This may be posted somewhere else....but Fran Galloway and Kay Laurent's Father passed away this weekend in Atlanta....The following story was in the AJC... Please keep them in your prayers.... [B]Schooled in kindness 'Friendly headmaster' went the extra mile to make things OK By Phil Perrier For the Journal-Constitution Published on: 07/09/08 The first time I met Elliott Galloway was in 1977. I was 13 and hoping to start attending the private school that bore his name. My dad and I met with Galloway in his office. It was the middle of summer and the school was empty. We sat and chatted with the friendly headmaster before I took the admissions test. My dad joked that if I missed too many questions, Galloway should feel free to slap me around a bit. Without missing a beat, Galloway walked us over to his bookshelf and showed us a wooden paddle with the words "Applied Psychology" written on it. I could tell my dad liked Galloway instantly. But how could you not? Elliott Galloway's warm, friendly smile and slightly high, calm voice belied his South Georgia roots. It was hard to square this mellow, genial fellow with the former Navy commander and World War II combat veteran that he was. But then, a true gentleman is, after all, a gentle man. A couple of years after that first meeting, I began attending Galloway, a school known for its casual, kid-friendly environment. No uniforms, no rule books, no rigid code of conduct. Despite the "Applied Psychology" paddle, the worst "punishment" ever meted out was being given the task of raking leaves on Galloway's massive front lawn. Once, I displayed a bad attitude in Galloway's class and he asked to see me in his office. He did not raise his voice, but he clearly was not pleased with my behavior, which was more than enough to shame me back to normal. One always got the feeling that Galloway liked his students and knew they were bright and expected them to act like it. He was not a warden, not a cop; he was more like a kindly grandparent who cared about his kids and wanted what was best for them. Granted, we thought he was a little weird. For starters, he ran several miles a day. As teenagers, this struck us as odd. After all, he was way old. Like 50-something. Of course, his son Jeff was an Olympic marathon runner, but come on. And Galloway drank hot water. Not coffee, just hot water. He said it was easier for the body to digest since it was closer to body temperature. Now I realize he was ahead of his time. But then, we just thought he was weird. Then came the day early in my senior year when we found out my dad was dying of cancer. That morning, before class, I walked up to Galloway's office and told him there was no way my family could afford to pay tuition anymore. I would have to drop out and go back to public school. "No," Galloway said, "go to class." "But Mr. Galloway ..." "Just go to class. Don't worry about money," he said. That day Galloway was my father's first visitor in the hospital. Years later, I went back to the school and thanked Galloway for his kindness during that tough time. I was choked up and had tears in my eyes. He sat there with that sweet smile and said, "It's OK, it's OK." I knew someday Galloway would pass away. I knew I would feel compelled to write something about him. I knew I would feel compelled to mention his kindness, his grace, his strength, his wisdom, his innate decency. But words fail to convey how comforting his smile was. How reassuring his voice was. When Elliott Galloway told you that you were going to be OK, you knew you were going to be OK. I got an e-mail that Galloway had died. He ran in the Peachtree Road Race on July Fourth, as he had since the race began. Unable to complete the race, later that day he went for a jog around his neighborhood and collapsed. Certainly, everyone who knows Galloway would prefer that he lived another 30 years, running around Chastain Park for every day of it, but it must have been his time. Galloway died doing what he loved. No long illness, no retirement home, no tubes, no machines. Perfect, really. After 87 years Elliott Galloway dipped below the horizon like a warm South Georgia sunset. Sleep well. > Phil Perrier is a writer and stand-up comic living in Los Angeles.[/B]
