Mr. Poole

Mr. Poole died this week. For the past 30-years he’s told me to call him Bill, but he will forever be Mr. Poole.

Between the ages of 14 and 20, the Poole house was my home away from home. I probably spent the night there at least 30 times a year. I am thankful he never charged me and the entire crew for eating and drinking him out of house and home!

One weekend, he confronted our group about some missing Chivas Regal. I told him I didn’t “Know Nothing About No Buick Regal.” It took a while for him to let me live it down.

I also had a Bassett Hound who would wander the neighborhood and knock over trash cans. One morning early he found my dog with her collar stuck on the post that rolls the cans out to the road. He gently helped my dog loose and then kicked over the trash can for her and said, “Have at it!”

One thing I am so thankful to Bill Poole for is my love of Jazz music and Frank Sinatra. I guess I was about 15 years old when I walked in the house and he was playing Frank Sinatra and his Concert for the Americas. I may have been the only 16-year-old driving around with cassettes of Frank Sinatra, Earl Klugh, Grover Washington, Jr., Stanley Clark and George Duke. Now that I think of it, that may explain my dating history or lack thereof.

When I look back on my teenage years I am thankful for a wonderful neighborhood (Holly Tree), back yard football, hide and seek, riding my bike everywhere, learning to drive, dozens of friends, first kisses, broken hearts, big apologies, too many of William’s car accidents to count and being raised by a group of adults that weren’t my parents but then again were! Know what I mean?

Thanks Mr. Poole! ……..Bill.