The hardest part of my day was in writing a biography about a man I’ve never met. People do this all the time, they are called biographers. They usually have a few more resources at hand and the opportunity to do more research. But I was tasked with doing this one in an afternoon. Fortunately the length required was much shorter.
But still, 750 word biography on a man you’ve never met. He’s deceased. His wife is also gone. There is, I was told, some small mystery about some of the particulars, even among his children. I understand that. There’s a lot of that in my family, too. Also, this is a bio about a journalist, which will be read by an audience of journalism-type folks.
No pressure, right?
Hugh Frank Smith attended Samford in the 1930s, when it was Howard College. Then he went to Mizzou to finish his education. I talked to some of their folks today trying to drum up information. He graduated, started working at a Memphis paper, where he stayed for half a century until it folded, with the exception of his time in the Navy during World War II. He wrote for other Tennessee papers after the Press-Scimitar disappeared. His work cropped up from time to time in bigger publications.
He ran a horse farm. A lot of people in Memphis learned to ride there. He used email, perhaps unusual for a man born in 1915. He traveled quite a bit, but never forgot east Alabama, from which he came, or Samford, to whom he became a scholarship donor. All of the things you can find about him are very complimentary. He seems like he would have been a nice man to know.
But I was able to find some of his old columns, and they are lovely. From late in his life, a tribute to his sister:
Nan taught me a lot through the years. She read to me nearly every day and was always reading a book herself — one reason why I still read one or two books a week. She taught me how to drive our old Model T Ford — at first in a hayfield, then later on a dirt road.
She always said, “Look straight ahead when you are driving.” Once when we were rounding a curve I almost ran into a ditch. She couldn’t understand why I was so reckless. “You told me always to look straight ahead,” I explained, and I had been — straight ahead into a cotton field.
I must have scored well in her other lessons because I have never had to report an accident in 78 years of driving.
Here’s one he wrote a few years after his wife died:
Even as her memory faded, Rachael never seemed depressed, and often she would laugh at herself when she said something ridiculous or outrageous. Rather than correct her mistakes, many of them humorous, we just went along with them. I even kept a log. For example, one evening she looked at me and asked: “How did I happen to marry you? I didn’t mean to.” We both laughed. Another night, after arriving home from a party, she looked at our house and asked: “Didn’t we once live here?” I laughed and she quickly joined me.
I really think she often made comments like that just to elicit a chuckle. When she couldn’t get to sleep one night, I suggested: “Why don’t you count sheep?” Her reply: “We only have three.” That was true; we had three sheep.
[…]
Most important, she remained at the center of our farm and our family throughout it all. We found ways to treasure as much of the end of life as possible. As it turned out, Rachael’s sunny disposition throughout her life was her final gift to us. It made Alzheimer’s “long goodbye” more bearable for my daughters and myself.
So I wrote a bio, met with students. I gave a tour of a few of the facilities to a visiting alumnus. I taught a class. Also this, a hasty little video just to remember the sunny day:
It was a fine day. Began with a headache, ended with pizza with friends and jokes in a blustery parking lot.
