John U. Bacon

On Tuesday, the Michigan football family lost another beloved son, Jim Mandich, who died of cancer at age 62.

Regular readers of this space know I’ve had to write a few elegies already this year, and I’m not sure if we can bear another one right now.

I’m not sure Mandich would want any more, either, beyond his funeral. As he told Angelique Chengelis of The Detroit News last fall, after he was diagnosed with cancer, “I said to myself, ‘No whining, no complaining, no bitching. You’ve lived a damned good life. You’ve got a lot to be thankful for.’”

And he did, including a great NFL career and three grown sons – good guys, good friends. But I’m sure he’d like to be remembered – don’t we all? – and I thought you might enjoy a story or two about an unusually talented and charismatic man.

Mandich grew up in Solon, Ohio, outside Cleveland, and should have gone to Ohio State, where Woody Hayes had the program riding high.

Instead, he risked being called a traitor, and went to Michigan.

“Obviously, Michigan is the better place,” he told HBO a few years ago. “That was a very easy decision to make. And if that’s smug, Michigan arrogance – deal with it, Buckeyes.”

As a junior, he played on the 1968 team that went down to Columbus and lost, 50-14.

“We got shellacked. We couldn’t stop ‘em and we couldn’t do anything against them. And Woody Hayes showed no mercy.”

The next year, a man named Bo Schembechler arrived in Ann Arbor, and things were not the same. He told his players, “From now on, I’ll treat you all the same – like dogs!” He kept his promise, which helps explain why 40 or 50 guys left, sometimes in the middle of the night.

That inspired Bo’s famous phrase, “Those who stay will be champions.”

All the best players in that team stayed, but the most important might have been Jim Mandich, their only captain.

He was a confident guy, even a little cocky – but he had the rarer kind of swagger that attracted people, instead of repelling them. The ladies loved him, and he had the perfect nickname, “El Diablo.”

I always got the feeling, whenever Schembechler started talking about Mandich, that Bo, as tight as they come, with tunnel vision and no time for women until he got married at mid-age, secretly envied Mandich, this swashbuckling football star, and wished he could be a bit more like him.

But that never stopped Bo from chewing him out, of course. Someone once asked Mandich who had a shorter fuse, Schembechler, or his legendarily hot-tempered NFL coach, Don Shula?

Mandich thought about it for a moment, then said, “Neither one had a fuse.”

Call it a draw.

But Mandich was also a serious student, who graduated in four years with a degree in economics, while earning Academic All-American honors.

He was also an All-American tight end. He never took himself too seriously, but he took his role seriously. He led.

The Wolverines started Mandich’s senior year, 1969, by losing two of their first five games. But then they caught fire, beating Big Ten teams by scores like 35–7, 57–0, and 51–6.

They had caught El Diablo’s swagger. It was contagious. They believed they could beat the number one-ranked, undefeated, returning national champion Ohio State Buckeyes – even if no one else did.

Las Vegas pegged the Wolverines a 17-point underdog – but they didn’t listen.

The morning of the game, one of the Buckeyes missed the team bus. They weren’t taking it seriously.

But Mandich was. When I asked him about that game, he told me he was crying in the tunnel. I said, Of course. It was the greatest upset in Michigan history. No, he said. “I was crying in the tunnel before the game.”

That’s how charged up they were. All that pain, all that suffering, all that work they’d done in the off-season – it fueled everything they did that day. And it showed, when they completely manhandled Woody Hayes’ greatest Ohio State team, 24-12.

On the HBO documentary about the rivalry, Mandich says, “There’s an expression in German, ‘schadenfreude,’ which means, ‘joy in the misery of others.’ Forty years later, I feel schadenfreude – joy – that it still hurts the Buckeyes, what we did on that fateful November day in 1969.”

But the image of Mandich that day tells a different story, from the famous photo of the outstretched number 88, exalting in the final countdown, and the film footage of his teammates carrying him off the field. He’s exhausted, and overwhelmed, exuding something deeper than mere happiness – something more akin to an abiding satisfaction, one he probably knew even at that moment would last the rest of his life, having spent himself completely for his teammates and his school, and a cause bigger than himself.

And that’s what he did.

