Ron Lowe, An American Hero
Eulogy 2 Jan 2002
Good afternoon, I’m Al Brewster, I’ve had the privilege of calling Ron Lowe “friend” for over 30 years. —- Sandy, Nick, Charles, Jeremy, David, Charles and Kimberly please accept my condolences on the loss of Ron — thank you for inviting me to say a few words.

Ronnie Lowe was a man with many hats — he was lover, brother, uncle, MUSICIAN, ENTERTAINER, scholar, author, cultural anthropologist, Jack Keroac biographer, political scientist, community ACTIVIST, counselor, leader, —– friend.
Ronnie Lowe served us in so many ways but I’ll always remember him as an American Hero.
The term hero has certainly been applied frequently in recent weeks. Usually in reference to the brave firemen, policemen and others in uniform who responded so gallantly to the vicious Sept 11th attack on our country. Certainly, they were heroes who responded perfectly as they had been trained to respond, at a crucial time in our nation’s history. But Ronnie, without benefit of formal training, a uniform or even a steady paycheck, provided a similar level of heroic service throughout his extraordinary life. Ronnie stood up for the little man, championed the oppressed, and fought for those in poverty. He spoke for and to the American values of life and liberty. He was a single minded, reliable, consistent protector of the American right to freedom of speech, freedom of assembly, freedom of the press. Ronnie Lowe was an American hero.
I first met Ronnie, and Sandy, in 1969 while Ron and I were both students at St. Petersburg Junior College. He and I were both concerned about the war in Vietnam. As a returning Vietnam vet, as a guy who had smelled death and buried friends I saw the war in a rather simple context. I figured simply that we didn’t need to be fighting and dying if we weren’t willing to win. I wanted the war stopped because of the inability of American Politicians to shape a coherent reason for being at war, their inability to explain why it was in our national interest to wage war, and as a consequence their total failure to furnish the necessary public support to win the war. Ronnie had a far more lofty perspective— He wanted it ended because he believed that killing was immoral and because he knew that there were peaceful ways to bring about political change. He and a small group of others decided that they’d challenge the established student political parties the republicans and the democrats by forming what they called the Un-party Party. Through Ron’s genius at political organizing, they won in a landslide vote and responded not only to the needs of the college students that elected them, but to social injustice wherever they saw it. Ron organized, shaped and led scores of demonstrations each carefully organized to prevent violence. These demonstrations widely ranged against many issues of social injustice for example, the unfair treatment of the elderly by landlords that collected social security payments in return for one room dungeons with out windows or even adequate ventilation, the death of young and black Palmer Lee Sanders; a case in which racial attitudes across our city were brought into sharp focus and, of course, the war in Vietnam. Ron was instrumental in overturning an unconstitutional city parade ordinance which required people to put up 100’s of thousands of dollars in bonds before they could exercise their constitutional right to free assembly, to march to protest. Williams Park in downtown St. Petersburg was the sight of highly a organized, well advertised, street theater at its best, systematic civil disobedience, where every line, paragraph, sentence, word of the parade ordinance was openly defied. Surrounded by police in riot gear hundreds of protestors spanning the age of 18 to 80 (clutching their bail bondsman cards) were quite prepared to peacefully be taken to jail under the watchful eye of the American Civil Liberties Union lawyer Gardner Beckett. The City blinked, no one was arrested —- the unconstitutional parade ordinance —–apparently unenforceable, simply evaporated.
Ron Lowe was an American hero, a patriot, and a man of courage. One clear spring day Ron and a group of 5 friends ventured to the chambers of the St. Petersburg City council where a young African American woman came to the podium to speak her mind on the unequal treatment experienced by blacks in the city. The mayor told her to sit down that she was not on the agenda. The woman continued to speak and the mayor ordered the Sgt. of Arms to…”remove that woman.” Ron and his friends in a flash leaped over the front seats of the council chambers, and locked arms in a protective circle around the woman until she finished what she had come there to say. As the Sgt. of Arms approached looking a bit bewildered, Ron just looked at him and said rather quietly “you don’t want to have to come through me”. The man turned to the mayor with a shrug as if to say, “this is more than I can manage boss”. When the woman had finished expressing her thoughts the protective human chain formed by Ron and his friends opened to respectfully allow her to pass and, while the mayor was banging his gavel shouting for someone to call the police, Ron and his friends quietly left. Once again freedom of speech had been upheld and violence had not occurred. Ronnie’s forceful yet gentle way had again shown that he was protector of the rights that each of us holds so dear.
Since September 11 we have come to develop an even greater appreciation for the rights, privileges and values that we have taken for granted for so long. Ronnie Lowe never took them for granted. He always knew that freedom is not free, that the price for American freedom is eternal vigilance, the willingness to stand up, to speak out and to boldly assert ourselves as a free people. Ronnie knew these things, he spoke these truths, but what will always separate him from the rest of mere talkers is that Ron Lowe was man enough to place himself bodily at the forefront. In May 1970 Ronnie and his friends were in yet another public demonstration in support of civil rights in Gainesville, Florida. What had been a peaceful, orderly yet rather loud and raucous protest march was interrupted by a speeding car whose driver was intent, for no other reason than racial hatred, upon killing. He deliberately piloted his car in to the marchers steering directly for one of the organizers. The car, a new green 1970 Chevelle Super Sport, struck one of the marchers knocking him up on the hood; where, captured by the ever present media on 6 O’clock news footage, he, unable to hold on, finally tumbled off the hood striking the pavement at about 60mph. First on the scene, to pick up and comfort the man and get him medical attention was our friend, our hero, Ron Lowe. While caring for the hurt man Ronnie simultaneously commanded order and the march resumed without further incident. Ron Lowe was a leader, an American patriot, and a hero. Today, each of us share in his loss, a loss not just for us at this service, not just for St. Petersburg, but a loss for our country and our way of life. My hope is that we all will take courage from Ron’s example. That through non-violence, persistence and courage we will right wrongs when we see them, protect our fragile civil liberties, and recognize as Ron did that the price of the freedom, that we all enjoy so much, the price of freedom is not free. My hope is that we will all recognize like Ronnie did that the greatest patriotism the greatest patriotism walks hand in hand with a willingness to protest, to criticize, to demand freedom and justice for all. Ronnie Lowe was my friend, he comforted me when I was down, he strengthened me when I was weak, he led me when I wasn’t sure where to go. Like you I loved Ronnie Lowe and, already, I miss him. Ronnie Lowe was an American Patriot; Ronnie Lowe was an American Hero. Galatians 5: 13-15, and 6:8

