Mike Tweed (1945-2008)

When I was in high school, a man named Mike Tweed entered our community, our family and my life. He came to us through the United Methodist Church when the conference assigned him to the congregation in Walnut. He wasn't a seminary-educated preacher, but, if I remember correctly, he did go to Duke periodically in the summers for some classes. He was a humble presence in the pulpit, full of analogies from the sports he loved so well and full of a sense of wonder at his being in such a position in such a place at all.

Probably the first memory of him I have is from the first service he conducted at Walnut Methodist. He was a singing preacher, and he called his wife Bobbie to the piano and the two of them did a Christianized version of "Bridge Over Troubled Water." I'm guessing that the walls of that church had heard little if anything like that before. Before long we were singing together--sometimes just the two of us but more often with Bobbie, my mom (Dot) and my aunt Ernie. Looking back on this, I can honestly say that, while the White Water Band began my band persona, Mike Tweed played a significant role in my early development as a solo performer and as a singer of songs to God. Some of you know my song "Dear Mother"; it was written during the time that Mike was a friend and a mentor. I might not be remembering this just right, but I think the first time I sang that song in a church service, Mike was so taken with it that he asked me to sing it again--in the same service. When I moved to Nashville the first time (1980) and then came home after a single semester at Belmont College, Mike was running sports store in west Asheville. He gave me a job there and kept me afloat as I tried to figure out who I was, what I was doing, where I was going.

After I moved to Nashville the second time--this time to stay for several years--Mike and I fell out of touch. I saw him from time to time and was able to keep some track of him through my aunt. And later, when we no longer saw each other except by rare chance, he developed diabetes. The disease, and possibly some poorly researched medication, worked him over severely. He lost at least one leg, maybe even both. I admit that I couldn't see him like that and never sought him out, which I regret.

The last time I saw him was before the loss of the leg. My nephew was playing basketball at North Buncombe High School, and I went to the game. AC Reynolds was Mike's favorite team, and I guess North Buncombe must have been playing Reynolds that night. At halftime, I went to the concession stand and got in line, and I saw Mike at the counter getting some snacks. As he turned to make room for the next in line and walked past me, I put on a rough mountain voice and said something like "What're you doing here?" He was startled and nearly dropped his stuff. I didn't know that his eyesight was getting bad--being in his early 50s and already suffering from his disease. He thought at first that I was some ruffian he'd offended by perhaps being a bit of a smartass at some previous game. But then he peered closely at my face and recognized me, and we had a good laugh and a good visit.

Tonight I opened an email from my aunt Ernie and learned that Mike died on Friday the 12th. His funeral was yesterday. I missed it all. I lived these last few days completely unaware that a one-time mentor and friend was no longer in the world with me. But I think he is still in my past, securely holding a place there from which his death can't tear him away, a place where he is still laughing with me, still being my friend, still cheering me on, still singing with me.