Silent voices can live on

Another year is upon us and I think of the people I lost in 2024. Every month, it seems, I lose someone, and when I don’t, I remember those who have already passed away. In my little world, the people I lose form a hierarchy of pain: family first, friends second, and the writers I knew third.

If I’m honest, there’s an even more painful loss: the loss of a pet. They hurt the most because we don’t have pets long enough. For now, however, I turn my attention to the writers we lost.
Have you ever decided to find an old friend before it’s too late? James Salter did it. In his memoirs Burn the daysSalter wanted to find a Texan, Bob Morgan, a fellow West Point student who failed and dropped out of school. “I lost track of him,” Salter wrote, “the lines were broken.” It turned out that Morgan became an Army paratrooper in World War II. Wounded in Italy, he left the hospital to join his unit in France. Decades later, Salter tried to find his old roommate. The search led to a phone number in Spur, Texas, that is no longer in use. A trail led him to Lubbock. No luck. He contacted the Veterans Administration. Nothing. He contacted a newspaper editor in Spur who remembered an obituary for Bob Morgan. Wrong Bob. Then the editor found a Bob Morgan subscriber in New Waverly, Texas.
Salter called the New Waverly number. A woman answered and handed the phone to her husband. Morgan lived in Plano, Texas, he said. That was “lived,” past tense. Too late. His friend had committed suicide. Of Morgan, Salter wrote: “A distant part of the coast had fallen away.” I suspect that part of his life died with Morgan.
Two writers I knew died in 2024, John Culler and Roger Pickney on the 11th^Th. John hired me for my first writing job. I worked with him for almost two years before he became editor-in-chief at Outdoor living. Are you an early riser? You will agree John. “The most delicious time in all creation is just before sunrise on a summer morning.”
Roger Pinckney, the 11th^Thand I only met once at a book signing. We then exchanged emails and discussed writing. He lived on Daufuskie Island, where his larger-than-life personality and epic stories cast a long net that captivated many. With his hunting skills, drinking, and great stories, he was the closest thing South Carolina had to Ernest Hemingway.
Among many gifts, James Dickey left us a poem: “Looking for the Buckhead Boys.” If you’ve ever wanted to reconnect with an old school friend, Dickey wrote the poem for you.
As the Internet became more popular, James Salter sent me a card. “I never looked on the Internet myself. Must be scary.” Scary, period. Dishonest people make it scarier every day, but you can find wonderful authors in it, a salvation.
Pat Conroy wrote a blurb for my book, Georgialina, a Southland as we knew it. “In these pages, we ride with Tom past covered bridges, tenements, country stores, and sweetgrass basket stands to a South that, like the Goat Man, we may never see again.” I will never see Pat again, but I have his words.
Every year my world shrinks; Yours does too. We won’t see any of these authors again, but their words live on. Want a good read? Check out Roger Pinckney’s article on Hemingway Sporty classics Magazine, Angler, fighter, lover LEGEND. Read James Salters
Burn the days. Check out John Culler Purple skyand watch James Dickey read “In Search of the Buckhead Boys” on the Internet. Deceased writers open up new horizons. Let the silent voices speak again and see each one as a gift, a gift to yourself.