Ashes to Ashes & Life to Yet More Life

In memory and celebration of my dad, Jack Wilkinson.

If there are any guarantees about being human on Earth, breath is one. Death is another.

Earlier this year, I had my first encounter with the inevitable gorge of losing a parent. My big-hearted, storytelling father, Jack Wilkinson, died June 1, 2025. When life finally flowed out of his body, he was just a week shy of his 75th birthday.

This past weekend, my stepmom, Janet, my sister, Ali, and I took his ashes to Long Island, New York, where little Jackie grew up. To honor not just ashes to ashes, dust to dust, but life to yet more life, I thought I’d share the remembrance I gave at his memorial this past summer.

Jack at his beloved local, Manuel’s Tavern, in Atlanta.

In Memory of Dad

“Maybe we should go see the old apartment,” Dad mused. It was August 2006, and we were in New York City for the day with his sister, my Aunt Kathy. I was about to hop the pond for grad school and figured that had elevated the level of Wilky nostalgia—from its standard pitch to sky-high. All the way up to East 85th Street. “Ok, Daddy, let’s swing by.”

We hung a left from East End, and when we pulled up to the building, Dad said: “Hey, I know that guy.” That guy turned out to be the super, who’d been there back in 1983. Of course, he remembered Jack, too, and 23 years on, they didn’t miss a beat. “The tenants just moved out today,” he said. “Place is empty. Wanna go up?”

We climbed the stairs, gobsmacked by the timing. Dad recounted the look of the apartment back in the day. He reenacted some scenes. And I got a glimpse—through subdivided, renovated glasses—of the very first place we called home. We lived there during my first four months of life with my mom, Lucy, and Milton, the yellow lab of Letterman fame.

This step back through the looking glass—it’s the kind of thing that would happen to Jack Wilkinson. Some charmed, magical weaving of people and places and stories, made possible because he wasn’t afraid to hold it all with such tenderness and affection. To have a chance at a homecoming, you have to tend the memory. You have to take the drive.

When I arrived on the scene in ‘83, I had no idea that my life would be shot through with that kind of sweetness. But that’s the gig when you’re one of two terrifically lucky little girls who got to be Jack’s daughters.

My dad had the most amazing smile and abundant laugh.

I think of Dad waking me one morning—now down in Atlanta—and pulling back the curtain, to show me snow for the first time. (I got excellent coaching on snowball technique that day.) I remember sisters in Christmas PJs, called downstairs by “Joy to the World” proclaimed on Dad’s cornet.

I remember that final helping-hand pushoff, when you suddenly realize you’re riding a bike without training wheels. And Dad made me feel like I’d done it all on my own. I remember doing “the Wilky” to the Boss on vinyl—then the sheer joy of taking Dad to a show once I had a real paycheck.

I think of the hot-dog-shaped Oscar Meyer Weinermobile coming to our house. (Even for a future vegetarian, this was extremely exciting.) Dad delivered an autograph from MC Hammer. And one from Mr. Rogers. (He taught us early about the value of range.)

Postcards from dozens of American cities and beyond showed me how big and cool the world is. There were countless letters, too, always on Atlanta Journal-Constitution stationary—and at least one Scotch tape dispenser liberated, shall we say, from the Paper.

There was the childhood ritual of weekend runs to the Royal Bagel. Then, when I was in college, another sacrament of white-carbs: Dad never came to an equestrian competition without Krispy Kremes for the team. He was always so deeply kind to our friends.

Dad gave us the best uncle we could have imagined, his beloved little brother, Tommy. At George’s pub with a post-pickup-game crew, they let Ali and me tie all of their shoes together under the table—then faked surprise and a dramatic tumble when they got up. Well into adulthood, we were sure we’d pulled a fast one.

At bedtime after bedtime, we’d ask Dad to tell us the story of when his mom threw away his busted tiny bat. “Little Jackie was hysterical,” he’d say. And despite having been up all night delivering newspapers, Jack Sr. chased down and dug through the garbage truck to retrieve the bat we still have.

Of course, there was a lot of playing catch. Ridin’ around town with the top down, in Janny’s white convertible. Walking Larry, our next wondrous yellow dog, around Candler Park—never on a leash. When I turned sixteen, Dad started holding traffic on Oakdale Road, so Ali and I could back out of the driveway safely. There wasn’t a single time we drove away without seeing 🤟🏼 (I love you) in the rearview mirror.