About the author: John U. Bacon lives in Ann Arbor and has written for Time, the Wall Street Journal, and ESPN Magazine, among others. He is the author of “Bo’s Lasting Lessons,” a New York Times and Wall Street Journal business bestseller, and “Third and Long: Three Years with Rich Rodriguez and the Michigan Wolverines,” due out this fall through FSG. Bacon teaches at Northwestern’s Medill School of Journalism, and the University of Michigan, where the students awarded him the Golden Apple Award for 2009.

John U. Bacon

If you’re not a Michigan football fan, you probably haven’t heard of Vada Murray, but you might have seen his picture. It’s one of those iconic images of Michigan football, along with Tom Harmon standing in his mud-soaked, torn-apart jersey, and Desmond Howard diving to catch a touchdown pass against Notre Dame.

But the photo I’m talking about shows Vada Murray and Tripp Welborne soaring skyward to block a field goal. They were a kicker’s nightmare. But even when they got a hand on the ball, it simply denied their opponent three points. That’s not the kind of thing that wins you a Heisman Trophy or an NFL contract. They don’t even keep records of those things.

But more than two decades later, something about that photo still resonates. Maybe it’s because it captures their effort, their intensity, their passion – all of it spent just to give their teammates a slightly better chance for success. There is something noble in that. And we recognize it – which is why they’ve been selling that photo at the frame store on Ann Arbor’s Main Street for years, right along side the legendary poses of Harmon and Howard.

Murray prepared for life after football. And, like a few other big-time athletes in town, he joined the Ann Arbor Police Department, where he rose to the rank of detective. Even students he busted for hosting parties years ago remember him fondly, which is saying something.

Whenever his former coach, Bo Schembechler, left town, he would tell Vada, “If anything happens to my home while I’m gone, I’m holding you personally responsible!” Bo picked the right man. His place was always safe.

Vada married Sarah, and together they were raising a beautiful family. Life seemed perfect. But three years ago, while he was taking a shower, Vada noticed his left love-handle was a little bigger than his right side. Vada, who had never smoked a cigarette in his life, had lung cancer.

When he gave a guest lecture for my students at the University of Michigan in late 2009, he started by saying, “I’m Vada Murray, and I’m dying of cancer.” If there’s a gutsier opening to a speech, I have not heard it. The students were stunned, and captivated.

But he didn’t dwell on it. He used it to point out how, if you’re a Michigan man in good standing, your football friends will come to your aid – and that’s exactly what they did. It wasn’t about football, he said. It was about family.

The police department proved to be another supportive family. But from people they didn’t know as well, they still had to endure the occasional well-meaning but misplaced comments. Things like: It will all work out. Everything’s for the best. God has a plan for you.

When I visited their home a few months ago, their youngest daughter was playing in Vada’s lap. Their middle child had her arm around Sarah and their oldest kid was playing in the backyard with a friend. Vada looked me in the eye and said, “If God’s plan is for me not to see my little girls grow up and walk down the aisle, you can tell God, his plan sucks.” We were all getting a little choked up at this point, but I couldn’t help but grin at that.

A few weeks ago, Sarah called me and said, “Vada can’t speak to your class this semester.” She didn’t have to say any more. I knew what she meant.

Vada passed away on Wednesday.

If you’re walking down Ann Arbor’s Main Street some day, doing a little window-shopping, you might want to take a moment to look at the photo in the frame store display. You’ll see what a man living fully looks like.

You don’t get to see that every day.

About the author: John U. Bacon lives in Ann Arbor and has written for Time, the Wall Street Journal, and ESPN Magazine, among others. He is the author of “Bo’s Lasting Lessons,” a New York Times and Wall Street Journal business bestseller, and “Third and Long: Three Years with Rich Rodriguez and the Michigan Wolverines,” due out this fall through FSG. Bacon teaches at Northwestern’s Medill School of Journalism, and the University of Michigan, where the students awarded him the Golden Apple Award for 2009. This commentary originally aired on Michigan Radio.

John U. Bacon

Whenever I talk to a high school coach who quit, they always say the kids were great, but the parents drove them crazy. Doesn’t matter what sport.

But when I coached the Ann Arbor Huron High School hockey team, I was lucky. Yes, getting to know the players was the best part, and now, seven years after I stepped down, I’m going to their weddings. What I didn’t expect, though, was becoming lifelong friends with their parents, too.