If you wish to contact me about Ron I’m at albrewster@comcast.net

Originally written in April of 2002 on DaveDorm:

I know, talking about my uncle Ron’s death may be growing tired, but I need to work through this. He and I were especially close. At times, I was closer to Ron than I was my father. I am trying to remember happier times with Ron, some from childhood, some from adulthood. Here is one from the good old days.

I remember in the summer of 1976, I was 8, we went to Kennedy Space Center for a tour of the place. They were having a special Bicentennial celebration. There were exhibits and attractions all over the place. All sorts of space stuff, scientific displays, and hands on panels with switches and doo-hickeys to play with.

Remember, this was before the space shuttle was operational. Saturn 5 rockets were the top technology at the time. We saw one, laying in display on its side. It was huge. We got to sit inside a real command module from the Apollo, and the Gemini capsule, too.

I felt like such a big guy, making a cross state journey with Uncle Ronny. Not Mom. Not Dad. Just us men. On the road. (Jack Keroac would be another tale)

I remember we made the trip on the cheap. We stayed in a really ratty motel in Titusville and got our meals from the Publix just up the street. We turned down the sheets on one of the beds, and stamped in big bold black letters on the corner of the top sheet was the word “REJECTED”. Now we weren’t sure who rejected the sheets, or why, but we laughed and laughed. Some crappy motel we chose, couldn’t even buy new sheets.

