“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.” 

— Henry David Thoreau, from “Walden; or, Life in the Woods” 

A few years ago, I wrote a column about my oldest friends, and how back in those days in the South, we didn’t tell other men we loved them. Well, one of those friends passed away two weeks ago, and his death has me reflecting on how tenuous our hold on life is, and how small we are compared with the powers outside our control. 

It also reminded me that of all my friends, Kevin would not want a mournful sendoff but rather some kind of celebration with good music, close friends, and lots of laughs.

The irony by which our days unfold often goes unnoticed — until it doesn’t. Kevin, the best man at my wedding in 1988, had already moved out West by the time Lori and I celebrated our nuptials. But he came back for the ceremony and took on co-best man duties with my father.

After about 40 years in Colorado and Utah as a builder, he had just moved back to the South and to Sunset Beach in June of this year. I was making plans to go visit him in early October. Then his brother, Scott — who lives in Haywood County — called me with the news. Heart attack, found dead in the house he had just purchased. The classic retires, make big changes in one’s life, and then lights out. Damn.

Kevin was his own man. By that, I mean he carved his own path through life and never tried to abide by someone else’s expectations. As I age, I’ve come to appreciate people who carve their own path, the free-spirited outsiders who never quite fit into a paint-by-numbers lifestyle.

And so I was drawn to Kevin when I first met him, the summer between our seventh and eighth grades. In a middle-class neighborhood of mostly military families, he stood out — thin as a rail, long blond hair beneath the British flat hat (the “Peaky Blinders” cap, no razors, thankfully). He dressed a little differently and spoke proudly of his Nashville and West Virginia heritage. And he had the Southern twang, like his mom.

During those years from then until we graduated high school, Kevin’s dad was mostly gone, stationed in Germany. Kevin was raised during those adolescent years mostly by his mom, just like me (mine was due to divorces). Looking back, I’m sure that’s partially why we bonded so quickly. While I was fighting and arguing with my stepfather, I’d leave my house and go to Kevin’s to help him do his chores — damn, how many times did I literally take a yard rake to his mom’s shag carpet after Kevin vacuumed — so we could pal around College Lakes (the neighborhood) together.

Kevin didn’t understand personal space, and I’m sure some were put off by it. To me, it showed his sincerity. He stood close when he talked, leaned his head forward until your faces were just inches apart, put his hand on your forearm or touch your shoulder, just holding his hand there while he told a story or a joke. He was one of those guys who would go shirtless as often as he could, run around his house in his underwear or even butt naked around his friends and just not be in the least bit uncomfortable.

One of my favorite memories was Kevin’s arm-wrestling prowess. He was always skinny in those days, wiry perhaps a better description. He was one of those big forearm, lean upper arm guys who was what we now refer to as country strong. For a short while he bunked in my room in East Dorm at Appalachian State after my roommate dropped out and Kevin had gotten a job working on the U.S. 321 construction project between Boone and Blowing Rock.

We’d go to college parties, and I’d try to get an arm-wrestling competition going. Then we’d sandbag, knowing Kevin could beat most people. It was technique and strength, and we won lots of beers or shots or whatever we were gambling for on that particular night.

I visited him several times in Park City, Utah. Kevin, it seemed, knew everyone in town. Gregarious, outgoing, always ready for a good time, he amassed a large circle of folks who skied over a hundred days a year, partied like there was no tomorrow, played guitars and mandolins at house parties, and lived every minute like it was gonna be his last.

When Lori’s maid of honor went sort of AWOL during our wedding celebration, Kevin stepped in and accompanied Lori to prepare for her bachelorette party, to get dress alterations and other necessities for both the rehearsal dinner and the wedding. I think he even went with her while she got a pedicure. One of my favorite memories of that wedding week is Kevin dancing late one night on the coffee table in our little duplex, nothing but some cutoff jean shorts and the patent leather shoes that went with his tuxedo, guitar strung around his neck, singing love songs, laughing and smiling, cigarette dangling from his lips, game on.

When tenth-grade English class came along and we read authors like Henry David Thoreau, we both became consumed by the live life in the moment, seize the day mantra so common in great literature. Well, you lived that life my friend, so rest in peace.

(Scott McLeod can be reached at info@smokymountainnews.com)