Casey's life was not a happy one, except in early childhood when he lived with his mother, Marthasil, and his maternal grandfather, Silvanus Elmer Reamy, in the 1960's. His grandfather, recovering from a heart attack, was unemployed and cared for Casey during the day while Casey's mother worked. In those years, Casey was the sergeant and his grandfather was the corporal. He would burst through the door shouting for the corporal, barking orders, and revealing the latest military disaster in the backyard, where Casey had buried hundreds, if not thousands, of two-inch, little green, plastic soldiers. His grandfather would smile and, like all soldiers since time immemorial, do his best to keep his sergeant happy. Those years on Palm Street in Pecos, Texas, were the best years of Casey's tragic life.
After his mother, who also loved him dearly, remarried (his biological father had abandoned them before Casey was born), Casey left Palm Street. All he seemed to find was rejection. Over the years he turned to drugs and alcohol and had a number of brushes with the law as he grew older, almost all drug-related.
Casey was a big fellow and tough as the big steel pipes he manhandled in the New Mexico oil fields, where he worked as a roughneck. The family still laughs about the time some hood cut in line in front of him at a local convenience store in Las Lunas, NM. Casey, in his amused, it-doesn't-matter way, said good-naturedly, "Oh, in a hurry, eh?" The young tough, shooting him a threatening look, said, "You got a problem, man?" and stayed right where he was in line--ahead of Casey. After Casey paid the cashier, the tough guy and a friend were waiting for him outside. He left them both laid out & unconscious on the store's parking lot and calmly drove home chuckling about it. He never broke a sweat nor got even remotely angry. He kind of enjoyed the encounter.
Then there was his gentle side. His half-brother, William "Billy" Creech, once related a story of the day he was driving Casey home from the doctor's office in Albuquerque when Casey spotted a homeless man on the shoulder of the highway. He had Billy pull over, and Casey emptied his wallet, selflessly giving the money to a person in need. It couldn't have been much, but it was all Casey had. In that way, he was much like the grandfather he loved so much.
One day, the doctor told Casey that just one more beer could kill him. He bought a six-pack. Like the country song "Whiskey Lullabye" says, "He put a bottle to his head and pulled the trigger."
Casey deserved better.
After his mother, who also loved him dearly, remarried (his biological father had abandoned them before Casey was born), Casey left Palm Street. All he seemed to find was rejection. Over the years he turned to drugs and alcohol and had a number of brushes with the law as he grew older, almost all drug-related.
Casey was a big fellow and tough as the big steel pipes he manhandled in the New Mexico oil fields, where he worked as a roughneck. The family still laughs about the time some hood cut in line in front of him at a local convenience store in Las Lunas, NM. Casey, in his amused, it-doesn't-matter way, said good-naturedly, "Oh, in a hurry, eh?" The young tough, shooting him a threatening look, said, "You got a problem, man?" and stayed right where he was in line--ahead of Casey. After Casey paid the cashier, the tough guy and a friend were waiting for him outside. He left them both laid out & unconscious on the store's parking lot and calmly drove home chuckling about it. He never broke a sweat nor got even remotely angry. He kind of enjoyed the encounter.
Then there was his gentle side. His half-brother, William "Billy" Creech, once related a story of the day he was driving Casey home from the doctor's office in Albuquerque when Casey spotted a homeless man on the shoulder of the highway. He had Billy pull over, and Casey emptied his wallet, selflessly giving the money to a person in need. It couldn't have been much, but it was all Casey had. In that way, he was much like the grandfather he loved so much.
One day, the doctor told Casey that just one more beer could kill him. He bought a six-pack. Like the country song "Whiskey Lullabye" says, "He put a bottle to his head and pulled the trigger."
Casey deserved better.
Casey's life was not a happy one, except in early childhood when he lived with his mother, Marthasil, and his maternal grandfather, Silvanus Elmer Reamy, in the 1960's. His grandfather, recovering from a heart attack, was unemployed and cared for Casey during the day while Casey's mother worked. In those years, Casey was the sergeant and his grandfather was the corporal. He would burst through the door shouting for the corporal, barking orders, and revealing the latest military disaster in the backyard, where Casey had buried hundreds, if not thousands, of two-inch, little green, plastic soldiers. His grandfather would smile and, like all soldiers since time immemorial, do his best to keep his sergeant happy. Those years on Palm Street in Pecos, Texas, were the best years of Casey's tragic life.
After his mother, who also loved him dearly, remarried (his biological father had abandoned them before Casey was born), Casey left Palm Street. All he seemed to find was rejection. Over the years he turned to drugs and alcohol and had a number of brushes with the law as he grew older, almost all drug-related.
Casey was a big fellow and tough as the big steel pipes he manhandled in the New Mexico oil fields, where he worked as a roughneck. The family still laughs about the time some hood cut in line in front of him at a local convenience store in Las Lunas, NM. Casey, in his amused, it-doesn't-matter way, said good-naturedly, "Oh, in a hurry, eh?" The young tough, shooting him a threatening look, said, "You got a problem, man?" and stayed right where he was in line--ahead of Casey. After Casey paid the cashier, the tough guy and a friend were waiting for him outside. He left them both laid out & unconscious on the store's parking lot and calmly drove home chuckling about it. He never broke a sweat nor got even remotely angry. He kind of enjoyed the encounter.
Then there was his gentle side. His half-brother, William "Billy" Creech, once related a story of the day he was driving Casey home from the doctor's office in Albuquerque when Casey spotted a homeless man on the shoulder of the highway. He had Billy pull over, and Casey emptied his wallet, selflessly giving the money to a person in need. It couldn't have been much, but it was all Casey had. In that way, he was much like the grandfather he loved so much.
One day, the doctor told Casey that just one more beer could kill him. He bought a six-pack. Like the country song "Whiskey Lullabye" says, "He put a bottle to his head and pulled the trigger."
Casey deserved better.
After his mother, who also loved him dearly, remarried (his biological father had abandoned them before Casey was born), Casey left Palm Street. All he seemed to find was rejection. Over the years he turned to drugs and alcohol and had a number of brushes with the law as he grew older, almost all drug-related.
Casey was a big fellow and tough as the big steel pipes he manhandled in the New Mexico oil fields, where he worked as a roughneck. The family still laughs about the time some hood cut in line in front of him at a local convenience store in Las Lunas, NM. Casey, in his amused, it-doesn't-matter way, said good-naturedly, "Oh, in a hurry, eh?" The young tough, shooting him a threatening look, said, "You got a problem, man?" and stayed right where he was in line--ahead of Casey. After Casey paid the cashier, the tough guy and a friend were waiting for him outside. He left them both laid out & unconscious on the store's parking lot and calmly drove home chuckling about it. He never broke a sweat nor got even remotely angry. He kind of enjoyed the encounter.
Then there was his gentle side. His half-brother, William "Billy" Creech, once related a story of the day he was driving Casey home from the doctor's office in Albuquerque when Casey spotted a homeless man on the shoulder of the highway. He had Billy pull over, and Casey emptied his wallet, selflessly giving the money to a person in need. It couldn't have been much, but it was all Casey had. In that way, he was much like the grandfather he loved so much.
One day, the doctor told Casey that just one more beer could kill him. He bought a six-pack. Like the country song "Whiskey Lullabye" says, "He put a bottle to his head and pulled the trigger."
Casey deserved better.
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