Dimon Kendrick-Holmes: Loooong stories, big life

On Tuesday, when Harry Franklin died, I told Richard Hyatt I’d probably write a column this week about our former colleague.

"Write long," Hyatt said, "in Harry's honor."

It is true that Harry wrote very, very long. One time, an editor was reading a Harry Franklin story and yelled a word that Harry would never have said himself. "Harry, your first sentence is 75 words long," the editor said, "and your second sentence begins with 'And.'"

In the course of a day, Harry shook every hand and absorbed every quote and gathered every fact. While most reporters just ran out of time to write certain stories, Harry wrote every story he knew about, and then he wrote three more.

Everything and everyone was important to Harry. He could make a routine meeting of the Board of Tax Assessors sound like a Greek tragedy.

Harry was one of a kind. He was conservative, evangelical, had no apparent vices, and was completely devoid of guile or cynicism.

Not quite your stereotypical journalist.

He also loved life as much as anybody.

He loved the Georgia Bulldogs and singing in the choir and the paintings of Thomas Kinkade.

He loved taking trips to Helen, Ga., with his wife, Pat.

He had a Screen Actor's Guild card and actually played a reporter in "Mississippi Burning."

He had a loud laugh, especially when he was laughing at his own corny jokes.

He wasn't afraid to cry.

He had a grandson named Jesse James, and he could talk about him all day.

When Harry retired, he delivered meals to the hungry. He prayed with people in need. He also took up photography and framed huge prints of his best pictures.

Two weeks ago, I went to see Harry in the hospital. He'd had a stroke and was paralyzed on his right side. Chuck Williams went with me, and we talked about the old days. We talked about how Harry wrote more stories than any reporter has ever written or will ever write.

"Is that a good thing?" Harry asked, and we laughed. It felt good to laugh with him again.

A nurse told him his lunch was on the way, and Harry got a tear in his eye. He told us a little story.

When he was born, he was left-handed. So-called experts told his parents they should force Harry to become right-handed.

But God made Harry a lefty, and his parents decided he should stay that way.

Now here he was, paralyzed on his right side, with his lunch on the way.

Another person might be complaining about paralysis, and hospital food.

Harry was giving thanks for a decision his parents made long ago, and for the ability to pick up a fork with his left hand and feed himself another meal.

Classic Harry Franklin.

His funeral was yesterday. It began with "When the Roll is Called Up Yonder," and ended with "When We All Get to Heaven." The eulogy took longer than usual because the pastor was choking back tears throughout.

In it, the pastor, David Howle, read a prayer Harry wrote before his open-heart surgery last month. "Lord, you knew the outcome of this surgery before I was born," Harry wrote. "I trust that you are in control and that you are able."

It may be the shortest thing Harry ever wrote.

Now he's in a better place, and there's nothing left to write.

Dimon Kendrick-Holmes, executive editor, dkholmes@ledger-enquirer.com.

This story was originally published December 5, 2014 at 6:35 PM with the headline "Dimon Kendrick-Holmes: Loooong stories, big life."