In Celebration of His Life & Work

On November 6, 2008 I had the opportunity to give a keynote talk to one of my important volunteer groups - Wake County Human Services Business Advisory Council. 

It felt more like more about how my dad spoke about artistry or writing. It chooses you. The person who was supposed to speak was called out because North Carolina State University had to handle some racial tension after the election on November 4th. 

So the keynote to this great group called me. Actually Janny Flynt called me and I answered the call. 

I just wanted to share this article with you. It’s part of what formed my dad’s opinion on people. 

We were brought up by my parents to see people’s unique qualities not their differences. 

In this talk I also added two other stories - my brother’s Canada Man story and my son’s reaction of What are white and black people? I will explain these stories in another blog. This is the background foundation of what I read in this talk:

First Rites

It’s a real glimpse into what formed my dad and how we viewed others.

When you wake up in Ireland your relatives see you. They look at you. They come around you. They don’t say “Welcome to Ireland” but they do say “Welcome Home” to you. My dad went home this week. I miss him already, miss him like crazy. I miss his voice. 

It’s so silly. I get the news in Hershey, PA, in the middle of the carnival atmosphere at Hershey Park from your sister and my Aunt Peg. I text you on the phone and said three words - I love you. How pointless, huh? You would like the irony. 

This is from “Stealing Home”:

He has another, more obvious, power. He can go straight from the stop sign to the road at the far end of town, the quickest route home, put the station wagon in the garage, and remain. He guesses the girls are still awake. He’d probably end up answering Annie’s questions about the ball game; finding out what Suzie did today at the Andersons’; listening to Marilyn talk about the fabrics she’s been working on; waiting up to talk to Bobo. None of that would be unusual, yet in his power he knows that none of it would be quite usual either. He’s reminded of the way a certain hit or pitch can turn the course of a ball game, always a matter of inches and small angles. The championship game, played yesterday or tomorrow, might have ended differently. Even played today it might have. Suppose, he thinks, Moose had thrown just a few inches higher than the one Bobo sent back against his foot…But the speculation is pointless and could lead to others, as pointless. The game has ended; he has seen it through. Elsewhere nothing has ended.

The light has again turned green.

Seeing it, he raises his hands to the steering wheel and presses his foot softly against the accelerator.

Tonight, at least, there is only one place to be.  

Your spirit survives. In all of your writing your characters wrestled with issues. 

I wish I would have talked to you more dad, asked you more about so many things. But it’s all speculation now and that could lead to others. This game of life has ended; you have seen it through. My relationship with you just started, the dialogue continues.

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