See? A happy moment… Thanks Ron

Originally written in March 2002 on DaveDorm:

It’s old. It’s beat up. It’s not even cool. But it was my uncle Ron’s briefcase. He died just after Christmas last year. I am slowly coming to terms with his death. They say journaling helps with grief….

Ronny went everywhere with his briefcase. When he was working as a political consultant, there were always ideas scribbled on yellow legal pads, political campaign flyers, cassette tapes for a candidate’s radio spots. He took it to work when he was a counselor for inner city youth at Operation PAR. As a book reviewer for the St. Petersburg Times, Ron would carry his copy to the typist (he never learned to type) or to his editor. Or, if he was working on his novel, was this where the manuscript was carried, too?

It’s just a briefcase. But that black hardshell Samsonite had seen a lot of miles. I identified this briefcase with Ronny, it was his livelihood inside.

I saw this among his possesions. I asked my dad if anyone had spoken for it. He said no, but we would have to go through its contents together before I just took off with it.

I agreed, we set the case on the hood of my car and opened it. Inside were papers for Ronny’s social security benefits, some medical information, and a bunch of newspaper clippings of a political nature.

Deeper inside was a small battered envelope with “photos” written on the outside. There were some jewels. A picture of Ronny with James Brown… the James Brown, the King of Soul. As soon as my dad will release the photo, I’ll get it scanned and posted. He said he would not let that one out of his sight.

I took the briefcase home and cleaned it. I found there is far less room in it than my backpack. But I am going to try carrying it to school, or at least keeping it in use somehow. To have that fragment of his life now a fragment of mine is very special to me.

It’s not just a briefcase.

I guess you could say I knew Ronny Lowe. I am his nephew David Lowe, son of his brother Nick. I knew Ron all my life and miss him terribly since he has been gone.

Ron was a large influence on my life. I did a lot of things that I can attribute to Ron’s coaching, including going back to college and getting a degree in 2003.

I have a website of my own and used to have stuff up about Ron, but lost all my archives in a failed backup file.

There was another site called Ron Lowe Write On, but it is now defunct. I am glad to see someone has put up a page about Ron and his life. I hope to bring more to the table as time goes on, but for now I will sign off. Jackofdays, darling you have done a wonderful thing here. Call me at (813) 404-7278 and maybe we can exchange stories. I’d really like that.

My website link is here, and I will leave you with a great picture of Ronny Lowe and the Dominoes circa the 80’s. He’s the one with the thumbs up!

I always start missing Ronny in October. These blues last until his birthday, which I am never quite sure of… I thought it was the 19th of January, but I guess it’s the 11th, according to the obit.

Alone in my studio I talk with Ronny fairly often. As anyone who knew Ronny can attest, it’s a poor substitute for talking with him in person. I wonder how he’d feel about Brian Williams ascendency to anchoring the NBC Nightly News–he always made a point of being near a television when Williams was doing his daily report on MSNBC. I wonder how he’d feel knowing that Jack Shea, film documentarian, recently died in Scotland, apparently falling down a flight of stairs, his body undiscovered for days. Jack had asked Ronny for an interview, more than once.

I know how he’d feel about the country being Bushwacked, and I daresay, if he had lived, something would have happened in Florida to assure a fair election in 2004–not this crap that actually happened.

A lot of people stepped up immediately after Ronny died, as pitiable people do, and tried to make larger their actual relationships with them while he lived. In truth, Ronny had very few friends, but he was a friend to all who sought him out–including me.

What follows is what I wrote in the raw, freshly informed four years ago that my friend had died. I reprint this in hopes of starting a new dialog, I guess. . .

As I sit here looking at this blank screen, my stomach churns, my heart races, my breathing comes shallow. By writing this long-overdue letter, I’m finally admitting my dear friend is dead.

No one in Florida called me, although I know Ronny would have wanted someone to contact me. I heard about it through James Grauerholz, who had read it on the Subterraneans mailing list. The not knowing what was going on with Ron and the length of time he spent dying in a hospital underscore how helpless people are in the face of life and death.

