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.
Everybody remembers where they were when President Kennedy was assassinated. Or if you are younger, maybe when men first landed on the moon. Or even where you were when the Twin Towers fell on 9/11.
I don’t remember exactly where I was when I got the call. My wife and I were in a motel just outside Los Angeles, but I forget which town. It doesn’t matter.
My niece Ali Kinsman called and broke the news. Craig died.
I thanked her — numb, in shock.
As soon as I hung up, I convulsed in tears, howling with rage. It was so unfair. Why did it have to happen?
Estelle grabbed me in a tight hug, but I could feel no comfort.
“We all knew this day was coming, though we hoped it never would.
But it finally came and now he’s gone for good.”
The Recreation Group Gives Craig A 21-Gun Salute
I phone his wife, Joy, a couple of days before. It was Craig’s 49th birthday and he had just been released from the hospital. He was sent home for the last time. I asked how Craig was doing, and she told me he was in a coma. But — always clinging to hope — I reassured myself that people come out of comas.
Not this time.
As the disease progressed, Craig needed more and more medical procedures. I think one of the last ones was removal of his gall bladder. The creeping evil was taking over his body and all we could do was hope for a miracle.
I kept crying, the anger and grief spilling out of me. After all, there was nothing I could do. But I did have Estelle to comfort me.
There was no funeral in the traditional church sense. Joy arranged a memorial service in Wichita — their home.
Craig and Joy had enjoyed camping out and cultivated a circle of friends who were historical recreators. Craig assumed the identity of a mountain man, and they would go camping, roughing it in a modern way. He told me they sang and told stories around the campfire, and arranged knife and hatchet throwing exhibitions. Craig was also a gun afficionado and there was a lot of recreational shooting.
The group came to Craig’s memorial in costume and offered salutes to him that were very touching. But even more touching were the stories they told me about my brother — these people I’d never known.
When Craig got sick, many of them became solicitous. But Craig turned the tables on them. When they wanted to check on his well-being, Craig would inquire about their various problem, offer sympathy and help. One ran into him in the waiting are of the emergency room. Craig expressed concern why she was there. After all, it was no secret why Craig might be there, but he was concerned that something had happened to one of his friends.
He was always — if not chipper — positive and thoughtful. The only time I heard him grumble — even a little bit — was when he told me over the phone, “How come nobody offers Make-A-Wish to me?” He expressed a desire to attend the National Finals Rodeo in Las Vegas, but he didn’t survive long enough even if he would have been well enough to attend.
I was in Las Vegas when Craig told me he had Cancer. Estelle and I lived there around 2000-2001. This was just after 9/11 and Craig told me that there was something on his x-ray. He wasn’t one to complain, and the way he handled it discouraged any direct discussion of morbid subjects.
On one of our talks, I broke down — and I didn’t want to do that. He was the one with a deadly illness, so what did I have to cry about. I was 45 years old, for cryin’ out loud.
I told him, “I don’t think I’m a good American. I’d rather have a big brother than Twin Towers.”
I felt ashamed because so many people died, and I was just selfish wanting my brother to survive.
He didn’t make me feel ashamed. He always said the right things to make me feel better.
“How could any box contain a heart as big as what he had,
And all the love he gave to all he knew?
How could any of us say goodbye? How could we let him know,
What he meant to us, and how we loved him so?”
The pain of loss subsides, but it never goes away. Everyone leaves a mark in this world, and the physical remains turn to memories. But memories are an important building block of life. Memories are something we should preserve and cherish — and that is why I continue to publicly revive these memories. Selfish? I consider them my contribution to improving life in general.
(Lyric Excerpts from the unpublished song “Outside The Box/Larger Than Life.” Lyrics by Laura Principato, music by Wade B Ward copyright 2009.
Willie Nelson has been a very influential person both in music and in other parts of life. He was certainly influential for the Bunkhouse Boys.
Craig and I saw Willie Nelson perform a few times and of course had some of his records. But another way he influenced us was the way he partied. Willie started a tradition of having a huge concert on the 4th of July. He called it his ” Picnic. “
The Picnic gets lively, thanks to the Stickney Distributors’ Beer Truck back there on the left side of the photo.
