I was visiting my parents in Colorado and re-heating some leftover onion rings when I found out Phil died. Their drummer had called, and dad was on the phone with him for a long time. I was workin’ my fried food when he hung up, and I asked how Tony was doing. Dad walked by me without even looking up and said, “Phil died.” My father was never one to break bad news in a gentle way. I remember standing there watching the salty breading sizzle in the pan just kind of in shock.
A couple weeks later I was back in Chicago, and dad called to tell me there would be a memorial in Nashville. I thought, “Nashville isn’t all that far away; maybe I can make it down there. After some research I decided to go on my first ever Greyhound bus ride. The only reference point I had regarding Greyhound was that my best friend had once taken one from Nova Scotia to Colorado, and some guy with ET thumbs fell in love with her and wrote her this poem: “Roses are Red, Violets are Blue, I know we just met, but I want you to be my Boo.” I was excited, but my dad was horrified; he was sure it would be terrible and harbored fears that I’d be abducted or mugged. Spoiler alert: it was totally fine. There were many interesting characters on the bus, and by the end of the trip we were all best friends … though no one did write me any poetry.
When I arrived in Nashville, dad was outside the bus waiting to greet me. He took my bags and we headed to the big house we’d be sharing with almost all the members of the old road crew and the band. I hadn’t seen any of them in 15 years, and it was a joyous reunion. We caught up and cooked and sang and drank; my heart was so full. The next morning was just as wonderful as we all sipped coffee on the big deck and shared stories. Then it was time for the funeral.
The service was held in a Presbyterian church in Columbia, Tennessee. Phil’s hometown. It was sad, but the preacher had nice things to say in her sermon. She read a quote about “adorning oneself in garments of humility, kindness and grace.” That totally applied to Phil; the man exemplified all those things. She also mentioned a phrase he used to live by: “If your ego is in check, then your life is in check.” That was Phil too: A music legend, a rich and famous man who never let any of it go to his head.
Phil had a fantastic speaking voice; kind of scratchy, raspy and happy sounding. Though he was a Southern man he always spoke with an almost British accent. Maybe this was because most of the band was British and they spent years touring the UK. My mother and I were fortunate enough to join them on some UK tours when I was young.
After the service, they threw a wonderful party with a slideshow, a playlist of all non-Everly Brothers songs, and a delicious southern dinner. There was an open bar (Phil would have wanted it that way) and sweet tea for my dad who had a liver transplant seven years prior. I may have let dad have a couple drinks that weekend due to the circumstances. He had “a glass” of wine each night we were there, though I’m sure I saw that glass get refilled a couple times (Phil would have wanted it that way).
I was scheduled to return to Chicago the morning after the funeral, but there was so much love in that house I decided to eat the cost of the Sunday Greyhound ticket and leave the following day. It was definitely worth it, and I was able to stay for the big farewell dinner party with everyone. The funniest part is that dad was also scheduled to leave that day, but when he got to the Nashville airport, his plane had mechanical troubles and his flight was cancelled until the following morning! The weather was perfect and his was the only plane that had anything wrong with it, so he had to return to the house for the party too! I like to think that Phil was like, “Oh no, Sparky’s not going anywhere!” He was always bringing everyone together, even from the grave. Phil would have wanted it that way.