Originally, I thought that I was writing for Ken’s memorial gathering. (A friend was going to read it for me, since I can’t be there. But he can’t be there either). I was worried that I’d get too wordy, and people would get antsy listening. So I kept it short. But now, since this remembrance is going to be read, and not spoken, I’m going to stretch my reminiscence a bit. I’d like to recall with you, reader, two events in my experience with Ken Marion. Ken had a lot of friends, from all walks of life. They were always welcome at Wartroot. One of them turned out to be a godsend to me. On a bright spring Sunday in 1973 a bunch of us were sitting on the porch with Ken. I had just returned from an unsuccessful (of course!) hitchhiking trip through Virginia and North Carolina, visiting small colleges, hoping to find a job. (Yes, that’s true. We were younger then). Suddenly, Blackie the Dog (or Maybe it was Malcolm Mallard) started raising a ruckus. A tall man walked down the hill, crossed the Little Boozy, and walked up to the house. “Why, Peter? What brings you down here?” asked Ken. The man responded, “I’ve quit my job!” Ken looked at me. I perked up, no longer looking at the bluebird—or whatever it was--in the hickory tree near the house. “Job?” I said. “And what was your job?” “Art teacher at Sullins College,” said Peter. Ken looked at me again. A big grin formed on his face, which he directed to the hill, and the path up it. We all started cracking up. I got the job. First one in the door, true, but if it hadn’t been for Ken’s support (he’d taught history at Sullins himself, and he made a couple of recommendations for my interview there) it would have gone to someone else. The following fall, I again lived at Wartroot. But not for long. My Volkswagen bus was stolen from the top of the hill by one of Ken’s neighbors, and I had to move on to the Sullins campus. After a couple of weeks though, I was getting a little loopy. Ken came to the rescue. He knew what I needed. He picked me up, and took me in the trusty IH Scout to the home of Barry and Lynn--two delightful, misplaced Brooklynites—on the north side of Bristol. We had a nice little party, with combustibles, inebriants, and brownies in good supply. After a few hours, though, we had to leave—Ken needed to get back to Wartroot before dark (I don’t think the Scout’s lights worked). So he and I headed back to Bristol. Coming in to town, we were on a wide street, on a downslope. Suddenly, I noticed that a car wheel was rolling along on our left, next to us. I said to Ken, “Is that our wheel?” “Why, Tim,” says Ken, “it surely is. Lean right.” I leaned right. Ken leaned right too, then slowed the three-footed car. The wheel came to rest in an empty lot. Ken stopped the Scout. “Stay right there, Tim. Ballast.” Then he retrieved the errant wheel. Borrowing studs from the other three wheels, Ken put it in its rightful place. Then he started the Scout. Not a word. Finally, Ken looks at me, and says, “You know I changed that wheel just this morning.” Then he kept driving. Not an extra word. He dropped me off at Sullins, and rolled on out to Blountville. Oh, Lord, what a guy. Ken could be a man of few words, but they were always well-chosen. As for me, friends, such is usually not the case. There’s one more thing I’d like to write: Ken always seemed to be either in Blountville, or headed there, or on his way out from there. Where do you think Ken is now? I’m a believer, so let me tell you what I think: Ken’s in a hilly place, with long, beautiful ridges of mixed hardwoods. He walks a ridgeline every day. Ginseng grows there; Ken has found a huge stash of the stuff, which he imbibes regularly. The inhabitants are not just human spirits; in fact, Blackie the Dog, Malcolm and Mrs. Mallard, and a host of other friendly critters are his constant company. There are acres and acres of strawberries, and they’re always sweet. The water is pure and fresh running, and there’s plenty of it. The weather is always good, and the seasons change regularly. Yes, Ken’s gone to Heaven, and Heaven, for Ken Marion, looks quite a bit like Blountville. Rest in peace, dear Ken.