A Knight to Remember
Posted by Mark David Manders Sun, 04 Feb 2007 11:30:00 GMT
My earliest recollection of a Knights of Columbus hall is back when I was probably seven or eight years old. All I remember was a dark, cavernous room, a long table crowded with casserole dishes and vegetables, a priest in a funny shaped hat, and beer, lots of beer. If memory serves me right the KC hall was located off of Northwest Highway near Flag Pole Hill in Lake Highlands. I don’t remember why our family was there, but I would guess that it was either a fundraiser for our church or a wedding reception.
Apparently not much has changed since I was a kid, at least as far as KC halls go. When we arrived at the Gainesville Knights of Columbus Friday night I walked in the back door by the stage and I felt as if I had stepped back in time thirty years. There was a large dance floor in front of the stage, a bar at the other end of the room, and the smell of home-cooking everywhere.
Food, however, was not an immediate concern for me at that point. When Patsy Henry asked me a few weeks earlier to play a benefit for Saint Mary’s Catholic school she said she wanted to have us over for dinner before the show. She said, “Don’t bother with the food at the KC Hall. I want to cook chicken fried steak for the entire band.”
So who’s Patsy Henry? It’s kind of a long story, but I met her through her son, Brian, last spring. Brian asked if I would sing a song for his brother’s wedding reception and it just so happened that we were playing nearby on that day. When Patsy arrived, fresh from the wedding, she gave me a huge hug and kissed me on the cheek as if I were one of her own kids. From that point on I started calling her by her nickname, “Mama Henry”. I have been in love with her ever since.
After we loaded in Friday night Brian showed up and drove us all over to his parent’s house. There was an ice chest full of beer on the front porch and Mama Henry was fast at work in the kitchen. She had enough chicken fried steak to feed an army and all the fixins, including gumbo. We all sat down and ate until we couldn’t eat any more.
After dinner we loaded up and headed over to the Knights of Columbus Hall for the show. There were a few bands playing before us so I made my rounds meeting people. I ran into a few folks I had met before, including Luana Wiesan from the Gainesville Sheriff’s Department. I was awkwardly introduced to Luana while playing an outdoor show last April. I won’t go into the details but I will offer up a little advice to festival goers: when hanging out backstage always use the Port-a-potty, you never know who is in the camper next to you.
At one point before the show Mama Henry grabbed me by the arm and took me to meet Father Murphy, who runs Saint Mary’s. A large, stocky man, Father Murphy looked more like a football coach than a priest. At one point during our conversation he actually let a cuss word slip out, giving me a whole new meaning to the phase, “Holy Shit!” Father Murphy explained that he had spent twenty years teaching at a boy’s school on the south side of Chicago and tough talk was one of the few ways he could communicate with the troubled kids. I had a long talk with the Father and afterwards he even blessed my guitar. I played the show that night without breaking a single string.
We took the stage somewhere around ten o’clock. The crowd was a mix of old and young, but my attention was focused on two little, old ladies who danced to every song we played. It reminded me of the American Legion Hall I used to sneak into as a kid. At one point toward the end of the night the younger party-goers let loose. I forget which song we were playing, but you couldn’t fit another person on stage with us. I’m not sure how long we played, but everyone there that night, including us, had a blast.
After the show we said goodbye to our friends, old and new, and started down that long road home.