Not long after the Bunk House boys got together in 1975 we decided we wanted to do a big full-day blowout. Craig had purchased the local tavern, and so had an “in” with the Coors beer distributor. They allowed us to use a refrigerated truck that held about 10 kegs of beer and had spigots on the outside of the body so you could pour all you wanted. It stored another dozen or so kegs inside the refrigerated section.
We also had volunteers to do the barbecue. I don’t recall exactly how much we charged, but I believe we started out having our own big party on the 4th of July with all the beer you can drink and free barbecue for the low price of $10. Each year was bigger and better.
For music, of course, we decided that the Bunk House boys would be headliners. However we would have other musicians come and play and sometimes jam with various members of our group. We also invited some of the bands and neighborhood towns to come and play.
Mike Miller, a former Norton classmate of Craig’s and owner of West End Recording Studio in the Kansas City area, came down and set up an awesome sound system for us. The stage was a flatbed trailer.
John Hix, another Norton classmate and a talented musician who could play any stringed instrument, would also join the fun.
Those two (Mike played bass) performed rock and new wave music with Ron Bailey on drums and our brother Bart on guitar. We had quite a variety of music going on.
I don’t think any tapes of those concerts survived. I do remember that one time I had one of those large old-fashioned reel to reel tape recorders, and set it up and got quite a bit of a Fourth of July concert on tape.
When you remember what year of this, you’ll understand why I might have made copies off of the master tape onto 8 track tapes. Those things were notoriously fragile, and I doubt if any of them have survived. I believe I also may have made copies on cassette tapes, but those are notoriously low fidelity.
Although I’d love to have a copy of any of those tapes if anyone has any kind of recording from the Bunkhouse Boys, I wouldn’t bet that you would get rich on them because I doubt if they are collectors items.
The party usually started in the afternoon and lasted well into the night until either all the food was gone, the beer was gone, or all the people were gone.
Since we were basically our own bosses, sometimes discipline became a little bit lax. It was often hard to get all of the Bunkhouse Boys on the stage together to play, and sometimes the breaks between sets went on a little longer than expected.
The Bunkhouse Boys Fourth of July picnic was a success and was repeated several times over the next few years. But we did it for the fun mainly — oh, and the food, and the beer, and whatever else would happen during those wild parties.
The wildest one was probably one hosted by Willie and Carol Warren, at their spread out in the country.
They moved to the Hoisington area from the Kansas City area, and Willie had some friends who were bikers that he invited down for one of our parties. And what a wild party it turned out to be!
During the day when the sun was hot, someone got the hose out and soon after — the clothes came off. Pretty soon we had mud wrestling, starting out with a bunch of hairy guys wrestling around in the mud. However I don’t think it took long for some of the ladies to join in.
We also ended up at least one time having a wet t-shirt contest. And I feel safe in saying that since we know that there are photographs surviving from that, some of the participants may hope that those photographs are permanently buried.
These parties were the true Spirit of the Bunkhouse Boys– and that spirit was embodied in Craig — Wild, uninhibited, undisciplined, and a heck of a lot of fun for everybody.
In all the years that we did this, I do not recall a single fight breaking out. Yes there was a lot of drinking going on, and a lot of wild activities, but it was all a big Love fest.
I don’t think that I could handle one of those parties these days. For one thing, I don’t drink anymore. Back then I used to start early and keep a steady pace until late at night. Also I’m more of an early-to-bed person than I was in those days. I was usually one of the last men standing at a party like that.
But if any anybody asks me to describe my brother Craig, I would say the Bunkhouse Boys Fourth of July parties were basically a manifestation of Craig’s personality.
I believe there are quite a few survivors of those parties still around today. Maybe they will send in their reminiscence of those late 1970s parties.
But then again there may be a lot of them who will just take the fifth amendment.
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.
