Craig and I spent years off and on, during and after high school, finding each other at different times. High School drama and productions dominated our pre-graduation experiences. We traveled to Mobile, Alabama for a competition play, danced in the Singing Christmas Tree at Ovens Auditorium, and took ballet lessons along with Jeff Deen at Gayle Porter's dance studio. Ms. Porter was British and encouraged better posture with smacks of a cane. Craig found it too painful. We spent a lot of time together with Marc Washburn and other notables after I returned from the Navy; traveled to Florida for Craig's first marriage ceremony, and stored his bumper pool table for him while I attended UNCC for 2 years. Craig was hilarious and seemed able to get into trouble more for being generous than not. We attended several outdoor rock concerts together and each time he'd disappear, find his way home, and have a long story about "what you missed".
Traveling to Palm Beach to be best men, Marc drove his Firebird 400 all night with the top down because he couldn't get off work earlier. It was 150 miles and a tank of gas, but at 35 cents a gallon, it wasn't a hardship. We pulled into the driveway at the address he gave us and found ourselves in a glitzy neighborhood across the street from the Emily Post Estate. Craig was living in the upstairs apartment over a 4-car garage and asleep fully clothed, partially off the bed. We woke him up calling him the pool boy. Also stacked on the bed were our tuxedos; the creamy powder blue ones and white ruffled shirts. After restoring order, Craig left to run errands and told us to get ready around 12:00 and he'd be back. After a short nap, we showered and dressed in the tuxes and headed outside to throw a frisbee. In Palm Beach, you don't do that; suddenly we were "being arrested". Fortunately, though Craig is still no where to be seen, the bride's father pulled in and was able to get us released. Though our first meeting was tense, he grew to dislike us more after the ceremony. "With friends like these, the marriage won't last a year" was his toast (after a lot of tequila). Craig, someone to count on to back you up, countered the father (after a lot of tequila) toasting, it would last "at least 18 months". What's not right about that. Miss you Craig; happy hunting.
Daniel Travis
Craig and I spent years off and on, during and after high school, finding each other at different times. High School drama and productions dominated our pre-graduation experiences. We traveled to Mobile, Alabama for a competition play, danced in the Singing Christmas Tree at Ovens Auditorium, and took ballet lessons along with Jeff Deen at Gayle Porter's dance studio. Ms. Porter was British and encouraged better posture with smacks of a cane. Craig found it too painful. We spent a lot of time together with Marc Washburn and other notables after I returned from the Navy; traveled to Florida for Craig's first marriage ceremony, and stored his bumper pool table for him while I attended UNCC for 2 years. Craig was hilarious and seemed able to get into trouble more for being generous than not. We attended several outdoor rock concerts together and each time he'd disappear, find his way home, and have a long story about "what you missed".
Traveling to Palm Beach to be best men, Marc drove his Firebird 400 all night with the top down because he couldn't get off work earlier. It was 150 miles and a tank of gas, but at 35 cents a gallon, it wasn't a hardship. We pulled into the driveway at the address he gave us and found ourselves in a glitzy neighborhood across the street from the Emily Post Estate. Craig was living in the upstairs apartment over a 4-car garage and asleep fully clothed, partially off the bed. We woke him up calling him the pool boy. Also stacked on the bed were our tuxedos; the creamy powder blue ones and white ruffled shirts. After restoring order, Craig left to run errands and told us to get ready around 12:00 and he'd be back. After a short nap, we showered and dressed in the tuxes and headed outside to throw a frisbee. In Palm Beach, you don't do that; suddenly we were "being arrested". Fortunately, though Craig is still no where to be seen, the bride's father pulled in and was able to get us released. Though our first meeting was tense, he grew to dislike us more after the ceremony. "With friends like these, the marriage won't last a year" was his toast (after a lot of tequila). Craig, someone to count on to back you up, countered the father (after a lot of tequila) toasting, it would last "at least 18 months". What's not right about that. Miss you Craig; happy hunting.