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The Last Thing My Dad Ever Taught Me

Dad didn’t mean to teach me this last lesson. In my experience, some of the best, most important, most meaningful lessons are unintentional. I’m pretty sure I’ll remember this one.

My father died earlier today. He was 94, in relatively good health for almost all of that time, went into the hospital with a case of pneumonia five weeks ago, and now he’s gone. He owned and operated an accounting business in Maryville for many years, building his professional reputation on honesty and competence, and worked his farm when he wasn’t behind his desk. He was a Mason, a Navy veteran, and, later in his life, a recreational pilot. He spent almost all of his 94 years on the family farm in Loudon County, on land that has been in the family for generations. That farm now belongs to me and my sister Jane, and is among the many things we’ll have to deal with and make decisions about in the coming weeks.

Fathers and sons. Much has been written about that extremely complex relationship, and I have nothing original to add, so I won’t go into ours other than to say it was as multifaceted and convoluted, and went through as many changes, as most father-son relationships. We were on good terms for much of our time together, including here at the end, and I’m glad about that.

About two and a half weeks ago I was visiting Dad in the rehab center where he was transferred after being stabilized in the hospital. I was almost ready to leave when he looked at me and said, “There are some things that need to be said.”

I sat back down. “I’m right here, Dad. I’ll stay as long as you need me to.”

He shook his head. “Not today. Let me get my thoughts together.”

I said okay and left. Over the next several visits his decline grew more rapid, and we never finished that conversation. He never told me what he thought needed to be said. I will never know what he felt was so important.

What he taught me, there at the very end, was this: If there are things you need to say, to your family or those close to you, don’t wait. Don’t put it off. If it’s important, it’s important right now.

Last Festival of 2022

Remember, the Holiday Market at Ijams Nature Center is this Sunday, Dec. 4, 10 to 3. Come by and say hello, check out all the fine artists and crafters, and do a little shopping. Books make great gifts!

Also, if you’re not in the area or can’t make it on Sunday, the Boone series print versions are at Union Avenue Books in downtown Knoxville and on Amazon. If you’re close to a different independent bookstore, ask them to order the Boone series for you. Support local businesses when you can; it’s good for all of us.

Print versions of my children’s books are at Ijams Nature Center and available on Amazon.

Ebook versions of the Boone series and my other novels are available on Amazon, Apple Books, Kobo, Barnes & Noble, and Google Play.

Holiday Shopping

Remember, the Holiday Market at Ijams Nature Center is this Sunday, Nov. 27, 10 to 3. Come by and say hello, check out all the fine artists and crafters, and do a little shopping.

Also, if you’re not in the area or can’t make it on Sunday, the Boone series print versions are at Union Avenue Books in downtown Knoxville. Print versions of my children’s books are at Ijams and available on Amazon.

Ebook versions of the Boone series and my other novels are available on Amazon, Apple Books, Kobo, Barnes & Noble, and Google Play.

Thanks

Many thanks to everyone who came by my table at the Mountain Makins Festival in Morristown this past weekend. It was a fine way to spend a couple of days; I saw some old friends, made some new ones, and sold a few books in the bargain.

In a few weeks I’ll be at the Ijams Holiday Marketplace to finish out the year, along with a lot of fine artists and craftspeople; if you’re in the Knoxville area either weekend, drop by and say hello. Remember, books make great gifts!

Back-to-Back Blogs #2 – A Long, Strange Trip So Far

My granddaughter will find out sometime today if her numbers are high enough to start the next round of chemo.

Since the first of July, when she was diagnosed with leukemia and admitted to Children’s Hospital up in Cincinnati, numbers have dictated pretty much every move, every change in protocol, every decision by the team creating and implementing her treatment. It’s incredibly complex, and even out on the periphery as I am, it’s clear that a staggering amount of data is being continuously collected and used to make decisions about what to do next.

Impressions are forming: Cincinnati Children’s is a fine hospital, the Ronald McDonald House there is an oasis, the network of support surrounding my son and his family as they work through this is strong, resilient, and made up of church, community, employer, extended family, and hospital staff and volunteers.

Among the many things I’ve learned during this last several months is that the folks at St. Jude’s in Memphis (by all accounts the leader in this kind of treatment) share protocols and consult with other hospitals, like the one in Cincinnati, on treatment options and individual cases. This is how science is supposed to work, transcending the artificial boundaries of state, region, politics, etc., trying to find the best way to help a seven year old girl and her family caught in desperate circumstances.

So what we have is a combination of formal and organic structures operating in concert; the hospital, its staff, and treatment options and procedures, alongside the fluid network of church foundation, community support, employer accommodations, extended family coming into town to help with the other children in the family, and the uncounted number of volunteers lending a hand inside the formal structure to fill whatever gaps they can.

Not the least of these is a music therapist at the hospital, who helped McKinley with the chord structure for a song she has written. I sent the therapist a GarageBand recording of a hammer dulcimer accompaniment to her guitar, and I’m looking forward to hearing the completed piece, with my granddaughter’s vocals.

Of course the point is not the finished product, any more than the book she is working on, which may or may not ever be published. The process of creation is healing on many levels, and the act of making something beautiful, or melodious, or interesting, or funny, is food for the mind and spirit. The mind-body-spirit connection is not part of the scientific protocol, but it is nevertheless a force for growth and healing.

If her numbers are high enough, she’ll start round four of chemo, probably today or early tomorrow. As it stands now they are planning on five rounds altogether, which may mean this long strange trip can be wrapped up sometime in January. Since a large part of this process for my son and his family has been making and then remaking plans, it’s difficult to predict an endpoint. As things stand right now, she’s still a very sick little girl, but the treatment is progressing as it should.

I am cautiously optimistic.

Back-to-Back Posts #1 – Next Festival

I’ve got two things to post about that are pretty unrelated, so I’ll write this one now, and follow it later today or sometime tomorrow with a much longer one, an update on my granddaughter’s progress.

After more than a year off for the pandemic, I’m back to attending local festivals with my children’s books and the Boone series. The most recent additions are the fifth book in the Boone series, Choosing Family, and a children’s book, That Doesn’t Belong Here! I’ve got a couple more starting to take shape in my mind; more on those as they develop.

This weekend, Oct 22 and 23, I’ll be at the Mountain Makins Festival in Morristown, at the Rose Center. My table will be in Prater Hall in the Authors’ Corner. This is my first time at this festival, and I’m looking forward to trying it out. The weather is supposed to be nice, so stop by if you’re in the neighborhood and say hello. Love to see you.