A REPOST FROM 2009.
We have a saying up here in the mountains: every story ends in death.
It comes from the fact that if you're talking to an old-timer, inevitably, no matter what you're talking about, the conversation will end with talking about somebody dying.
I was up here on vacation from Florida one time when a man who lived nearby strolled over to where my sons and I were fishing in the Chestatee River. When he found out my family was from here, and realized we were related, he visited for a while. Then he became silent, pointed up at the mountain across the river, and said, "Ye know, that's whar Beulah Gaddis got kilt." Every story ends in death.
Ed McMahon. Farrah Fawcett. Michael Jackson. All dead, all last week.
But wait, there's more.
BILLY MAYS, HE OF THE "HI, BILLY MAYS HERE FOR...." FAME, DIED YESTERDAY MORNING AT HIS TAMPA HOME.
I LOVED BILLY MAYS.
When I told my sweetheart about a new show coming on called "Pitchmen", starring BILLY MAYS and Anthony Sullivan, she said, "Now don't think I'm stupid, but didn't BILLY MAYS play baseball?" When I told my mama last night about his death she asked the same question.
I don't think they're stupid. They're not expected to know about a guy who started pitching items at county fairs and on the boardwalk at Atlantic City. But to a guy who sells for a living, BILLY MAYS was an icon.
He didn't play second fiddle to a talk-show host, or have a poster ogled by teenagers, or ogle teenagers. He just sold stuff.
Orange Glo, OxyClean, Mighty Putty, Kaboom, even ESPN. He knew how to sell, and he loved what he did.
He once said he could never sell a product he couldn't believe in. I can identify with that.
His wife said when she went to wake him early Sunday morning he was unresponsive.
Of course he was. He was already at the Gate, saying in that booming voice, "HI, I'M BILLY MAYS."
WORDS IN THIS POST IN ALL CAPS ARE IN HONOR OF THE ONE-YEAR ANNIVERSARY OF BILLY MAYS' PASSING.
just like all those in lower case remember mj a year later. too.