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Track: The Dog Who Listened

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I stepped out the back door and plopped down on the top step. Our back stoop had just three concrete steps leading down to the sidewalk, which ran along the rear of the house to the gate.

There, my faithful, hairy companion Track arrived and rested his head in my lap. He was a cross between a beagle and a peekapoo and looked like the movie dog Benji, but with darker hair.

As a child, I was allergic to animals, so I wasn’t always the loving master Track deserved. My father made up for my shortcomings, I think. Still, there were many times when my childhood world seemed to be crashing down around me, and Track would lay his head in my lap for a heart-to-heart.

I often paint with the brush of idealism when I write—because we all prefer the polished version of the past. But there were times when the gleam didn’t reflect well on us.

Life isn’t easy, and the daily grind can wear us down. Parents sometimes share intense “fellowship” with each other. Sometime kids push the envelope saying or doing things they should not. In my experience, though, that rarely ended well for the child. A meeting of the minds often came with the crisp whir of my father’s belt slipping through its loops—a sound every kid recognized as the line being crossed. We’d bolt for cover: the bedroom, the den, or—on occasion—behind my mother’s kitchen chair. Sometimes she’d come to our defense, but mostly the two tall grown-ups were united on discipline. For me, the licking wasn’t pleasant, but the pain was transitory. The lesson lingers decades later.

When the stress peaked—whether from my parents’ arguments, my own misbehavior, or a friend’s betrayal—Track was always there. His brown eyes gazed up into mine, listening to my complaints as tears ran down my cheeks.

He listened. He consoled. In some way, I know he understood my hurt. Compassion knows no bounds between humans and our furry friends. For me, Track was a constant. Our playtime was limited, but he entertained himself with fierce intensity in his enclosed backyard domain. He’d bark insistently at any passersby who dared approach the fence, claiming his territory. The garbage men endured it every Tuesday as they grabbed our two metal cans, hauled them to the truck, dumped them, and returned them. Service was personal back then. Track would bark at our cans, follow them to the truck, then race to the neighbor’s in-ground can to bark some more. I assume he relished the weekly ritual.

For all his bravado, Track wouldn’t hurt a fly or snap at a person. I recall one adventure when we harnessed him and the neighborhood dogs to wagons with wheels and raced them down the street. Oscar, a huge dog, always won—and if he broke free, we’d chase him endlessly. Track excelled at pursuit, shooting down the block like a bullet from a gun. I’d usually find him at Oscar’s fence, the two running back and forth, one on each side. He did the same with Herman, the elderly next-door dog who preferred not to run.

Except for a few months while I earned my animal husbandry merit badge, Track led a solitary life, broken only by brief visits from neighbor dogs. During that time, we brought home Lassie from Raymond, the janitor at my elementary school. She and Track had seven puppies, which we placed with families—including some back with Raymond, who hunted with them. Lassie eventually went to another home, too.

Track was my confessor, my friend, and my steadfast companion through childhood.

When he passed, I built him a small coffin and laid him to rest between a peach tree and a crab apple tree—his favorite spot. It was a sad day for my dad and me as we said goodbye. I haven’t had a pet since, and I don’t plan to.

A breakfast that lingers

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As Mother’s Day morning drew near, I dreamed I stood over the stove in my childhood kitchen, frying pan in hand, setting it on the glowing red burner. Bacon sizzled, filling the air with its familiar aroma, while eggs waited in a bowl for a cheese omelet. Slices of Spam—a lunch or dinner staple from my youth—sat ready, perhaps a quirky twist of memory blending meals across time. I rarely eat breakfast, usually skipping it, but in my dream, I was stacking tasks like a seasoned cook: frying bacon, prepping Spam, whisking eggs. My mother sat in her favorite chair by the kitchen table, watching me work, our conversation as warm as the stove. I didn’t see biscuits, but I imagined them baking just inside the brown oven door below.

That vivid dream stirred memories of Saturday mornings long ago, when the smell of bacon frying would coax me from sleep. Our small kitchen buzzed with activity as my parents worked side by side. Dad, the omelet master, grated cheese and cracked eggs, while Mom patted out fresh biscuits, her hands dusted with flour. Bacon and sausage crackled in the skillet, and the oven warmed with the promise of golden biscuits. That cramped space never bothered them—they seemed to cherish it, perhaps recalling leaner times with even less.