Ronny Lowe (born 1/11/42) died in a hospital in St. Petersburg, Florida, on 27 December 2001. I don’t know if he died in the same hospital where he held his friend Jack down on the table in the emergency room on 20 October 1969. After talking at length with one niece, I don’t have the stomach for the details of his death. I’ve been putting off making the other phone calls I need to make. Since I heard he had died, I’ve been dodging his ghost around my house, feeling stupid about weeping while Jacky and Ronny stand in the corner of my dining room, jawing about writing and baseball and Memere and Stella, arguing over scholarly questions and political issues on my couch, standing at the foot of my bed while they make me dream of them and their corporeality.

http://www.tampabay.com/aboutbooks/previouscolumns.cfm?colid=31919&col=margo

But I have to say something about Ronny; it’s part of the process of acceptance and moving on, after all. I’m just still so pissed about the whole thing, it’s hard. The link above is to an obit written by his good friend, Margo Hammond, book editor of the St. Petersburg Times. Margo gave Ron great encouragement and made it possible for him to have a little dope money by asking him to review books for the newspaper, which he did with great aplomb, in a booming stentorous writer’s voice only a great statesman should possess. Margo’s memorial to Ronny Lowe offers readers a vivid picture of Ron Lowe, Floridian, r&b musician, radical, champion of civil rights, mad bomber of police cars.

Then there was Ron Lowe, the kid who gave Jack Kerouac a ride home from a bar one night in 1964, who became his companion and guardian and confidant, Jack’s “300-pound Syrian buddy,” (SL2, pp. 468-69) who told him the best dirty jokes, set the wilting Kerouac up with young women who followed Ronny and his band around, the Ronny Lowe whose photo was tucked into the inside breast pocket (by a grieving Memere) of the sports jacket in which Jack was finally buried.

I first contacted a suspicious Ron Lowe late in 1997, when I was researching the background of THE CULT OF KEROUAC, my collection of writings about the controversy over Kerouac’s estate and the power of the cult of celebrity to profit and harm a shy writer. It took some doing to get him to talk to me, but he did talk to me, and as in the best moments of life, what began as research turned into a rich friendship and working relationship that enriched my life beyond expression.

In retrospect, Ron’s role in the tableau of Jack’s death seems trivial, although he was the person Jack called when he began vomiting blood on the 20th of October 1969, asking Ron to come get him and take him to the hospital. The ambulance ended up taking Jack, and Ron met him there as quickly as possible. He stood next to Jack in the emergency room as Jack bled to death, sometimes holding him down as the doctor tried to force blood into his body, only to have it come spurting back out. It was Ronny’s role in Jack’s life–and Jack’s role in Ronny’s–that is the best story of all.

Over time I urged Ronny to write his book about Jack, his memoirs, his observations of the dying man, post-fame, contemptibly familiar in his myth. He had known Kerouac in the rarest sense: as a friend, not a cultural icon. And Jack, who always sought beauty, tried to practice kindness, adored gentleness found plain honesty and complete acceptance in his friendship with Ron, in a world where he was either used or villified for who he was and who he had become.

I made phone calls to Sterling Lord and others, hoping to pique interest in Ron’s memoirs, get him an advance so he could worry less about surviving poverty and spend more time writing longhand on yellow legal pads, as was his wont, in that long, beautiful script of his, slowly stringing together his anecdotes which were the best anecdotes I’d ever heard about Kerouac as a friend, Kerouac as a man, Kerouac as a drunk, Kerouac as a had-been–Kerouac in near-complete surrender to time and circumstance, careening toward an ending he had created while claiming his own immortality. As I listened to Ron tell his stories of Jack, everything fell into place. Questions were answered. Things made sense.

Yes, Sterling Lord was very interested. He wanted an outline and some sample chapters so he could sell Ron’s book.