The team we took over hadn’t won many games, but after we had a decent first season, three hot shots showed up at our door. They had all been coached by Fred Fragner, who once played for the Junior Red Wings.

Whenever these boys blew a great scoring chance, or received a bad call or got whacked with a stick, Fred always told them, with a grin, “Three words: Be a man.” By the time they came to Huron, all three were just that.

Fred’s son, Chris, had more talent than I could have hoped for. Even better, no one worked harder, which solves a lot of problems if you’re the coach. He got that from his father. The only real differences between them were matters of style, not substance. Fred’s character was Chris’s character.

Another problem we didn’t have was Fred Fragner butting his nose into our business. He was a much better player than I ever was, and he did a great job coaching our fall conditioning team, but he left us alone each winter, which is a great gift for any coach. He never had a bad word for anyone – with the possible exception of a few referees, who, I must say, richly deserved it. Fred Fragner knew a rotten ref when he saw one.

Chris had become so good his senior year that only one guy could keep him from being named the state’s top player – me. Other coaches would have played Chris in big blow-outs to pad his stats, but I never did – and Chris never complained. Neither did his parents. Those of you who’ve coached kids sports can appreciate what a gift that is, too.

It was only after I stepped down that a friend of mine pointed out what great families we had on our team. I hadn’t considered that as a separate factor before, but I soon realized that was the foundation of everything we had accomplished – and Fred Fragner was smack-dab in the middle of it all.

After Chris graduated, he became the first player from our high school to make the University of Michigan team in two decades. He didn’t play much, but he never complained. Now he’s using his business degree to pursue a career in finance, and playing with washed-up skaters like me on Tuesday nights.

Along the way, I’d become close friends with all the Fragners, and especially Fred, who always flashed his big rack of white teeth whenever he let loose his booming laugh. I saw that rack of white teeth and heard that laugh for the last time on Monday. After a year-long battle with an aggressive form of cancer, Fred Fragner took his last breath that night.

He was a great husband to Patty, his wife of 37 years, a great father to his daughter Jessi and to Chris, and a great friend to many more, including me.

The year had been filled with physical pain and heartbreaking setbacks, but I never heard Fred complain. He savored everything he could – including the weddings of his two children last year. Faced with a diagnosis he knew was bad news, he followed the advice he had so often given to his son. “Three words: Be a man.”

Fred Fragner was a man – one of the best I have ever known.

About the author: John U. Bacon lives in Ann Arbor and has written for Time, the Wall Street Journal, and ESPN Magazine, among others. He is the author of “Bo’s Lasting Lessons,” a New York Times and Wall Street Journal business bestseller, and “Third and Long: Three Years with Rich Rodriguez and the Michigan Wolverines,” due out this fall through FSG. Bacon teaches at Northwestern’s Medill School of Journalism, and the University of Michigan, where the students awarded him the Golden Apple Award for 2009. This commentary originally aired on Michigan Radio.

John U. Bacon

It was a beautiful summer morning. I walked from my home in Ann Arbor, down State Street, to St. Thomas the Apostle Church. A crowd had already gathered outside, waiting to pay respects to our old friend, Mr. Brown.

No one told us to call him that. We just did.

In 1937, Mr. Brown’s father and grandfather opened a store called College Shoe Repair. Mr. Brown took over the business in 1951, the same year he married Dorothy – or Mrs. Brown, to us. They worked together every day. They had seven kids, and all of them worked at the store at some point.

When the shoe repair business slowed down in the ’70s, Mr. Brown started selling hockey equipment and sharpening skates. That’s how most of us got to know him.

Mr. Brown was gruff and sometimes grouchy. He had a temper, and he didn’t suffer fools too gladly. But if he was no glad-hander, he was no pretender, either. There was not a phony bone in that man’s body. If he got to know you – and he seemed to know everyone who visited his place more than twice – you soon discovered he was as loyal as a hunting dog, and good company.

Mr. Brown never played hockey himself, but he knew more about the local hockey scene than just about anyone in town. His store served as the nerve center for everybody who played or coached or reffed or drove their kids to some freezing rink at six in the morning. When I coached the Huron High School hockey team, he never had to ask me how we were doing, because he already knew – and on some days, he seemed to know better than I did.

