Tribute to Author and ARA contributor Don Adams

posted May 22, 2016, 3:04 PM by Peter Muzyka

ARA has lost one of its special writers this Easter weekend. Don Mobley Adams had contributed a piece and his bio to the Abandoned Rural America book. Don passed away on Saturday morning in Savannah, Georgia. He was an long standing member of the Greensboro Writers' Guild in Greensboro Georgia. His sense of humor, story telling ability, poetry, and all around good nature were a joy to all who knew him. The ARA group is saddened by his untimely passing and will miss him greatly. All who have a copy of the hardcover edition of the ARA book can turn to page 27 to read Don's touching yet somewhat humorous story about he and his dad entitled "Crawl Space". For those of you who don't have a copy of the ARA book, here is Don's story.

Don Mobley Adams was an attorney, having retired in 1993 as Associate General Counsel for Delta Airlines after a 25-year career. He is a founding member of the Greensboro Writers’ Guild (GWG) and lives on Lake Oconee near Eatonton. In July of 2005, he published his first novel, “The Sawdust Pile,” a coming-of-age story about growing up in southwest Georgia in the forties and fifties. He enjoys writing humorous essays, short prose, fiction, and poetry. Don’s writing has appeared in all GWG booklets.

Don and his wife Lyn moved to Savannah in 2015. He passed away on Easter Saturday, March 27th. Don, his sense of humor, and his writings will be sorely missed by all who knew him.

Crawl Space

Each spring my father planted a garden in our backyard.

He pushed a plow through the fertile, black soil,

churned the earth,

made orderly rows for the seed.

I wanted to push the plow but he said I wasn’t big enough.

My father sweated a lot and I worried about him.

I hoped he would always be there

to plow and create order.

In June, the crops came in—

string beans, cucumbers, okra, onions, tomatoes, corn

and my favorite–potatoes.

I loved the potatoes because they grew in the ground

and my father dug them up.

He tore them from the soil he had plowed in the spring.

We washed them,

left them for a while in the sun to dry,

and then stored them in the cool, dark space under our house.

Spreading the potatoes was my job.

My father insisted that they be spread properly,

but he was too big to do it himself.

He would bump his back and head when he tried to get under there.

My father dug the potatoes.

He weeded the garden and watered it in dry weather,

and he was big and strong and full of life,

but he couldn’t get under the house in the crawl space.

He needed me for that.

Don Mobley Adams

Copyright © 2006