A Song of Farewell
A Parting Tribute to One of the Men That Made an Outlaw
Outlaws!
I know you all are probably surprised to hear from me again this soon. I’m normally a once a month kinda poster/blogger/newsletter man at best, but needs must when the Devil drives;the Outlaw household and I have been driven like an F1 car lately.
Last post, I mentioned a family medical emergency. That was my grandfather. Norman V. Owens. Most of you that know him would probably call him Butch. My mother’s father, in every way but blood. He married my Grandmother when my mother was in single digits. Butch died yesterday, at the age of 79.
For anyone that hears that, and want’s off the train now, I understand. I’ll catch you later, love you, May We All Find What We Seek.
For the rest of you, I’m going to tell a story. A true one, and not just a fun one.
Norman, or Butch, as I’ll call him from here forward, came onto this earth in 1945. His Father, also Norman, was a badass welder, the kind that helped the war effort and would go one to teach other badass welders all around the world.
His mother, Vivian, was a proper southern lady in every way, willing to get her hands dirty in the garden and alternating between the sweetness of honey and all the venom of a drunk rattlesnake. My great grandmother’s most famous quote is “Shit or get off the pot!” While playing a very aggressive game of Skip Bo. If you don’t know what Skip Bo is, good, keep it that way until you are old and cranky and like to cheat the rest of the nursing home at cards.
For Butch and his two brothers, growing up was pretty rough. Decatur, Alabama and its surrounding countryside in that time was a wild place. To keep things from getting to much into hearsay or digging up skeletons; my great grandmother’s venom wasn’t given a family exemption, God rest her soul. There was one great blessing in that place, Music.
Butch figured out fast that he was a straight genius on anything with strings, falling in love with the guitar and bass. By fifteen, he was playing in bars and clubs that would never let him in, normaly. Turns out all the old hats on a four to six string couldn’t or wouldn’t change thier ways enough to play Blues or Rock and Roll. That four eyed Alabama boy didn’t have an issue though, so any place that wanted to hear the latest hits on the radio, needed Butch and the other young guns.
My Grandfather playing an Atlanta gig. He always looked a little goofy in photos, bless his heart.
A talent like that didn’t go to waste. He soon moved up to touring with main stage bands and playing at the famous Muscle Shoals recording studio. There was real skill in though country hands, and professionals recognized it.
Eventually Butch would go on to play with Patsy Cline, Percy Sledge, The Animals, and a bunch of other people nobody under forty will recognize, but trust me these people did kick ass music. Talent had its conundrums though, and Butch was soon faced with a delimma. Two big acts wanted him for the road, and he could only chose one.
Option one David Allen Coe
Or option two, “The Killer” Jerry Lee Lewis
Butch was a little stuck. These were great gigs, but who the hell to choose? It came down to a matter that will later become hilarious, Image and reputation. Coe was a gruff looking man with a biker’s persona. Tattooed, and bold. Lewis was a rock star to rival the King himself, but hadn’t yet earned a repuatation for antics. Butch chose Lewis.
Jerry Lee was a kind man, according to all of my family. Generous, and endearing. He kept mom’s favorite cookies in the house. Paid for a trip to Disney World, and many other acts of kindness.
Every rocker, however, has thier demons, and neither Butch nor Jerry lee were an exception. It was Jerry Lee’s birthday one night when Butch and his wife picked up recordings of a new album and headed over for a celebration. A celebration that culminated in Jerry Lee breaking out his birthday marker, a brand new .357 magnum pistol.
In a questionable choice of judgement, Jerry Lee decided that a Coke bottle in a coffee cup was a great demonstration target…indoors. Yall know I love firearms and i’m a shooting fanatic. Let me give this piece of advice. shooting in a basement or bottom floor is a massive richochet risk. Everyone learned that the hard way when two bullet fregments hammered Butch in the chest. Jerry Lee had nailed the bottle, but he’d also nailed his bass player. Jaqueline, my grandmother and Butch’s wife, ran down the postman, who drove like a bat out of hell to get police and EMS.
The next few minutes would be a lot of panic and scramble, and a life flight to emergency medical care in the early 70’s. I’ve watched biographies on TV that claim he died that day. He was on the couch eating Krystal at the time. Butch didn’t die, but he’d come close enough that it ruined the hope of a return to playing with “The Killer.”
One lawsuit later and a reccommitment to life later, Butch decided he needed to settle more and serve his daughter, and the woman who had saved him. He still played all his days, but never again went on the road. Instead working to raise a family.
His daughter, Jenny, who had grown up under bar tables, getting candy and change from superstar’s purses to buy cokes, grew up and had a son. Yall might know that fella, he writes some good stuff sometimes.
Tammy Wynette, who my mother rememebers fondly for her purse change.
Turns out, all that time on the road lead to a pretty wicked book collection. Having all those hours in the car, He had it all, Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Classics. Most were great. Some, like A Feast Unknown, Should never be read by another human again. Seriously, the book is a nightmare. Read the Wiki, laugh and forget it ever existed. I’ve talked about that book collection before. It would evenually be gifted to me. It started my love of speculative fiction, and eventually my authorship.
Butch never kicked those demons of the rockstar life, but he worked his ass off, sometimes two jobs. He bought concert tickets, novels, and instruments for his daughter and grandson. He gave Jacquline money to take a young Jesse James to the comic shop. Butch loved knowlege and imagination. Avidly reading, watching Jeoperdy, and sometimes torturously subjecting his family to encyclopedic knowlege.
That was my grandfather. Always supportive, always a little wild, and always either saving the day or being a consumate pain in the ass. he was a lot of the Outlaw in me, and more than a solid chunk of the Author. He played first chair to every song my grandmother ever sang.
Butch would walk at Jacquline’s side for more than forty years, before cancer took her away. He’d then stay with his family for another seven years. He’d survived tuberculosis .357 round, , a heart attack, prostate cancer, open heart surgery, MRSA in his chest incision, more than one nasty ass bar brawl, an overdose of perscription painkillers, and four bouts of congestive heart failure, and that’s only what I can remember now. He’d also been one of the few men to survive pissing me off bad enough to break things. The bill comes at the end, though. Yesterday, after a conversation with my Aunt (His sister and law) and Momma, (Jenny) He went to sleep and left to follow his wife on the next adventure.
Anyone who has ever lost a love one knows there is a long day at the end of a Life. A long day of notifications and planning, and endless discussion of last rites and arrangments. It’s a day I’m ending with a short glass of my homemade wine.
I hope this story intreged you, and maybe even made you smile. Butch would have liked that. He like to entertain, and create, and laugh.
If it did, or you feel like doing a favor for me. When you stand with your loved ones this holiday season, raise a glass to Butch Owens, and to the Song, and the Story, and the Loved Ones that inspired and carried us along the way.
May We All Find What We Seek,
Jesse James Fain