DBP - In Memoriam - August 2019

In Memoriam

D. Brent Pogue (1964-2019)

(Dallas) After so many years, it's not easy to catch-up. We "pledged" to a fraternity together in Austin 36-years ago and could not have expected Brent's death to provide the reason we all gathered together again last week. His passing was a shock. As a cornerstone of the class and a leader in his own "maverick" way, boldly self-confident; he used the same professorial discernment that made him a world-class numismatist. He could see right through your bullshit; past the armor-plated silver, copper, or gold. 

He wasn't naive, but he was generous and soft-hearted. The life of the party, but with a collector's quiet demeanor, and an analytical side bordering on intellectual; he was passionate but didn't give two f*x about some of the things that drove his pledge brothers. He was a devout family man, but didn't have his own nuclear family depending on him. He was a man of contrasts; he was our friend.

On one hand DBP loved Texas, but he lived in California. Brent would enjoy hanging-out and celebrating with you before a football game, but nonetheless he was also very private. Our visitation time during Tuesday, Aug. 13, and Wednesday, Aug. 14 was too brief. Approximately 20 men gathered and like speed-dating, tried to reconnect, remember, and understand where life had taken each one of them on their own journey. Despite the tragedy, we stretched to get past the "secondary-self," which (Ted Hughes alleges) is artificially constructed to deal with the outer world, and the crush of circumstances. Many conversations got past the benign, shedding the outer shell; but as I will try to explain, some did not.

When a few of the pledge class themselves became "trainers" to younger pledges, they took on a "mean" persona. I remember how Brent did it; and there were others. It was a role they assumed by taking the job of overlord. But in contrast, I'm not using mean to convey difficulty. In math, "mean" represents a calculated "central" value of a set of numbers. In organizational psychology a group can "revert to the mean" in the sense that under pressure, they will fall back onto the core values and behaviors that they know best and with which they are most comfortable.

That was going on while we met last week in Dallas. I'm not being critical or speaking as an expert, but with a short amount of time and the many years behind us, we all came to this situation a little raw, reflective, and regretful. Maybe losing touch with Brent represented the lack of engagement we felt as a whole, adding to the duress of experiencing the grief of his passing. One brother called our time "poignant" which is the mood I'm trying to capture here. Another suggested that the way to honor Brent's life and redeem his untimely death, was (and will be) to meet and use the event as an opportunity to reconnect and share new moments together.

The thought in financial circles is that any price that strays from the long-term norm, will again return, or "revert" to its understood state. In my example, since it had been so long since our group spent time together as a pledge class, the personalities, patterns, philosophies, and profiles that were applicable 36-years ago, quickly returned in the few hours we were together. It's been said that mimicking the herd invites this reversion to the mean, and in part due to "efficiency" I heard some original dispositions that I remembered while being an active member of the group so many years ago back in Austin. Reaching consensus involves active listening, which takes effort; nevertheless, it could be that these men are "hard-wired" to behave a certain way in the presence of one of their oldest tribes. Again, I'm not an expert. But there was a very familiar vibe, and I pictured Brent's ghost in the middle of it all, playing his unique role.

We all shared a good "Pogue" story and lifted a few toasts in his honor. Tuesday night's opening at Dallas' Crescent Hotel provided the ice-breaker; thank-you to the hosts: the honorary pall-bearers. The Memorial Wednesday afternoon was "serviceable" but I wish that more of Brent's fun personality had been highlighted during the ceremony. I was not present for the burial at Sparkman/Hillcrest, but I'm sure he's resting under a perfect patch of finely manicured Bermuda-grass. Give the boy a 5-iron for that lie, and swing for the pin Pogo. 

My wild "Pogue" story concerns the Thanksgiving Day we spent watching the Dallas version of the "Ice Bowl" at Texas Stadium in 1993, when the Cowboys' Leon Lett gave us the biggest memory of the season. However, our unique memory before the game occurred driving to the stadium, completing a 360° spin on the icy streets, and just continuing calmly forward in the same direction toward our goal, the game. It was shockingly fast and dangerous, but no one was hurt. Of the many stories told, mine was mild; the Austin narrative tended to be more humorous, edgy, and cool.

Indeed, I feel the same way about Brent's death. Unexpected, sad, but at the same time buoyed up by seeing old friends; I think we've been spun around 360° and shocked by the sudden passing of a vibrant and powerful force in our lives. His memory will stay alive, but we all have to keep moving forward once again. Brent taught us many things: business, economics, negotiation, discipline, humor, football, teamwork, attention to detail, loyalty, fun, courage, passion, kindness, generosity, but most of all we'll remember the love emanating from his natural smile, what some would call an "impish grin." Those qualities will echo on forever and be with us in spirit, every time we meet.

If anything can overcome our sadness, it's remembering how we all came together; at the same time familiar, yet older, wiser, gentlemen who have been up and down, with all sorts of life experiences. I couldn't help but notice in the men gathered: their lines, gray hair, but overall wisdom and good health. Most have become very successful at what they do, many have well-raised children doing great things, even attending the University of Texas at Austin like their fathers. Many are quite generous, helping numerous people on a daily and weekly basis, in all walks of life. The diversity was refreshing.


Outstanding men, delightful to be around, they're businessmen, lawyers, entrepreneurs, pastors, managers, IT geeks, financial planners, entertainment executives, bankers, builders, counselors, husbands, fathers, brothers. Feeding off of each other 36-years ago, learning about life and preparing for their futures, they came back around last week, eager to find out how it all turned out. At the center of all the sharing and revelation, was the magic of how strong and mysterious links enchain the heart to the regions where the "morn of life" was spent. Again, Ted Hughes would say, "the only calibration that counts is how much "heart" people invest with each other; how much they ignore their fears of being hurt, or caught-out, or humiliated. And the only thing men regret is that they didn't live boldly enough, that they didn't invest enough heart, didn't love enough. Nothing else really counts at all." 


