Written by Michael Claxton
If you were able to attend today’s chapel, you heard about the life and legacy of Kenneth Davis Jr. (1922-2005), who was affectionately known as “Uncle Bud,” and who taught music and directed choral groups at Harding for 35 years.Since he retired before most of today’s students were born, many of you have wondered why a bronze statue of a seated man holding a Bible suddenly appeared on campus during the summer. Without knowing the man, it’s hard to appreciate the deep admiration in which he is held by generations of alumni. They loved him for his faith, they loved him for his dedication, and they loved him for his beautiful voice and high standards as a musician.I met him only briefly when I moved to Searcy in 2003. I didn’t know anything about his past then, and I wondered why the elder of our care group at church called on this seemingly frail old man to lead the carols at our Christmas party. Now I know. In putting together today’s chapel tribute, I’ve had the belated chance to get to know Uncle Bud. I spent several hours with his wife, Betty, looking through photographs and listening to stories. I mentioned his name at our Round Table luncheon one Sunday and heard more anecdotes. I spoke on the phone with Jimmie Lee Mills (age 95) of Searcy, who remembered the day Kenneth Davis was baptized in Dallas in 1929. And I have trouble remembering what I did this morning.So much of what I learned simply couldn’t fit into a 35-minute chapel program. In the tribute service we hit the highlights: his childhood love of music, his brave service as a Marine in World War II and his long career training students to serve God with their voices. Seven veteran chorus members shared their insights, though we could have easily rounded up another two or three hundred who would have willingly waxed nostalgic about the man who took them around the world and honed three generations of singers into polished, disciplined choruses. He could be a tough and demanding leader. But there was even more to the life of Uncle Bud.For instance, he had a great wit. Once he was running out of the door of the music building. His colleague Mona Moore was coming in at the same time. She said, “Ken, are you dashing?” He turned around and grabbed Mona’s chin. “Some people think I am, Mona. What do you think?” he asked.He also had a mischievous sense of humor on chorus trips. He once squirted toothpaste into the open mouth of a young man who was snoring on the bus. While on tour with the Belles and Beaux in the South, he took the students on a tour of antebellum homes, which he explained were owned by people who didn’t want bells on their houses. He coined pet names for his chorus members; for instance, he called a young, skinny Linda Thompson by the nickname “Zipper.” He once impishly abandoned Mike Wood to the adoring clutches of three Italian women who practically thought the young tenor was Pavarotti.As much as he liked to tease in private, Uncle Bud was all business when it came to public performances. One of his rules was that chorus members could never touch their faces while singing. He thought it unprofessional. Phil Dixon recalls a time when his face was so sweaty that his glasses slowly inched down his nose during the concert. Phil kept raising his face to keep them on, but finally Uncle Bud turned around to face the audience, and the glasses fell neatly into Phil’s hand. No face-touching required. Another chorus member once had to endure a steady water drip onto his head during an entire performance, but true to his training, he never flinched.There are so many interesting facts about Uncle Bud. He was an intense Rook player and counted trumps like a hawk. He played tag football. His mother made him wear knickers long after the other kids in school quit wearing them. He ran a bus ministry at a church in Dallas. He was a wedding photographer. Cliff Ganus III recalls the time at Harding when Uncle Bud tried to re-assign chapel seats in hopes that students would sit together in parts—basses, altos and so forth—in order to improve the singing. At one time he sponsored the now-defunct Galaxy social club on campus. His father lived to be 102 and could be seen working on the roof of his house well into his nineties. I just learned this week that Uncle Bud was once kidnapped. It was after the war. He picked up a few men while driving across Dallas, and one of them pulled out a gun. Kenneth tried to talk the man down, but the guy fired a shot past his head and into the windshield. So Uncle Bud kept driving. When they got to the country, the hoodlums took his car and tied Harding’s future choral leader to a fence. After they left, he escaped and walked back to town. It was one of several close calls in his life. On the one hand, it seems a shame that to future students, Uncle Bud will be just a bronze figure. Just like so many of Harding’s heroes, he risks being forgotten as the generations who knew him eventually fade away. And yet, that’s why we tell stories, and dedicate buildings, and build statues. We do it so others will ask, “Who was that?” I’m grateful to those people who answered that question for me. It’s been a pleasure getting to know Uncle Bud.