Pearl and Floyd Franks

When the feast was ready, the table groaned under plates of cheese omelets, crispy bacon, sausage, and steaming biscuits nestled in a bread basket. My brother and I, still in pajamas and robes, stumbled in, bleary-eyed but eager. We’d bow our heads to thank the Lord, then serving plates would fly as the food disappeared. Homemade apple butter, a sweet Southern staple, was slathered generously on those biscuits. As we ate, we talked—about the day ahead, weekend plans, or some milestone from the week. Those breakfasts were more than meals; they were where love and laughter solidified our family’s bond.

Why, in my dream, was I the one cooking, Spam sneaking into the breakfast lineup? Perhaps I was stepping into my parents’ roles, honoring the care they poured into every dish. My mother’s been gone 19 years, but in that dream, we shared a moment across the veil, her presence as real as the sizzle in the pan. When I woke, I got up, fried some bacon, and made a sandwich—a simple act I hadn’t done in years, but one that felt like a quiet tribute.

As this next Saturday rolls around, gather your family for a meal or a memory, whether it’s bacon and biscuits or even Spam. Those moments, steeped in love, might linger in your heart long beyond the years.

Living Up to Family Legacies

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One is the sum of all that creates what you are – genes, heritage,
education, experience, wisdom, history, and view. Though I come from
meager Appalachian beginnings – God fearing parents and
grandparents who worked and dreamed for better for their children.
God has opened doors for me beyond my wildest dreams.
Within my genes He imprinted the memories of generations past that
reached to the corners of the world in every imaginable way – as
pilgrims, sea captains, explorers, clergy, merchants, founders,
musicians, soldiers, actors, writers, teachers, generals, peasants,
slaves, lords, ladies, kings, queens, and emperors.
From the days before the Roman Empire we have touched those who have
had a hand in forging the human collective forward. Across the world,
I can point to historical elements that weave their way into my
people, my life. I could stand at the feet of statues of many of them
in cities I hope one day to visit; or outside castles, palaces, or
buildings they have built that remain as a testament to their lives.
There were some good people, some bad, and many in between. In life,
He has allowed me to come to know many of their achievements that
have inspired me to strive to create my own and to learn from their
failures and follies.
In my three score and ten, I may not change the world as many of my
grandparents, uncles and aunts did. I may not lead great nations, nor
forge great conquests with my armies as many of them did. I may not
inspire religious dedication bringing the faithful to believe and
serve as some of them did.
I will do though, what is within my power to continue carrying the
light of the family spark each and every day. For centuries the spark
passed, it has inspired men to the call of battle; it inspired men to
write and say words that changed the direction of the world.
I pray just one line I write, one performance I share, one person I
inspire holds fast with the impact as long as some of my
grandfathers’ and grandmother’s actions continuing their tradition.
I am blessed to be a descendant of many great men and women. We all
owe those behind us a great debt for what they gave us.
Take the time to remember and learn from them.