Brent's shining example centers at the heart of this group: in his rising to the pinnacle of his profession and by showing the kind of passion rarely seen in the history of collecting rare "early-Federal" coins. There are other stories of success from this group, but I don't have the time nor the space. I will conclude by expressing gratitude to my brothers, congratulations for their accomplishments, and offering an invitation to continue sharing, as the rest of our story unfolds, for however long we are here. Meanwhile, if I may speak for our pledge class, I also want to thank the Pogue family, offer condolences, and tell them that we'll lift up Brent's memory always, and that it will never be forgotten. 

Respectfully submitted, 
MHP

©Mark H. Pillsbury (2019)

Part III: The Funeral of Shelby Austin

(Photo: AP Photo/Jason DeCrow)

“What the f*<k you mean I ain’t invited?!” Gerri shouted at the large man outfitted entirely in black, holding a walkie-talkie. “She was my wife, for Chr^st sake!”

Just inside the narthex of the huge New Hope Baptist church in Atlanta, Georgia, the scene played out with crowds surging inside the sanctuary.

The dark clouds over a noontime Atlanta sky heightened the somber mood of the congregants, even though Gerri Green’s passion was crackling like lightening inside the foyer of the church.

He leaned into the security guard but pointed toward the front of the building, where displayed upon a raised bier was a platinum casket with silver handles, adorned with hundreds of red roses, and covered by black velvet; appropriate for the saddest pop icon the world knew, Shelby Austin, otherwise known as the “Voice.”

Pleading and arguing at the same time, Gerri said, “This is not right, my man; Shelby was my life. I have to sit up front, I was her husband?!” The guard, unmoved, retorted dryly, “You were her husband, Gerri,” “You’re not family anymore, and only family are sitting upfront. Period.”

The big security guard was doing the pointing now, “no one gets up there without me escorting them.” 

But Gerri was gone...

He moved like a cat, avoiding the nine-lives bestowed upon a feline, swiftly pushing open the two swinging oak doors and walking right up to the center aisle of the church under the watchful eyes of mourners. Just like Gerri to demand the attention of the moment, he stopped right in front of the pewter colored box and dropped to one knee, doffing his black fedora. You could have heard a pin drop to the old slate floor.

All week Shelby struggled with her addictions and the impending 4^th trip to a very private rehab clinic near Sedona, Arizona. Jittery at rehearsals for the Grammys® and avoiding accountability from her handlers, Shelby was going to have one last “good” weekend in L.A. before trying to kick pills and booze once again, helped by professionals. Her mentor Clive Davis’ party at the Beverly Hills Hilton was the warm-up for Sunday’s awards ceremony at which she was scheduled to sing. The practice sessions were dreadful, but she kept assuring Clive that she was quitting cigarettes, getting healthy.

Gerri Green did not force the Voice to lace her marijuana cigarettes with base cocaine, but by the end of their tumultuous 15-year marriage they were buying kilos of the drug to blow together. The weight of his guilt and the reality of her passing drew him here today, even though he was not welcomed.

“I am so sorry for what I have done, God.” Gerri prayed at her coffin. “Keep her and protect her,” he was tearful yet defiant, he could feel the daggers in his back as thousands stared, seeing him as to blame somehow for her death. “She was your angel, Lord, take her back now; thank you for my time, for her love.” Gerri got up slowly, kissed the index and middle fingers of his right hand, and touched the sealed coffin, dropping his head and turning just as the security team reached him. “Good-bye, sugar,” he said, looking back toward Shelby.

He could barely walk down the aisle, the retinue almost carried him by the elbows. All agility and power were gone, seemingly left at the foot of the coffin with his prayers. Gerri Green was a broken, forlorn man retreating toward the rear of the chapel. The squawking walkie-talkies chirped over the silent stares of each row as he was escorted out ignominiously, like a criminal on a perp-walk, destination: an Atlanta police car.

She could not beat this devil, nor the others that haunted her; Gerri Green was the personification of the wrong turns her life took in the 1990s, from which Shelby Austin never recovered. Now she was free. Even though her body was tightly enclosed in front of the throngs of friends and admirers assembled here today, later to be laid to rest; her soul was in heaven. Shelby was singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs among the angels, and making music to the Lord with a joyful heart.

Life is lived either moving toward God or away from Him. Shelby’s commitment to her Lord wavered over the journey through fame, which turned out to be a cortege. All our most lovely moments perhaps are timeless, and so it was as Gerri made his way out of the church and into a waiting cab; he heard the song playing on the Atlanta FM station, surely commemorating the somber ceremony about to start behind him. It was the song that always reminded him of her love, and he hated to share the damn thing with millions of fans. The warmth he felt of the “good old days” of which the song reminded him, was surely the illusion of timelessness, and yet he was sure Shelby would have wanted to say good-bye before he left.

As the song played on the car radio, he spoke to her again, ripping apart inside, but with a proud exterior, “dear Shelby, I will miss you so much, you were the best thing that ever happened to me and I screwed it all up!” “Please forgive me and watch over Bobbi Kristina. I will always love you.”

“Now drive!” he screamed to the cab-driver, and it was over; he could look toward the church no longer.

©Mark H. Pillsbury
[this is a fictional account partly based on real life characters, not meant to be factual; it is a dramatization of Whitney Houston's funeral, any other similarities are coincidental]