Ken Memories - Denny Wendell

I have two memories of Ken Warren.

The first often took place when we’d have a conversation.

During the course of our talk, I’d notice that the corners of of his mouth would slightly start to curve up, as though he was going to smile.

He wouldn’t break into a full smile though, and it was almost like he knew something I didn’t.

But, wait, that isn’t quite it. I’m sure there was plenty that he knew that I didn’t.
For he did, in fact, work at a library. A place of full of books, a place of learning, a place of knowledge.

This was in the 90’s, before the onslaught of the internet, a time when acquiring knowledge required a physical effort. It required you to put yourself in a place where knowledge was stored. You had to get to the library, and then peruse through all the shelves to find that information you sought. And Ken was the steward of such a place.

In fact, it goes without saying, that he did know much, much more than I did.

So, that wasn’t what brought that almost smile to his face. I think it was more like he was the holder of an inside joke, a joke that he alone knew the punchline to, a joke he wasn’t about to share with me, but rather, he’d let me figure it in due time.

The other memory I have of Ken occurred during my early morning jogs.

When I lived in Lakewood, I’d often run to Lakewood Park and follow the gravel path that started at the northwest corner of the park and run down down, along the lake, heading east.

I’d head down that path, and, as the path descended, down, down, the noise of the traffic on Lake and Clifton would slowly fade away.

It was a place where the birds crossing the lake would rest. Their chirps and songs would replace the noise of the city.

There were wild flowers along the path and the sound of the gentle waves, splashing against the rocks. It would became more serene the lower I descended. Finally, near the the end of the path, it was totally quiet, except for the sounds of nature. It was a beautiful, tranquil place.

But, almost at the end of the path, it would jog a little to the right. And, there, at the end of the path, out of sight until you were upon it, was a park bench, tucked into the hillside. And, there, sitting on bench, would be Ken. Calmly sitting, looking out at the lake. It was his place, and since those days I often think of it as the Ken Warren bench.

So now, when I think of Ken, I think of him quietly, peacefully, sitting on his bench, contemplating his inside joke, with the corners of his mouth ready to turn into a full, satisfied smile.

Respectfully,
(I haven't yet figured out the joke)
Denny Wendell
Westlake | Bay Village Observer