Kent Alexander Gone But Not Forgotten

Only God knows for sure what happened on the night of December 7, 2007. A husband and his wife of twelve years argued and left for separate rooms. The next day the husband’s lifeless body was discovered in the kitchen, a stab wound to the abdomen. Investigators arrived and immediately suspected his wife of the murder. A small southern town buried their hero a few days later, the same day the wife- who claimed no memory of the incident- was arrested and formally charged. The hometown folks were shocked and saddened to bid their native son farewell. During his glory days, he was the star quarterback, leading scorer in basketball, and the ace pitcher on the baseball team. He was the guy all the guys wanted to be, and the guy all the girls wanted to be with. And suddenly he was gone. To make matters worse, he had apparently fallen at the hands of an outsider. Someone nobody except his family in the small town had ever met. He had moved away and most folks had lost touch. But they hadn’t forgotten their hero. His legacy and legend were historic. His best childhood friend spoke at the funeral, being careful to accentuate the positive and cherish the priceless memories instead of lamenting the strange circumstances of his death. Two years passed. The heroes’ former wife remained in jail until the trial. By all accounts, a conviction would be a slam dunk. But on January 18, 2010, the heroes’ former wife was acquitted. And a small southern town was left to endure the pain all over again. Some of them gathered at his graveside on the afternoon of the verdict and chose again to remember the positives. Like most red-blooded Americans, the citizens of that small town love their country and respect its judicial system. But they were confused. The judicial jargon and the complex wording of technical technicalities evaded them. All they knew was that their hometown hero was gone and nobody would be held accountable. The story had apparently ended. But they noticed something miraculous had occurred along the way. They had come together. They had united in a cause. They had reached out and reconnected with each other. Suddenly folks who hadn’t seen or heard from each other in years were embracing and expressing their love for each other. The second baseman and the shortstop on the old high school baseball team hugged. The former mayor shared a heartwarming remembrance of his fallen friend. Another friend reminded everyone that beneath the macho exterior- existed a warm, sensitive human being who respected his elders and treasured his friends. The story hadn’t ended after all. A chapter in the book had concluded but pages to be filled remained. Memories to be remembered. Connections to be reconnected. Friends to be befriended. The hometown hero had done it again, bringing his former community together again. Only God knows what happened on that fateful night in 2007. But I- the shortstop and recipient of the quarterback’s pinpoint passes- know this much. My North Carolina hometown of Cherryville lost one of its heroes, and I lost my best childhood friend, Kent Alexander. And though our hearts have now been broken twice, the memory of the one who enriched our lives will endure forever.

A Giant Secret We Kept From Mom

----------- Every member of the Stroupe family is aware of the contents of this week’s column except for Mom. She will read this column in the paper much like you and turn to me and say something like, “Why didn’t you tell me about this?” And I won’t have a good answer. I don’t keep things from my partner unless it’s for her own protection. And in this case, I felt justified in keeping a tight lip until now. The incident in question took place on a recent hunting trip with a dad and his two oldest boys. That dad was me and mom stayed home with our youngest son. On the second night of our trip, I witnessed something I’ve never seen before and never hope to see again. The boys and I stayed in a hunting cabin in the middle of the woods with four other people on our venture. It was awesome, even though the cabin was unheated and we had to get up at 4:15 every morning. Propane heaters kept us relatively warm most of the time and I slept in sweatpants and a sweatshirt to survive the harsh winter nights. On the evening in question, I was standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room area, minding my own business. Suddenly and without warning, I saw movement to my left in the kitchen and observed an animal of some sort quickly dart from the area under the stove and disappear into a hole in the wall located beneath the sink. My first thought was that the unwelcome visitor was a large squirrel. Then to my horror, I realized from its features that the alien was a ginormous rat. The tail was a dead giveaway. (I know “ginormous”, prounounced j-eye-nor-mus is not a word. But it’s the most accurate description in this case.) I didn’t scream. I didn’t shriek. I didn’t holler out. I did the manliest thing I could do at that moment. I simply proclaimed to the crowd in the living room, “I just saw the biggest rat I’ve ever seen in my life.” And they all laughed. I don’t know if they were laughing at me or with me. I was too shocked to care. One of them asked if it could have been a mouse. I informed him that a mouse wouldn’t even be an adequate appetizer for the rodent I had just seen. I was traumatized. Mainly because I would be sleeping only a few feet from the hole he disappeared into. Before you call me a wimp, understand that even elephants are terrified of rats. And I’m not even scared of rats in general. I’m just scared of that one in the cabin. My sons and I couldn’t stop thinking about that wretched rat for the next couple days. I dreamed about him all night long that first night. I was never so glad for a four o’clock alarm to go off in all my life. Finally, morning. If you call 4:15 morning. We decided not to tell Mom when we called home the next few nights. Based on her fear of infectious giant rodents, she may have shrieked and ordered her gang of boys back to North Carolina. So we kept our secret to ourselves. Until now.

