So Long, You Old Rascal...

*The following contains material taken from one of my own blog posts that I had dedicated to the incomparable professor of journalism, Conrad Fink. Professor Fink passed away last night after a 20-year illness. Words, although they were what he knew best, cannot capture the essence and spirit of that man.

I'd heard a lot of whispering about the eyebrows. Those of us classified as "pre-journalism" considered them legendary, and considered him terrifying. He was a mystery, the way he carried himself with confidence through the halls of the Grady College, down the stairs and onto the second floor, where he sat at his desk surrounded by books, articles, and a couple of framed excuses from his students...one written by a veterinarian and one written by an arresting officer.
There was always a line of students outside the door, waiting to get in and hear what he had to say. Some of them left laughing, some of them left crying, but ALL of them came back time after time...for help, for guidance, for advice, or to talk over a problem that wasn't necessarily always school related. I envied them. I pitied them. But, I knew with a concentration in print journalism that in good time I would BE one of them, and the thought scared me and thrilled me at the same time.
I'm talking, of course, about Conrad Fink, legendary professor of journalism at the University of Georgia Henry W. Grady College of Journalism and Mass Communication. The first class I had with Professor Fink was Public Affairs Reporting, and it was in the spring in the early nineties. We sat there, still as statues, waiting for him to walk in on that first day. He entered the room with the presence of royalty, dressed in a powder blue suit and carrying several newspapers in his hands. He started barking out headlines and immediately calling us by our last names. It sounds impersonal, but it was far from it. Twenty years later, although the name has changed AND he also taught my husband, when we corresponded recently he still called me "Boone." I wouldn't have had it any other way.
As I left that first class and headed home that day, something strange occurred to me. I had forgotten to look for the eyebrows. Anyone who has had the privilege of being his student will know that after just one class, the eyebrows no longer matter. Yes, I am sure they were his signature, but what really stood out were the bright, engaging eyes underneath the brows, and the complete and utter passion for his work that had spanned several decades already, from the Marines to the Associated Press, to foreign correspondent and all kinds of other things.
One of our early assignments in that first class was to get published, so I marched myself over to The Red and Black and took on a story…a real page turned about how the opening of Highway 316 was going to hurt business along old Highway 29. I drove all over Athens, Bogart, and Statham, interviewing owners of businesses such as Peanut’s Redneck Barbecue and Sun Your Buns Tanning Salon. I got some great quotes and I wrote a heartbreaking story about suffering business and Main Street woes. I was so proud of it, but there was a problem…it seems I made no mention of money in my heart wrenching economic story. Professor Fink was quick to point this out in class, although he refrained from mentioning who had written the story. Being 19 and being completely full of myself, I took offense and raised my hand, taking ownership of my lame little story and explaining my even lamer reasons for leaving that oh-so-vital information out.
Professor Fink would later that day take me aside and praise me for raising my hand and defending my sad little piece. From that day on, we were friends, and I never wrote another story that didn’t win some praise from him. I felt like I could go to him for writing advice and not try to do it all on my own, and that I would get answers and guidance that would mold me into a better writer.
We all had a fine time that spring quarter, learning to write news stories and thrilling in seeing ourselves published. Our professor and by then, our friend, delighted along with us and was always proud and always had advice on how to make the story even better. And then one afternoon he walked into the room and hushed the crowd as if he was beginning a press conference. He dropped a bomb that left us all speechless, and some of us in tears. He told us he was ill and would be taking the rest of the quarter off to recover. He delivered the news with so little emotion that I feared at the time he was going to make us write up a story.  Thankfully he didn’t make us write a story, but he did tell us we’d be finishing out the quarter with another professor, a professor whose name I don’t even remember because nothing mattered after that announcement except making sure he was back in the fall.
After the shock wore off, and thanks to phone calls to the second floor from his family (this was before cell phones and internet) we were able to go visit him in the hospital. We spent class time irritating our substitute professor while organizing who would make what food and who was going to ride together, so that he had a constant stream of student visitors. We enjoyed meeting his family, although we tried to shake the memory of seeing him in a hospital gown.
And true to his word, he returned with a vengeance, and I was crazy enough as a senior to take two classes in the same quarter with him. I remember when he saw me for the second time that first day. “Glutton for punishment, aren’t you, Boone?” I guess so, but I wasn’t missing an opportunity to become schooled in Contemporary American Newspapers or Journalism Ethics. My greatest accomplishment in college was earning an A in every class I took from Conrad Fink. It wasn’t easy. In fact, it was probably the hardest thing I’ve done to this day besides be a parent, but it was worth it because Mr. Fink was the kind of professor you simply didn’t want to disappoint, and you sure didn’t want to become a Grady Grad without those classes.
Twenty years ago when he carted bags of newspapers into the classroom and gave us some crazy talk about how one day we’d be reading the newspaper on a handheld device, subscribing to magazines electronically, and choosing our news outlets, we thought perhaps he was going on around the bend a little. That sounded absolutely insane, yet here I sit, reading the newspaper on an iPhone, subscribing to National Geographic on my Kindle and listening to CNN on the Roku. He was ahead of his time. He even had a Facebook page, which is how we corresponded in the last year or so.
I never brandish the red pen without thinking of him. All these years, and all these turns my life has taken, and every single day I still use something he taught me, still hear his voice of reason, and still credit him with pretty much everything I know about writing and editing. I have often wondered if he was disappointed in his students who chose to work behind the scenes, wielding the red pen, and then I think that he was probably proud that he taught us how to do it properly.
And now here I am…four children, countless books edited and behind me, and I am back in college again, to become a teacher. I don’t intend to scare those kindergarteners quite like he scared us, but I do carry his spirit and inspiration with me every day. My own child is sitting on the sofa as I type reading The New York Times. I hope he knows this. I hope he sees this. His influence reaches far and wide.
Last night, Professor Fink published the ultimate story. After a full life he has moved on to the great newsroom in the sky. I am not dealing very well with this loss tonight, friends, but I can tell you this much…I certainly hope St. Peter’s list doesn’t have any typos on it, because Fink is headed his way with the red pen.
Goodbye to one of the greatest men that has ever lived. I’ll see you again someday, but until then, I’m going to continue to write like you taught me.
So long, you old rascal.
~Boone

