The Day the Music Died

Frank was Dad’s younger brother, number eight of the ten children. He was the last to go of the ten children born to Shafter and Effie Blair. Eight years ago, Frank and Ernest were the two sons remaining, with Bessie representing the girls still present. In the family, Dad and Frank went by Frank Eddie and Toby.

In the above photo, left to right: Top row: Elois, Wesley, Virginia, Hugh Lee, Middle row: Oshel (Zeb), Margaret, Dad (Toby), Bottom: Wilburn (Bill), Bessie, Frank Eddie.

I have two distinct memories of Frank Eddie. He had graduated from high school, I’m sure, and maybe he was home on leave from the Air Force. In the scene, I am riding on his shoulders somewhere on the family farm. Another brother (which one I can’t remember) and Dad are with us, and it is lightly raining. I was four, maybe five years old. I don’t remember exactly where we were, but I know we were going uphill from the creek to the house, and the ground was slippery.

In the second memory, Mom, Dad, Denny, and I were traveling on Tennessee Highway 70 in Wilson County, toward Lebanon.

Dad said, “Frank Eddie is working at a veterinary place up the road. Let’s stop and see him.”

We stopped the old Plymouth at the vet’s office in Donelson. Dad went in and came back out.

“I found him,” he said. “He’s in the back washing a dog.”

And, sure enough, Frank Eddie was sudsing up a dog with hair as red as his own. Frank was one of the five red-headed Blair kids. I remember his smile as he kept washing the dog. The visit was brief, and we were back in the car. I think of that scene every time I see the building on Highway 70. I thought of it Monday when Frank’s grandson, Nolan, read at the service.

Frank was dedicated to family. I don’t know how many of his siblings were graced by his financial direction. When Clark gave his moving tribute to his father, he focused on Frank’s love for his brothers and sisters, as well as his nieces and nephews.

Of course, I remember Frank Eddie younger and older at family reunions at Cedars of Lebanon State Park, and when Mom and Dad moved into the apartment attached to our house in the compound on the ravine, the three remaining siblings came for lunch every year, sometime around Christmas. That meetup was special, a ritual celebrating a family of ten children that grew up hard and scattered as adults, with never a time when one didn’t speak to the other. Mom and Doris Ann, Frank’s wife, were first cousins.

That last year they all came, I cooked a pork roast. Doris fried ham and made biscuits, I think, and Bessie brought the best coconut cake I’ve ever tasted. Her grandson, the chef, made it. Mom might have cooked green beans.

Another year, Frank rented a van and hauled the bunch to Miller’s Grocery,
A Southern Cafe, somewhere near Christiana, Tennessee. I don’t think they put an apostrophe in “Miller’s; so, it’s “Millers” Grocery in Christiana, the small town where Frank and Doris lived. The country-style eatery is notable as one of the must-dos on Tennessee’s back roads.

Frank and Dad had a special bond. They were both ministers. Dad was Southern Baptist, and Frank was United Methodist. Well, Dad ended up in the Methodist Church, too. They were the only siblings to graduate from college, and both attained Divinity degrees. Frank’s was from Vanderbilt, Dad’s from the “Liberal” Golden Gate Seminary in California, which no longer exists.

The two of them had serious but happy conversations. They grew closer as they grew older.

When Dad died in 2018, I sold his library collection to a bookseller. When I talked to Frank a year later, he said he wished I had kept the Feasting on the Word volumes. Then I wished the same. I regretted that I didn’t know he would want those books.

I miss the family reunions, always held on the first Saturday after Labor Day, and, in most years, at Cedars of Lebanon State Park. One of the sisters always rented a shelter for the next year while we were celebrating.

One time, Dad and Hugh Lee, the oldest brother, picked up their guitars and sang some old country songs under the shelter where outstanding food and a jovial family gathered. Two of the sisters, Elois and Margaret, busted a move on the concrete floor. I think my mama joined them, and it’s possible Virginia and Bessie did, too, but I don’t see them. Frank Eddie didn’t dance. He watched, smiled, and just shook his head. The rest of the bunch carried on eating more dessert to the twanging sounds. The State Park warden stopped and asked if we were drinking. It’s against the rules in the State Parks.

I didn’t expect to feel this sad when the last Blair of that generation passed. It’s like the touchstone has gone missing.

RIP, Uncle Frank. He was eighty-eight.

He died on May 19, but there was so much more to May 19, 2026.

For me, it was the day the music died.

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

A long, long time ago, I can still remember how that music used to make me smile…