Most of all, Mr. Brown cared. He cared about the quality of his work, whether he was re-soling a pair of shoes or re-palming a pair of hockey gloves. He cared about his customers, and the people who played the game, from Mites to Masters. Mr. Brown often grumbled about the homeless people around his store, but then you’d catch him slipping one of them a few bucks just for washing his windows.

I wonder who will care about all those people now.

After the service, I walked back from St. Thomas, right up State Street, to take another walk around Mr. Brown’s block. I strolled past Hank at Van Bovens, Jerome at the Diag Party Store, Dave at White’s Market, Marizio at New York Pizza Delivery, John at Gold Bond Cleaners and right next door, Pete at Frank’s Restaurant. I know them all by name, and they all know me – and hundreds of other customers, too, because they’re not customers to them. They’re friends.

The storefront of College Shoe Repair on East William in Ann Arbor.

When I coached the high school team, each fall we had to raise money to keep our team going. We learned pretty quickly that there was no point asking the franchise stores on that block, or anywhere else. They have no idea who you are, they don’t care, and they’ll tell you to call the people at corporate – who care even less.

But every one of those Mom and Pop stores bought an ad in our program, even though they’re all fighting for survival. That’s what friends do.

I fear their days are numbered. The rent on that block is astronomical, as much as $10,000 a month. The chain stores come in, and if it proves too much for them, what do they care? They just pull out – and leave behind a higher rate for everyone else, and an empty storefront, sometimes for years.

But that’s capitalism, and if you believe in the free market, there’s not much you can say. But you’d have to be blind not to see the cost.

We’re losing our community. We’re losing our sense of belonging. We’re losing our friends.

My last stop on my tour was Mr. Brown’s store. I looked down at my shoes, which Mr. Brown had shined himself a half-dozen times, and re-soled once. I looked up at the door, and read a hand-written sign that said, “Death in the Family. Closed Saturday. Open Monday.”

I hope it always is.

Editor’s note: Jess William “Bill” Brown passed away on July 4, 2010. The family has suggested memorial contributions to the American Diabetes Association.

About the author: John U. Bacon lives in Ann Arbor and has written for Time, the New York Times, and ESPN Magazine, among others. His most recent book is “Bo’s Lasting Lessons,” a New York Times and Wall Street Journal business bestseller. Bacon teaches at Miami University in Oxford, Ohio; Northwestern’s Medill School of Journalism; and the University of Michigan, where the students awarded him the Golden Apple Award for 2009. This commentary originally aired on Michigan Radio.

John U. Bacon

Old Man Winter is back with a vengeance. That’s okay. I like the snow – and I love the hockey.

You can play pond hockey, drop-in hockey or beer league hockey, but for me, the best hockey is the pick-up game at Michigan’s Yost Arena on Tuesday nights.

The game features some of the best players in the area, most of them former Michigan players, many of whom played pro hockey. But a few wannabes, like me, have gotten regular spots. It’s by invitation only, and I only got invited because I knew the guy who started it. Jeff Bourne – known as “Tiny,” thanks to his 5-6 frame – cared as much about attitude as ability. As he said: If you don’t pass, you’re an ass.

Tiny’s dad was Canadian. So it was only natural that he and his younger brother, Roger, grew up playing hockey in the Bourne’s back yard.

Tiny wasn’t a great player, but he loved the game. Every year, Tiny tried out for the Ann Arbor Pioneer high school team, and every year he got cut. Every year, that is, until his senior year, when his brother Roger – a freshman who was already bigger and better – tried out too.

As expected, Roger made the team. But so did Tiny. When Tiny was driving them home, he told Roger he knew why the coach finally took him:

So he could drive his younger brother to the rink.

But Tiny didn’t feel slighted. He was thrilled to finally make the team, and watch his brother play, even while Tiny rode the bench. Tiny liked to point out that they were one of the most productive pair of brothers in Pioneer history, totaling 201 points. Roger got 200 of those, and Tiny added the one.

Roger went on to play at Michigan. His biggest fan, by far, was his big brother, Tiny. Roger returned the favor by introducing Tiny to Laurie, one of Roger’s classmates. They hit it off immediately. She said, “You’re just like Roger!”

“No,” Tiny said. “Roger is just like me!”

