (his way of introductions, I guess).
“He’s married so he’s not putting out. He’s single so he’s putting out. He’s single so he’s putting out. He’s … “
(Craig and I were the only single guys there — I don’t think Ron and Gail were married, and I don’t think Gloria Collier came along on this trip.)
It was a new kind of billing for me … I didn’t know how to respond.
Craig and Wade (Photo Courtesy Mike Miller)
We went to our motel and quickly established that Craig and Wade’s room — the bachelor quarters — were party central. We filled the bathtub with ice and dropped in multiple cases of beer (after all — what is a bathtub for?). By the end of our weekend, the bathtub was filled with cardboard pulp that had disintegrated in the melted ice water. After all, we had to keep the bathtub well-stocked — our reputation depended upon it.
The gig went OK — it was a normal gig. But what I remember is that afterward (the first night), Craig decided he wanted to spend some time after the gig with a young lady who struck up his acquaintance during one of the breaks. I went back to our motel room alone. It was late, I had not met any girls to occupy my time, and I had to catch up on my beer consumption, because playing guitar and singing for four hours doesn’t let you keep up the pace you want to establish while drinking.
I slept soundly and securely — the motel had a security chain lock besides a deadbolt, and I had a nightcap or two or ten to usher me into a deep sleep.
But something was annoying me. Maybe bugs. I brushed my face in a groggy half-sleep, and felt something else against my hair. Then more little bumps — and a hissing sound. I realized that someone was whispering my name.
It was Craig. He had a room key, but the door would only open a few inches because of the chain lock. Being the creative type, he decided to pitch pebbles at me to wake me up. He didn’t want to raise his voice and disturb other occupants of the motel.
Since I was solidly asleep, it took quite a few pebbles and hisses to awaken me. In fact, the bed had more gravel in it than the parking lot. But finally I got up and let Craig in the door. He wasn’t real happy about my security arrangements — he felt I could have been safe enough with the deadbolt and skipped the chain.
I asked him why he was back — I thought he was spending the night with his new friend. He said she was so drunk she passed out about the time they got back to her place, so he left and came back to our motel.
So much for the tales of wild groupies and orgies on the road.
The Bunk House Boys finished the 2-night gig at the dive bar and we were never invited back — but I don’t think that reflected negatively on our performance. At least we weren’t tarred and feathered and run out of town on a rail — or even thrown in the hoosegow with the desperadoes — or worse yet, buried on Boot Hill.
No, I think we got out of Dodge relatively intact, pocketed a few bucks for our work, and headed down the road to our home base to get ready for the next exciting adventure in Outlaw Country Music.
