Worrell & Me

It has been eleven days since April 29, 2021 at 8:45am.  Many lives changed at that very moment.  We lost a friend, a friend of sixty-five years for me. 

Worrell’s son Billy, Bob Titley, and myself were present at his bedside when he took his last breath.  His departure seemed easy as he had been quiet and still for the last forty hours or so. 

I was six years old when my family moved from Anson, TX to Colorado City, TX.  We lived in a small rented duplex on Chestnut Street that was owned by the Berman brothers.  My walk, a journey for a six year old, through one alley to the east and backyard of the Summers’ home and on to Locust Street one block to the south would take me to the Worrell family residence.

Looking back on this adventure I remember no fear whatsoever.  I had heard from the other adventurous boys of the neighborhood that a big boy lived there.  This big boy was a mystery.  He was a Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn type.  He knew the Colorado River like the back of his hand.  He knew where the Indians camped on the riverbanks.  He had arrowheads, spearheads, scrapers, pieces of painted pottery, and countless items of great interest to a little boy.

Five years later at age eleven I wanted to be a scout.  There was Troop 21 in Colorado City and it was maxed out.  Worrell knew I wanted to be a scout.  We agreed that if I could recruit enough boys he would be the scoutmaster.  I was successful and Troup 22 was official.

A simple adventure would be an understatement for the next several years as most weekends consisted of sleeping bags, tents, and campfires.

After graduation in 1968 I enrolled in college at North Texas State University.  Worrell had shared stories about his experience at NTSU.  That same year Playboy Magazine did a story on the best colleges ranked on their reputation for partying.  NTSU was number one, so off I went and the magazine article proved to be correct.  Some of my weekday nights would find Worrell sleeping on my apartment couch or floor.  This was during his short-lived career as a life insurance salesman.

He sold insurance for New York Life.  His clientele was quickly exhausted in our hometown.  While he was peddling insurance he was also peddling his art.  Every policy he sold he would gift his client one of his small watercolor paintings.  These paintings generally were of a landscape in or around our hometown.

One day I was drawn up tighter than a snare drum sitting in a dentist chair.  The dentist was having a go at my mouth with a drill that felt the size of a small jackhammer.  I needed some focus.  I needed some focus on anything.  I scanned the wall behind the jackhammer operator and found a nicely framed watercolor.

When the painful deed was completed I asked the doctor if he still had his New York Life Insurance policy.  He appeared a little puzzled and asked me how I knew he had one.  Of course you know the answer!  It was a Worrell watercolor and I explained to the dentist how I knew the “rest of the story”.

I quit touring, playing, and writing music in 1982.  This was the first time that I recall the Scoutmaster being put out with me. Not one time, not one visit did he not voice his opinion, his dislike, and disappointment that I had taken up golf once again and put down the guitar.  He respected my reasons and the decision I made to call it quits, but remained relentless until I finally gave in and returned to my unfinished craft and love.

This return, of which he gave himself a hundred percent credit on many occasions, bonded our partnership in writing many, many songs over the next three decades.

I have been asked about our friendship countless times.  I was very close to my own father.  He was a stand up man who always gave me encouragement along with useable criticism.  He was my sounding board with a roadmap of routes of life to avoid.  My description has always been that Worrell was like a second father whom I could say an occasional four letter word and not suffer grave consequence as long as it did not have the word God in front of it.

Worrell supplied me with the same roadmap of encouragement that he has echoed to scores of his friends and followers.  All of us, according to him, are the absolute best in the world at what we do.

During his final days, as he would have it and as you would expect, there was a constant parade of friends.  They came from everywhere and all points in between to say their goodbyes.  Eventually a “NO VISITORS” sign had to be placed on the gate as he was slowly drifting away.

The family and friends who did remain worked as a loving team. I can only think of a few he would have wished to see regardless of the heartbreak he endured for the last year of his life and regardless of the outcome. 

Worrell has given his time and energy to my loved ones. He has married my children, baptized them, and conducted the funerals of Mary and my parents.  He has done the same for others, countless others. The void his death has left is everlasting.  Our lives will never be the same.

Tuesday morning when I walked into his room the last words he spoke to me were “There’s my Boy Scout” as I have remained for the last sixty years.

My friendship with the Scout Master was unconditional. We accepted each other with warts and all, good and bad, thick and thin, and always at the ready and always prepared.  Unconditional love and friendship is priceless.  It must be earned, guarded, and cherished.

I appreciate each and every one of you who reached out to us during this time.

Remember, “Our only true wealth is one another.”