Finally, posting the obituary that I've waited to do for months.

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SHRADER, MICHAEL DAVID

known far and wide as The King of Alabama, died on December 28, 2000 of  natural causes.

He lived in Birmingham, Orange Beach, Lake Logan Martin, and various other locations. Schrader was hailed as a poet, concrete guru, musician, ballet dancer, mud-waller, chef, and spiritual healer. His family and friends celebrate his adventurous life and creative talents.

Those who knew him were blessed by his huge embrace of Life, his never-ending wit, and his unbounded generosity. He leaves behind a trail most difficult to follow. He was know as a friend to those in need, a lover of animals, and a wealth of free advise. It will be many moons before Alabama is graced with another King quite like Schrader.

He was born July 25, 1932, in Tuscumbia, Alabama, the son of William David Schrader and Sadie Mae Dixon. He is survived by his daughters, Linda Marie Schrader and Virginia Ann Schrader. As well as his companion, Elaine Kassouf. Donations are welcome to the Birmingham Music Club in lieu of flowers, etc.

A memorial visitation will be held at St. Elias Church Hall, 836 8th St. So., Birmingham 5:00- 7:00 pm, Friday January 5, 2001.

A wake is planned so stay tuned... 

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Originally printed in "The Birmingham News".

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"The Birmingham News" Sunday January 21, 2001

The caption read "Rich tales attest to eccentricities of 'the King'..." I don't make this stuff up folks, and I have learned from some of the best and brightest people in the Magic City.

It was written by Tom Gordon, News staff writer, and here's how it goes...

Sometimes the way people observe someones passing is a window on the way that someone lived.

Tonight at the B&A Warehouse, that window will be wide open on the wild ride otherwise known as the 68-year-long life of Mike Schrader.

An avalanche of adjectives could describe him: Beard-growing. Poetry-writing (and reciting). Advise-giving. Whiskey-sipping. Hymn-whistling. Ballet-dancing. Trick-shooting. Bully-hating. Nickname-assigning. Storytelling. Santa Claus-playing. Journal-keeping. Animal-raising.  Peace-loving---but dangerous when crossed.

As many times as someone called him Mike, someone else called him "the King," and that's how he often referred to himself.

The origins of the name aren't clear, but one of Alabama's governors, George Wallace, may have started it. A plaque attesting to his kingship is on a rocking chair that he received as a birthday gift some years back while doing some writing for another governor, Fob James.

Even while at the state Capitol, his work uniform was what he usually wore for the last third of his life---a pair of overalls. That's why tonight's tribute was billed as "The Overall Ball".

Those who attend are being asked to wear the bibbed attire as well as buttons bearing their nicknames the King gave them. His daughters Linda and Virginia Ann will be there, respectively, as "Brickhead" and "Scootie."

The evening also will feature video clips of the King and words of wisdom dispensed over the years; an ensemble playing one of his favorite instruments, the kazoo, and an opportunity to have one's photo made alongside a cutout of the King holding a dead skunk and a boom box. He found the skunk on the side of the road one day and planned to fashion a fur hat for his longtime friend Elaine. But one of the dogs in his house got to it first.

He died in late December, after an aneurysm or pulmonary embolism forced him to the floor of the kitchen where, over the years, he made hoe cake, "grits supreme" and black-eye pea pie. Friends knew of his wish to be cremated and to have his ashes dropped into a favorite fishing spot, under the Perdido Pass bridge, at the spring equinox, with the tide going out.

But some of those ashes belong in other spots where his life and legend were formed: Around Tuscumbia, where his family was among the first white settlers and where he learned to be a sharpshooting woodsman and had an older sister whose jaw he allegedly broke in an argument; at Ramsey High, where he taught in an unorthodox fashion and coached the golf team; in Homewood, where some say he was a head- knocking cop; at the site of City Stages' Spoken Word Stage, where he was part of the infamous Kevorkian Skull Poets.

And some certainly belong at his south Birmingham home, where he went for years without a telephone [or TV] and left a notebook on his door for visitors messages, taught the proper way to drink whiskey and kingly counseled listeners to always have cash money, dry socks and a pistol in their pants.

