Editor’s note: Georgia Perimeter College writing lab supervisor and tutor Charles Lyon shares his memories of his long-time colleague and friend, Rich Tewell, who passed away Nov. 12. After retiring from his first career in management training and human resources, Tewell worked as a writing tutor at the Dunwoody Learning and Tutoring Center from 2002 until June of this year.

The news came in my email box: a note from Scott to say that his father, Rich Tewell, had passed away. The news was not unexpected; Rich had been battling cancer for quite a while and had been receiving care at home until his condition deteriorated to the point he had to be moved to a hospice center, where he died.

While he was home, I visited him regularly, usually once a week. These visits gave me an opportunity to see and talk with Rich, but more importantly, I got the chance to cook for him. Rich loved to cook, but the cancer made him so weak that he couldn’t stand up for an extended length of time—so working in the kitchen became nearly impossible.               

We had a nice arrangement—Rich would pick out a recipe, buy the ingredients, and then I would show up and cook a meal. We had a lot of fun, my cooking skills improved, and Rich and his wife Mary enjoyed some good food. Sometimes, I would cook things at home and bring them over—the grilled pork chops marinated in chipotle-lime were a big hit.

Our mutual love of food and cooking was just the last point of interest that Rich and I had in common. We met at Georgia Perimeter College’s Dunwoody Campus in spring 2005 on the day I first walked in to apply for a job. Rich was working in the writing lab, sitting at the sole desk in the room, looking to me rather like President Eisenhower. (I always felt Rich bore an uncanny resemblance to the former general and president.) I needed to take a test to see if I had the skills to be a college-level writing tutor and was pretty confident I could do the job.

Rich looked at me with a friendly warning. “That test is trickier than you think” was what he said, or something to that effect. He turned out to be right, of course, and even though I passed the test, I did get tripped up once or twice.

That was our first encounter, and we became quite friendly after that. We worked together in the Dunwoody Learning and Tutoring Center three days a week for the next five years. Our feelings about tutoring were similar, and we enjoyed chatting about a variety of topics. Any student who had the pleasure of working with Rich knows what an engaging personality he was.

Beyond his friendly, engaging demeanor, he was a serious tutor who cared very deeply about students becoming better writers. He would work with anyone, of course, but he had a group of regulars who came to see him every week. Rich sat at a table in the back of the room, rather like an old-style mobster who always picks a spot from where he can see everyone else. I was perched at a desk on the other side of the Dunwoody writing lab. We made a good team, managing the flow of students. Then Rich had a stroke.

I visited Rich several times while he was home recovering from his stroke. He made a nearly complete recovery, except for his left hand, which made it impossible for him to play the piano. His beautiful Knabe baby grand sat in the parlor of his home, silent. I never had the pleasure of hearing Rich play, but he loved classical music—everyone except Beethoven. Even after losing the ability to play, Rich still loved music; WABE-FM was always on in the kitchen, and his Apple iPad gave Rich the opportunity to listen to classical music broadcasts from around the world.

After the stroke, Rich came back to work at GPC. We corresponded by email every once in a while, but since he worked at Dunwoody and I had moved to Clarkston Campus by then, we didn’t see much of each other. I sent him an email in 2013, and that’s when he told me about his cancer diagnosis.

His skin cancer was eating him alive. There’s no other way to put it; his body was fighting it, but clearly losing. But even as his body was suffering the effects of the cancer war, Rich maintained his good humor, his sharp sarcastic wit and his role as a mentor to me. He wasn’t worried about dying—he wanted to hear about what I was doing and how he could help me achieve some of my goals.

The last best piece of advice he gave me is valuable for anyone. Don’t accept rejection—keep on trying, and the effort will be rewarded eventually. He put it this way: “Every ‘no’ brings you one step closer to ‘yes.’”

I have to keep remembering that line, and I will very much miss my colleague, my friend, my fellow lover of good music, good food and good wine. During this holiday season, I have our friendship to be thankful for. I just wish we could have made the risotto and shrimp before time ran out.