The year that was … may the full circle be unbroken

I don’t know how many times you can come full circle. I’m not sure if there are term limits, or if you reach a quota or expiration date.

We’ve all experienced them.  We plant our seeds, leave our footprints and become the authors of our own stories, never knowing what will be written on the next page. 

Then life takes us, sometimes for a tumble, and snatches us back to where we began, richer for the experiences and hopefully with a comfortable landing.

As I reflect on the year 2024, there wasn’t just one “full circle’’ moment. There were three. And they happened in consecutive months in the spring and early summer with such a flurry I might have thought I had vertigo.

This wasn’t supposed to be a landmark year. I didn’t celebrate a significant birthday. Back in January, I didn’t have many big dates circled on the calendar. With a certain amount of predictability, I left blank spaces in the travelogue for wherever the days, weeks and months carried me.

I chased grandchildren to the ballpark, theatre stage, summer camps and church choir practice, making every effort to be part of their lives. I attended weddings, way too many funerals, graduations, banquets, book signings, neighborhood gatherings and retirement parties.  I survived hurricane season, got my flu shot and was dragged to a couple of estate sales against my will.

Exciting life, huh?

The circles started at the University of Georgia in April when I received the John Holliman Jr. Lifetime Achievement Award and was named a fellow at the Henry W. Grady School of Journalism and Mass Communications. 

It was a huge honor and the biggest day of my professional life. (I’m convinced they must only give “lifetime” awards to the marathon runners. Only dinosaurs can apply.)

The ceremony was held under a big tent outside the journalism school. I was blessed to have 12 members of my family in attendance. We came close to filling up two tables.

I had a flashback. In April 1974, I sat in a crowded auditorium down the street at Park Hall … a half block from the podium where I was giving my acceptance speech 50 years later. 

That day, I  was attending the Georgia Scholastic Press Association spring conference with my high school newspaper staff from Riverwood High School in Sandy Springs.

I heard my name called. I had won first place in the GSPA in sports writing. It was a day of affirmation that journalism would be my life’s calling and my declared major at UGA.

Full circle? That was a loop.

This past May, I was waiting for my oldest granddaughter to come off the softball field after the game so I could hug her neck and tell her how proud I was of her.

Freedom Park is now a softball complex. When I was coaching my three sons, that same patch of dirt and grass was where Vine-Ingle had instructional leagues – T-ball and pitching machine.

  I heard someone call my name.

“Coach Grisamore?”

I turned to see a young man behind me.  

“I don’t know if you remember me,’’ he said. “I’m Terrance Toomer. You were my coach.’’

“Of course, I remember you, Terrance,’’ I said. “Didn’t you used to be 9 years old?”

My memory raced back to 1996 when I coached the Vine-Ingle Mighty League Marlins. Terrance and my son, Grant, were on the team.  

Almost a generation later, Grant and Terrance had daughters playing on the same softball team. I got chill bumps.

 Terrance reminded me he was in the fourth grade at Clisby that spring. He lived in the public housing apartments on Roff Avenue and rode his bicycle to the practices and games.

He was a joy to coach. He wore No. 3 and was the fastest kid on the team. It was the first time he had played organized sports. He said being issued that baseball uniform was one of the highlights of his childhood. He wore that Marlins cap for years until it fell apart.

His mother died three years after that season when he was 12, and he went to live with his grandmother. His family lost everything in a house fire, including his trophies and team photographs from his playing days.

After he told me that story, my heart was heavy. I went home and found a framed team photograph that the players had autographed and presented to me at the team party with all their autographs. I went to Rutherford Trophies on Pio Nono Avenue and asked them to make a replacement trophy. 

I then asked Terrance to meet me at the ballpark, where I presented him with the framed photograph and trophy.

He grabbed me and hugged my neck.

“Thanks, Coach,’’ he said.

I later wrote a story about Terrance and how the world circled back for our reunion on that same field of dreams.

I found Terrance, and I was able to write that story because I found The Macon Melody. And The Macon Melody found me. 

Nine years ago, I called an end to a long career with The Macon Telegraph. When I walked out that door at 1675 Montpelier Avenue, I had so many tears in my eyes I could barely find my way in the parking lot.

I started my second career teaching journalism at Stratford Academy. It was a rewarding job. I loved working with young people. I ran into two of my former students at a local restaurant last week, and will visit with others who are home from college for the holidays.

Although I continue to accumulate birthdays, I have figured out what to do with them — keep my mind and body moving.

 I am old enough to retire, but far from ready to stop the presses. The opportunity to return to full-time newspaper work presented itself when The Macon Melody rolled out its debut issue on June 28.

These days, it’s rare for a community to launch a new newspaper. Most are vanishing, like phone books and fax machines. But we grow stronger and more identifiable every week, an assurance that we are here for the long run.

And those doors that closed behind me in a trail of tears along Montpelier Avenue nine years ago?

 I am back working in the same newsroom. I have been issued a new key card. I have been reunited with several of my former newspaper colleagues. And I can stretch my neck around the bend at Mercer Village and see Newton Chapel, where my wife and I were married 42 years ago and began our life together.

I have more gray hairs than when I left nine years ago. Teaching high school kids will do that to you.

I’ve been here before though. I didn’t forget the way. I have re-entered the arena like an old dog with new tricks.  

Life has a way of bringing you back. May the circle be unbroken.