Family ties make us stronger

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The importance of one’s family connections is something that I believe we are losing in America.
With each generation there are fewer individuals who live close to their extended families, unlike the days when grandma and grandpa lived just in the next room or uncles, aunts and cousins were a short walk down the road.
Many Americans today do not really know the members of their extended family. We spend a few awkward moments together at funerals, family reunions, Christmas and Thanksgiving gatherings and then off we go back to our own lives.
As families build lives miles away from their home many grasp the anonymity of their new surroundings with fervor, often dreading when a distant family member might drop in, disrupting their lives.
Despite the fact that my parents chose to move away from their homes to build a life for themselves in Atlanta, I grew up in a home where our door was open to members of both my mother’s and father’s families. It was not unusual for there to be cousins stretched out on quilted pallets sleeping on the living room floor; uncles rummaging through the refrigerator for green dill pickles as a late night snack; aunts blanching red tomatoes from the garden in the kitchen; or distant kin moving in for an extended stay while they looked for a job or planned a new start.
Because of the time I spent with these people growing up, I feel a much closer connection to them; the shared experiences make chance meetings and gatherings less of a strain today.
It was not unusual for my Mom to get up and start cooking a batch of turnip greens, cornbread and some fried chicken, while cleaning the house from end to end. When asked why she was doing it, she would say “so and so” will be here directly. Sure enough, after a while they would knock at the door. My Mom has a second sense about that. With no forewarning she knew some relative was on their way.
Sundays were a big visiting day. It was not unusual for Uncle Harvey, Aunt Lois and all their kids to load up in the car and be knocking at our door before dinner. Sometimes Grandma Allie and Grandpa Jesse would come along for the ride.
Us cousins would spend the afternoon playing as the folks caught up on all the family news. We might ride over to the airport to watch the planes land or go downtown to sight see. We would eat dinner, and then whomever was visiting would load up in the car and head back up to the mountains of Georgia or Tennessee.
I remember one trip when Uncle Harvey and family came down to see Joe Don Baker in “Walking Tall.” Of course, us kids were not old enough to go to the drive-in and see it so we had a sleepover instead, while most of the adults took in the hit movie.
Just like their visits there, we also visited regularly. Despite the distance it was like we were one family experiencing life together rather than living separate lives and putting up with one another for a few hours at the holidays.
God has called many of those family members for an extended stay at his house. While they are absent here, the experiences still live within me, giving me a sense of the extended family even if there are fewer of them now on this side than there once was.
The stories they told of relatives I never knew made those people alive to me. Through those stories many of my characters come to life on the page in columns and in scripts.
As each holiday rolls by, take the time to experience more than just the ordinary. Help create an experience that will last for yourself and your children throughout the lifetime. It is the shared moments of life that will make the basis for what we know as family.
If we as a country do not work to strengthen our families individually, what will the future hold for the American family as a whole? I guess we will be a country of individuals seeking a group in which to belong. We can only hope those groups aren’t exclusively on social media.

Faces from the past and present

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Have you ever sat down and looked through your photo albums or boxes of photos and not known whose face you were looking upon?

Just the other day I was looking at images from my kindergarten.

You would think I would be able to name every one of those kids; I mean it was just yesterday that we were sliding down the stair banisters at the Presbyterian Church, fighting in the church playground and arguing over who got to sit with Julie Badger, my kindergarten sweetheart.

Other than Julie, the rest of those kids’ names have just faded away. As I looked at photos of birthday party after birthday party, I saw so many classmates I could not even begin to remember.

You would think I could easily remember when, while blindfolded, I accidentally pinned the tale on the wrong donkey.

I never liked Jamie Winston much anyway. He was only invited because of diplomacy. If I left him out, then I wouldn’t get invited to his house. There would have been a crushing domino effect which could have set my second-grade social life on its ear.

I often sit and peruse photo albums that feature faces of people who I do not know. The photo had or has some significance to my mother, late father, or late grandparents or another relative, so it found its way into the family collection.

In my room hangs the portrait of a great, great, great grandfather that meant much to my grandmother.

I will say it was not a favorite of my mother’s, as she saw this stern man whose eyes almost follow you as you enter the room. It reminded her of the haunted house paintings that scared Don Knotts and Jim Nabors to death on “The Andy Griffith Show.”

It took me years of coaxing to finally get grandma to part with it and let me be its caretaker. The same is true of so many other images I have gathered through the years.

I once forwarded a photo from the collection of my grandmother Allie Bunch Franks to a distant cousin via e-mail.

I was hoping it may be one of her ancestors. All the information I had was that it was my grandmother’s cousin Dave Bunch, who had an affinity for building different creations inside bottles. Three were featured in the postcard. Grandma even had one that sat upon the mantle.

I always remember marveling at how he could have gotten his creation inside that bottle when I peered in it as a child. I thought he must have had very small fingers to reach up in there and do that.

Beside him in the photo were two girls, one younger than the other, and unfortunately paint had covered the older girl’s face years ago.

From my cousin’s review, she made the educated guess that due to clothing styles, it was likely her great uncle rather than her great grandfather who shares the same name.

