Jack Stallard

I grew up with four sisters, so I definitely didn’t need another watchdog following me around from the time I started eighth grade until I graduated from high school.

Four sisters were more than enough to make sure when I strayed from the straight and narrow my transgressions were reported to the proper authorities (parents) immediately, if not sooner.

Most of the time, my parents knew about the trouble before I was even finished causing the trouble.

I always considered them snitches, but over time I came to realize my sisters — Janet, Darlene, Melissa and Donna — actually loved me enough to make sure no crime went unpunished.

In the eighth grade, I met Connie, and she became the kind of friend and adopted sister that loved me enough to take a different approach. She went straight to the source of the trouble (me), and didn’t pull any punches.

Connie is hurting in a way I can’t even fathom today. Her husband, Mark, died in a tragic accident Wednesday morning while doing a routine check on the school bus he drove in a small town in Alabama, and I feel helpless sitting more than eight hours away from her and her remarkable family.

Mark also taught history at the local high school. Connie teaches at the same school — Mortimer Jordan High School — and all four of their children graduated from there.

It’s a small, tight knit community, which makes me feel a little better because I know Connie and her family will be showered with love and wrapped in comforting arms while they try to make some sense of things over the next few days, weeks and months.

The last time I saw Mark, I told him a story about Connie that I hoped would explain why he had to put up with me, my wife and our son dropping by for a visit and a meal several times over the years when we made trips from Texas back to Tennessee.

I moved away from Tennessee and lived in Texas for a year when I was in the seventh grade, but returned to Tennessee for eighth grade. During the time I was in Texas, my family moved to a different part of town — which meant a different school than the one I had attended for grades one through six.

One of the first people I met at the new school was Connie. We were OK friends that year, but when we got to high school and she realized I was heading in a bad direction, Connie decided to become my road block.

Most of the time, it was a gentle reminder before the weekend to be careful and not do anything that couldn’t be undone. Sometimes, it was a little more forceful — like saying she was going to pray for me and ask God to take care of me since I obviously couldn’t do it myself.

Then, one Monday during my junior year after I had set a record for stupid acts that should have killed me over the weekend, she dropped the hammer on me.

I was the first person picked up by the school bus on our particular route. She was second, and as soon as she got on the bus, I could tell I was in trouble.

The lecture I got that day started with questions about my sanity, which I had heard before, but ended with her crying and almost begging me to do better.

“You’re too good for this,” she said. “I don’t know why you can’t see that, but you are and you’re the only person that doesn’t believe it.”

I wish I could say I immediately started down a better path, but that would be a lie. By some miracle, I never went past the point of no return, and I know in my heart it was partly because I didn’t want to disappoint a person I shared no blood with but had come to consider another sister.

When I told Mark that story, he wasn’t even surprised. He just smiled and said “That’s my Connie. All she does is love people.”

Rest in Peace, Mark, and please know the folks Connie has taken care of over the years are going to return the favor now when she needs it the most.