Planning Book 3: Unexpected Treasure

I've had a manilla folder tucked away for nearly 30 years. Inside are three years of newspaper columns I wrote at the end of my tenure at the Rome News-Tribune.

Other than for posterity, I don't know why I was saving them. They are snapshots, moments in time. They illustrate the life of a young father, a man grieving the loss of his father, a writer trying to understand the difference between "Southern" and stereotype.

I pulled out that folder last week, inspired by an idea: What if I assembled the columns and articles I'd written over those last few years when I was Feature Editor at the paper, sorted them into categories, and published them as a collection. I wasn't sure these themes and thoughts would stand the test of time. A lot has changed since I first started writing those columns back in 1997.

I started by digitally scanning each article individually, then turning those pdfs into editable text documents. I read one of them. It was supposed to be a life lesson. I had been hyperfocused on getting the perfect photo for our Christmas card — so focused that I reduced Ethan and Autumn to tears. I remember the photo and the resulting card; it's one of my favorites, but my insistence on perfection probably scarred my kids for life. After reading it, I realized that, while it could probably stand on its own nearly 26 years later, I could provide an update.

I decided I'd write an epilogue, revealing that all these years later, (spoiler alert) I didn't learn the lesson. As recently as two years ago, I made my now-adult kids angry with my insistence that they wear the colors I wanted them to wear for that year's Christmas card. Twenty-six years later, I can still get too focused on a goal for perfection and lose sight of the people and the moment. I'm not proud of that.

Another was published the week before my dad's 66th birthday. I listed some of the things I appreciated most about him. I had no idea that would be his last birthday. He died the week after Father's Day that year. The epilogue for that one was kind of obvious.

I scanned numerous others until I arrived at the last one. Unexpectedly, yet perhaps appropriately, it was the very first column I had written for the Sunday Tribune. It was about my grandmother. She had died the week before at the age of 90. I remembered the column well. I wrote that, although, she was no longer with us, I would be comforted by the orange, brown and gold afghan she had crocheted for me 20 years— now nearly 50 years — earlier.

I took a second look and realized that the print out wasn't just a copy, it was the original, first attempt at a column that I had turned in to my editor to review. At the top I had scribbled "Column?" and below it, in red ink, was a reply from my editor, Tommy Toles: "Yes! T.T." It was Tommy's idea for me to write a column. That directive instilled confidence that I might actually have something to say through my words. I'm not sure I would have published two novels, started a blog or decided to go to graduate school had it not been for Tommy. Seeing that "T.T." on that first column was the confirmation I didn't know I needed to proceed with this idea to publish those old columns as a collection.

And so it begins.

The goal is for these columns and articles, complete with epilogue updates, to become my next book. I hope to release it at the end of June next year — exactly 30 years after I published that first column. It's a heartfelt, if sappy, remembrance of my mama's mama. As for the afghan Bigmama crocheted for me 50 years ago, I still have it. It's in my office, draped over the back of a rocking chair, a chair handmade by J.T. Morris, one of many colorful characters I wrote about in my newspaper days