"Farewells" is a weekly look back at a life well-lived. To suggest a person who has recently died, contact Tom Gordon at (205) 325-2126, or by faxat 325-2283 or e-mail him at "tgordon@bhamnews.com"   

But Mike was more than what has been written here, by far. He helped the old and infirm any way he could, I know cause I went with him, he gave them massage and or fed them, sometimes bringing his own remedy concocted in his kitchen. Mike was a homeopathic doctor of sorts, he believed in the power of herbs and it worked oftentimes.

He was a modern day Shaman, a "Healer Extraordinaire," there wasn't anything that he couldn't do when he set his mind to it, not one thing...He often times knew what your problem was and acted accordingly after listening intently and with caution plus other divisive words that resulted in a full blown diagnosis. And if you lived through the treatment you were never the same after that, because a part of him lived on inside of you, forever.      

And still he was much, much more, no mere mortal of a man but in reality a god in his own right, with the wings to prove it.

He was a mason and mudslinger, he had laid practically every brick on his south-side home, and if you stopped by he stuck a trial in your hand or you mixed mud or carried brick and stacked them where needed. That usually separated the men from the boys, and those who didn't mind hard work and possible verbal abuse showed themselves willing and able to help in any capacity they could.

He was sometimes demanding, as lions of that stature often are. And those that loved him paid it little heed, by not taking it personally, they knew it was just Mike and the way he was. It made him more endearing because you felt like family, a son of his and he was Dad, so it was no big deal.

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After hunting through the house still no obit but came across this written in 1984. Thought a post was in order while waiting on "The Birmingham News" staff writer Tom Gordon for permission to post an article he wrote.

It was written by Mike in a letter to his friends...

A famous man died

last night

the sun moves on

the moon and sun

still move in harmony

So go the saints the

popes & generals

I wonder how many

times he saw the

stars or sunrise while he

had life and eyes ?

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This is a part of the first installment of the association with just one of many great people and time spent in their company. While Mike is on the other side, he still lives in the heart of many and always will. Because hopefully he can still see...or feel us, as perhaps all our ancestors do, provided they're not back already. Many cultures think just that, and who's to say they're wrong.

Every time we ever went anywhere there was always someone that he knew, no matter where we went, and they were as happy to see him as could be. He spread more love and joy than anyone i have ever had the pleasure to know. While at his home many famous people stopped by, people like John Grisham on more than one occasion, and several local celebrities because Mike was the best critic you could find besides your Mom.

Michael David Schrader wore many hats and had  more gifts than could seemingly be possible for any human to possess. Yet he did...And for the most part we were in awe of his ability.

 He grew up in Tuscumbia, Alabama where his family settled when Alabama was becoming a state, according to him they owned over half of the city. And if you could judge what was said by him, they may have owned even more than that. It was also the home of Hellen Keller, a great Lady in her own right. When we talked about her, he knew of her personally and had some stories to tell. But this story is about him and some of the things he accomplished .

It was the ex-Governor of the state, Fob James or perhaps even George Wallace that gave him the title "King of Alabama" and it stuck, because it fit so well, and he played the part. Mike often wrote speeches for the then governor and others as well. And this man, if he was on your side, the others better go run and hide. Which really did them little good, cause he found you, and dealt with you in the worst possible way he could if you deserved it. One either loved him or hated to see him coming, they had felt his power and knew change was coming, and so it was...

Well it's Friday night and i have a life to find, so next posting you'll see Mikes obituary, and it's all true, but much was left out because folks don't want to hear some things. Perhaps it makes some uncomfortable with their self. I haven't figured out why but perhaps enlightenment will come from one of you reading this and broaden my limited point of view. Thank you so much  for taking the time to read this.

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Didn't find the obit (i will), so lets go to the wake.

It was a somber night, in a medium sized church in the Magic City, the stars were out and shinning bright. Not a dry eye in the place. Everyone there seemed to feel sorry, maybe not as much for Mike as for themselves, he would never get them out of trouble or console them again. No more Schraridian Logic, no more free advise, and now no nothing from him, only memories. Ah, of those we had buckets full and some in the trunk, that place in the mind where one hides scars after being scratched by a cat, or in his case a lion. More often he chewed his way into your being and you were never the same, not after that. If you left with an ounce of dignity, you were just an ignorant fool perhaps, or worse, no one could get inside your head and rummage around. The wall around the heart had to go off and heal cause he kicked it too...We loved it, not because it was painful, but we knew he was right, well most of the time. He was always right, just ask him. "Ho ho ho Billy come here tell me all about it, let it out," he'd say. That was the chair, and he would place you there, gently.