I was reared (animals are “raised”) in a small town in a rural area of the nation. Believe it or not — our Midwest lifestyle was very like the New England lifestyle nearly a century earlier that was recorded by Norman Rockwell in his marvelous paintings. My father’s side of the family got the pleasure of our company on Thanksgiving and mother’s side got the honor of our presence on Christmas — alternating each year. The two families were in adjacent towns only a dozen miles apart, so we did a lot of family visits throughout the year, of course. But holidays were special. The Ward family met (usually) at the home of my grandparents and (at minimum) included a core group of their son and daughter — my father Don and my Aunt Bee
Remembering our loved-ones who are no longer with us at holiday dinners
— and their children. That generation was represented by me and my two brothers (Craig and Bart Ward) and Bee and her husband Bill’s kids Todd and Tara (who were about ten years younger than me). The Bartley family (my mom’s side of the family) had a few more options and we gathered in Almena, KS. Grandma Bartley had three kids — my mom was the baby, and she had an older brother Tom Bartley and much older sister, Maryse. Tom and his wife Inge Graf Bartley hosted sometimes and Maryse and her husband Burnal hosted other times — but my dad didn’t like to spend holidays in Almena because TV reception was poor (this was before cable TV) and he couldn’t enjoy the ball games. As always, though — food was plentiful and we pigged out major league. I have so many wonderful memories of our extended family gatherings and as a child, I thought they would continue forever. But of course, nothing is forever. Time marches on, and we lose loved-ones along the way. I wanted to commemorate happy childhood memories by referencing the famous Rockwell painting “Freedom From Want” — one of his series of Four Freedom paintings. In this one I have remembered those on my paternal side of the family who are no longer with us — empty chairs at the dinner table. My maternal side of the family will have to forgive me — there are a lot more people involved and I don’t know how to represent all of them and all the memories they contributed — at least not this year. But I will never forget any of the people who have made me what I am today — and mainly that is “rich in memories.” And certainly THANKFUL. Happy Thanksgiving to all.
It is “Craig Week” again and we are almost finished. I’ve been posting daily on my Facebook page with pictures and anecdotes about Craig and the Bunkhouse Boys.
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Today I posted an introduction to the various people who were a part of that scene all those years ago. And there are plenty of pictures.
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Tomorrow will be the Grand Finale for this year and it should be a doozy. I’ll tell about our annual Fourth Of July Picnics and show some incriminating, ummm I mean … “Intriguing” pictures.
I think my brother fell in love with trucks during the CB radio craze of the mid-1970s.
Craig often had a wild affinity for some subject or another, and when he did he went all out.
And when Craig was crazy about something, everybody in the family would be roped in by his enthusiasm.
So then we all got into CB radios, every one of our vehicles had to have one. Everybody had to have a CB handle. Craig even went so far as to install a separate CB band aerial on top of the house. The breakfast nook in our kitchen was turned into the base station for the CBs. And of course we had to have a lot of equipment.
Craig was the “Happy Hippy”. I was “Camelback”. Brother Bart went by “Cool Breeze,” and Dad was the “Roadhog” which he could never remember. He would get on the radio and say, “This is the Road Agent” or something similar but totally unlike “Roadhog”.
During this time it wasn’t just the radios that were hot — It was trucking in general. There were hit songs about truck driving and the newer ones were CB radio-oriented. There were movies about Over-The-Road-Truckers and their CB radios doing various things. There was even a hit TV show at the time called “Moving On” and it featured a theme song by Merle Haggard, no less.
Although I can’t lay my hands on it at this time, I remember well a photograph we took of Craig on his 22nd birthday. The cake was shaped like a CB radio and the legend in frosting said “Break
If you are wondering why there hasn’t been a front page post recently, it is because I have been working on my history of The Bunkhouse Boys.
This is the way I honor the memory of my big brother, Craig Ward, who was taken away from us much too soon by cancer.
I believe that a huge part of his joy in life was his time with The Bunkhouse Boys, comprised of his two brothers and a great friend. To make this public is to show the world (or at least the world wide web) what he did and what he meant to us.
There will be more installments on this blog. How many? I don’t know. I think there are a lot of stories to tell. First I’ll set down the basic chronology and then get into anecdotes.
If you knew him and loved him, I hope you enjoy reading about Craig.
If you didn’t know him, you are welcome to get acquainted by reading these tales.
