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Tommy Druen: I lost my hero Previous Column: Grace in an era of flash By Tommy Druen I've never been one to be starstruck. Over the years I've shaken hands with presidents, chatted Duke basketball with a former NBA coach, and conversed about the genius of Nirvana with a Grammy Award winner. Once, Shirley Temple herself even called me. But, to borrow from Garth Brooks, I've also got friends in low places--and I've always taken pride in that too. And, straying far from Garth's territory, to paraphrase Depeche Mode, people are people. Whether CEO or janitor, each bears equal worth before God, and so they should in my eyes as well. Hero worship has never been my habit. With one exception. On August 6th, I lost my hero. In some ways, we had many similarities. We shared passions for history, learning, old westerns, and college basketball. Yet, in others, we were also opposites: he was happiest outdoors, gifted with mechanical and carpentry skills I could never hope to match, and his musical tastes diverged wildly from mine. Even beyond that mixture of similarity and contrast, he led a life that I could only hope to emulate. When my wife and I married in 2003, my choice of a best man was effortless--because he was, quite literally, the best man I have ever known. How fortunate it was that my hero was my father. Even now, as I attempt to put words to paper, the emotions are nearly too raw. This loss feels unlike any I've ever faced. I know the wound will never truly heal, but I've not yet grown the scar tissue to speak, or even write, about it fully. What I can do, however, is reflect on one of the loves we shared. The first week of February 1989 was bitterly cold in Metcalfe County. Snow piled high, temperatures hovered in the teens, and I--an 11-year-old fifth grader--was blessed with school cancellations. That Sunday night, my dad and I settled on the couch. At 8:00 p.m., he turned the television to CBS. The debut of the miniseries Lonesome Dove was about to begin. At the time, westerns weren't my preferred genre. I leaned more toward comedy and science fiction. But being that my options were to watch or go to bed, I stayed put. From the first scene--Augustus McRae's pigs devouring a snake--I was hooked. And so was my dad. For four consecutive nights we watched together, as we also did nearly every time it aired again. Without realizing it, I received an education: the lore of the Texas Rangers, the mechanics of cattle drives, even the strange phenomenon of St. Elmo's Fire sparking across a herd's horns. I also picked up a vocabulary lesson or two that left my mother less than thrilled, and developed a slight phobia of snakes in rivers. Not every lesson was a positive one. What endured most, though, was not the information but the revelation of storytelling's power, both through the writes and actors. Through that miniseries I encountered Robert Duvall, Tommy Lee Jones, Diane Lane and others previously unknown to me. Over the years, Duvall became my favorite actor--his work in The Godfather, M*A*S*H, and Apocalypse Now nothing short of iconic. His performance in The Apostle remains, to my mind, his masterpiece. Later, I came to know Larry McMurtry, the novel's author--a writer of rare gifts who built characters of such depth they never felt contrived. He, too, became a favorite of mine. After my father suffered a farm accident, he lay unconscious in the hospital for a week before his death. In my rush to get there, I had grabbed my backpack, unaware that the book inside was Lonesome Dove. I took it as a sign. Sitting at his bedside, I re-read the book, sometimes reading passages aloud to him, revisiting the story that had bonded us all those years ago. I doubt he ever heard me--but that was beside the point. I knew. And I needed to share it with him one last time. Grief has strange rhythms. Amid the sorrow, I have found moments of joy, small reminders that give me hope. One of the greatest is that my father truly lived until he died. That is a blessing, and one I pray to claim myself someday. Until then, my resolve is to live as he did: to find joy in the small things and to live fully. As Augustus McRae reminds Woodrow Call in a moment of frustration: "It ain't dying I'm talking about, it's living. I doubt it matters where you die, but it matters where you live." Mortality is real, a fact with which we all have to come to terms. My father, a man of strength, character and love, lived well. If I can manage to live half as well, I'll count myself a fortunate man. Tommy Druen is a native of Metcalfe County, with roots in Adair County going back to the 18th century. He presently lives in Georgetown, Kentucky and can be reached at tommydruen@gmail.com. This story was posted on 2025-09-05 13:19:36
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Have comments or corrections for this story? Use our contact form and let us know. More articles from topic Tommy Druen:
Tommy Druen: Grace in an era of flash Tommy Druen: Next chapter of progress should be co-authored Tommy Druen: The cultivation of understanding Tommy Druen: Words matter Tommy Druen: Literacy was a treasure for Clem Coomer Tommy Druen: The Power of the Small Tommy Druen: Holes in the water Tommy Druen: Leadership Kentucky Tommy Druen: Dedication to the Journey Tommy Druen: A battle that can never be fully won View even more articles in topic Tommy Druen |
 
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