This inner circle of friends got up one at a time to speak at the wake. It seemed so surreal, what was it in the air that one could feel inside...He was there, one just knew it, but he was laughing at us, at our sorrow and self pity. He made one dependent in a way and after you were on the chair all comfy he gave that kick you knew would come sooner or later. He spared no one, he was fair with all of us. And we loved him for it without knowing why or what for. One at a time we stood up and told stories about him and all broke down in front of everyone with tears, grown men cried their hearts out. Almost everyone, all but myself it seemed, cause i just couldn't speak. A couple of friends nudged me, but to no avail, i just sat there. We all understood and no one thought for a second about embarrassment, not one it seemed. Almost everyone told on themselves about having the chair kicked out and why. To Mike we were all stupid or ignorant of the facts, which we often were, as all are at least once. If you did it twice he would oftentimes tell you to "git the Hell out"of his house, and never come back! "You can't teach pigs to fly, it's a waste of your time and it aggravates the pig"! God, i heard that one at least a hundred times as most of us did. It didn't matter what he said because if you swallowed your pride and had guts enough you were always welcomed back.

The wake lasted at least two hours or so but it seemed like twenty minutes. Where the time went and why is anyone's guess but its gone, long gone. One wouldn't think grow men could love another in public like that but we did. At least the grown ones did. The ladies fared with dignity, crying yes but loosing it, no way. They knew him as a rascal that he was, always poking fun at partnerships, the kind that had enriched the ladies so. They could feel the way he felt about it and always kept a certain distance from him to keep from being burned by it so it seemed. And he burned a many a man with his sharp wit and sarcasm, cajoled them into submission. Backed them into a corner and blasted away with both barrels, BOOM BOOM. It made your ears ring, i call it the bell, but others just tucked their tail and crawled away not knowing what to call it.

The atmosphere was electric, folks crying, trying to recall the past without decorum or any modicum of anything really. We were still in shock, disbelief that one so strong, mean, and tender could be snatched away like that. The day he passed his heart burst, it exploded with what must have been a thunder in heaven, and they let him in. But we felt they stole him from us. He just flew away never to come back again. We were all ashamed of the way we felt about it but no one cared. The electricity sparked and all eyes lite up as one by one we stroked each other with our very own memories, precious, like gold or rubies. Coveted just as much and more valuable now than ever because the market place was closed. No more auctioning off feelings and no more foreclosure on stupidity. We would have to go it alone without his help. Back to where we were when we first met him, except for the experience. A chill ran up and down the spine at the thought of it.

Half-time way behind us and the ball game was over. Oh the pity for ourselves, so thick one could hardly think much less move.

Let's go eat and so off we went. When we got there all ordered drinks and toasted to a "great man," but he was more than that, by far. If you had ever met Mike you'd know even if it was only once. He knew several famous folk, and had friends all over the world, hundreds, perhaps thousands. We were always amazed at the amount of people he knew and the endless information he possessed. His rote memory was a feat of eloquence that mesmerized even brainaics, and our group consisted of several really awesome people, and he was the capstone of the pyramid, the all-seeing eye. Shinning like polished brass, his golden hue was blinding on occasion, a common event when his mood allowed.

 He filled several hundred volumes of notes. And the persons that got that treasure are lucky indeed. Always free with advise, good, bad or indifferent. Cause he would test you, and if found of low caliber with not enough reason to think on your feet, the wheat soon separated from the chaff and you were left floating out to the street blown by his booming voice of ridicule. And at times like that if there was a God he was the Devil rest assured, incarnate with the horns to prove it. A sword for a tounge, and the temper to match. One didn't take up for the poor soul he barbecued that day least they be thrown into the fiery pit as well. He often had a way with words and was very persuasive knowing just how to tell you to go to hell, and make you happy to be on your way.

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