A Tribute to Kevin Kelley

    After his diagnosis six months ago, Kevin spent the summer in and out of the hospital, bravely came to grips with his situation, and steeled himself to return in the fall.
    So day after day, he left his home on Southside, drove his beat-up Datsun pick-up to school, and, weak as he was, worked his magic in his art classroom.
    As was his wont, he maintained a low profile.  
    He remained, as always, a quiet, gentle, humble man, patiently sharing his passion with his students and his eclectic interests with his colleagues, just as he’d done since he joined the Collegiate Family 27 years ago.
    Then, a month ago on doctor’s orders, he stepped gracefully back. Mission accomplished. Legacy complete.

    Kevin and I talked often and candidly about the health issues that bound us. 
    No regrets, we agreed from the start. Take life as it comes. It is what it is…and all that.
    We looked positively to the future.
    We’d share a hospital room after transplants, keep the nurses and doctors laughing, emerge on the flip side with cool scars and stories to tell.
    For him, though, there would be no surgery. The cancer had spread too far.
    Our conditions were different.  A transplant would be my lifeline.
    He absorbed my news stoically, stared momentarily into the distance, and said simply, “I’m jealous.”
    Then he smiled. He wished me well as did Gail, his wife, his rock, his soul mate for 42 years.
    How classy, I thought. How gracious. How kind. How selfless.

    Kevin soldiered on.
    I drew inspiration from his struggle.  
    I thought I was tough.
    Make no mistake. Kevin wrote the book on tough.

    I flashed back to a Frostbite 15K down at VCU in the late ‘80s with a crew from Collegiate. We’d jog along, enjoy the company, tell a few jokes, stay warm, and, if so inclined, put the hammer down in the last mile.
    Kevin showed up. I didn’t even know he ran. He easily held pace. At the appointed time, he lit out for the finish. I gave chase, kept him in sight, but never caught him.  And he wasn’t even competing.  He was just enjoying the moment.
    I had no inkling then, of course, that in the greatest race of my life, I’d still be following his lead.

    There was that moment a decade ago that I undertook a Reflections piece on “Rivers,” his thought-provoking installation on display in the Hershey Center.
    Show me the sculptures, I said as I pulled my pad from my hip pocket. Tell me what they mean. I’ll take notes, go back to my office, and write.
    It’s not that simple, he cautioned gently, then added, It’s the artist who creates the work. It’s the viewer who completes it.
    I learned that Kevin loves the river, whether in his childhood home (Pittsburgh) or Richmond, for it provides a respite to fish, walk, wade, study, and observe.
    (The experience is) meditative, reflective, he explained.  You’re living in the now.  It’s stream of consciousness. Things are happening to you, and you’re part of them.
    I had an aesthetic revelation that day and learned, I think, a bit of what makes Kevin tick.

    Over the years, Kevin would often stop by my office on his way to lunch.
    We discussed whatever was on our minds.
    The subject notwithstanding, I learned.
    I always learned.
    I’ll miss those times.
    We’ll miss our friend.
       -- Weldon Bradshaw

    (There will be a celebration of Kevin's life Thursday, December 20, at 3 p.m. on the front lawn of the Upper School. 
     We will begin with a brief remembrance. A reception in Memorial Hall will follow.)