(Originally submitted to the Minco Millennium Newspaper.)
It’s the weekend before Christmas and I had half a dozen topics lined up to write about: last minute shopping, mall crowds, fruit cakes (the kind you eat) and fruit cakes (the kind that visit during the holidays). Unfortunately over the weekend, another topic presented itself; my best friend’s grandfather, Marvin Kimbrough, passed away.
I met Jeff over twenty years ago on the first day of seventh grade in music class. As our music teacher handed out Xeroxed sheets of paper with lyrics to the song, “I Can Sing a Rainbow,” I turned to the kid next to me (a tall, lanky kid with wild hair and thick glasses) and said, “Are you going to sing this crap?” We agreed together that we would not, and a lifelong friendship was born out of our common hatred of singing songs about rainbows.
Of course we had more in common than our joint disgust of ditties praising multicolored meteorological phenomenon. Back in the mid-80s, Jeff and I shared lots of common interests, from computers and videogames to heavy metal music and Dungeons and Dragons. We were definitely geeks, but we were geeks happy hanging out with one another. Whether we were playing Photon Laser Tag, blasting aliens at the bowling alley’s arcade or pretending to be ninjas in the woods out behind my grandfather’s house, we were always happy existing under the radar, doing our own thing.
It wasn’t until November of 1988 that Jeff appeared on anyone’s radar, not for something he had done, but for what he was now driving — a 1981 Z28 Camaro in pristine condition. The car was white, loud, and fast as hell. Of course we wouldn’t discover just how fast the car was for some time because it took Jeff something like twenty attempt over six months to actually pass his driver’s test, but once he finally did we were golden. Around that same time I destroyed my first car (an old Mustang) and replaced it with a Formula Firebird. Another friend of ours (Andy) also ended up with a 1980 Z28, and the three of us would park together in the school parking lot every single morning, revving our engines and trying to look as cool as a bunch of sixteen and seventeen year old geeks can possibly look. We spent a lot of our time racing those cars, and even with my foot mashed to the floor, there was no doubt Jeff’s car was the fastest.
“That’s because my Papa Kimbrough balanced and blueprinted the engine,” Jeff would say. I didn’t even know what that meant, but I assumed whatever it was made cars go really fast. Like any group of teenagers we were hard on our cars, but no matter what Jeff did to that Z28 Grandpa Kimbrough was able to breath life back into it time and time again.
Marvin Kimbrough, known to many as “Kim,” owned Kim’s Automotive in Midwest City. When he wasn’t rebuilding Jeff’s Z28 (he did that at least twice) he was busy rebuilding half the cars in Midwest City. He retired from the business several years ago for about a year — then he built a new shop and reopened.
“I took my minivan in for Kim to look at one time because the Check Engine light was on,” said one lady during Saturday’s funeral service. “He looked over the engine and told me there wasn’t a problem. The next day the light came back on, so I took the car back in a second time. Again he assured me there was no problem with the engine. The next day the light was on again, so I took the car in a third time. ‘This will just take a minute,’ Kim said, and sure enough, the light never came on again. Kim later told me he had simply pulled the bulb out from behind the Check Engine light. I never had another problem with that minivan.”
Kim’s funeral was full of testimonials similar to that one, and many people repeated similar sentiments. “A handshake from Kim was a contract,” a few said. “He was a man’s man,” a couple others commented.
One elderly man slowly rose from the back of the church. “I remember the first time Kim and I got arrested together,” he began. Tears turned to laughter as the gentleman told his tale of a quail hunting adventure that had gone wrong.
“I heard a lot of great stories today,” I told Grandma Kimbrough after the service, “but I’ll bet I didn’t hear the really good ones.”
“You heard all the ones that could be told here,” she said, smiling.
While funerals are always sad, there was something different about this one. As I sat among Kim’s friends listening to stories of how many men he had mentored, how many widows he had helped and how many lives he had affected, I could tell that Papa Kimbrough was a very special man. Despite all the cold air that descended on Oklahoma this past weekend, there was undeniable warmth in the room that day.
Papa Kimbrough’s service was a touching ceremony for a man who touched so many. It’s easy to get caught up in all the superficial aspects of the holiday season. Instead, this year, spend some time thinking about the true meaning of Christmas. Hold the door for someone. Do a stranger a favor. Give someone a little less fortunate a helping hand. Think about how you would like to be remembered at your funeral. If there are people in your life who have affected or influenced you, tell them thanks. Tell someone you miss them. Tell someone you love them.
My condolences to the Kimbrough and Martin family. God bless you Papa Kimbrough, you will be missed.