Before I read Deliverance or saw the movie, I heard James Dickey read from his novel at USC's Longstreet Theater in 1974. He cut a wide swath through Columbia, made enemies, and people liked to bash him. He made it easy.

Dickey liked to drink, saying," people say the good feeling alcohol gives you is false—but all you have to do is live a human life to know that, in many instances, a false good feeling is better than none at all."

In 1989, the USC Press published South Carolina, The Natural Heritage, authored by Robert Clark, Steve Bennett, and me. Dickey wrote the foreword. That's how we met.

In 1995, I interviewed him for Reckon, a Southern literary magazine. I asked him how he got into writing. His father, Eugene, he said, read courtroom speeches to him. As proof, Dickey recited Robert Ingersoll's opening statement in defense of some Southerners accused of murder out West in the gold mining fields, Sutter's Mill. "I'm very happy to talk to the gold miners. I'm very happy, today, to be your guest in this courtroom, guest of you hardy souls who earn your precarious living by wresting the precious metal from the clutches of the miserly rock.

"My father said, 'Now Jimmy isn't it wonderful that a man can express himself that way.' I replied, 'It sure is, daddy. That's great; read it again.' And that's how I got into writing." In 1995, thin as a reed, on oxygen, Dickey looked nothing like Bullard, the Sheriff, he played in Deliverance. Years of drinking had exacted their toll. I wrote that his drinking "led to overindulgence and damage" in Reckon.

When Dickey received the magazine, he called me. "Why did you have to mention my drinking? You hurt me and my family."

His words stung me. I gave him a wide berth. I didn't know what to say. Months rolled by: what to do, what to say. Over a year passed. Then one morning the news reported Dickey had died the night before. I felt a loss that's hard to describe. I put it behind me but then the professor, Henry Hart, came out with a bitter book, James Dickey, The World As A Lie. On page 733, my words came back to haunt me:

"Dickey acknowledged how destructive alcohol had been to himself, his family, and everyone associated with him. In July, he told a writer for Reckon magazine that, while alcohol had enhanced his confidence for years: 'I am forever off drinking. God could not get me to drink, Him and Jesus combined. That's over.' " I had given Hart ammunition. Worse, I was a hypocrite. I recalled an icy December night in 1989. Robert Clark and I went to Dickey's home with copies of South Carolina, The Natural Heritage for Dickey to sign, Christmas gifts. We brought him bourbon as a gift: Jack Daniels Single Barrel Whiskey I believe. I remember the bottle was pretty.

Dickey met us at the door in his pajamas. He had no need to drink further. He placed the bottle on a shelf. Then after signing the books with his swirling ornate signature, he walked us to his study. To my amazement, he asked if we were from the South. "You know I'm a Georgian, like you," I said, "and Robert is from Charlotte."

"Good," he said, grabbing his guitar. "Then you know the old Southern gospels. Let's sing." He launched into "Will The Circle Be Unbroken."

I was standing by my window, On a cold and cloudy day, When I saw the hearse come rollin' For to take my mother away.

Robert and I stood there mute. Dickey stopped strumming.

"You boys said you were from the South, let's go," and he took up the song again.

Will the circle be unbroken? By and by Lord, by and by

Robert and I stepped backwards and looked at each other for help. Dickey stared with anger.

"I can't sing a lick," I said in apology.

"Me neither," said Robert.

"Boys, I'm expecting a call from my agent any minute." He showed us the door.

Robert and I were out in the cold, wondering what had hit us. We're pretty sure what happened to the Jack Daniels.

That cold December night was soon forgotten. Dickey and I stayed in touch, and I proposed my feature to Reckon and he agreed to an interview. Dickey discussed his health. "I met the Dark Man. I'd like to think I have some more years, maybe 10 or 15, but that's in the lap of the Gods." The Gods were stingy. He had but nineteen months. Dickey died January 19, 1997.

James Dickey was bigger than life. Blond and blue-eyed, he scaled the heights—Air Force navigator, advertising executive, guitarist, archer, teacher, poet laureate, winner of a Guggenheim fellowship and a National Book Award. He covered an Apollo launch for Life and read his poetry at President Carter's inauguration.

One afternoon in 1997 during a summer thunderstorm, a student and I drove to his lakeside home so she could say she had seen Dickey's house. There was no home, just rubble. It had been sold and razed. We trekked through the rain, mud, and debris and returned with three bricks. She kept one. The other two sit in my office, monuments you could say. That was eleven years ago. A new home sits where Dickey wrote poetry and novels. No marker, nothing, tells passersby that the poet and author of Deliverance created literature and art there. And that's a shame