Lessons Learned on Skiing Adventure

Recently the Stroupe family journeyed to Northern Virginia for a weekend ski trip. Mom had sense enough to camp in the warmth of the ski lodge and observe as the rest of us plucked icicles from our nose hairs outside. Once you get used to frozen eyelids and Star Wars-looking snow boots, the ride on the chairlift is peaceful and stress-free. On that first trip up the mountain, I sucked in the oxygen, gazed at the gorgeous view, and allowed myself to soak up the moment. Suddenly and without warning, my journey came to an abrupt halt and I tumbled head over heels down a ramp- the one designed for skiers to glide off when they exit the chairlift. Humiliation had ensued and wouldn’t disappear anytime soon. Both Stroupe boys whistled down the side of the mountain as their dad rolled, snowplowed, and crashed his way through traffic to the bottom. I improved greatly as the day proceeded but my primary nemesis remained. That nemesis was the chairlift. Fellow skiers began to line up at the top of the intermediate hill just to watch me exit. More often than not, I did not disappoint. Several times the operators had to halt the entire lift so they could scrape me off the ground and get me out of the way. Ski lift chairlifts aren’t designed to stop. They just keep going round and round and round. They only halt when buffoons like me wipe out attempting to depart from them. I experienced this no-stop phenomenon late in the afternoon on that fateful trip. My boys and I were able to enjoy a ride on a four-man lift to the top of the highest hill- the expert slope. As we exited the lift, I noticed my youngest son struggling to keep his balance so I reached over to try and help. Big mistake. Immediately I lost my own balance and ended up propped on my knees with my knit cap down over my face. It all happened kinda fast but the next thing I felt was an enormous punch to the back of my head. Within moments three ski patrol dudes surrounded me, expressing their deep concern for my personal health. When I asked what had happened, one of them informed me that the ski lift had whacked me on its way around the semi-circle. He asked if I was okay and I replied, “No, but I’m doing my best to play it off.” Proud that my hard head had survived such a vicious attack, I rose to my feet, nodded to the onlooking crowd, and proceeded to belly flop all the way down the expert mountain- a slope I had no business attempting to negotiate in the first place. The skiers riding the lift laughed and were visibly entertained by my flailing. When I ski, I’m entertaining the lift riders. And when I ride the lift, I’m entertaining the skiers. Ironic. There’s more- like the time I exited the chairlift and a man with a protruding ski pole nearly poked out my left eye- but I’ll spare you the details. In actuality, we had a great time and may hit the slopes again at some point in the future. And if we do, it will probably be in Northern Virginia again- where nobody knows me.

Maybe I'll Get Invited to the White House This Year

The beginning of a new year. An opportunity to share with you my annual list of resolutions. I checked back to last year’s list of resolves and I fared well. As promised, I did not view a solar eclipse with my naked eyes. Yes, I did say naked. There has been some concern lately that terms in some of my columns have been a bit risqué and on the edge during the past year. Maybe, but I’m sticking with the word naked in this column, like it or not. I followed through on my vow not to style my hair in a manner resembling the type sported by impeached Illinois governor Rod Blagojevich and I did not shave my head or chest in a lame attempt to inspire the college baseball team I coach to play harder. And I went on two mission trips in the past year, fulfilling my promise to go on at least one. But I did fail to follow through with one resolution. I did not repair the flat tire on my bicycle when gas prices rose earlier this year. Thus I was unable to “stick it to the man” by pedaling past the pump when times got tough. Sorry. All that being said, here’s my list for 2010. Feel free to hold me accountable for these promises: 1. If invited to the White House for a Beer Summit the likes of which occurred this past year, I will request that I be served something none of the original Beer Summit attendees asked for. If you remember, Sergeant Crowley ordered Blue Moon; Professor Gates asked for Samuel Adams Light; V.P. Biden went with a Buckler non-alcoholic brew; and the President downed a Bud Light. If asked to attend, I will break up the whole beer theme and see if they’ll allow a good ole’ North Carolina Caffeine Free Diet Sun Drop at a meeting of the minds. 2. Unlike a friend of mine from my church, I will not grab a black snake that has just run past me after I have stirred it from its rest. And also unlike my friend, I will not allow its head to get close enough to bite me on the finger, like it did to him. But if I am bitten, I will try my best to be like him and laugh it off and go about my business- which he did in manly and impressive fashion. 3. If I donate a kidney to someone, I won’t ask for it back. A Long Island, NY man- claiming his wife cheated on him after he gave up one of his kidneys for her- now wants his former bean-shaped organ back in a divorce settlement, though he would settle for $1.5 million if she’s grown attached to it. 4. And for the umpteenth year in a row, I will not become irritated, agitated, or bitter when my last name is misspelled, mispronounced or otherwise butchered. (If you’re reading this in the paper, check to the left and see if they spelled it right underneath my picture: S-t-r-o-u-p-e. Sometimes they leave the “e” off.) So there you have it. Now go and make your own list. And if anyone asks for an explanation, tell them Mr. Strap put you up to it.