Turning the Page

I first made his acquaintance almost ten years ago. I had a child a little younger than him, but they were friends. I actually met him through Caitlyn, and I'm happy to say that of all her friends, he and his cronies have always been ones she could count on, friends that wouldn't lead her astray and certainly wouldn't let her down.

The first time I ever saw him, he was eleven years old, a scrawny little thing with shaggy hair and glasses that didn't fit just right. His family wasn't very good to him, and he was grateful for the escape that school and his friends provided. His home life left a lot to be desired, and I always felt bad when he had to go back to his house. I was happy when we were able to bring him into our home, but he never was able to stay for long. A few days at a time, and then I'd spend the next year or so wondering how he was faring and what kind of shape he'd be in the next time I saw him.

He had a pet, given to him by a friend, and thankfully she was always around to talk to when he was having trouble at home. He also had a bunch of loyal friends, but like most kids his age, had trouble with the school bullies. His parents had died long ago, leaving him with only faint memories, and making him an easy target for the bullies and their leader, who would stop at nothing to bring him misery. In spite of that, he liked school and I was glad my daughter had an older friend that she could look up to, one that seemed to excel in spite of his hardships.

At one point, we thought he'd be able to move in with his godfather, but tragically, that didn't come to pass. It was just another heartbreaking disappointment for that young boy. It must have been awful to be so close to happiness, only to have it ripped away again. I'm so glad he had a close group of friends to help him through that time because it was a terrible time.

We were happy to entertain him whenever he paid us a visit. Actually, I guess you could say that he entertained us. For years. He's never really been out of our thoughts since the moment we met him. In addition to Caitlyn, he's been a great influence on our other children too. I'm so glad they had the chance to get to know him.

Tonight, we'll go visit him one last time. He's done with school now, and he finally handled those bullies. He has grown into a fine young man, one I am so proud to know. I know his parents would be proud of him if they could see him now, and I have a feeling they can. It's time for him to move on to the next phase in his life, but I hope he knows he's always welcome in our home.

We'll leave the book light on for you, Harry.