They had two kids. Tiny coached his son’s teams, he coached his daughter’s teams, and he organized our skates on Tuesdays. And that’s where I got to know him best.

On paper, Tiny and I had almost nothing in common, from our passports to our politics. But none of that seemed to matter. Tiny had a way of drawing people to him, and the game he loved – me included.

Six years ago, between Christmas and New Year’s, Roger was skating the puck down the ice, and Tiny, playing defense for the other team, stopped him cold. It was a great play.

It was also Tiny’s last play. He returned to the bench, sat down, and fell forward. He was just 47 – and he was gone.

At Tiny’s funeral, you’d have thought it was a service for a Hall of Famer. The standing room only crowd included Jeff Daniels and Red Berenson, Michigan’s hockey coach; Tiny’s teammates at Pioneer; and the girls on his daughter’s hockey team, sitting together, wearing their blue jerseys.

Tiny might have loved hockey more than the game loved him. But that never stopped him. Every year, he got better, and every year, he drew more people to the game.

What did Tiny get out of it? To answer that question, all you had to do was look around that church.

About the author: John U. Bacon lives in Ann Arbor and has written for Time, the New York Times, and ESPN Magazine, among others. His most recent book is “Bo’s Lasting Lessons,” a New York Times and Wall Street Journal business bestseller. Bacon teaches at Miami of Ohio, Northwestern’s Medill School of Journalism, and the University of Michigan, where the students awarded him the Golden Apple Award for 2009. This commentary originally aired on Michigan Radio.

John U. Bacon

If you grew up in Michigan in the ’70s, as I did, Bob Seger sang the soundtrack to your summers, and Ernie Harwell provided the voiceover.

When I think about our family trips up north, they’re always accompanied by Harwell’s comfortable cadences filling the car. He didn’t simply broadcast baseball games. He turned them into stories. In Harwell’s world, a batter didn’t merely strike out. He was “called out for excessive window shopping,” or “caught standing there like the house by the side of the road.”

Unlike today’s announcers, who prattle on with mindless patter and pointless stats, Harwell treated his listeners to healthy doses of “companionable silences,” something Zen masters refer to as the delicious “space between the notes.” Harwell said the quiet allowed the listeners to enjoy the sounds of the ballpark itself, which he felt was richer than his own voice.

Harwell was born in Georgia in 1918, a time and a place that valued relaxed conversations on the porch. He grew up listening to Atlanta Crackers games on a crystal radio set. The power of those broadcasts probably hit Harwell more than most. His dad suffered from multiple sclerosis, and rarely left his wheel chair. The highlight of his day was listening to those ball games.

At age 29, Harwell became the Crackers’ play-by-play man. Just two years later, in 1948, Harwell caught the ear of the Brooklyn Dodgers. They were so impressed, they traded their catcher for Harwell, making him the only broadcaster in baseball history to be traded for a player.

Harwell went on to set the record for most games broadcast, including 41 seasons for the Tigers. When Sports Illustrated picked its all-time baseball dream team a few years ago, it tapped Harwell as the radio announcer – a true Hall of Famer.

He’ll tell you Willie Mays is the best player he’s ever seen, that Jackie Robinson was the most courageous, and that a lovable Tigers pitcher named Mark “The Bird” Fidrych, who used to get on his hands and knees to groom the mound, “was probably the most charismatic guy we’ve ever had here in Detroit. A real breath of fresh air.”

In 1997, I was lucky enough to cover spring training for The Detroit News. My first day I was sitting on a bench, watching infield practice, when Ernie Harwell sidled up next to me. We sat there, watching baseball, and chatting like old friends – just the way we all imagined we already were, listening to him on the radio. He invited me for dinner that night with his wife Lulu. We enjoyed a long talk, and he picked up the tab.

Harwell is a deeply religious man, but he never wears it on his sleeve. He simply lives it. This week, Harwell announced that he had an incurable form of cancer, and would not seek treatment. “Whatever’s in store,” he said, “I’m ready for a new adventure. That’s the way I look at it.”

I wrote a story about him eight years ago. On the morning of September 11, 2001, I woke up to the phone ringing. It was Ernie Harwell, calling to thank me for the article. Who does that? That day, of course, soon turned tragic, but I will never forget how Harwell’s little act of humanity stood as such a poignant contrast to all that followed.

