I wrote a tribute for your father’s first anniversary of his death. Would you like to read it? I have already sent it to Erin and Justin. Let me know.

Donna Fentanes

I worked with your Dad while a student at BGSU. I actually spent a great deal of time typing and re-typing Stealing Home. Over the course of the two years we worked together, he helped me see the lady I was meant to be. In typical college style, I was a wild one who was just out to tear life apart. He helped me so much find and grow my inner beauty.

Life quickly took me away from BGSU and with his dating Martha, I didn’t really fit (or so I felt). I met Justin a few times and always cherished how he spoke of you and your siblings.

About a month ago, I searched for him and found your website. I’m so saddened that I missed out on his friendship for the last 18 years.

My thoughts are with you and your family,

Lisa

I’m a current MFA at BGSU, and am right now involved with arranging a reception at this year’s AWP to commemorate Phil. We’d love it if you could make it, and please contact me even if you can’t.

I never knew Phil, but his echos certainly still linger on campus. Theresa Williams, one of Phil’s students, is now leading my fiction workshop. She occasionally shares some stories. Until recently, I didn’t know much about Phil, but every bit I learn shows me he’s exactly the kind of writer I relate to and appreciate: hard-working, passionate, open. I’m currently reading “Old Morals” and already am struck by his sharp prose and the voice he seems to capture so effortlessly. His work will certainly inspire generations of writers to come.

My condolences to you and your family. I hope to hear from you.

–Dustin

My sincerest condolences to you and your family.

I knew your dad in the 60’s. I was one of his first MFA students and was proud that he selected me to teach for a year in the program. Something I’m very proud of is that one night, fortified with several Buckeyes, I praised a story that he pulled out of a desk drawer and read to me. I told him to get on the stick and send it someplace. It was the story that got him in BEST SHORT STORIES. Of course, looking back, I figured he knew how good it was and that he was just giving me some kind of test. I kidded him about that years later and could tell by the little light that went on in the corner of his eyes that I’d hit the truth. He was a fine writer, a dear friend, and a first rate teacher. No one I have ever met could find the center of a sentence or a story better than your dad. It was a pleasure and an honor knowing him. Please look me up (you have my email) for more stories and so that I can get a chance to know you a little better,too. I remember you kids as mostly rug rats who climbed around on all of us as we sat in the living room drinking those beers. I bet you turned out to be the kinds of people who made your father’s great Irish heart smile.

G

As we exited St. Anselm’s I felt rushed to get my children (friends of Phil’s youngest, Hanlon & Ingrid) out of everyone’s way so I wiped my face, embraced & dashed to the car to head home. On the way, though, I felt myself stopping traffic as I drove towards our Town’s hub and looked up at Red Hill, tears rolling down my face….I recalled my favorite of many of Phil’s stories. It had taken place during his childhood and was about Red Hill. I had been so surprised & touched to hear one of his own children recall Phil’s feelings about Red Hill at today’s ceremony as well.

In fact, I had asked Phil to retell the story so often that one day I came home to find Old Morals, Small Continents, Darker Times on my doorstep….it was lovingly signed with a dear message from Phil.

The message begins with “Jump ahead to page 33 whenever you need to hear your favorite tale”
(of course My Imaginery Father”)

The message ends “with much admiration, Phil”

I thought then, as I do now, it is with much admiration that I have had Phil in my life.

I’m very sorry to hear about Phil’s death. I was in the undergraduate creative writing program from 1988-92, when Phil was teaching some of his final classes. I always hoped that I could take one of them; it never worked out.

But how could I not know Phil O’Connor? His presence in Hanna Hall loomed large. We all knew he was back there, in that room behind Mary’s desk. He was generous with his time: when I was 16 and inquired about the program, he invited my mother and I down from Michigan to talk about it with him. He presided over a program reunion my sophomore year — the first time I’d seen a big group of writers come together, in what amounted to a weekend reading marathon. They half-competed, half-celebrated, and I was fascinated by the way all divisions fell away, and I wanted to be part of that tribe as much as anything. I knew Phil as an echo, too, through his daughter Erin and his son John, who taught my craft of fiction class. He kept telling me, “Go talk to my dad; I’ve told him about you,” and I never did. Phil O’Connor was white-bearded, enormous, and powerful, and I was eighteen and shy.

When my partner Tim Haas died in 1994, Phil came to the funeral, then to the house. I remember very little about that time, but I remember how kind he was to me. He stood with his drink — well over a foot taller than I — as he spun a yarn about Jim Whitehead, a former defensive tackle for Vanderbilt and the founder and director of my own graduate creative writing program in Arkansas. In my daze I thought, Maybe every writing program in the nation is run by a big, tenacious man and a natural storyteller. I liked Phil O’Connor because he made all of us students feel that what we were up to was some serious business.

Yours,

Katrina Vandenberg, BFA 92