If you want a small window into John Monroe, or at least part of who he was, here’s a story.

Friday, one week ago, I received a call informing me that my dad had called EMS and was taken to the hospital. I booked the first flight out of Cincinnati at 6:00 a.m. the next morning, and by 10:00 a.m. I was walking into his room in the ICU. I He was connected to a dozen machines, wearing an oxygen mask. His eyes lit up when I walked in. I went to him, grabbed his hand, and asked, “Dad, are you okay?”

He said, “Yes, but listen. I need you to check the Credit Union cash account.”

Puzzled, I responded, “Ok, but why?”

He informed me, “If the balance falls below a certain amount, they are going to charge me a monthly fee.”

If the essence of a person is like a house, then the stories we tell about them are like windows—each one offering a different perspective. Some panes are clear, others fogged or distorted, but taken together they form an impression in our hearts.

I hope that today, and in the days to come, we will tell many stories about my father, Johnny. Though his passing may feel sudden, his life was full and rich and beautiful, and those are the stories I hope will remain.

My father was a deeply honorable man. He had a keen sense of what was right, proper, and appropriate, and what was not. Public opinion or the influence of peers rarely swayed him from that inner moral compass.

When he was in his early twenties, his uncle by marriage, Steele Burden, offered to pay for an extended trip to Europe. Steele believed travel to the artistic capitals of the continent would be of great educational and cultural value to a young man. My father declined, unable to accept such a gift even from family. Can you imagine declining an offer like that at age 20?

This sense of honor led him to be highly independent. For nearly every challenge, he expected the solution to come from within. It wasn’t distrust of others, but belief in self-reliance. On the humorous side, this meant fixing glasses with tape, coiling electric cords in old cardboard toilet-paper rolls, and countless other handyman solutions. Spending money to fix things was something of an extravagance.

My father was also a deeply faithful person. I don’t mean this in a strictly religious sense, although my father’s faith journey is certainly a compelling part of his life story. His faithfulness was a devotion to the people and places in his life. A part of his heart was given to family. Having lost his father at age 12 and his mother at 18, he knew the weight of absence early. I believe those losses solidified in him a lifelong dedication to his family—his children, his sibling, his cousins, and his extended family in special ways.

He was a devoted grandfather to Jack and Catherine. Grandparenthood is like fine-grit sandpaper; those sweet babies can soften even the hardest edges. My son said this week that every time Granddad was with him, he was teaching him something.

Part of his heart was also given to friends. Everyone knows my dad largely had friends because he was married to Frances—the social butterfly to his reluctant companionship—but the friendships he had, he cherished. Up until the end, he played bridge with his childhood friend, James Hoth. The circle of friends my parents shared through their lives remains close-knit to this day. Looking through photos, it’s striking to see the same faces year after year, decade after decade. Those long friendships are nearly impossible to imagine today.

A large part of his heart was dedicated to what he called “the place,” the house and grounds at 6200 Burden Lane. Caring for this home, where my parents would live for over 50 years, required an intention and dedication few homeowners know. I don’t think my father ever considered himself the “owner” of what we today call the Monroe-Burden House. He saw himself as a steward of something larger. Every repair or update had to remain in character with the larger property, which the Burdens donated to LSU for what is now the Burden Museum and Gardens. Despite our childhood pleading, he would not install a swimming pool. He believed completely in the Burdens’ vision that the property should be a place of reflection. The homes, gardens, artwork, and sculptures were meant to encourage quietude and meditation.

But family, friends, and “the place” did not claim most of his heart. That was reserved for my mother, Frances. Their relationship was the anchor of their life together, and his devotion to her never wavered. They had known each other since grade school, married after LSU, raised my brother and me, and contributed to their community while always putting their relationship first. Most of you know they endured the unimaginable loss of my younger brother, Byron, at age 15. The statistics for marriages that survive such loss are grim—but they didn’t know John and Frances. Theirs was a marriage meant to last.

In the end, I hope the stories that remain are the ones that tell of my father’s honor and faithfulness. His life was a full, beautiful tale of family, friends, place, and the woman—my mother—who was his home. These are the windows through which I see him most clearly, and those are the stories that remind us of what endures.

Baton Rouge

November 9, 2025

The lower temperatures have triggered some sort of deep impulse in me, an ancient urge to ensure we have wood to burn. We have a small fireplace in the living room, and a radically underused fire pit on our stone patio. I am determined to use both more frequently this year. This will be possible, in part, because my wife and I presume to have more time on our hands this fall and winter. There will be no evenings on fields or in gyms around southeast Ohio, as it has been for the past four years.

Our children (twins) have moved away. They are off and running on their next, and best yet, adventure: college. Here on Locust Run Road, they have left a wake of quietness and uncertainty. What just happened here? Where did those eighteen years go? What will fill that time? More books, more cooking, more exercise—who knows?

Let’s start with fire. Warmth and light in the darkness, the deep quiet blackness of winter. I don’t love that time of year. But in the same spirit of there-can-be-no-virtue-if-you-do-not-know-sin, I will put on a brave face and make a fire.

There are enough trees that fall on our five acres every year that could likely support the minimal amount of firewood we need. But my list of excuses runs long: axe is dull, chainsaw isn’t working, no time, etc. It would be good for me. Making firewood warms you multiple times. Felling a tree, splitting the logs, stacking the wood, and then the fire. That’s four sessions of warmth provided by your efforts.

But for today, the closest I can come is buying bulk firewood from a local landscaping company. I do have a (sort of) truck, so that’s something. At least I’m not asking to have it delivered. I loaded the bed this morning, and after weighing it came to a whopping $35, about half of what the industrious young man up the road has posted near his house front stacks for sale.

After driving home, I stood in the truck bed and threw the logs up the stairs by the garage, next to the metal rack where they will be stored. After emptying the bed, I climbed up and stacked the logs. The rack is small, just a half-cord, and it didn’t take long. I worked up a small sweat.

It felt good. The air, as I mentioned, was cool. The sound of the logs landing on one another had a wooden plink, a rugged marimba of random tones, an autumn percussion. Some of the logs had stringy strands of wood and bark that dangled down, and I could see how quickly they would light and burn. The fire isn’t far away.

I thought about sending a picture of the stack to my kids. They would remember the fires we had together, I thought. The marshmallows are never as good as you want them to be. The sparks and smoke are lifting into the night sky. Or the evenings inside, with the hearth glowing, music playing. We could remember all those times.

I didn’t send a picture. When I finished, I covered the stack with the blue tarp, the one with small patches where mice had chewed through, and darkened with the old sludge of dirt and rain. It folded nicely, and I laid two logs on the top to hold it in place. It made me smile to see this project complete. The stack meant something to me. It meant that winter was coming, and that I was ready. I am not certain that I am ready for whatever else the months ahead bring, but I can make a fire.