To try to explain to you how huge the heart is of one of the most popular novelist of the twentieth/twenty-first century, Pat Conroy, it may help you know the story of Pat Conroy and me.

Conroy and his Southern peach of a wife, a noted author herself, live on an island near Beaufort, South Carolina.  My best friend and cohort in domestic crimes over the years, Lorraine, has a home on this same island and lives just down the street from the man who has been a literary god to me since I first picked up “The Prince of Tides”.  The book, a novel so moving, tragic, full of wit and innate understanding of the complex nature of what it means to be a human being, made me weep from beginning to end and I had to have it pried from my hands when it was time to say goodbye.

Three years ago, so desperate was I to meet this man whose way with words even God herself couldn’t begin to muster up, like any good westerner from a wild mountain state, I brazenly marched up to his home, despite the fake name that was emblazoned on his mailbox to ward off nut cases like me.

With “Prince of Tides” tucked under my arm and my good friend wearing dark sunglasses and opting to slink down low in her car, I knocked on his door and thus began a friendship that took even brass and bold me by surprise.

While he wasn’t home at the time, his wife, an expert at Southern hospitality welcomed me into their home and hours later, she called to ask if it would be ok if Pat and she could come over for a visit (you can read more about this here).  Needless to say, we said “sure” and when the phone hung up, you would have sworn we were mad and crazed tweenage girls who were anticipating the arrival of the latest teen heartthrob.

I spent last week once again in South Carolina to spend time with my dear friend and we contacted the Conroys to see if we could lure them once again to Lorraine’s home for an evening of words from the man that are so funny, heart warming and full of self-deprecation, you could publish his words and bow down at his feet.

Once again to our delight, they accepted.  I love Southern hospitality!

Another unforgettable evening was spent listening to the man who spoke of a past of an abusive father (“The Great Santini”), several marriages, an estranged daughter, and his eventual reconciliation with the father who could not, would not admit to his dying day he had ever laid a hand on his wife and children.

Conroy had spent the day working on his new book, “The Death of Santini” and by the time he arrived he admitted to being tired and spent.  The book is a balance beam of sorts.  It tells of the difficulty Conroy’s father had when “The Great Santini” came out and he liked to joke to people at book signings that he hoped they would “enjoy his son’s work of fiction”. 

Despite Donald Conroy’s best attempts to shrug off the painful truths contained in the pages of “The Great Santini”, a transformation unfolded and although he never found the courage to admit his actions, he melted into his later years and became a grandfather that anyone would envy and long to have.

For this reason, Pat Conroy says, “’ He was the worst father I ever saw in my life, and I do not back off that. But he hated my portrait of him, and he was good enough to change. I owe him that, to talk about the change.” His book, “The Death of Santini”, due to come out next year, is a compassionate tribute and acknowledgement of the changes his father made; changes that teach all of us that we are neither entirely all good nor all bad.  We all have our shadow sides, the dark sides that betray even us.

Conroy’s act of exposing his family dysfunction is an act of bravery that must be distinguished from the “tell all” reality shows that require nothing but desperation, a grandiose sense of self and ironically, a bottomless lack of self-esteem.

Conroy’s bravery has nothing to do with what he writes about; it’s about what he goes through to invite us into his world, a world he knows is sadly understood by many.  He shared that conjuring up the painful memories made him feel like running like a “seared dog out of a blaze of fire”. I could see the sorrow relived in his eyes diluted with his grand sense of humor and ability to poke fun at himself.

The world is a better place because of Pat Conroy, who not only shows us what it takes to be a writer, but to be a better human being.

After a series of big teddy bear hugs from him, I reluctantly said goodbye and silently whispered a prayer of gratitude to the man whose words light up the dark paths into the secrets of my own heart.

And my one wish for him is for all good things to come to him, as I think of his dedication in his most recent book, “My Reading Life”:

“This book is dedicated to my lost daughter, Susannah Ansley Conroy.  Know this:  I love you with my heart and always will. Your return to my life would be one of the happiest moments I could imagine.”

Surely the gods could figure out a way to make this happen.  The heart of Pat Conroy deserves it.

Pat Conroy and Me

  Pat Conroy and his Southern peach of a wife, Cassandra King Conroy