But Ronny had always had some resistance to telling such private stories, not wanting to cash in on his friendship with Jack. He was so adamantly opposed to soiling his friendship with Kerouac that he refused to sell the several autographed items Jack had given him over the years, including an annotated proof of VANITY OF DULUOZ which could have fetched him many thousands of dollars, which Ronny could have put toward medical expenses to prolong his life. Instead, he died from lack of medical care, his jackbooks and letters in a drawer in his tiny little house in St. Petersburg, for his relatives now to sell and argue over.

I can’t believe Jack would have wanted that. Ron told me a story about a night when he and Jack were out on the town, and Jack ripped Ronny’s cocktail napkin out from under his drink, signing it with a flourish, then presenting it back to Ronny as if it were a great gift. Ronny said, “What’s that for?” and Jack told him it was worth money, that everyone wanted his autograph to sell. Ronny lost that particular napkin, but Jack was always doing that–signing things and giving them to Ron so his friend would have something to show for the relationship besides the love they shared.

But Ron Lowe had a rich life, most of which he spent doing things for other people. He spent months of time helping Blacks get elected to positions in the still-racist city of St. Petersburg, running their political campaigns, going door-to-door for candidates. He helped others all the time, giving rides, money, food, support, to anyone who asked for anything. In the meantime, he remained unemployed, living in the guest house behind his late mother’s house, renting the front house for his tiny income, driving broken-down cars and receiving precious little help from the state for medical assistance. Once a week he got together with his band. They still played gigs anytime anyone asked them to.

Maybe he was avoiding doing what he needed to do to give himself a little financial comfort. He lived his life exactly the same way from his salad days until the day he went into the hospital, accountable to no person or ideology aside from his own beliefs and obligations. He just never sat down to write that book–the book that would have comprised the essential puzzle pieces to document the last five years of Kerouac’s life, the book which would have certainly made him some money.

After trying to work with him from a distance and getting nowhere, I flew him up to Seattle in June of 1999 so I could work on his book with him. Ronny seemed to think he was immortal. I was always nagging that he could get hit by a bus tomorrow, for all he knew. I bought this voice-recognition software and “trained” it with his voice. Then, for almost three weeks, I taped Ron at my dining room table, allowing him to talk for hours and hours, to tell the whole story of his own life and his friendship with Jack. My idea was that I’d play those tapes over a microphone into my computer, which would recognize Ronny’s voice, and his words would be transcribed. Unfortunately, those voice recognition programs are not worth the powder it would take to blow them up and the tapes remain untranscribed today.

His health was always a concern for me and I didn’t understand why a man in his 50s, obviously disabled by creeping heart disease, couldn’t get the help he needed in his hometown. Ronny had this horrible, something-new-every-day, state of health. I tried to get help for him here in Seattle, where I took him to see a doctor and helped him fill out welfare forms so he could be properly diagnosed and treated. But he didn’t follow through–the story of his life–and his blocked arteries and weakening heart continued to deteriorate after he returned to Florida.

The last time I talked to him was 10/21/01, or very near to that date–the anniversary of Jack’s death. We always talked on that date. He had the usual complaints and stories, but I had no idea his health was declining or would decline so quickly, even though I knew he wasn’t remotely immortal.

The day Ronny died, I got a call from a sister telling me my father was in the hospital, not expected to live through the night. I didn’t know Ronny was also in the hospital then. My father recovered. Ronny died. A few days later, still not knowing, I had a flash of Ronny doing his imitation of Jack imitating Whitman: “Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself. I am large; I contain multitudes!”

The day before I learned he was dead, as I was crossing a bridge here in Seattle, again I thought of Ronny and his book, resolving to phone him up and bug him about finishing it again.

The term Margo Hammond was searching for in her obit of Ron, “Kerouwacko,” was coined by a ranger at the National Park in Lowell, who used it to describe the various pilgrims who flocked to Lowell looking for something to help them feel connected to Jack. I referred to myself (tongue in cheek) as a Kerouwacko when I first phoned Ronny up in 1997, looking for an interview. But what evolved between Ronny and me had little to do with Jack, except that our mutual interest brought us together.

Still, I have to admit that one of the greatest moments I spent with Ron was when he was laughing at something I’d said, then said, “Jack would have liked you.”