A few times I invited him to call in on a talk show I was hosting. “Just ask,” he said, “And I’ll come running.”

I wish there was something I could do for him now. If he just asked, I’d come running.

About the author: John U. Bacon lives in Ann Arbor and has written for Time, the New York Times, and ESPN Magazine, among others. His most recent book is “Bo’s Lasting Lessons,” a New York Times and Wall Street Journal business bestseller. Bacon teaches at Miami of Ohio, Northwestern’s Medill School of Journalism, and the University of Michigan, where the students awarded him the Golden Apple Award for 2009. This commentary originally aired on Michigan Radio.

The King family set up a memorial to Ken King at their Frog Holler Farm stand in the Ann Arbor Farmers Market on Saturday.

“I’ve always had this idea, sort of a picture in my mind, of a lot of people working physically together, towards a common goal. Not only like working together and being simple, like peasants, having simple needs and not complicated by so many interpersonal things going on. Just people working side by side and as they’re working it becomes an art – they’re singing, see. They’re singing and it’s a rhythm…We’re doing the farming part and kind of doing the music thing and maybe somehow those will work more together and really living life more artistically and having our daily activities more appealing and beautiful and more nourishing than now.” – Ken King, 1989

Twenty years ago Ken King shared this simple idea about community and life. He achieved that vision, and more. Through his practical practice of his ideals, hard work, loving family, and extensive community, he lived and thrived on Frog Holler Farm in Brooklyn Michigan. Locally, Ken is perhaps best known from the Ann Arbor Farmers Market, where the Frog Holler produce has been a staple. 

Ken died Thursday, May 7. His was a life well-lived.

Ken’s life was entwined with his family, their farm and their love of music. Cathy King, his wife, is a well-known yoga instructor for Inward Bound in Ann Arbor. Ken and Cathy have three grown sons – Billy, Kenny and Edwin.

With his family, Ken created the community that he had idealized. The place, the earth, the food were all interrelated for him. In a 1989 interview, he told me, “I feel stronger than ever that our soil and our environment are losing vitality, so people are losing their vitality. Before we can deal with all the social and personal problems, I think it’s absolutely essential to rebuild people’s health. I’ve had just an inkling of what a healthy soil is, and it’s radically different. I think that a healthy person would be that much more radically different from what we’ve grown accustomed to. We have grown accustomed to less than exuberant living. Less than fulfillment. We have just accepted it. People say all the time ‘that’s life.’ I can’t accept that. It just seems that there should be a lot of joy and happiness.”

That joy and happiness extended to their customers, too. The Frog Holler website includes this bit of their history: “During their first years as organic truck farmers, Ken and Cathy experienced the proverbial steep learning curve; but their needs were small, Ken made apple cider for natural food’s stores in Ann Arbor, and they were able to obtain a stall, and find a niche as the first organic growers at the Ann Arbor Farmer’s Market. From that time on, it has been full tilt trying to keep the customers healthy and happy.”

The People’s Food Co-op in Ann Arbor and Frog Holler Farm had a symbiotic relationship for many years. Carol Collins, former general manager of the co-op, described it to me as “a wonderful circle. You have to have people who are committed to providing organic food for the co-op, and then the co-op can commit to supporting local growers.” Carol described Ken as someone who “helped the People’s Food Co-op become a leader in providing local and organic food to the community.” And with a sad smile, she added “he was just a joy to be around.”

His relationship with the co-op wasn’t just about food. ”Ken and his sons played for several co-op events,” said Kevin Sharp, the co-op’s marketing and member services director. “It wasn’t that long ago they played in the Sculpture Plaza.” And their music was also welcome at several annual meetings.

Frog Holler seedlings and starts have been a part of thousands of gardens over the years, and the co-op carried their seedlings for many years, Kevin said. “There were trays of seedling in front of the co-op with their little hand made signs. That’s the image I think of remembering Ken.”

Dick Siegel remarked on that legacy when I talked with him at Saturday’s Farmers Market. “Through his work with growing things he still remains – in hundreds of people’s gardens.” Dick first met Ken in 1972, through the Indian Summer Restaurant, which Ken and Cathy King co-owned.