I have recently been going through many of our family photos collecting the right shots for an upcoming book I am preparing.

It is amazing how we can easily forget the names of those kids who were at our birthday parties or the cousin we seldom see. It is so important to take the time to mark your photos in pencil not pen as to the details of who, what, when, and where.

Through the 60s and 70s, many film developers were kind enough to put the date of development on the photo, which helps. I think many of those new developing machines may include that info in the code it leaves on the back of the image.

As I look at the fading images, it is amazing to me how older images from the 30s, 40s and 50s endure literally unchanged while those of the 60s, 70s, 80s and even 90s are already fading into obscurity.

It is hard to imagine birthdays and Christmases simply gone because of poor film or film development, but that is much like our memories, they will likely fade with time as well.

Many now exist in the computer era, I encourage you to scan your photos from every era into a computer database. Generally, you can include information about the photo right in the file in many programs. Make several CDs of the completed photo files and disperse them to your children, grandchildren. Put a copy in your safety deposit box.

Many even take the time to create little photo documentaries of the family history and their lives. Sit down and share these with your young grandchildren at the computer.

The main reason is to disperse the copies to make sure that many people have them in their collections in case of a natural disaster or fire. Then you might have a better chance of rebuilding your family photos.

When you consider all the time and money we spend on photos, you would think we would take the time to document the events that surround them.

Whenever I go into Cracker Barrel, I look up at the large portraits hanging on the walls and wonder if only someone had taken the time to write down a little about that person and put it with the portrait if they would now be staring out at thousands of Cracker Barrel customers or on the wall of a relative who knew they had an important life.

Like a newspaper documents the story of a community through its coverage, a well-kept photo collection documents the story of your family’s life. Will your teenage children or grandchildren care you took the time to do this? probably not until they have children of their own, but who knows, the effort may prove beneficial to each of us as we look back later and get the benefit of knowing who is staring back at us.

I am still wondering who that blonde kid with the flattop, big ears, with my birthday cake on his nose is, oh wait, that’s me.

Kin folks as far as the eye can see

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Have you ever really wondered where it is you are from? How did your folks come to be in this place or how did you get to where you are? Can you point to some place and say that there is home?
When I think of home its not the house I live in, in my waking moments I think back to the valley below the Gravelly Spur, or the little house my grandparents lived in near Tunnel Hill. In sleep it’s the little brick house in Northeast Atlanta where my childhood adventures brought great pains to my parents.
It is really amazing how today thanks to the internet, we can know more about the people that came before us, honor their contributions or learn from their mistakes.
Have you considered that upon your back you carry the hopes and dreams of generations of people who struggled through famine, disease, war, oppression, endless hours of labor? All of their years of faith in God, effort, sometimes sacrifice, in some cases even martyrdom is now upon you to carry the family’s banner passing it to the next generation.
That is a heavy weight to consider as we lean back in our leather recliner grasping tightly to the remote flipping through the channels hoping for something to watch. Oh, look there’s “Braveheart,” so you watch a few minutes of the carnage depicted that some of our ancestors endured; flip a few more channels and there’s “Dances with Wolves.” Then you watch some of the cruelty some of our ancestors inflicted upon others. A couple of more channels over is “Gettysburg” and there we see brother against brother fighting for their lives in the War Between the States.
There are so many epic struggles in history upon which our peoples stood on one side or the other, sometimes taking up arms, sometimes just trying to survive as the world careened out of control around them.
Family experiences help to shape us into whom we become in life. Sometimes we choose not to pay attention to those stories dismissing them as useless nonsense. It is amazing how each generation struggles through the same issues: putting a roof over one’s head; clothes on one’s back, food on the table and paying the bills. Most of this is accomplished by one simple teaching — work hard and with God’s help you will succeed.
These are the basics in every generation’s experience, its what we bring to the table beyond these basics that help to give a family a sense of accomplishment.
Families are forever linked together by blood but they also share a history, they may not always see eye-to-eye but as time marches on from one generation to the next, the question is what are you passing along.
In some families, they see this as a gift of property; in others, it’s simply the gift of love and caring that stays with one’s family long after you have stepped through to meet God.
Does blood alone make one family — no, not always, in order to be family, there are other attributes that must be there. A sense of caring, love, fair play and mutual respect are a start. But as a basis the shared experiences of those that came before will always connect those who carry a bit of their ancestors within them.
I was raised in a family where kin folks cared about each other, they helped all they could, didn’t always agree but usually ironed out those differences especially following a gentile tongue lashing by the most senior member of the family reminding them that differences are usually petty compared to the big painting that reaches back through the years.
Hardly a month goes by that I am not blessed with talking with a relative I never met before. Someone who in days past might be called second cousin or third cousin, twice removed. If my Grandma Allie were still here, she would tell me exactly how we were related and then share some bit of family memories about their folks. Of course, she came up in a time that really all kinfolks had been each other and the times they shared.
In this world where everything moves so fast, I encourage you to pass along the wisdom of the generations in every way you can find because we are the standard bearers for all those behind us but more importantly for those ahead of us. We are in a unique time when families are together, hopefully checking on older relatives by phone or computers who are isolating. This is a perfect time to pass the time by collecting the family stories and setting them down for generations to come.