I wish I could have worried less about food and shelter so I could have devoted more of my time to helping Ron write his book.

He and I were lovers-in-waiting for a while via mail and phone–Ronny never missed an opportunity with a woman, near as I could tell–and physically when he visited me. That could not last, for a million different reasons. I was worried later that without that dimension of our relationship, he might turn into an ex-something. But we stayed in touch and I expressed my fears and he said to me what Jack said to him, that quote he loved so much: “You and I, we’re friends for life.” I can hear his voice and see his face as he says it over again in my mind. It has been getting me through my guilt and regret over not being there.

I don’t know exactly what, but I am going to do something with his book. He did consider me his agent and often jested that if he died before he wrote it, it was all mine. I don’t want it for “all mine,” but it’s such an important story and Ronny’s role in Kerouac’s life was so special, his book must be written somehow. I’ve resisted phoning his brother to advise him about the value of Ron’s Kerouac items, not wanting to be a Necrosiaphiliac, making grand claims once people are dead. Life is dust, Jack is dust, Ronny will soon be dust. Those gifts from Jack to Ron are worthless ephemera compared to the fact that once, Jack and Ronny existed on this earth.

I have a story of Ronny’s that sets the tone for my own process of acceptance. In 1966 (I think), Jack went to Italy, and among the things he brought home was a rosary for his mother. Ron was visiting him one day when Jack gave him the rosary, along with $10, and asked him to see a certain priest at a certain church and have it blessed for him. Ron stuck the rosary and the $10 in his glove compartment and forgot all about them.

Some months later, Ronny and one of his friends were driving around, broke as usual, and the friend opened up Ron’s glovebox to find the $10 bill inside. He suggested they should spend it and return the rosary to Jack and tell him the priest had blessed it. Jack, after all, would not know the difference, would he? Ron refused and went immediately to the church where he had the rosary blessed and made Jack’s $10 donation, and returned the holy relic to Kerouac.

Although there was never any question in Ronny’s mind that he would keep his promise to his friend, he was especially glad he kept this one. When Jack died, this was the rosary Memere wove through Jack’s dead fingers in his coffin, at the same time as she tucked that little photo of Ronny Lowe into Jack’s breast pocket, just before his coffin was closed.

I write this hoping to find peace, or the beginning of peace, and acceptance at the death of this great guy.

diane de rooij

Poetry is lamb dust….

—Jack Kerouac

This website sells back issues of Dharma Beat, a Kerouac-oriented newsletter which was published from 1993 to 1999. Ronnie is listed as a contributor to issues #1 and #4. Perhaps I’ll order them when time allows.

Bob Kealing has written the book about Kerouac in Florida that Ronnie never finished. Margo Hammond reviewed it in the St. Petersburg Times.
It’s available from Amazon: Kerouac In Florida: Where The Road Ends.

Tampa Bay Garage Bands

Picture and bio of Ronnie (spelled “Ronny” on this site, my guess is they are right and I’m wrong) and his band from the 60’s.

If you were or knew anyone who was part of the many circles of friends and others Ronnie Lowe was involved in, register and share your memories. We can handle pictures, sound files, even videos. It doesn’t have to be about Ron. Many of his acquaintances were remarkable people, and their histories should not be lost.

St. Petersbug Times Obituary by Jack Williams

Elegy by Margo Hammond, also from the St. Petersburg Times

These are all the articles and reviews by Ronnie that I could find on the St. Petersburg Times website.

There are supposedly other materials elsewhere: manuscripts, pictures, recordings, things he wrote for other publications. If anyone has any of this as a link or in any digital format, feel free to register and publish it here.

These articles are copyrighted by the St. Petersburg Times. I believe Ronnie retained his publication rights to these articles, in part because he republished at least one in a different newspaper. But I do not know who his literary heirs are, and will not copy them until I can clearly get permission to do so.