On the Frog Holler Produce website, owner Richard Peshkin explains some of that early history: “Back in the 70′s there was definitely a communal element going on in Ann Arbor. A group of us at Indian Summer Restaurant decided to buy a farm, and in a get-back-to-nature kind of way, we wanted to live on the land and grow food for the restaurant. At this juncture I would be amiss not to mention Ken King. Ken was the impetus for both Indian Summer and the Farm, which was and still is Frog Holler Farm, located in Brooklyn, Michigan. Ken was the spiritual leader and guiding force behind both the restaurant and the farm. Many of the folks who participated in Indian Summer, I would venture to guess, were inspired by their participation there, and their lives was profoundly affected by the experience. I know mine was! You may have run into Ken, and his wife Cathy King at the Ann Arbor Farmers Market, where they bring their fine, farm raised organic vegetables and fruits to market. They’ve been at it for over 35 years and have helped raise the awareness of the organic and local produce movement in Washtenaw County.”

When the farm was purchased in 1972 it came with the stipulation that they keep the name, and continue to be stewards of the land as a wildlife habitat. It is 125 acres of hilly land, primarily of woods with a large pond and just a few acres dedicated to gardening. The early years were certainly lean, but Ken once observed, “I can sacrifice a lot because ideals and stuff I feel are life sustaining.” Ken had a wonderful partner in his wife Cathy, who shared the same spirit. In my interview with them in 1989, she said, “We are trying to live in a more spontaneous, intuitive manner – in that sense we have exchanged security in the material world for a really interesting time.”

Frog Holler has been a learning place, sanctuary and inspiration to untold numbers of people over the last 35 years. I first visited the farm in 1987, and it wasn’t more than a few hours until Ken had the group of us squatting in a wet field, carefully placing baby leeks into the black fertile ground. With a dozen of us at work together, this normally back-breaking work was fun, quick, and satisfying.

Joan Bailey worked on Frog Holler Farm, before transplanting herself to Japan this winter. She found a farmer there to work with, and in a recent blog entry she wrote this: ”We ended at a patch of broccoli that they said was done and needed to be cleaned up. Very generously they said we should pick as much as we wanted to take home and eat. The farmer then, in a gesture so similar to one I’ve seen Ken King do a million times over that it made my heart ache, took a bite out of a stalk he’d just picked. He said it was sweet tasting, and that it was organic. (If it weren’t for the time difference and the fact that I don’t have a cell phone, I would have called Ken on the spot to tell him about this. I felt so at home.)”

Joan sent these reflections from Japan: “Moonlight Bright As Day. I first heard Ken King sing this song a handful of years ago in the barn at a Frog Holler party. Eyes closed while he leaned into the microphone and played his guitar, Ken conjured up a world that shimmered and glowed with magic, love, and a little mystery. Since word of his death reached us, this is just one of the memories that run through my mind. Little flashes of Ken – eating oatmeal straight out of the pot on a chilly market morning as he waited behind the stall; waving his hand in dismissal and walking away as we tried to pay for the extra vegetables or seedlings he slipped in the bag; biting into a carrot in the field and declaring it the sweetest yet; engaging in earnest conversation at the side of the market table with long time customers – that make my heart smile and ache all at once.”

“It is hard to imagine that Ken is not here to talk with or hear sing. Or share a cup of tea with. It is harder to imagine Frog Holler without him, yet the vision he and his family shared and brought to life there carries on. The kale savors the chill of the spring morning, the garlic planted last fall stretches ever skyward, and the tomato seedlings limber up just outside the greenhouse for planting in the field. Hands together sow and set, weed and work as the days get longer and the pond water warms. Another world shimmering and glowing with magic, love, and a little mystery, but thankfully real. A gift from a friend we will all deeply miss.”

Ken’s spiritual side was strong. Standing in the busy aisles of the Farmer’s Market, Dick Siegel said that “Ken was one of the most earthy, spiritual people that I knew. [He was] grounded totally in the earth and in the realm of heart and spirit. That allows me to accept his transition into the spiritual realm more easily. He was so much a part of that.”