He wrote of his own father: “It is the greatest gift a parent can bestow. To care, and be there, for a child.”

The famous bat! Dug out of the garbage truck by Jack Sr.

In 1986, Dad took me to what must have been my first basketball game. It was the Hawks’ last regular-season matchup, and Spud Webb was playing. All of 5’7”, he’d become the NBA Slam-Dunk Champion a couple months earlier, and I’d been wearing out a cassette of the tribute song, “Jammin’ Just Like Spud.”

I jumped up and applauded when he entered the game. And given the Wilky magic I was already coming to know well, it seemed perfectly reasonable to ask: “Can Spud come babysit me sometime?”

I never asked my dad why he loved sports. Honestly, he might have shrugged it off as self-evident, ineffable. But if we’d been sitting at Manuel’s, having a beer, he might have said, “Well, Boo, I could blather on about that…” and done so.

I’m certain he loved the mechanics of the game. You can read a single article and see that. (“Spud went right to the hoop—beating his defender, fearlessly driving the lane…”)

I suspect part of him liked the rules, if not always their referees. Dad moved through the world with a clear sense of where the lines are on the court of life—though arguably some weren’t quite regulation size or always visible to others. But, boy, if you crossed one, good luck passing the ball back in bounds.

I know Dad held dear the way sports form ties—of friendship, within families, across generations, with a great love. Reflecting on his brother’s basketball career, he wrote: “The Game has been so good for him, and so good to us.” Of course, there’s the simple fact that sports are the stuff of wonderful storytelling.

But what I think Dad liked most is how they reveal our humanness—what we’re made of. “He’s a fine coach” was a Jack compliment, to be sure, but “he’s a finer human” was something else entirely.

Who’s the man? Well, Jackie Robinson, Dr. J., John Wooden. Some non-atheletes, too. Stanley, who runs the kitchen here at Manuel’s. Our Uncle John, for sure. My own yellow dog, Arthur, who would melt down in excitement at the mere mention of “Grandpa Jack.” Dad called him “The Legend” and called his tail “Le Plume.”

One day, Dad’s amazing hospice aid, Dilton, asked him: “Who’s the man, Jack?” “Well, I’m supposed to be,” he replied. His knack for quick humor and self-deprecation remained a trademark, right until the end.

Jack (seated above the “C”) covering #23 in his UNC days.

For years and years, Dad would tell us: “I’ve always wanted a single-speed English racer.” For the lower back of a guy, then over 60, and the hills of a city like Atlanta, I thought: maybe a three-speed vintage cruiser is the better gift. Dad rode that bike, his prized Big Blue, like a true New Yorker. Peddling fast on the Beltline. Ringing his bell. Probably yelling: “Any day now, coach!” and “Ya foof!”

It meant the world to give him something he loved so much, for so many years—until Alzheimer’s warped the record of well-ridden maps in his mind.

In the slow, disintegrating loss of that disease, you never really know when you’re having a last-of-its-kind conversation. And maybe that’s why I wrote this down in September 2021. We were sitting on the back patio, probably nibbling something delicious Janny had made. Though Dad couldn’t comfort me in the same way he once had, I still found myself sharing with him what was heavy on my heart at the time.

“You’re easy to love, Boo,” he said. In an instant, I realized that’s how he’d made me feel for a lifetime: utterly and completely and easily loved. Not for anything I did. But simply for who I was. To my mind, that is the greatest gift a parent can give to a child. He gave it to me for 42 years.

And to my mind, that was the core of my dad: His heart moved to love with ease, and he showed it. He loved this place. He loved the people in this room, and countless others. If he didn’t love you, it’s probably only because he didn’t know you (unless, of course, you’re a heavy-handed editor or once played for the Yankees).

Almost two months into a world without Wilky, I keep thinking about how I want to be more like him. To have a nosh, have a sip, and tip well. To laugh hard and often and scatter puns like beads on Mardis Gras. To write. To know that there are few things more precious than a sibling. To be sentimental and misty-eyed and go back to the old apartment. To love easily and loyally and find the gold in this life, for however long we have it.

Oh, my Daddy, you’re easy to love, too. Look for me in the rearview mirror. Always 🤟🏼

We celebrated—where else?—at Manuel’s. There were many Hawaiian shirts.

Be well, dear friends. Thanks so much for reading.