Early in summer 1982, while on staff at Lake Forest Ranch in Macon, Mississippi, Celeste King’s gaze was drawn to the Center of Attention. She had not been introduced to him and didn’t cotton to strangers, so she maneuvered near him and smiled.
“Hi! I haven’t met you. I know your name is Celeste. My name is Chuck.”
She gasped at her goof, and how her mouth often worked faster than her mind. But he knew at that moment that he was gonna marry that girl. Her mama’s pound cake and her granny’s beef hash sealed the deal on his love. She fell in love with him, because he made her laugh. She married him, mainly, because her mama wanted a guitar-picker as a son-in-law.
As a preteen, Chuck told his grandmother if she’d buy him a guitar, he’d never ever ask her for anything else for the rest of his life. She upheld her end of the bargain, and he became who he was meant to be. He took one official lesson and decided he’d rather figure it out on his own. Celeste called him First-Verse Chuck, because that’s all the words he could remember. She finished his songs for him.
Over Christmas break, she went to Memphis to meet his family. He took her to the newly opened Mud Island Park, where she learned about the mighty Mississippi and the mighty Elvis Presley. At the exhibit, Celeste, an Elvis neophyte, said to Chuck (too loudly, as always), “What is everybody’s deal with Elvis?! Why won’t they let the man rest in peace?!”
Chuck gently leaned over and whispered, “You better lower your voice. You can’t talk like that in this town.”
Celeste had much to learn about Elvis, and Chuck spent the rest of his life teaching her … and their children … and whoever would listen. “If you rearrange the letters in ELVIS, it spells LIVES!”
Chuck loved Elvis. And 70s rock and roll. And gospel. And country.
Once, on a business trip to Nashville, Chuck ran into Conway Twitty. He stuck out his hand for a shake and stated, “Mister Twitty. Chuck Conner.” Impressed at his own calm, he thought how silly he’d have looked if he had rushed up, starstruck, and asked for an autograph. He knew he was much cooler than other fans. Except he didn’t have proof of the encounter. So, he grabbed paper and pen and hurried back. He tucked the signature in his Bible, where it remains.
The Life of the Party and his sidekick Martin guitar could play whatever they wanted. One time at the lake, a three-year-old buddy hollered at him, “Hey Mister Chuck! Play me some bluegrass!!!” With his underdeveloped speech, the words sounded more like, “Hey Mistaw Chuck! Pway me some bwuegwass!!” But his intention was understood. So, Mister Chuck played the boy some bluegrass.
All along, the damn diabetes was devouring his body. A related shoulder injury nightmare eventually stole his ability to hold his guitar, and therefore, his solace.
As a young man, Chuck worked at Honey Baked Ham Company. For two decades, he owned and operated Conner Business Solutions. That’s what he did. That’s not who he was. He was a good son, a good brother, a good husband, a good father, a good friend, and an all-around good guy. On September 13, 2026, he finished his good fight.
By far, the best of Chuck and Celeste manifests in their cherubic babies, who grew to stellar adults. The Conner Kids bore burdens too heavy, too young; yet they exhibit only kindness and dignity for their journeys. They grieve that another generation must be built upon the absence of a father and grandfather. But they are forever grateful for their foundation of faithfulness laid by the instigator of so much delight.
Chuck is predeceased by Mok, Nana, Papaw, Papa Chuck, Mama Nell, Little Granny, Biscuit, his right shoulder, and his pancreas.
He is survived by his reasons for getting out of bed every day: Celeste, wife of 39 years; twin daughters Abby Conner and Emma (Jordan) Johnson; son Phillip, who kept the wolves away; brand-new, perfect, long-desired grandson Jay-Landon Johnson; siblings Dollie Conner, David Conner, and Christina Conner; sisters-in-law Starla (Steve) Spencer and Angie Anderson; many much-teased nieces and nephews; beloved Yankee cousins; Bradley Caesar, for unwavering friendship; and Myrtle, Mayberry, and Memphis.
As a newlywed, Chuck told Celeste he wanted bagpipes playing “Amazing Grace” at his graveside. He said, “It’s the saddest sound ever, and I want everybody to be real sad.” She quipped that she’d have George Jones singing, “He Stopped Loving Her Today.” But she doesn’t think he did.
In lieu of a public funeral, his people prefer to rest in private with family, spending days together, retelling his relentless stories …
“Tony! Tony! Tony!”
“I heard you. I don’t know what you said. But I heard you.”
“Linda!!! PULL (pause) HIS (pause) LICENSE!!!
… and honoring his legacy of laughter.
The family does not want flowers. If you’d like to honor Chuck with a donation, give to your favorite charity that brings light into people’s hearts. Donations to Jay-Landon’s adoption fund are also welcome through checks or Venmo @Emma-Johnson-0316.
The best way to honor Chuck is to pick up the phone and call the friend you’ve been needing to check on for a decade. Chuck excelled at old friends. And forgiveness.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Elvis has left the building.”
