Beloved Wythe teacher and friend passes away
The reality that my dear friend Frances Watson has passed away still hasn’t fully sunk in. Even though she lived 82 years, she strikes me as someone who was too young to leave this world. That’s because Frances was ageless. She was the same vibrant, witty, and kind-hearted person from the very first time I remember meeting her—early in my own life, which has now spanned over 40 years. I never had her as a teacher at Spiller Primary School, but everyone wished they had her. And it wasn’t just because she was beloved—it was because she made every moment feel like something special. Frances didn’t need a school-wide play for her students to experience joy. She put on plays—with her own class, no less—in front of the entire school. I can still remember being in second grade, obsessed with the story The True Story of the Three Little Pigs—the one where Alexander T. Wolf explains how he was framed. And who do you think played the wrongly-accused, over-the-top wolf, pleading his innocence in our school’s version? Frances, of course. Larger than life. Stealing the show. And then there was third grade, when Billy Ray Cyrus’s Achy Breaky Heart was topping the charts. Frances’s class did a pantomime of that song, with the student playing Billy Ray picking Frances from the audience to dance with him. For 60 years, she and her husband Graham ran one of the finest farms in the county from their home in Max Meadows. I’ll never forget one day when she walked past me in the lunchroom and saw that I hadn’t touched my milk. “You’d better drink that milk,” she said, looking me dead in the eye. “That cow gave its life so you could have that milk today.” Needless to say, I left lunch with a very dry, very empty milk carton. But it was later in life that I was lucky enough to become Frances’s friend. We bonded over our support for the Wythe County Public Library, and through that shared passion, we met our mutual friend Anita Libby. It was Anita who called me to say that Frances had taken a fall and wasn’t expected to live another 24 hours. And it was Anita who first told me that Frances had passed. I called her back immediately to offer my deepest condolences, because Frances wasn’t just a friend to Anita—she was like a sister. And Frances proudly called Anita the same. Just a few months ago, Frances told me she wanted to attend an event at the Millwald Theatre with me. I promised her we’d make it happen. I also promised her a part in the stage play I’ve been working on, based on my first novel in 17 years, Open Secret. I wrote a role just for her—a sister character named Frida, who would appear opposite the main character, to be played by Anita. When I sent Frances an early draft of the script, she raved about it. “What an honor it would be to be in your first play,” she wrote to me. “I absolutely loved the part. Because, as you know, Anita is like my sister, and I love telling her what to do.” I’m so sorry I let you down, dear friend. I’m sorry we never made it to that Millwald show together. I’m sorry you never got to be in the play. But rest assured—it will not happen without you. I’m sorry you never got to read the book with the character I wrote for you. I’m sorry I never got to sign you a copy. There was no bigger supporter of the arts in Wythe County than Frances Watson. She championed the Millwald Theatre. She never missed a show when my wife sang at the Bolling Wilson Hotel. I remember once after my wife sang, Frances came up and said, “If you sang that well, honey,—you deserve a little bit of wine.” Then she produced a goblet bigger than a fishbowl, drained the contents of her bottle into it, and offered it to my wife. “You realize if you drink that,” I warned her, “you won’t be able to drive us home… or get through your next song.” It was just Frances being Frances—joyfully generous, unapologetically full of life. She was ageless because she never stopped living. You wouldn’t have known—just two days before her passing—that she was on the verge of a brain bleed. You wouldn’t have guessed she was 82. She was vibrant until the end. And she wanted the people around her to be just as alive. From the thousands of students she inspired, to her beloved grandchildren, to her many family members and friends—Frances leaves a void that no one else could ever fill. When I think of her, I think of sayings like: “Dance like nobody’s watching.” “Live every moment like it’s your last.” Except Frances didn’t dance like no one was watching. She wanted everyone watching—not for attention, but to show us all how to squeeze every drop out of life. No one lived a fuller life than Frances. And no one set a better example of how to seize every moment we’re given. So from now on: When I attend a Millwald Theatre show… When my wife reaches for a sip of wine… When I sign a copy of Open Secret… …those things will be done in memory of Frances Watson. I know that when I’m singing loudly to my favorite song, or laughing a little too hard at a friend’s joke—Frances will be there. In spirit. In laughter. In joy. And in every moment we choose to truly live.
