(Editor’s Note: This remembrance of Marshall Butler comes on the 105th anniversary of his birth. It was written by his friend and former Hopkinsville resident Bobbie Smith Bryant. Butler was a classically trained concert pianist and professor at Hopkinsville Community College. He died in 2015)
As my late friend Marshall Butler’s birthday approaches, (Dec. 8), I delight in remembering his dry sense of humor and his enduring friendship. My first memory of Mr. Butler was attending a community concert where he regaled the audience with the classical piano music for which he was noted. Leaves were falling on a crisp October evening in the 1980s, when, as a new resident of Hopkinsville, I found my way to Hopkinsville Community College for a free concert. My farm girl upbringing had not prepared me for this elegant performance. I learned quickly that clapping at the wrong time was frowned upon.
It wasn’t long after that evening that I was introduced to Mr. Butler. “Just call me Marshall,” he said with a warm smile and handshake.
His friendly demeanor belied his erudite, formal appearance: starched white shirt, perfectly knotted four-in-hand necktie, and tailored suit. During our conversation we discovered that we shared several friends, went to the same church, both enjoyed bourbon, and a good laugh. I also learned that he did not drive, preferring to walk to necessary destinations. It just happened that my business was on his way home from businesses downtown, so he frequently stopped by The Showcase, at the corner of 16th and Clay Streets, to say hello.
As our friendship grew, I had the privilege to visit his home, hear him practice piano, and tell off-color limericks. I even had the honor of interviewing him when I worked for TV-43, for the Heartland series — a monthly broadcast featuring notable people of Western Kentucky.
One of my favorite memories of Marshall was the year he cleaned out a closet at his home and came across a small, neatly wrapped Christmas present. The faded colors of the wrapping paper clearly showed it had been in the closet for many years. He showed it to anyone that would pay attention. He wasn’t sure who it was purchased for, or why it was never given to the recipient. In talking about it for months on end, speculation grew, and gossip reverberated throughout the city. He encouraged every person he came in contact with to guess what was in the box.
A date for the “grand reveal” was ultimately set. Several friends were invited to his home. His typical, though questionable appetizers were set forth: Cheetos and bourbon on the rocks.
The tiny package was positioned in a place of prestige in the middle of the coffee table. Full-blown chatter finally gave way to the giggles as bets were placed on every inconceivable idea. Marshall stood and quieted those in attendance to a subdued reverence for the matter at hand. Ever the one for pomp and circumstance, the nattily dressed virtuoso, in his standard grey suit and tie, gently picked up the box and announced it was time to put everyone out of their misery.
With sophistication and verve that only Marshall could muster, he tugged the faded red ribbon and it floated evocatively to the floor. Gingerly picking at the corners of the folded paper, he pulled the yellow, aged tape, finding that it wouldn’t budge. Unwavering, he held the taped paper more firmly, and gave it a jerk. The paper tore away revealing the remnants, a non-descript brown box.
Every person in the room was seated at the edge of their chair. Eyes were glued on the box. Oh the suspense!
Calmly, Marshall flipped open the top of the box, and lifted from the tissue paper inside…a black, wrought iron, match holder, in the shape of a lady’s shoe.
His guests erupted in hysterics. For months Marshall had kept everyone suspended in agonizing curiosity; we half expected it to be an engagement ring from a romance gone wrong. We guessed everything in the world, but no one, not even Marshall, would have guessed this oddity.
There are so many more stories about this wonderfully talented man. It was an honor be his friend, and today, I celebrate his memory, with a shot of bourbon, and a bag of Cheetos.
(Bobbie Smith Bryant is a Calloway County native. She writes about her faith, family, heritage and culture of Western Kentucky.)
