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From Niagara Falls to Forever: Remembering A Brother’s Love

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As a toddler at Niagara Falls, I was determined to catch one of the huge fish I saw jumping in the churning water below the walkway. I stuck my leg through the railing, then maneuvered my head to follow. In my little mind there was no danger — only the thrill of grabbing that fish. I never considered that success might send me tumbling over the falls right along with it.

Randall and Alan Franks (Photo: Floyd Franks)

Thankfully, my older brother Alan wasn’t distracted that day. Several years my senior, he yanked me back to safety and ended my fishing career before it began. He saved my life, even if, at the time, I only saw him as the one who wouldn’t let me do what I was sure I could do.

I’m the youngest of three boys. Alan, the middle one, was my half-brother — Dad’s son from his first marriage. He lived mostly with his mom, Melba, and his stepdad, in Blairsville coming to stay with us on some weekends, alternate holidays, and summer vacations in Atlanta. When we were little, those visits were pure fun; we always found games and mischief to share. I’m sure for him it often felt like babysitting his pesky little brother.
Alan loved his mom Melba with all his heart, but he was blessed to have a second mom in my mother too. She didn’t hesitate to hold his feet to the fire, push him to reach his potential, and set him straight when she thought he was veering off course. The same she did for me. He used to laugh that Mom was a “ball of fire,” and none of us wanted to be in her path when she got on a roll.
He also had two dads. Like me, his relationship with our father could be strained at times; part of that age-old struggle when a boy starts becoming a man and tries to step out from under his father’s shadow.
By the time he charged into his mid-to-late teens, I was just starting elementary school. His heavy-metal albums and glorious afro cracked me up. For a while in his late teens he came to live with us, and I loved having him around — even if we had almost nothing in common and he was far more interested in girls than in playing with me. I remember he once talked about training to become an EMT. Life moved on. He fell in love, married Carolyn, started a family in another town, and our time together shrank to holidays, funerals, and the occasional pass-through visit.
Rotary-dial phone calls kept Mom and Dad updated on his adventures: first a job at the First National Bank of Chatsworth, then running a little place called The Chili Dog (restaurants were a subject our family knew plenty about), and always the latest news about my nieces. Eventually he joined with his brother Donny in his dream to start Atlanta Carpet Company, where he worked the rest of his life. When we lost Dad far too young, one more tether between us loosened.
Still, he was my brother — a gift from God and from our parents. After Dad was gone, whenever I hit rough patches I turned to my brothers for advice, especially about the ladies in my life. Alan had been married twice — first to Carolyn, later to Jane — so he and my brother Jerry always had more experience than I did. I treasured their wisdom, even when I was too stubborn to follow it right away.
As adults we related better — talking about life, the world, our family, and hopes for the future. His kids gave him grandchildren, and more recently great-grandchildren. 
Sometimes we get urges for a reason. Earlier this year, while performing in eastern Georgia, I felt a strong pull to reroute my drive home through Gainesville, stop in, and maybe share supper with Alan. The sensible side of me looked at the three-hour drive and the monstrous traffic I was driving in and decided on a phone call.

A few hours ago, from this writing, that same phone rang. A doctor was on the line — she’d found my number in his

Alan Franks

contacts. She told me Alan had suffered a massive cardiac arrest and they were still working on him.

