Obituary: Debra-Lynn Hook (née Bledsoe)

Our mother—the joyful, loving, and passionate seeker, Debra-Lynn Hook (née Bledsoe)—passed away on October 5, 2025, surrounded by her children and close loved ones.

Debra-Lynn was born on December 3, 1955, in Greenville, South Carolina, to Audrey and Floyd “Eddie” Bledsoe. Mom fondly recalled playing outdoors in creeks and on dirt paths bushwhacked by her father. As her sister – our Aunt Sharon – recounted, “the old weathered, wooden door took a rightful beating, but oh, how it served us well.” Mom was particularly proud of her Lebanese heritage: her great-grandparents emigrated from Zgharta, Lebanon, before the turn of the century, establishing an unlikely but vibrant Middle Eastern enclave in the deep South. Growing up, she also attended Black churches with her mother, who firmly refused to embody the racism of the Jim Crow South. Debra-Lynn carried this ethos throughout her entire life. Her childhood was not always easy, and she carried those scars (and one bullet) with her, yet she emerged with a strong sense of self and a steadfast commitment to breaking harmful intergenerational patterns.

Early on, Mom’s gifts as a writer and observer of life were clear. A prolific journalist, she wrote for her high school newspaper and later became the chief copy editor at the LSU student paper, the Daily Reveille. Her first jobs out of college were writing for newspapers in South Carolina. As a reporter for The State, she developed a reputation for sharp wit, a keen eye for detail, and an insistence on humanizing her subjects. She reported from places like Death Row, slaughterhouses, and hurricane landing sites, and interviewed dignitaries including Hillary Clinton and Toni Morrison. Once pregnant with Chris, she turned her keen journalistic eye toward intimate family life, beginning a column in 1988 under the moniker “Bringing Up Mommy.” This column would become one of the longest-running published columns on family life in the country, with writings appearing in more than one hundred publications, including the Chicago Tribune, USA Today, and Reader’s Digest. Her work inspired countless people with its wisdom, joy, humor, and relatability. Her writing idol, Anna Quindlen, once wrote to her personally to say that Mom had “such a clear, confident voice—loving but not sentimental, smart but not overweening.”

She met our Dad, Steve, in 1982, and they instantly connected, sharing a love of the written word, witty repartee, road trips, and long nights with friends. They married in South Carolina in 1987 and moved several times—to Gainesville, Florida; Columbia, Missouri; Edinburgh, OH; and finally to Kent, OH, where Steve found a tenure-track teaching position at Kent State University in 1997. Their marriage was not a storybook one; they were both hard-headed, analytical, and deep thinkers. To witness one of their late-night Scrabble games was to witness nuclear fusion. Mom and Dad navigated the vagaries of marriage, career, and moving around the country for 30 years. The stressors eventually took their toll, and they separated in 2017, but never lost their propensity for intellectual conversation or genuine care for each other.

The greatest conviction our Dad and Mom shared was that being a parent was the most important role they could play. Mom wrapped us in an unrelenting shroud of support, yet also set high expectations for our character development. She implored us to tell the truth, even when it hurt; to find the humanity even in the worst of people; and to give of ourselves, especially to those less fortunate. She reveled in hosting our friends for sleepovers and family meals, and at holidays, she reigned supreme. For Easter, she would make a carrot cake from scratch, carefully decorated to look like an Easter Basket. For birthdays, she made sure everyone received a hand-signed card, a party, gifts, and time for everyone to go around and say something nice about them. For Thanksgiving and Christmas, she loved getting out the old silver and setting the table for the entire month. She overspent massively on gifts. Quality time was always her number one priority with us. When grandchildren entered the picture, she loved doting on them. They called her “Marmi”—for the grandmother in Little Women. For a while, it was “Marmi Applesauce” for her constant provision of Mott’s; other times, she was called “Do, A Deer,” for her proclivity to burst into songs from The Sound of Music soundtrack.

Community was vital to my mother. Ever the extrovert, she went where she could find authenticity and deep connection, wanting to know the story of everyone she met without discrimination. She told some of their stories in her writing, but she also told them through her photographs. If you were a Kent-area high school senior, newly-engaged couple, or varsity athlete circa 2008-2020, there’s a good chance she took your official portraits. She also collaborated on community initiatives like The Healing Body Image Project, which supports people in cultivating a healthy body image, advocated for gifted education, and started a program at a local hospice center writing the life stories of hospice patients, a program that continues to exist today.

Mom’s favorite films were The Wizard of Oz and The Sound of Music. Her favorite TV shows were The Waltons, The Dick Van Dyke Show, and The Andy Griffith Show. Her favorite food was grape leaves, tabbouleh, and sour soup with bulgar (bul-gah, she said) balls. Her favorite local outing was to Beckwiths, followed by a road trip down Red Brush Road, camera in hand, to catch the fading sunlight. Her favorite colors were lavender and yellow. She enjoyed good food, lovingly cooked, to nourish her back to health. She also loved Wendy’s Frostys.

Mom was diagnosed with chronic leukemia in the fall of 2009. The diagnosis hit her hard, and rather than despair, she set out to find the wisdom in what it had to teach. This included further study of different religious traditions, taking poetry and memoir-writing classes, learning about macrobiotic eating, and unpacking the myths and misinformation of the Cancer Industrial Complex. She chose her own path, acting as her own strongest advocate even when the odds were stacked against her. Mom’s faith and spirituality guided her, but she did not fit neatly into any one box. She at once admired the sacredness of traditional religion but rejected its oft-shaming and dogmatic overtones, taking freely from traditions like Buddhism, Sufism, Christianity, and Hinduism. On her wall to this day is a quote from Lao Tzu: “Go Like Water.” She was also guided by an enormous group of people from around the world. She delighted in her Facebook following, who embraced her interest in openly documenting her journey. She maintained many close friendships and turned to them often for comfort. At the very end, she had a roster of abiding helpers who fed, bathed, clothed, and accompanied her to exercise and to the Farmer’s Market. We will never forget what you did for her. Thank you.

In late July 2025, she began to exhibit signs of slowing down; her body could fight no longer. In early September, she entered home hospice. The month that followed can only be described as a miracle—time enough to say our goodbyes, express our gratitude, to laugh together, to sing, to bear witness to this very human thing of life extinguishing itself, and to cry. Lots of crying.

She died on October 5, late in the evening, with her family at her bedside. Her last words were, fittingly, “I love you.”

Mom was buried, according to her wishes, at Foxfield Preserve, Ohio’s only green cemetery and one of the oldest in the country. She is preceded in death by her mother, Audrey Lee Bledsoe (née Syracuse), father Floyd Eddie Bledsoe, and husband Steven Wallace Hook. She is survived by her three caring sisters, Kimberly, Susan, and Sharon; her adoring children, Christopher Harkness, Emily Syracuse, and Benjamin Colby; and two little ‘uns who called her Marmi: Milo and Aviella.

Mom will be celebrated on Saturday, November 22nd, at 7 PM at the Kent Unitarian Church, Hobbs Hall, with a second line to follow heading to a post-service reception at Beware the Leopard. All are invited.