Celebrating the Five Percent

My parents have always enjoyed a good train ride to New Orleans, and celebrating for several days in the Crescent City before riding back. I’ve always enjoyed seeing them off and picking them up, when they would come off the train with stories and little fun things for the kids. On November 5, 2004, I picked them up as usual after a trip, and I knew something was not right.
This is not a time period in my life that I like to relive, and I try not to even think about it, except to encourage others in the same situation or when I give thanks that it all turned out the way it did.
My father was never one to visit the doctor. In fact, I only remember him visiting the doctor once during my life before 2004, and in 2004 I was 33 years old. I won’t go into the order of events that got us to the hospital that night, only that we got there and discovered that my father was in the process of surviving a hemorrhagic stroke. I don’t say that he SUFFERED the stroke. I say that he SURVIVED the stroke, because from the moment we entered the door until this very moment, nearly seven years later, that is what he did and is doing.
There are two main kinds of strokes, I’ve learned. Blockages and bleeds. What he had was a bleed, caused by high blood pressure. There are several areas in the brain that can be the location of the stroke. His was in the area of his brain that controls autonomic functions…breathing and heartbeat and all those vital things that keep us alive.

We were told when he was admitted to the ICU in the Neuroscience Department at Gwinnett Medical Center that 95 percent of people that have the type of stroke that he did in that area of the brain never make it to the hospital, but for the lucky 5 percent that do, they almost always make a full recovery. So if you are a gambling person and are planning a stroke, you’d better think this kind through very carefully. Odds are you won’t make it, but if you do, then it’s the best kind of stroke to have.
These statistics might sound pretty grim, and of course, they did to us then, especially when complications arose and he was fighting an infection that could not be found and was making no sense when he talked to us, if he talked at all. It seemed he had gone to a place that we could not reach, and I thought of all the things that made my father my Daddy…were they lost forever? Would he make it back to the person he had been just one day earlier, or would my children never know the brilliance of that man?
Over the next few days a wonderful team of heroes worked tirelessly to find the source of the infection. It turned out to be a simple gallbladder attack, one that more than likely caused his blood pressure to rise to the level it did to cause the stroke in the blood vessels weakened by the diabetes. Nurse Ron was the one who insisted on the gallbladder ultrasound and who told us that if that was the cause, he’d be on the road to recovery within hours. Nurse Beverly took my mother aside and told her that she had had a special talk with God and that He was not prepared for my father’s arrival just yet. Ron and Beverly were both right. Within hours of the surgery, his fever was gone and he was up and talking.


It might sound like this was the happy ending, but it wasn’t quite there yet. We still had the stroke to deal with, and when I say he was up and talking he was, only he was speaking in Japanese and none of us could understand it. They call this Aphasia, a common effect of stroke a condition where language is altered. Some forget how to talk. Others confuse words. Daddy switched over to Japanese. None of us spoke Japanese, and the grandchildren certainly couldn’t understand why Dan Dan was speaking to them in this other language. Days went by and the Japanese language gave way to English, only it was almost as hard to understand. Why was Daddy so convinced that Kris Kringle was evil, and what was the fascination with Burl Ives’ bathroom habits? There were monkeys in the trees and the Auburn football players on TV were talking to him. He spoke to me like I was a little child, and talked to his dog as if the dog was in the room, which he was not.
The speech pathologist at the hospital assured us this was temporary, but it was SO hard to believe. I was so happy that he had survived, but worried that the Daddy I knew was no longer accessible. Weeks went by, and the hospital turned to a rehabilitation center. This is where the real progress was made, and in just three weeks was discharged to home, in time for Christmas, not even remembering that he had seen more doctors in the last five weeks than he had seen in his entire life, and that every medical test known to man had been run and all his health ailments repaired.
Looking back, I can’t really remember a defining moment when I knew that my Daddy was back, only that less than 7 months after his stroke, we attended our first ever reunion of his Air Force group, Misawans in America. Here he was able to use the Japanese language that he tried so hard to use in the hospital, only this time he was understood. He talked and laughed with old friends and shared jokes from long ago that only they understood. He showed off his grandchildren. Hardly anyone present knew he had ever had the stroke, and those that did were amazed that he showed no effects. Yes, he walks with a cane, but he walked with a cane before because it just looks so darn distinguished. If you look closely at the cane you’ll see that it is not a medical –grade assistance device, but rather a Japanese fighting cane.


So yes, he’s back. He was able to see his oldest grandchild earn her Black Belt in karate, something that they share together. He was able to be there to see his grandson born, and to have a grandchild share his name. He has been there to support the son he never had, my husband Charley. He has been able to reconnect with all his friends from long ago and will soon attend his seventh reunion with them. I am thankful every day for the things he has been able to see and do.

