A Living Tribute
to Roger Osborne, the author, my father
I can still vividly recall the countless mornings I awoke as a child to the
tapping sound of an electric typewriter. Each morning my father would get up
at 4:30, and make his way to a make-shift office in our dining room to begin
another day doing what he loved—writing. And it wasn’t just mornings he
would write; no, he could often be found writing during his lunch breaks at
the Dayton Daily News, or at home in the evenings, after supper.
My father determined early on in life to
become a writer. It was this determination that sustained him through the
scoffing of friends and family who didn’t see the value then, of
putting memories and stories to paper. The coalmines were the only way of
life for most in those days, and doing something other than preparing
yourself for that stark reality, to some, amounted to foolish,
unobtainable dreams; however, they couldn’t suppress this deep, unquenchable
desire.
From the very beginning of his literary
pursuit, he felt compelled to write about what he loved most—his heritage.
And just like an artist with brush and canvas, he has vividly painted
beautiful portraits throughout the pages of his books, chronicling events of
his life growing up in the mountains of West Virginia.
If there has been one thing my father has
had little tolerance for, it is to see a book, movie or television show
depicting Appalachians as ignorant, or incapable of amounting to anything in
society. Rather than stand idly by, he chose to give a voice to all those
whose roots run deep in the majestic mountains of Appalachia. His voice
would illustrate through paper and ink the real lives of those who,
for too long, had endured the “hillbilly” stigma. He took this God-given
talent to dispel a misunderstood culture from which he was raised, and in
doing so, touched countless hearts and lives along the way.
From recounting memories of spring days as
a child—feeling the cool, clear water of the creek in Jarrell's Branch
rushing between his toes; to memories of friends and families alike who,
through good times and bad, formed a deep, unbreakable bond. Regardless the
theme, he sought only to speak the truth about this great culture,
and the people who call these mountains home.
One of his stories, Dinner With Mom,
still brings tears to my eyes each time I read it. In this story he
recounts in bittersweet detail, his mothers final days upon this earth. As
he has done for so many years, he openly shared those very personal, private
experiences with anyone who would hear. In doing so, he wove an
unforgettable tale of a son’s great love for his mother.
A little more than fifty years ago, an
innocent fifteen-year old boy crossed the bridge leading out of Jarrell's
Branch to enter a strange new land beyond the mountains shadows. The only
world he had ever known lay just behind him—an uncertain future lay just
ahead. Time would show that, although he moved away and settled down in
Dayton, Ohio, he has, with great care, precision and love, revealed where
his heart has always been—in a hollow called Jarrell's Branch, in
southern West Virginia. His mind’s eye still roams the halls of a
“two-story gray house with morning glories climbing the porch posts.”
In his four books, as well as the
Mountain Ink newsletter, he has created and compiled timeless treasures
that speak heartwarming truths of an era forgotten by many today. Due to my
father’s countless years of dedication to preserving and collecting these
stories, we will forever have a wealth of information to draw from.
It’s wonderful to see his life’s work being
recognized here today. It is my hope that each of these memorials serve as
a reminder of one mans deep, undying love for these mountains, and the place
he still calls home.
If his mother and father were here today,
I’m confident you would see two very, very proud parents. To say I’m
proud of what he has accomplished is simply an understatement.
Roger Dean Osborne
October 9, 2004
