I began to write about Red River and the experiences that I had on her, soon after I began building dogwood hoop furniture. During my furniture building days is when everyone began to call me, “Wildwood Dean.” Gathering material required that I go to Red River at least once a week and I reveled in the idea that I might be able to make a living playing on Red River. Getting anything published was farther from my mind than it is to the moon.
I needed to sell my furniture; so in 1987, I published a storybook catalogue on my own. It contained pictures of furniture and stories about my experiences and my country upbringing. My stories, as well as my furniture, caught the attention of, “The Texas Country Reporter,” Bob Phillips and before you know it they were here filming a show. I was encouraged to write more at every turn I made. The second edition of my catalogue came out in 1992 to which I added more stories. It came with a notice that is as fresh on my mind as the day I wrote it. On the first page I wrote: In succeeding publications watch for continuing stories about my country upbringing and about my boat trips on Red River in search of dogwood and nature's art. Little did I realize at the time. My yearning for learning all there was to know about Red River — its history, its nature, and its people — would keep me traveling in my boat and writing. With more passion than furniture designing could ever muster from my soul, I might add.
The year of 1996, was life changing for me; the most exciting time of my life took a bizarre turn. My shop burned. Before I could rebuild trends in decorating changed and sales plummeted. If that weren’t enough to deal with, duty called. My Aunt Irma, who lived in California at the time, developed Alzheimer’s. I owed her; because she had always seen to it that her little nephews in Texas had plenty of big bright packages to open at Christmas time. My brother settled her estate and moved her to Texas. We bought her a trailer house, joined it onto our deck and I began paying back my debt of gratitude. I was adjusting and doing fine and then suddenly we found out mother had terminal cancer! My patient load grew; duty called and I never flinched. My bedside vigil was a time of remembering and of writing. I wrote down everything I could remember, about my childhood days. I came to realize that my brother and I grew up during the fading innocence of country life; the coming of electricity caused that.