My Daddy, at the Seattle reunion. This is my favorite picture of my parents

I remain convinced, 100 percent, that the stroke saved his life. It sounds strange, but I believe if it had not happened, he would have continued on with his diabetes and his undiagnosed health problems and probably would not be here today. He’s smart, he’s funny, he’s a loving man and he’s still the one whose advice I seek. I am so thankful for those doctors, those nurses, and those therapists that brought my Daddy back to me.
I believe in second chances because I saw it happen. I also believe in God’s plan for all of us. As stubborn as my Daddy is, even he could not throw a wrench into His plan. There was a lot left to do on Jim Boone’s list. He was in the five percent, and he’s mine to be thankful for, today and always.
Happy Father’s Day, Daddy. We love you very much.
**For anyone out there who does not know the signs of a stroke, please make yourself aware. Time is off the essence when treating a stroke. Please visit www.strokeassociation.org for a complete list of symptoms. REMEMBER…TIME LOST IS BRAIN LOST!!

My Apologies to Ken

Ok, so maybe I made a little merry on Memorial Day. Perhaps I should have stuck with the Magic Hat and not tried something new. Maybe I should have stopped with one helping of grilled food. Whatever the reason, I promise I will TRY to never make fun of Ken Cook again.
Ken Cook, as most of you know, is my secret nemesis. He’s the ever-popular Atlanta weather man, or meteorologist, that makes me so crazy.
My love-hate relationship with Ken Cook goes way back to the early 1980s, when I was in the fifth grade and had that big crush on Forrest Sawyer, who was at the time an anchor for Channel 5 in Atlanta. I watched the news religiously. Not because I thought I might become a newswoman, or a weather girl, or anything of the like. I watched because I had a thing for Forrest Sawyer and I’d be danged if I was going to let that silly Pam Martin get her hands on him. I even used to listen to that old Anne Murray song, “A Little Good News,” that my mother liked and picture me and Forrest, happy together, running off and leaving Pam behind.
While I was drooling over Forrest, part of the deal was Ken Cook. He was a slick, black-haired weather man back then, and he usually, I noticed, got the forecast right. Not that I cared. As long as the power didn’t go out and make me miss Hart to Hart or God forbid, Scarecrow and Mrs. King, I really didn’t care what Ken had to say.
Then one day we were sitting in our 6th grade science class and in walked Ken Cook! There he was, in all his weather personality glory, talking to us like he actually appreciated what a student had to say. That was, until Casey Keesee accused him of coloring his hair and after that, he quickly excused himself from the classroom.
Years went by and I moved away. Forrest moved off and made it big on the CBS Evening News as a correspondent and Pam moved over to Channel 2. Channel 5 became a FOX affiliate. I continued to not care what Ken said. From time to time, my mother might mention something she heard Ken say. At that point I couldn’t really believe he was still alive, much less still on television.
More years went by, and I found myself living once again within range of Ken’s forecast. I began to worry over the weather. I began to worry over the big tree in our front yard that seemed to take aim at our picture window every time it stormed. I began to worry more and more about Charley’s commute to Buford each time the dreaded “S” word was in the forecast.
As Ken pranced around in his red vest, yelling and cheering about a Winter Wonderland, my husband sat, stuck on I85 North for ten hours in January of 2010. It was at this point that I began to despise Ken and all he represented…a culture so deprived of snow that they feel the need to rush out and buy a generator and a snow shovel every time Ken dons the red vest.
It’s not much better in the springtime, either. This is when you can find Ken in his yellow vest…shouting about tornadoes and interrupting the season finale of Bones. He continues to holler at people he must know are without power, urging them to seek underground shelter before it’s too late. He MUST realize that it is probably already too late, and even if it’s not, they are probably without power and are using what little remains on the generator to communicate with loved ones, not watch his storm-crazed antics.
So for several years I have made fun of Ken, to anyone who would listen. Mostly because I hate snow, but occasionally because I simply hate any weather that disrupts my fun. But this all ends tonight. You see, I had a horrible dream last night. I dreamed that Ken was trying to assassinate me. First, he tried to strangle me by the kitchen sink. After I escaped, he tried to hunt me down with what looked suspiciously like Harry’s Nerf water gun. Finally, after a big tree shot through my picture window in the den, he tried to hunt me down with a piece of glass he took from that, no doubt as punishment for ignoring his storm warnings.
I woke up with a racing heartbeat, and in a cold sweat. I was thankful to be alive after all that running from the homicidal weather man. I checked all my limbs and make sure I was still in one piece, and went to the den to make sure the tree wasn’t sprawled across the sofa.. Then I started thinking about taking my kids to the beach on Thursday. I wonder what the weather will be like. Perhaps I should check with Ken. I wonder if he’ll take me back, after all these years. He turned out better looking than Forrest, anyway…