Haju Sunim, the resident priest of The Zen Buddhist Temple in Ann Arbor, also knew Ken well. In a phone call talking about her relationship with Ken, she was concerned that “I don’t want to make a big thing about it because I don’t think he would have. But by virtue of his really gentle and almost invisible generosity for many years we [the temple] have had a bounty of kale, collards, broccoli, cauliflower and more. His influence has been felt a long way away through the greater sangha in a beautiful way. He was that kind of fellow. Sometimes I would ask him to advise us on how we were doing [in the garden]. He would come and walk around. One time he came and said ‘You guys just do not know how to weed!’ and brought us some special hoes.”

The King family made it possible for the temple to produce two musical CDs. “They believed in it so much that it helped to make it happen,” Haju said. And there were other ways that the King’s supported the temple. “They offered the building there at the farm for retreats. It felt like in a way part of a big family. I can’t say that I saw him more than 2-3 times a year, at market, when they came to drop things off, when we saw each other it was very kind of – so low key that it was sort of beautiful.” Haju finished by acknowledging that Ken is “an example of a person where ‘words fall short.’ When you can’t describe things with words and do it adequately. I found that to be true about him.”

Music has been an integral part of the King family’s life. In a recent interview for The Crazy Wisdom Community Journal article on Community Supported Agriculture, Ken’s wife and partner Cathy put it this way: “Community has always been important to Frog Holler Farm and the Kings’ love of music is evident in farm events such as barn dances and open mics. The farm also hosts the popular Holler Fest, a week-long music festival that has become an annual event. We have benefited greatly from our interaction with a supportive community through the years, and perhaps, the community as benefited from the possibility that food, culture and creativity can all be ‘locally grown.’”

Indeed, music, food and community blended in the creation of Holler Fest. Dick Siegel, a local musician, described this annual musical event as “a really important, significant nascent musical gathering in this part of Michigan. It will grow in importance, because of his kids, and [Ken's] own musical talent.” If you have never had a chance to enjoy The King Brothers perform their original music and covers, their work can be found on their MySpace page as well as on Billy King’s website. 

Of course, food at the musical festival is reportedly amazing, and one participant shared that the being served by the Kings made it even more of an extraordinary experience. The festival will go on this year. More information and a video of highlights from last year are online. 

And what is the future vision and dream for Frog Holler Farm? Jim Bremmer of Merry Berry Farm, with his wife Mary Ann, have been at the Farmers Market for over 15 years. When I talked to them on Saturday, they immediately mentioned Ken’s friendly smile and friendly spirit. Jim commented that “sometimes the dad leaves and the kids don’t want to farm.” With the King boys, he thought, “They’ve been doing it long enough that it’s part of their lives.” Peter Stark of Renaissance Acres, another vendor at the Farmers Market, agreed. “It’s great that he’s passed it on to his kids, and they’ve kept it going.”

Indeed, Billy King, one of Ken’s three sons, told me, “That’s the plan, to keep it going. There has been an outpouring of support, volunteers and workers.” 

Though his dad had died just days before, Billy was at the Frog Holler stall selling plants and greeting regular customers, busy as usual. “It’s the right thing to do” said Billy. “It is exactly what he would want us to do.”

When someone who stopped by asked what he could do to help, Billy’s response was “Whatever you are moved to do.”

About his dad’s death, Billy told me that “last fall he was diagnosed with a brain tumor. After that he had his ups and downs, and no one could tell us how it would progress. He had radiation and alternative treatments. One thing that happened was that he was anxious. He couldn’t get that under control… It was probably the tumor, growing and pressing on some part of the brain.”

“In his last week things changed quickly. They said that could happen. For 2-3 days he slipped into unconsciousness and was comfortable.” Ken was in hospice care before losing consciousness and dying. “We thought he’d be around for the summer.” Billy told me. “It took us by surprise.”

Billy answered a friend’s inquiry about a memorial service: “We want to do the right kind of thing, in the right spirit. Something low key, and of course there will be music.” He paused, looked around at the people and produce and plants that surrounded us and pronounced, “The whole summer is going to be a tribute.”

Dick Siegel had this final thought about the death of his long time friend, Ken King.

“He just took one foot off the earth just now.”

About the writer: Linda Diane Feldt is a local holistic health practitioner, writer, teacher, and gardener. She is associated with the People’s Food Co-op as a board member, and volunteer teacher. 

Part of the Frog Holler Farm stall at Saturday's Ann Arbor Farmers Market. A memorial to Ken King is in front of the sign for the farm.