“After I regained my composure, I asked T.K. what he thought he was doing brewing up a cock and bull story like that. He tells me,‘People like that steal people’s guns to sell to support their drug habits. You’re better off if you don’t let people know that you own anything portable of great value. Besides, I couldn’t resist. Didn’t you love hearing him say that a friend had heard us play? What a liar!”
“I just had to call the kettle black. I said,‘Look who’s talking, mister. You’re lucky he didn’t ask to see your ‘bass staccato’ guitar.’”
Jeff laughed with the others, and then handed his shovel to Todd, so that he could tell a tale of his own. Jeff began, “I’ve got the T.K. story to beat all T.K. stories. Some of you have probably heard this story, and I swear to God, I’m not bullshitting. It really happened. This was about nine years ago, back during the first time that I was in the group. About three months after Ken and I restored my Power Wagon, Kennedy volunteered to go out with me on a wood-cutting expedition. We got up early on a Saturday morning and drove up to my uncle’s place outside of Valpariso, Indiana. We spent most of the day cutting down three oak trees and cutting them to stove length.
“I guess that our eyes were bigger than my pickup, because we had just plain cut too much wood. We stacked the back of the pickup sky high. We left all the wood that wouldn’t fit in the pickup there for my uncle to use. There was so much wood that we used a full one-hundred-and-twenty-foot coil of green line rappelling rope tying it all down. Fortunately, with Ken’s help, I had just installed overload springs, and had re-arched the rear springs and bought new shocks. Even still, the load was all green wood, so we had the springs pretty well squashed flat. It was a beautiful load of wood by anyone’s standards.
“Anyway, on the way home from Valpariso, at about 9 o’clock in the evening, we stopped to refuel at a gas station on the South Side. While T.K. was pumping the gas, this brand-new white Camaro pulled up on the other side of the pump. This long-legged gal wearing a white nylon jumpsuit gets out, and she walks over to T.K. all swishy-like, and she says to him, ‘I’m part of the underground economy, so I believe in barter transactions. How’d you like to trade some sex for some firewood?’ Without missing a beat, T.K says back to her,‘How much firewood do you have to trade?’” They roared with laughter.
Even Rose, who had known T.K only briefly, had a story to tell. “I remember when T.K. was teaching me how to shoot. We were working on targets set up at two hundred yards, and I wasn’t doing too well. He said to me, ‘Relax! You’re jerking the trigger. Remember, breathe in, then let half of it out. Then hold your breath, center your sight picture, and squeeeeze the trigger—like a nipple.’ As soon as he said that, he got all embarrassed and his face turned red. ‘Oh gosh! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. Please, please forgive me.’ All these years he had been teaching guys how to shoot, no doubt using the same spiel that he had heard when he first learned.”
It was Todd and Jeff that placed T.K.’s body in the bottom of the grave. In his right hand, which was, by then, stiff with rigor mortis, Todd slid a round of .30-06 match ammunition. Before they got up out of the grave, they recovered his body with the olive drab poncho, tucking under the edges.
An hour later everyone gathered at the grave again for a funeral service. In the interval, many of them gathered wildflowers and flowers from Mary’s herb garden to place around the grave. Standing by the grave’s edge, Todd said, “Our heavenly father. It’s kind of ironic that it’s T.K that we are burying today. I had always expected that if we lost any group members, it would be Tom who would have the proper words to say. Well, he’s not standing here to do the honors, so I’ll just have to do the best I can.
“Suffice it to say that we’ll all miss Tom Kennedy very much. He was always the quiet, humble, and professional type. He never gave anyone any static, and he always pulled his share of the weight. I have never known a better man.
“We owe a lot to Tom. It was he who insisted that we go retrieve Ken and Terry from Utah, so I suppose that without him, we wouldn’t have them back here with us. It was T.K. who taught so many of us rifle marksmanship lessons that have already saved some lives here, and probably will save a lot more lives in the future.
“In fact, it was T.K. that suggested that we form the Group in the first place. When I look back on that first night we discussed forming a retreat group, so many years ago, and think of what has transpired since then, all I can do is thank Tom yet some more. He handpicked most of the members of the group. He selected a congregation of outstanding and highly motivated and morally right individuals with a good balance of skills. So I guess we also owe T.K. our thanks for bringing us all together.
“I realize now that I’m going to miss T.K. a lot. It seems that you never really appreciate just how much someone means to you until they’re gone. T.K. and I shared some great times together in college, and since then. Needless to say, he was the kind of friend that you could depend on in the best of times and the worst of times.
“T.K. was a true warrior, and very good at his craft. I’m sure his spirit will end up in some special corner of heaven where the good warriors go. Let us pray. Our heavenly father: We commend the soul of our Christian brother, Thomas Evan, to you. In the name of Our Lord and Savior, Christ, Jesus, Amen.”
Todd led the recitation of a direct translation of the Lord’s Prayer, which T.K. had preferred in recent years. Following handwritten notes, they recited each line in Aramaic, then in English:
With his voice quavering, Todd enunciated, “Farewell, my friend.” He picked up a handful of the dark Palouse soil, and let it trickle through his fingers into the grave. When he turned to walk away, everyone could see the tears trickling down his face.
After most of those who had gathered walked down the hill, Ken and Jeff remained to refill the grave. Just as they were finishing, Lon Porter walked up the hill, carrying a large cross that he had welded together from three-inch wide channel stock. With a raised bead of welding rod, he had made an inscription on its horizontal piece. It read: