Porter Briggs’ grandfather was born on the heels of the Civil War. Porter grew up in the rise of Civil Rights. His father was Arkansas’ first pediatrician. His mother’s death from alcoholism, when he was eighteen years old, left its imprint even, or especially, on the one-night affair that produced his son.
After Cold War tank maneuvers and grad school in Germany, Porter advanced Arkansas, catfish-farming, and hospital associations—then historic preservation and restoration. In California, he drove an anti-nuke campaign with Paul Newman. Heading East, he blazed through Wall Street, massive greenhouses, and boxwood, the great American shrub—punctuated with a White House Fellowship, John Denver’s massive concerts in Moscow and St. Petersburg, and hanging with Sting.
Porter was with Drexel-Burnham-Lambert the day it blew up, in Virginia when his life imploded, and two blocks from the White House on 9/11. He rebuilt his life and had a thriving passport business when love for Diane Wilder called him home to Arkansas.
Praise for South, Towards Home
Oh my goodness, Porter—your memoir is riveting! I started it yesterday after church and could not put it down until I finished it at bedtime. You are a wonderful writer, and your story is almost beyond belief. You’ve had enough fascinating experiences to fill several lifetimes.
— Elizabeth Jacoway, author of Turn Away Thy Son