Our dear friend and Kunati Author Red Evans passed away. We will miss him. His humor and words live on in his wonderful novel ON ICE.
Red Evans, author of On Ice, passed away this Sunday morning on January 13, 2008.
Thank you to everyone who wrote kind words to Red and his family during his illness.
The crowning of his long and productive life in radio, television, and public relations was becoming a published author. With a shout of "Ah Scooby Do," his lead in as the DJ “Rockin’ Redhead,” he entered the Pearly Gates conjuring up thoughts for his first heavenly novel.
Red saw humor and sparkling life in everything, evident in his writing. He never lost his humor. He joked, "now my cancer has cancer."
A now-famous scene in On Ice portrays, the Not-Forgotten Funeral Home. We will certainly NOT forget (copyright Red Evans)—
Excerpt from On Ice —
The Not Forgotten Funeral Home employee stood spellbound by the huge man with eagle feathers flickering in the afternoon breeze. Felton followed him up the stairs with his pork pie hat over his heart. At the top, he called across to me in the lawn area, “After Whistler gets his run, Eldy, you come on in. We’ll be with Mr. Tweedleman. You can’t miss him. He’s been dead since he was born.”
Felton waved the hat at the employee who was still standing by the Studebaker, mouth wide open, not knowing whether to crap or go blind. “Well come on, man. What are you standing there for? Ichthius Tweedleman’s got a lot to do to make old Tyrane here acceptable to the Gatekeeper. Close your mouth so the flies don’t get in, and come on!”
We had bought a leash for Whistler at a K-Mart, since it didn’t seem like a good idea to go to another Wal-Mart. They might have an all-store-bulletin out for a man and a greased boy who was attacked by mad pedalfiles. The leash was in a plastic case, and you pulled it out like a metal tape rule. It was real long and gave old Whistler a lot of room to roam. I tied it off on the branch of a bush and walked back to the plantation house.
The funeral home wasn’t anything like Harold’s Funeral Chapel, Vinyl Siding and Windows Company in Jupiter Bluff. Apparently, all the Not Forgotten Funeral Home did was bury folks. They didn’t display stuff like Harold’s does. At Harold’s, there were miniature model windows on stands outside of the chapel with prices on ‘em written neat and kind of solemn, so no one would be offended. People could slide the different windows up and down to see how smooth they worked. The day before the services, when folks visited the casket, quiet conversations were often drowned out by the scrape of windows going up and down. That probably took people’s minds off the death of a dear one, ya know.
Harold’s also covered the walls in the chapel with various types of siding, so between bereavements, one could think about redoing the house with the insurance money.
The Not Forgotten Funeral Home was like a tomb, not like at Harold’s where there was a pegboard wall of window accessories, such as locks, sashes, and frame selections. Men gathered around the display to talk about their own windows, comparing locks, panes, and window frames. It was all kind of homey.
The inside of this funeral home was graveyard silent except for an antique grandfather clock I passed in the hall that bonged at my ear, making me almost wet my pants. The place had a funny smell that I couldn’t pin down. It was like sour peaches and popcorn is the best I could think of. The carpet felt like thick mowed grass, and on the walls were huge pictures of fields and forests.
I came to a glass-fronted door that read: “Ichthius Tweedleman, III” behind which I could hear voices, including Felton’s distinctive scratchy one that arrested everybody in our living room. I could also hear that rumble from the Indian’s big chest. When I opened the door and walked in, I knew right away that we had stepped in chicken poop that I could almost feel ooze between my toes.
Red will be missed. His words and humor touched everyone. They will live forever in our memories and his writings.
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My latest novel is generating quite a sensation both in literary circles and in the "Tarot" community. This was somewhat deliberate on my part. I've been a "Tarot journeyer" for 35 years, since I picked up my first deck, a Waite-Smith Pixie deck in 1972. The Tarot is, perhaps, the richest source of visual archetypes, and appeals to creative people, generally, although I was never sure if a mainstream novel would appeal to broad audiences if deliberately flouting its Tarot-roots. 
