Born in 1947 at Brook’s Hospital, 500 West Main St., Robinson, Illinois, to Troy L. Pulliam Jr. and Lois M. (Huber) Pulliam, I lived a fairly normal small-town childhood. Living north of Main Street in Robinson in those days, and coming of school age at five, Kindergarten was not an option—it wasn’t offered at the Northside School. So, before turning six, I started first grade. I spent my share of time in the corner for disciplinary reasons. It was not a good start to twelve more years of schooling.
My parents divorced when I was four, and I was first raised by Mrs. Lucretia Sargent—a lovely, matronly lady (God rest her spirit)—until 1953, when my father remarried Beulah R. (Plunkett), who became my stepmother. My father had the right idea when he asked me if I wanted Beulah to be my mother. What would any four-year-old boy say? I said yes.
By then, my grandparents had moved from Casey, IL, into the funeral home in Hutsonville, IL, to help operate the business and run the ambulance service 24/7. From then on, I went to school, lived, and worked on weekdays in Robinson and spent weekends in Hutsonville with my grandparents. I attended Robinson schools, had friends there, and ran wild with my friends in Hutsonville on weekends. I was rambunctious and willing to try anything once (except drugs, alcohol, or cigarettes—my grandmother would’ve killed me herself!). That attitude resulted in many cuts, bumps, bruises, and some well-deserved spankings. Honestly, I never received a spanking I didn’t deserve—and more truthfully, I missed a few I should have gotten.
As a teenager, I sold GRIT newspapers, worked as a stockboy in a neighborhood grocery store, mowed yards, and worked on a farm raising hogs and chickens. I did fieldwork, scooped manure out of barns and chicken houses, scooped thousands of bushels of ear corn, shucked corn by hand, dug water lines and post holes, and built fences. I even operated an Advance-Rumley steam-powered traction engine and used a Caterpillar D-2 crawler tractor for plowing.
One job I truly hated was unloading 50-pound bags of ag-lime from railcars at the local Town & Country Store. Can you imagine unloading 3,450 paper 50-lb bags of lime onto a two-wheeled dolly, rolling them into a warehouse, and stacking them six feet high? Looking back, I’m lucky to have survived my school years.
As a boy, I rode between Hutsonville and Robinson with whoever was heading in my direction, and I’ll forever be grateful for their generosity. It's amazing how much loving care and compassionate advice I received from people who endured the Great Depression, survived two World Wars and the Korean Conflict, and pulled themselves up by their bootstraps. Hard work was their path to a better life. There will never be another “Greatest Generation.”
I graduated high school in 1965 in the bottom half of my class. Subjects like World History, Civics, Art, and Grammar didn’t appeal to me—I just met the minimum to pass and stay out of trouble with my dad. But I loved Spanish and took two full years of it. I played trumpet in the high school band all four years and played football for two years before giving it up to work and earn money. I embraced the hard sciences—Biology, Chemistry, Advanced Chemistry Lab, Organic Chemistry, Algebra, Advanced Algebra, Plane Geometry, and Senior Math—all of which I excelled in. That foundation allowed me to do far more in life than I ever dreamed possible. I was always tinkering with motors, taking them apart to see what made them tick—or tick faster. My mechanical aptitude must have come from my mother, because my father was not so inclined.
In the summer of 1963, I discovered a 1924 Ford Model “T” touring car my father had bought for $25 to campaign for County Coroner in 1948. When he was done with it, he stored it in a collapsing barn near the funeral home in Hutsonville. Eventually, we moved it to an abandoned garage, and I got to help prepare it for the move. I learned to adjust the spark, set the throttle, and hand-crank the engine. From then on, I had wheels. Hutsonville had no local police, just the occasional sheriff’s deputy, so I could cruise the back streets in the old car. The townsfolk loved it. My dad sold the Model T while I was in Vietnam in 1969. I was devastated but moved on.
After high school, I worked in the family business during the summer of 1965, then enrolled at SIU-Carbondale for the Winter Quarter. I discovered a whole new world of self-realization. I quickly learned that if I wanted to do something, I needed to learn everything about it first. I paid my own way through college: room and board was $325 per quarter, tuition $80.50, and books and fees around $55. According to my budget, I had no spending money—so I got a job. I worked as a janitor and cafeteria worker in the dorm, then became Dorm Manager during the summer. Later, I worked for Benning Real Estate Company as a handyman for a year. Now, I had some spending money—not much, but enough.
