Tim Crownover
February 19, 2013, will mark the one year anniversary of the death of a good friend of mine, Tim Crownover. Tim died. I’ve been told, from a heart attack; however, I do not know the details. Late on the night of February 19, 2012, I was called to the hospital he had been taken to, but he was gone from this life already. I was allowed into the ER where his body lay on a gurney. He did not look dead, only asleep. I held his strong, rough hand and momentarily stroked his hair. It broke my heart that he was gone. I wrote the following words and read them to the packed house at his memorial service:
Every person in this room has one or more Tim stories. I have many so here a just a few of mine:
I met Tim when we were 10 years old. I moved into the side of town he lived in during the summer of 1966. One day I was walking home from Richland Market down Ninth Street when I passed by his house. Tim and Ron Megee were shooting pool in Tim’s garage. As I walked by, they said hello to me and asked me to join them in a game. From that moment on, we were friends, which has lasted for more than 40 years.
When school started that, we were in the fifth grade together in Miss Lum’s class at Whitmore School. Miss Lum could not handle us and we ran the classroom. We were always able to get her off the subject she was trying to teach by asking her questions about other stuff. One of our favorite pastimes was shooting spit wads through Bic pen barrels. Of course, the best spit wad shooter was Tim. By the end of the school year we had covered the entire face of the old wall clock with spit balls.
We were so fortunate to grow up in the small town of Ceres. We ran the streets, had sleepovers at one another’s houses. I always thought it was so cool that Tim could fart on command and he was the best at lighting his farts. Ron Megee and Nick Chipponeri each had great Whiffle Ball fields in their backyards and we spent a lot of time doing that. We also played a game we called Indian or Over the Line at the junior high school baseball diamond. I remember one time when Gary Dyke hit a ball over the fence and broke the large plate glass window of a house. We all ran away so we wouldn’t get in trouble.
Tim was a little guy but he could run faster than any of us, he played a game of basketball that guys much taller than him only wished they could play and was a talented and savvy baseball player. We had some great tackle football games, without pads, of course. Tim played baseball for George Costa with other great athletes from Ceres including our other classmates, Ivan Clay, Gary Dyke, who has also passed away and Ron Megee, to name a few.
In 1976 I moved to the Bay Area and did not return to this area to live until last April. I soon contacted Tim and we spent a lot of time together. He was a master carpenter and a perfectionist about his work. I was fortunate enough to have him do some work for me at my new house including making a utility closet into a food pantry, installing a ceiling fan in the living room and fixing a leaky portion of the roof among other things. Tim was quick-witted and his humor was dry. I once told him I was planning to have a gathering of our former school mates at my home. When I asked him who I should invite, he quickly stated, “Me and a bunch of girls.”
I loved being with him. Sometimes we went to a pool hall here in town for a few games of eight ball. He was in a pool league and so I usually got trounced when we played, but not always. We liked to rub it in whenever each of us won, so he got to rub it in more often than I. Tim was also a great guitar player and insisted that I let him teach me to play. He wrote out some diagrams of chords and instructed me to learn them using my daughter’s guitar and said he come back the following week to check my progress. My fingers are tender from not being a carpenter and I didn’t like the thought of the hurting fingers in order to play the guitar, so I didn’t do it. I knew I needed some good calluses in order not to feel the pain of pressing down on the strings. He was not upset but he was, I think, somewhat disappointed because he truly desired that we would someday play together as we sat in my living room. Now, that possibility is lost, at least until we meet again in heaven. I figure that if I wait to learn how to play until I get there, I will avoid the pain of developing those calluses. I miss you, Timmy, but I’ll see you again, my friend.
Every person in this room has one or more Tim stories. I have many so here a just a few of mine:
I met Tim when we were 10 years old. I moved into the side of town he lived in during the summer of 1966. One day I was walking home from Richland Market down Ninth Street when I passed by his house. Tim and Ron Megee were shooting pool in Tim’s garage. As I walked by, they said hello to me and asked me to join them in a game. From that moment on, we were friends, which has lasted for more than 40 years.
When school started that, we were in the fifth grade together in Miss Lum’s class at Whitmore School. Miss Lum could not handle us and we ran the classroom. We were always able to get her off the subject she was trying to teach by asking her questions about other stuff. One of our favorite pastimes was shooting spit wads through Bic pen barrels. Of course, the best spit wad shooter was Tim. By the end of the school year we had covered the entire face of the old wall clock with spit balls.
We were so fortunate to grow up in the small town of Ceres. We ran the streets, had sleepovers at one another’s houses. I always thought it was so cool that Tim could fart on command and he was the best at lighting his farts. Ron Megee and Nick Chipponeri each had great Whiffle Ball fields in their backyards and we spent a lot of time doing that. We also played a game we called Indian or Over the Line at the junior high school baseball diamond. I remember one time when Gary Dyke hit a ball over the fence and broke the large plate glass window of a house. We all ran away so we wouldn’t get in trouble.
Tim was a little guy but he could run faster than any of us, he played a game of basketball that guys much taller than him only wished they could play and was a talented and savvy baseball player. We had some great tackle football games, without pads, of course. Tim played baseball for George Costa with other great athletes from Ceres including our other classmates, Ivan Clay, Gary Dyke, who has also passed away and Ron Megee, to name a few.
In 1976 I moved to the Bay Area and did not return to this area to live until last April. I soon contacted Tim and we spent a lot of time together. He was a master carpenter and a perfectionist about his work. I was fortunate enough to have him do some work for me at my new house including making a utility closet into a food pantry, installing a ceiling fan in the living room and fixing a leaky portion of the roof among other things. Tim was quick-witted and his humor was dry. I once told him I was planning to have a gathering of our former school mates at my home. When I asked him who I should invite, he quickly stated, “Me and a bunch of girls.”
I loved being with him. Sometimes we went to a pool hall here in town for a few games of eight ball. He was in a pool league and so I usually got trounced when we played, but not always. We liked to rub it in whenever each of us won, so he got to rub it in more often than I. Tim was also a great guitar player and insisted that I let him teach me to play. He wrote out some diagrams of chords and instructed me to learn them using my daughter’s guitar and said he come back the following week to check my progress. My fingers are tender from not being a carpenter and I didn’t like the thought of the hurting fingers in order to play the guitar, so I didn’t do it. I knew I needed some good calluses in order not to feel the pain of pressing down on the strings. He was not upset but he was, I think, somewhat disappointed because he truly desired that we would someday play together as we sat in my living room. Now, that possibility is lost, at least until we meet again in heaven. I figure that if I wait to learn how to play until I get there, I will avoid the pain of developing those calluses. I miss you, Timmy, but I’ll see you again, my friend.
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