James Etheridge

The sentence I am about to write is the hardest one I have ever written and one I never thought I would write. Barry Pratt is gone. His passing leaves a huge hole in the lives of the many who knew him, none more so than his wife Debbie, his children Brandi, Krystle and Kevin and his brother Kenny.

I have known Barry and Kenny since our childhood days in Gresham Park. In all the years I knew Barry I never heard anyone say one cross word about him. He was larger than life, a big man, gregarious, caring and compassionate. He was a patriot who loved his family above all.  His friends were legion. Our friend Cyndi said, “When you think about our group, Barry was the one who brought us all together.” That was certainly the case, but besides our circle of friends, he brought together so many others.

As successful as he and Debbie were in business, they never let it go to their heads. They were generous, giving and their summer holiday pool parties were the stuff of legend. There were always at least twenty folks in and around the pool and they were all there because of Barry. He had a certain way that made people like him instantly. After childhood and high school, life happened and we lost touch, but reconnected in 1991 when my late wife Marie and I began attending Calvary Christian Church. Barry was our Sunday school teacher and over the years I came to love him like the brother I never had.

At Easter one year we did a production of a Living Last Supper, based on the painting by Leonardo Da Vinci. I was James The Lesser and Barry was Nathanael. We were next to each other in the group at the left hand side of the table when looking at the stage. One by one, each of us would break our pose, speak our lines to the audience and then return to pose. While rehearsing one evening, one of the disciples broke his pose and began to speak. He was wearing jeans, had a can of Copenhagen in his back pocket and a big pinch between his lip and gum. “Me and m’brother was fishin’,” he said as he began to speak. Still in pose, Barry and I began to snicker. He leaned over to me and whispered, “What do you think they were using for bait, pink worms or red wigglers?” “Chicken livers,” I replied. Barry put his head down we both gripped the table, shaking uncontrollably and trying not bust out in peals of laughter.

Thanks to Barry and Debbie setting up cruises and inviting us to spend weeks in Florida with them at their time share condos, I was able to see a good bit of my limited travels of the world. We went snorkeling in the Stirrup Cays and in Key West. The trip in Key West turned into a huge beer and champagne spray fight in the stern of the boat. The water was too murky to snorkel in, so the captain opened up the coolers. I’m sure it was a decision he came to regret.

We rode horses in the surf off the Yucatan peninsula and ate lobster in Bar Harbor (pronounced Bah Hahbah) Maine. We saw a rocket launch while in Cocoa Beach. It was about five in the evening and the launch had been announced on the news. A crowd gathered on the beach, but since our condo was beachfront, we walked out onto the patio to watch. We heard the rumbling of the engine first. The rocket appeared to our left, roared overhead, then grew smaller and smaller until it disappeared into the heavens.

While in Panama City one beautiful October week, we had dinner on the patio at a place called Coconuts. Our server was tiny, about four-foot-nine, if even that. Beside the door to the patio was a big boat oar, painted blue with names all over where people had signed it. At one point our server walked over, picked up the oar and returned to a table. One of the guys at the table got up, bent over and the server hauled off and gave him a huge swat on the backside. He signed the oar and the server returned the oar to its place. When she checked on us at our table, Barry asked her, “How do you get to sign the oar?” “If it’s your birthday and you agree to a birthday spanking, you get to sign it,” she replied. “Well, it’s my birthday,” said Barry.
“Let me see your license.” He showed her his license.
“Your birthday’s in June.”
“I wanna sign the oar. How about if I give you five dollars?”
“Works for me.”
Barry handed her a five and she retrieved the oar. Barry bent over a chair. This girl may have only been four-foot-nine, but she took a full backswing and nearly came out of her shoes at contact. Barry’s feet lifted off the ground and the pop was probably heard all the way up at Pineapple Willy’s. Barry signed the oar, she put it back in its spot and he sat down gingerly in his chair. “Remind you of high school?” I asked him, laughing. “Yeah,” he winced. “For a little girl, she could bring it.” Later that night Marie said, “That little [so-and-so], she hit him that hard on purpose.” “So?” I said. “He asked for it.”
“Yes, but she didn’t have to hit him that hard. She was trying to hurt him.”
“Of course she was trying to hurt him. She was spanking him with an oar. Besides, he asked for it. And not only did he ask for it, he paid for it. I have no sympathy for him.”

Not long after Barry got his Ford F-250 diesel truck, we went to a Braves game one Saturday night. After the game we took a left out of the Blue Lot and a right onto I-20 East at Capitol Avenue. We merged into the right-hand lane and pulled up alongside a City of Atlanta patrol car. “I wonder what he’s got under the hood,” said Barry. “More than we’ve got,” I replied. Barry put the gear shift in neutral, revved the diesel up, pulled the stick back down into drive and floored it. The patrol car took off beside us and there we were, running neck and neck in a drag race with a City of Atlanta cop. Debbie and Marie were in the back seat screaming. Riding shotgun, I kept saying out loud over and over again, “This is not happening, this is not happening!” Just before Maynard Terrace, the cop slowed down and pulled in behind us. “Okay,” I said, “Here we go.” But he got off the expressway, gave us a quick flash of his blue lights, a “bloop” with his siren and disappeared. We continued on down I-20 and after a moment of stunned silence, I looked at Barry and said, “What in the hell ever possessed you to do something like that?” “I wanted to see what he had under the hood,” was his reply.

The night of December 2, 2009 I called Barry. “I’m here with Marie in the ICU at Henry General. It’s not good.” “We’ll be right there,” he said. Thirty minutes later he, Debbie and Brandi walked in. They stayed with us all night until Marie passed away in the early morning hours of December 3^rd. In the days, weeks and months afterwards, Barry and Debbie regularly invited me out to dinner and to spend the night at their house. Barry called often to check on me. When Jackie and I met, they welcomed her with open arms. Their compassion, care and concern is something that I never have and never will forget.

Two years later my mother passed away. She was ninety-four years old. No disease or illness took her, her body simply wore out. She had lived a long, Christian life and I think because of that, I never cried. The only time I got choked up was when I called Barry and asked him to be a pallbearer. “You carried my wife,” I said to him, “ I want you to carry my Momma.” He agreed and we talked about her life. “There’s no doubt where she’s going,” I said. “Oh, yeah,” he replied. “She’s already there.” That’s the same with Barry Pratt. There’s no doubt where he’s going. He’s already there.