Family ties won’t be broken

/in /by

The importance of one’s family connections is something that I believe we are losing in America.
With each generation there are fewer individuals who live close to their extended families, unlike the days when grandma and grandpa lived just in the next room or uncles, aunts and cousins were a short walk down the road.
Many Americans today do not really know the members of their extended family. We spend a few awkward moments together at funerals, family reunions, Christmas and Thanksgiving gatherings and then off we go back to our own lives.
As families build lives miles away from their home many grasp the anonymity of their new surroundings with fervor, often dreading when a distant family member might drop in, disrupting their lives.
Despite the fact that my parents chose to move away from their homes to build a life for themselves in Atlanta, I grew up in a home where our door was open to members of both my mother’s and father’s families. It was not unusual for there to be cousins stretched out on quilted pallets sleeping on the living room floor; uncles rummaging through the refrigerator for green dill pickles as a late night snack; aunts blanching red tomatoes from the garden in the kitchen; or distant kin moving in for an extended stay while they looked for a job or planned a new start.
Because of the time I spent with these people growing up, I feel a much closer connection to them; the shared experiences make chance meetings and gatherings less of a strain today.
It was not unusual for my Mom to get up and start cooking a batch of turnip greens, cornbread and some fried chicken, while cleaning the house from end to end. When asked why she was doing it, she would say “so and so” will be here directly. Sure enough, after a while they would knock at the door. My Mom has a second sense about that. With no forewarning she knew some relative was on their way.
Sundays were a big visiting day. It was not unusual for Uncle Harvey, Aunt Lois and all their kids to load up in the car and be knocking at our door before dinner. Sometimes Grandma Allie and Grandpa Jesse would come along for the ride.
Us cousins would spend the afternoon playing as the folks caught up on all the family news. We might ride over to the airport to watch the planes land or go downtown to sight see. We would eat dinner, and then whomever was visiting would load up in the car and head back up to the mountains of Georgia or Tennessee.
I remember one trip when Uncle Harvey and family came down to see Joe Don Baker in “Walking Tall.” Of course, us kids were not old enough to go to the drive-in and see it so we had a sleepover instead, while most of the adults took in the hit movie.
Just like their visits there, we also visited regularly. Despite the distance it was like we were one family experiencing life together rather than living separate lives and putting up with one another for a few hours at the holidays.
God has called many of those family members for an extended stay at his house. While they are absent here, the experiences still live within me, giving me a sense of the extended family even if there are fewer of them now on this side than there once was.
The stories they told of relatives I never knew made those people alive to me. Through those stories many of my characters come to life on the page in columns and in scripts.
As each holiday rolls by, take the time to experience more than just the ordinary. Help create an experience that will last for yourself and your children throughout the lifetime. It is the shared moments of life that will make the basis for what we know as family.
If we as a country do not work to strengthen our families individually, what will the future hold for the American family as a whole? I guess we will be a country of individuals seeking a group in which to belong. We can only hope those groups aren’t exclusively on social media.