SKEPTICAL ODYSSEYS: Personal Accounts by the World’s Leading Paranormal Inquirers
Edited by Paul Kurtz: October 28, 2001

AVA’S MAN
By Rick Bragg: September 2, 2001

AMERICAN TERRORIST:
Timothy McVeigh & the Oklahoma City Bombing
By Lou Michel and Dan Herbeck:
June 2, 2001

I MAY NOT GET THERE WITH YOU: THE TRUE MARTIN LUTHER KING JR.
By Michael Eric Dyson:
Feb. 20, 2000

Writer Richard Hill remained cool to the end: Jan. 9, 2000

Jack Kerouac, Selected Letters: Nov. 14, 1999

Atop an Underwood: Early Stories and Other Writings: Nov. 14, 1999

Why They Kill: Oct. 17, 1999

NO EQUAL JUSTICE
Race and Class in the American Justice System:
Feb. 28, 1999

SUBTERRANEAN KEROUAC
The Hidden Life of Jack Kerouac and
JACK KEROUAC, KING OF THE BEATS:
Oct. 4, 1998

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE RIVER: Jan 11, 1998

SPEAKING FREELY By Nat Hentoff: Oct, 12, 1997

LIBERAL RACISM: Jul. 13, 1997

TRAIL FEVER By Michael Lewis Knopf: Jun 29, 1997

TAINTED TRUTH The Manipulation of Fact in America By Cynthia Crossen: May 29, 1994

SACRED HONOR, by David Roth and
COLIN POWELL: A Biography, by Howard Means:
Jan. 23, 1994

NEW STORIES FROM THE SOUTH Edited by Shannon Ravenel: Dec. 19, 1993

TELL THEM WHO I AM: THE LIVES OF HOMELESS WOMEN By Elliot Liebow: Sep. 12, 1993

RHYTHM AND THE BLUES A Life in American Music By Jerry Wexler: Aug. 15, 1993

Cruising the old haunts and hangouts: Mar 7, 1993

STROM THURMOND AND THE POLITICS OF SOUTHERN CHANGE By Nadine Cohodas: Feb. 21, 1993

PRESUMED GUILTY The Tragedy of the Rodney King Affair By Sgt. Stacey C. Koon: Nov 15, 1992

THE FORGOTTEN AMERICANS, by John E. Schwarz and Thomas J. Volgy: Nov 1, 1992

Jack Kerouac’s St. Petersburg sojourn: June 7, 1991

Chronicle of Demens’ effort is superb: June 10, 1988

Richard Arvedon kindly sent some scans of Ronnie’s writing in the old Community Liberator. I’ve reduced the size, so most people should be able to download and read them.

There are two pages: 1 and 2

Here is Richard’s remembrance of this event. It’s a Word document, perhaps Richard will register and paste it into a post.

This is a site dedicated to the life of writer, musician, and activist Ronald David Lowe, d. Dec. 27, 2001.

I met Ronnie when I was fresh out of high school. He was the unelected leader of our little band of activists, the Liberator collective of 1970-71 or thereabouts.

For the next five years, off and on, we published underground newspapers, organized demonstrations, and generally messed around. We fought against war, racism, capitalism, and among ourselves.

The for a quarter century I had no contact with him.

Then he died.

The Ronnie I knew was the kind of person who would do anything for a friend – lend a car, a gun, all his money, go out in the middle of the night, talk someone down from a high or up from a hangover. He was no saint. His advice could be the the smartest hipster wisdom or the most arrant nonsense. He had a voice you could listen to all night and the stories to make it worthwhile. He was a lot of fun to be around, a lot of the time.

But I only know a small part of what really went on. For the last two years I’ve hosted a small, sad website with a few pages of links. All its content is now in posts on this page. That site was never intended to be. It was a stand-in for what was really supposed to happen- manuscripts, pictures, narratives, other things that people were going to send me, but almost none of that ever happened.

Only one of Ronnie’s friends ever sent me any material, and I haven’t had the time or heart to do anything with it until now.

I hope that is going to change now. If you want to contribute your memories or other things about Ronnie’s life and times, or about the other people who were around St. Petersburg in those days, all you have to do is register and post.