As you may recall, college campuses in the late ’60s and ’70s were full of anti-war protests. SIU-C was no exception. I wasn’t opposed to the war—I thought my government knew what it was doing. But when demonstrations turned to riots in 1967, I couldn’t believe some young men would leave the country rather than serve. I’d describe my ’60s self as naïve.
With classes canceled due to sit-ins and protests, my grades slipped, and I landed on academic probation. I needed to buckle down—but instead, I saw an Army recruiter, took the Armed Forces Qualification Test, scored well, and, on my uncle’s advice, joined the U.S. Air Force. I wouldn’t give a dime to do it again, but I wouldn’t take a million dollars for the experiences I had. I served with some of the most educated, self-motivated officers, who took their responsibilities seriously and involved their non-commissioned officers in decision-making. I admired them greatly. That’s how “Gung-ho” I was—I even volunteered for Vietnam.
I was stationed in Texas and Arkansas until May 1969, then reported to Saigon on July 4, 1969. I remained there until July 15, 1970. Afterward, I was stationed at Wright-Patterson AFB in Dayton, Ohio, and was honorably discharged in March 1971 with an early-out to return to college.
I applied to a small junior college in Robinson—later Lincoln Trail Junior College—and earned my AS degree in Business and Accounting. After my father’s near-fatal heart attack in 1971, I enrolled at Indiana College of Mortuary Science, graduated in 1972, and became a licensed Funeral Director and Embalmer in Illinois in 1973.
Originally, I planned to finish my bachelor’s degree at Eastern Illinois University. But after Dad's heart attack and subsequent quadruple bypass in 1972, I stepped in to keep the business running and began a lifelong career helping others in their darkest moments. My father was my greatest teacher—devoted, tireless, and compassionate.
From age 13, I was his sidekick on ambulance runs, coroner’s calls, and death calls—day or night. There were no answering services, just our family. My dad, a U.S. Navy Corpsman (Chief Pharmacist’s Mate) with the Marines in WWII’s Pacific Campaign, was forged in fire—disciplined, patriotic, and endlessly compassionate. He rarely spoke of his service. I only saw him cry twice: when his best friend, Kenneth French, died, and when he met me at Lambert Field after Vietnam. He died when I was 29.
Unbeknownst to me, he had written a will outlining his vision for the business. Each heir received 20% of the company, but anyone not licensed had to place their shares under my control. If they became licensed, they could buy them back. My stepmother wasn’t licensed and couldn’t legally run the business. That’s when the “war” began. Attorneys got involved on all sides, and my siblings took hers.
After two long, silent years, the estate was settled in 1978. Each heir got the cash value of their shares, my stepmother received the real estate, and I inherited a $250,000 debt with no buildings to work from. I rented the funeral homes until she began squeezing me financially, forcing me to either build or shut down.
I chose to build. I purchased land two blocks from her home—a clear message that I was not going away. She soon agreed to sell the properties to me. All this happened within 42 months while I ran four funeral homes, managed staff, raised a family, and stayed sane. "God never gives us more than we can handle," though sometimes it felt like I was waist-deep in alligators trying to drain the swamp.
Building from scratch was a daunting first. I borrowed money, designed the layout, and met with contractors of all kinds. I was fortunate to meet Douglas Brady, a draftsman and pilot from Springfield. He refined my drawings and introduced me to panelized construction. Every building I built after that relied on his guidance. He tragically died in a plane crash in 2009. His company, Morgan-Brady Packaged Structures, died with him.
As an example of how effective that process was: the 7,500 sq ft building was delivered the Tuesday after Memorial Day in 1984, under roof by June 15, and completely finished (with brick veneer and a 29,000 sq ft parking lot) by December 1. Our first funeral in the new facility was December 14, 1984.
And here I am, 41 years and 5,500 funerals later, wondering how I did it. Once again—I wouldn’t give ten cents to do it all over again, but I wouldn’t take a million dollars for the experience.
To God Be the Glory.