One Last Ride on the Big Cheese

The Big Cheese rolled out of here this morning at 7:07 a.m. on its final journey of the school year. They were a little slower and a little more tired than they were when this week started, but they had smiles on their faces in anticipation of one more fun day followed by a summer break. Mind you, now, that the Big Cheese was short one Martin passenger, as Caitlyn finished up yesterday and was snoozing peacefully while I herded Chance and Maisy out the door one final time. We whined over shoes. We whined over clothes. We fell in heaps and cried over all kinds of things. Chance and Maisy were pretty dramatic as well.

A school year in its final days, as I have said before, is a painful thing to watch. The kids are tired. The teachers are tired. The parents are tired and, in most cases, financially strapped because they write one check after another to the school system. Field trips and field days, award ceremonies and class parties. CRCT and final exams. What’s left, after all the fun and stressful stuff is finally over, is a very tired child, a very tired teacher, and a sense of urgency to just get the thing over with already. The last few weeks of school, to me, are a testament to why year-round schooling is never a good idea.
So here I sit, two of my students home already and the last one hurtling toward the house on the big yellow bus just as fast as that driver can legally carry him. He’s the one, most of all, who is looking forward to a lazy summer. It’s sad, really, that he’s the final holdout.

Mrs. Langley, Chance's third grade teacher, doing what she did best...encouraging him!

Yes, here I sit, pondering the school year that is closing with mostly affection and good memories. The few bad ones that stand out are being vindicated through some staff changes, and that’s all I’m going to say about that. But the good ones…oh, the good ones! The fun of watching Chance and Dallas battle for AR points all year, the joy of seeing my tenth grader bond with some really good educators while holding her head high against the not-so-good one; the pride I felt at all three awards days watching my little people accept their hard-earned awards. There was the excitement of educating another group of young children on the wonders of the praying mantis, and the pride I felt when they remembered so much from last year. There was the pride of serving on the WJPS School Council and seeing the parents, educators and business partners working together for the benefit of our school. There was the excitement of participating in the Braselton-Hoschton Relay for Life, cheering on the WJPS and WJIS basketball teams in the benefit game, and hearing that game dedicated to a very special person to my heart and to the heart of my child.

Maisy and her kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Baker.

We are proud to have a copy of the first ever “Pandora’s Box,” the literary magazine of JCCHS, with our daughter Caitlyn listed as editor-in-chief. We enjoyed unprecedented wins with the Reading Bowl team, even having the opportunity to travel to south Georgia for the championship tournament. What a thrill seeing those kids hauling off that big trophy! We enjoyed a beautiful day in north Georgia watching Caitlyn participate in the Regional One Act Play competition, and enjoyed several performances of hers as Gloom in Cagebirds. It’s the knee, you know…it locks…rigid…
I am a lucky woman, and I know it. I have three children in school who love to learn and who seem to enjoy embracing their nerdy, eccentric, and even artistic sides. They are who they are, and for that I am very thankful. But I cannot close this entry without giving some credit where it is due. I didn’t think we could have as good a school year as we had last year. I didn’t think there would ever be anyone to fill the shoes of

Chance and his third grade teacher, Mrs. Langley

Mrs. Baker and Mrs. Langley, Mrs.Wilson and Ms. Chambers. And I was right…no one can fill their shoes. What I discovered, however, is that they were the beginning…the foundation that would hold my two younger students up for the rest of their lives, and that others along the way would add to that foundation and make them into the people they will become. Funny, artistic, musical Ms. Tinnell…with her violin and her books, her invention fair and her crazy, curly red hair. She’s not afraid to put on a grass skirt and tell me to shove another crumpet in Maisy’s mouth. The moment I met her and found out that she not only serenades the children on their birthdays with the violin, she has designs to be Manuelo the

Maisy and Ms. Tinnell

Playing Mantis for Halloween, I knew that Maisy had met a kindred spirit. And Mrs. Leitsch, with her smiling eyes and her obvious appreciation for the spirit of a young boy, encouraging and cheering Chance and his friend Dallas along the way in their reading war. Not afraid to tell my son when he’s being lazy, not afraid to push him just a little harder to be what she knows he can be. What a gem. I hope he’s made her proud.