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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.

Make the Most of Today

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Life is a stage, and as we play our parts, we face the sudden and lingering exits of those we hold dear. The first loss we experience is often a relative, sometimes a friend.

As a young child, I was deeply affected by the death of my Great-Uncle Jadie Harris, though I don’t recall the details—only the weight of grief I was told I carried.

Last week, an unexpected lunch with childhood friends Pam and Bob Padgett brought back memories of another loss: Pam’s sister, Nancy Burgess, who succumbed to kidney failure. Our mothers were close, and we spent countless hours playing board games while they laughed and talked. Nancy’s death, the first of a playmate, shook me as a youth. Until then, death had been reserved for older relatives—great-great-aunts and uncles whom I adored, blessed as our family was with longevity.

In seventh grade, I recall a season when funerals seemed constant. When someone passed, our world paused. My parents consoled grieving families, helped with arrangements, or simply sat with them in silence. We children did our part, distracting younger cousins with games to shield them from sorrow.

As years passed, I noticed losses arriving in waves, marking generational shifts: first my great-grandparents, then grandparents, then aunts and uncles. Over the past decade, I’ve watched my own generation—and even some from the next—begin to depart. Just this week, two unexpected losses struck: a hometown friend whose dedication transformed our community, and a film industry colleague with whom I worked for over a decade to create opportunities for others.

Soon, I’ll attend one friend’s funeral to offer condolences and share memories with those who loved him. I’ll also call another friend who recently lost both his brother and wife, hoping light conversation might lift his spirits.

When we leave life’s stage, our role ends. Loved ones may mourn, but the world moves on. God doesn’t promise us tomorrow—only today, a gift to use well. Are you living fully in this moment? Are you lifting those around you?

Even a life as long as my friend Violet Hensley’s—109 years as an Ozark entertainer—passes in a blink from cradle to grave. So use today. Love with kindness, bless others, and live with purpose. Then, when your final curtain falls, the applause will echo.

Life’s Fragility and the Path Through Grief

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Life can change in an instant—a friend’s sudden passing or a loved one’s terminal diagnosis forces us to confront our fragility. Whether it comes from natural causes, an accident, or intent, death is part of life’s path.

Over time, I have lost parents, relatives, close friends, and acquaintances. Depending on their closeness, the impact on our lives varies.

Recently, I learned my cousin faces a dire cancer diagnosis with no clear medical path forward. In such moments, many of us turn to faith, praying for healing or strength, trusting in God’s plan, whatever the outcome. I have spent time in prayer for him and his family.

As believers, we seek miracles but also recognize healing can come through God’s tools—medicine, healthy habits, or spiritual practices. Caring for our bodies with proper nutrition and exercise strengthens us to face life’s challenges. A longtime actor friend of mine recently received a terminal diagnosis. He approached it by enhancing his already healthy lifestyle, making every effort to overcome it as mentioned above. I recently learned his efforts succeeded; the disease is no longer terminal.

Likewise, feeding our spirits with uplifting words, whether through scripture or inspiring stories, sustains our hope. Yet, even with prayer and effort, we sometimes lose those we love. I’ve been on both sides—praying for others and being prayed for during my own health scares. Each time, God granted me more time, perhaps because my work here isn’t done. But when loved ones leave us, their absence carves a new path we must walk alone.

Grief is personal, unfolding at its own pace. Days or months may pass, but one morning, the pain softens into cherished memories. I still remember the day I emerged from grief after my mother’s death. I found a new lease on life, inspired by her love for me.

We honor those we’ve lost by living fully, carrying their spirit in our hearts. Through faith and resilience, we find a new sunrise—a life that reflects the love they’d want us to share. We hold hope that God walks beside us through life’s darkest valleys. Some writers suggest He carries us through them, and I find great solace in that thought.

Notes: My cousin Shane Bruce mentioned above did pass with his family around him. My acting friend – Jeff Rose – is now sharing about his new lease on life in interviews and online. Find him and be inspired.

The page turns and the story continues

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All of us are blessed with lives that within our days are the moments which make up our story.
From our personal perspective, we might see our lives as something which would not warrant the pages of a best-selling biography or novel but the minutes of each passing day make up our story.
In the last few days, several dear friends of mine have turned the final page in their story – Country and Bluegrass Hall of Famer Mac Wiseman, Gospel Hall of Famer Lou Wills Hildreth and Mississippi bluegrass promoter Bertie Sullivan.
Many great words have been shared about their lives since the news spread of their crossings. They were part of my story and as a result we will ever be intertwined until I turn my final page.
Another generational icon also turned his final page, TV star Luke Perry. Luke was an amazing talent who inspired many, me included!
I never had the opportunity to meet or work with Luke though we starred in network TV shows that aired in the same time slot, and we tried to appeal to the same adoring group of youth fans. There were many talented performers in the boat with us but I personally always placed great store in the story I perceived that Luke was writing back then. While my friends mentioned earlier were able to write on their stories for years, Luke’s unexpected passing, unfortunately, has left way too many blank pages in his.
Each day we rise from bed, we have the opportunity to write another page in our story. Our stories don’t have to be amazing. They don’t have to warrant a movie of the week be filmed. Our stories can simply be…. Life is a gift. That is never more apparent than when someone who makes our world better reaches the page that says “The End.”
At that point, we pick up their book and carry it with us, sharing our favorite bits with others and remembering what made them special.
Today is your chance to be special to someone else. Write a page that changes a life, or even the world.
Don’t leave pages blank while you are still here to fill them! Turn the page and make the story continue.