Byron Buddy Franks

Byron Franks was born on June 20th, 1933 and passed away on October 9, 2024. He joins his mother Eunice, father Roy, brother Billy and sister Jean, along with his first daughter Lydia Rankin and granddaughter Leah, all preceding him in death. Remembering him in life are three children Selita Ernst and her husband Elmer, Dana Franks, Jeff Franks and his wife Veronica, sister Aleen Grimes and brother Royce Franks. His grandchildren, Josh Rankin, Brad Ernst, Kevin Ernst and Wyatt Franks will continue to celebrate his life along with nine great grandchildren.

 Words rarely do justice to a life well lived, for words are symbols whose purpose is to help stir memories and recall stories-a noble attempt to capture a flicker of the spirit of those who’ve said goodbye. We wish to call forth the deep impressions that a person carves into our souls, and to summon the joy, sorrow, laughter and tears that are stored away in our hearts and our minds. We call them forth because we want to experience them anew as way to connect us to someone whose work in world is finished.

 Byron Buddy Franks was a depression-era child, born in a time of great uncertainty and scarcity. He graduated from Stark High School, served proudly in the United States Army, held positions on more boards, committees, and governing bodies than anyone I’ve ever known, mainly because “no” was only in his vocabulary except when one of his daughters wanted to go out on a date. He worked for DuPont forever, where his men called him “Tom Landry” because of his stoic, steady demeanor. He was forged in the fires of the old school, great depression-era South. Folks born in the 30’s were masters of frugality. My dad’s fishing tackle was older than any of his children. He had a blue battery charger that is old enough to have belonged to Thomas Edison. His old red Kingfisher boat could’ve been the one that Jesus was riding in when he had to calm the storm on the Sea of Galilee. Dad did not throw things away. If something was broken, he fixed it. It something was dirty, he cleaned it, and if something required a little tough love, there was always a crescent wrench, a screwdriver, and some WD-40 close by. He did not give up on his stuff, and he never, ever gave up on the people in his life. He did not always know exactly what was wrong or how to fix it, but with Byron, you were never tossed aside or thrown away. He met Jenean Musick in school and they married in 1955. Like most folks in those days, they were scratching and scrimping to make a life together. They did not come from money, but they knew how to build a life together. Dad and my grandfather built their home in Paulwood in 1976. Few people will ever know what it means to love and sacrifice for one-another like mom and dad learned to do over close to seven decades of marriage. They did their share of bearing, believing, hoping and enduring almost 70 years of marriage. Ultimately, their love did not fail. It was tested, tried, bent up and sometimes beat up-but like mom and dad, their love was as resilient and tough as a Texas summer. He was elected to the Orangefield ISD school board so he could help serve the people of Orangefield-and keep tabs on his daughters. Our dad loved us with every moment of time God gave him on this earth. It was old-school love love that had rough edges-love that set expectations and held us accountable. He loved us with patient, kind, grace-filled love, but he also loved us by saying “no” when no was needed and on rare occasions when his band cherubs needed something a little stronger, he loved us by saying, “don’t make me get the belt!” 

 Summer brought trips to the lake-first in a heavy canvas tent that I’m convinced was manufactured

sometime during reconstruction. After a huge raise and a promotion, we upgraded to one of those pop-up campers, then a cabover and finally a “Mobile Scout” travel trailer that was second-hand. Finally, after years of hard work and saving, we splurged on a Prowler, and that’s when I knew we were officially rich. Actually no-it was when dad upgraded from a 30-year-old 20 horse Johnson to a brand new 25-horse Johnson for the 40-year-old boat-that’s when I knew we had arrived.

 The real reason we went to the lake is because he loved the peace and quiet of the lake. He loved being in nature, experiencing the warm sun and the cool nights with a sky full of stars. We all loved the smell of bacon frying in the camp skillet in the mornings and the fish frying in the evenings. The real reason dad loved the lake though, was because he could sit for hours on the lake and not hear a single female voice. He loved mom and his daughters more than anything, but well…. you get it, right? When I was old enough, he started taking me out with him. That’s how I knew my dad loved me-he’d spend hours untangling my line, getting my lures out of the trees, even diving in to save a rod and reel I chunked into the water on a poor cast attempt. We would fish for hours…and hours. Sunscreen was still little more than baby oil, and dad’s little red igloo was big enough for maybe three or four drinks.

“And these three remain: faith, hope and love…” wrote the Apostle Paul in First Corinthians. Make no mistake, those were important to dad, but had he written that verse, it would’ve read “…church, family, work, and the Bobcats…”. Of course, love of God and family was the common thread woven throughout, but if dad was not home, he was out doing things for the people he loved. He went to every booster club meeting, every church meeting you can think of-funerals; visitations; family reunions; football games; basketball games; baseball games; track meets. He loved being part of the community almost as much as has he loved mowing the grass-OK maybe not that much.

 We loved our Dad very much and know he’s in Heaven playing with Leah, with Lydia watching nearby.