By Andy Brack, May 22, 2026 | As the Tahoe pulled around the cloverleaf from Interstate 26 to Interstate 20 last Saturday, a dazzling dawn broke with feathers of pink and orange sifting through a dark sky turning blue.
It made me sad. I realized then that my father, longtime Georgia newspaperman Elliott Brack, would never see the beauty of another dawn. He died suddenly and peacefully at home the evening before. At 90, he lived a good, full life, packing in enough joy, success and engagement with people to fill two regular lives.
Still, he was gone, a larger-than-life presence whose energy comforted and inspired many. The dawn made me feel the absence. No more stories. No more infectious laughter, discussions about business, politics, people and the everyday neat stuff that a father tells a son or vice versa.
Within moments, a text arrived from a friend checking on me and encouraging me to stay strong for family as I sped toward Atlanta to be with my mother and sister. I lamented about the sunrise, only to be told, “He will be the sunrise.”
That really helped. And from now on, the soft light of the breaking day will remind me of my father and a life lived large and well.
Elliott Earl Brack was born on Halloween in 1935 on a small tenant farm outside of Allentown, Ga., about 30 miles south of Macon. His father grew cotton and later milled corn, before moving to Macon around 1940 to take a job driving a bus, which he did for more than 30 years. His mother split her time between keeping house and working at a Macon department store.
Dad got into newspapers early, delivering early morning routes for the Macon Telegraph to have pocket money and the cream-filled pastries that he loved. He attended Macon schools and college at the city’s hometown university, Mercer. After marrying his college sweetheart, he worked as a reporter briefly before serving three years in Germany in the U.S. Army as a Quartermaster Corps officer. One day in Germany, a soldier named Elvis Presley showed up in his commissary.
After earning a graduate degree in journalism from the University of Iowa, dad bought half of a weekly newspaper in Jesup, Ga., thanks to help from his widowed mother-in-law. After 12 years and lots of state and national awards, he taught at the University of Georgia, only to be lured to run a suburban daily in Gwinnett County in the mid-1970s. Later he ran the Gwinnett operation for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, retiring in 2000 as associate publisher. Then in a tip of the hat to the Internet age, we worked to start an online publication, GwinnettForum.com, that kept him busy until a couple of weeks ago.
Through the years, he told stories, writing thousands of columns and editorials. Over 62 years, he published at least 4.5 million words of stories, history, political observations, community insights and more.
Dad, in fact, once told me everyone had a story – until he pulled up beside a guy on a road in the 1980s and started talking with him, only to find the guy was pretty dull. I remember him complaining a bit – I think at a family supper – until he realized with some prompting that the guy’s story was that he didn’t really have much of a story.
Stories connect us in ways that provide comfort and meaning. We learn from them. We understand people better through them. When a younger sister died two years ago, stories from dozens of friends about her vivacious life provided an unexpected catharsis.
The same is happening now that my father has passed. Tributes are pouring in from friends and colleagues who recount how he served as a mentor, an inspiration, a leader at the right time, an advisor.
We’ll miss Dad’s energy. He’s leaving a void in our family and his beloved Gwinnett County. But we’ve got lots of stories for which we’re thankful.
Some unsolicited advice: Reach out today to someone special in your life and find out stories that will continue to keep you going when they’re gone. You’ll be happy that you did.
Elliott E. Brack, 1935-2026. Rest in peace.
Andy Brack is editor and publisher of the Charleston City Paper and Statehouse Report. Have a comment? Send to: feedback@statehousereport.com.
