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Eulogy for Popeye
By Pastor Brian
Sometime between felling Goliath and ascending to the throne, King David reclined under the Mediterranean sky to write poetry. His muse was God. Scribbling down verse and rhyme, he wondered how to describe the Almighty: potter hunched over a muddy kick wheel, gardener nourishing a tender seedling, mighty fortress shielding all from the storm. Or sheepherder. David settled on the latter, writing, “The Lord is my shepherd.”
Under a southern sky, Warren Arthur Hill was born on Sept. 7, 1959, at Fort Campbell, an army base straddling the Tennessee-Kentucky border. Soon after, his dad, a military man, deployed to Korea. Like so many soldiers, he returned stateside as a haunted man. Disinterested in being a dad, he walked on the family, leaving Wanda behind as shepherdess of the house.
Of all livestock, sheep require the most mothering. They are nearly blind, needing constant redirection to keep from getting lost. They are fainthearted, unable to protect themselves from marauders or their stubborn instincts. They can’t flip back over, rendering them paralyzed with hooves pointing skyward. And they can’t gather provisions, destitute until someone else leads them to green pastures and still waters.
Wanda provided by working two jobs in Clarksville, TN. By day at the telephone company, by night at the movies. Life was lean, but she made just enough to purchase the newest Hot Wheels collection and keep her son’s bedroom dresser stocked with Levi’s off the shelf and pressed shirts off the rack. When young Warren heard professional wrestlers were coming to town, he got to go because mom emptied her purse.
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