Tonight that earlier decision haunts me. Yes, we talked and messaged a few times after that missed visit, but I lost my last chance to sit across a table from him in this life. I will always regret not listening to that urge.
I am comforted, though, by how proud he was of my recent music honors.
Not long ago he wrote: “Congratulations to my Lil brother who got all the talents which left me with none! LOL. The man can definitely saw a fiddle. I have always loved to hear you play. I will never forget the cross-country road trip we took with Dad and Pearl — Atlanta to Arkansas to Ohio to Niagara Falls to Canada and back home through Cherokee, N.C. You was a little guy then and drove me completely nuts in the back seat of the old blue Chevy making up songs and singing them. LOL. You have always been talented Lil bro. The award was much deserved.”
Moments like that mean little without family to share them with. Countless times I’ve been grateful Alan was there to cheer me on over the years. And there were just as many times — heart broken by a woman or by a career stumble — when I’d drive a couple of hours just to sit while he tinkered, or spill my guts on his couch about things I could only tell my brothers.
I was privileged to do the same for him — celebrate when he caught a big bass in a tournament, brag about his success in commercial carpeting, or listen to the latest story about one of his kids or grandkids.
I’ll miss my brother terribly. Tonight, with tears hitting the keyboard, I keep thinking about those boyhood rides in the back of Mom’s 1964 Chevy Malibu or Dad’s light-green 1969 Chevy truck, wherever Mom and Dad were hauling us. The destination didn’t matter. What mattered was that we were together.
I know we will be again.
Alan was an active supporter in our charity benefiting youth with the Pearl and Floyd Franks Scholarship through the Share America Foundation, Inc. If you are inclined to give a gift in his memory visit online: http://ShareAmericaFoundation.org
or by mail: P.O. Box 42, Tunnel Hill, GA 30755.

Lessons from a Lost Pocketknife

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When I was a small boy, like many up-and-coming business folks, my parents sought a getaway near the city—a haven from the hustle and bustle, but not too far for quick trips filled with camping, fishing, and swimming.

For my older brother and me, this sounded wonderful. He’d already experienced more rustic life on the family farm in the mountains before we relocated, but that spot was too distant for weekend escapes. My folks eyed two burgeoning options outside Atlanta: Lake Lanier in Hall County and Lake Capri in Rockdale County. They bought a lot at Lake Capri because it was closer to home. At the time, the lakes were neck-and-neck as getaways, but in hindsight, Lanier would have been the better choice.

Still, we became Lake Capri owners, and our treks began. We’d load the fishing gear, lawn chairs, and Coleman stove into the camper on our pickup truck. The cooler brimmed with potato salad, cold cuts, bread, ketchup, mustard, and Mom’s chocolate-frosted cake—plus breakfast items for overnights. Off we’d go.

During grass-mowing season, we’d add a push mower and gas can. That was an unforeseen chore my brother and I hadn’t anticipated: more acreage meant more legwork for us. It was worth it, though. After a couple of hours mowing, we’d switch to swimming trunks for a dip or grab rods for bank fishing.

There was always a peacefulness about sitting on the lake shore as puffy white clouds drifted across the blue sky. All you could hear were crickets chirping in the bait box, awaiting their dunking in hopes of dinner. Of course, we had plenty of red wigglers ready for a bath, too. While my older brothers became skilled fishermen, I never inherited the gene. I tried, but sometimes I felt like the jinx from The Andy Griffith Show who spoiled every catch.

I remember one trip when I’d gotten my first pocketknife as a gift. I was so proud—it was a tool, a rite of passage marking my progress from boyhood to manhood, like getting a BB gun and later a .22 rifle. I carried it everywhere, even to school back then. My swimming trunks had pockets, so in went the knife without a thought.

We fished first that day. I’d cast my line and set down my small rod, distracted by something. Suddenly, a fish big enough to yank it into the water struck. I chased after it, blending fishing and swimming in one frantic splash. Waist-deep (which wasn’t far for my size), I grabbed the rod and tried to set the hook, but the fish had skedaddled with my bait.

The sad part: in my enthusiasm, my pocketknife slipped out and sank to the lake bed. Heartbroken, I went back in and searched frantically, but to no avail.

My parents consoled me, but it stung. In my mind, I’d stepped backward on the path to manhood by losing that possession. I was still the same boy, of course, and they soon replaced the knife—perhaps I guarded it better because of the lesson. That mishap, and those family times, left a sharp memory I’ve cut my teeth on all these years later. Are you making lasting memories with your family? Maybe today is a good time to start.