Goodbye Big John

John Terrence Ailor. Artist, fisherman, watercolor painter, football lineman, devoted father and all around good guy.

I did not know John very well. We ate lunch together for a year or two talking about football and work. He would give me rides home dragging me away from the constant stress.

Met John years before when the Times-Dispatch and News Leader were separate newspapers. John and his crew of artist were on the south side of the building in a little glass cage while Tom Bond and his crew of artist were on the north side of the great divide hallway.

Pre-digital, I would wonder upstairs from the advertising art department to assist or ask questions of the "news" artist. Sitting behind drawing boards we would compare notes and techniques, but that is where it ended. News and advertising were separate to keep conflicts of interest down.

When the digital revolution hit, advertising got the first computers. With constant trial and error, I figured out the new Macs and lost my fear of the new world order.

So as the network grew to add the newsroom on both sides of the great divide hallway, we all became interdependent. Advertisers would ask the creative service department to prepare maps like the news department. The news department would be asked to take Microsoft Excel information and create charts and graphs.

The communication began. We were all crash dummies, but were learning together.

John was always willing to learn and appreciated the tips and techniques shared.

When the two papers merged, John and Tom and a few others were secluded in another building to redesign the NEW Times-Dispatch. I remember going to their assistance in the lonely room across the street. Blank walls and a few tables with piles of papers and notes and long hours of artist hammering out a deadline. But John pushed through it.

After the redesign and the consolidation of the papers, John was moved to second fiddle. Let's see they called him "Deputy Graphics Editor" when he retired. But that was second best and he knew it.

John was assigned the weather page and worked hard at communicating with an outside design firm. They would build the graphic and download it (as in the day) to the Times-Dispatch with native files that could be changed by the artist if necessary. A long and tedious process. Plus the computer platform was changing from Mac to PC. Compatibility problems arose and John was stress with the lack of support, but like his high school football teachings, he pressed forward.

So I think it helped both of us with those 30 minute trips home in his big white truck, discussing the problems of the day and possible solutions.

I knew John has some health problems by his exhaustion walking across the street and the boot he wore over and over again on his increasingly smaller foot. But he didn't talk of it and I didn't press the matter. Our conversations were for relaxation so it stayed light.

John had an eye for the ladies. I didn't know his family relations but we talked lightly of the eye candy when it appeared. He indicated at one point about his single life in a high rise apartment and the consumption of "Jack" as he called it.

Now remember we are talking about a huge guy.

One night on the way home, he was quiet. He was shaking, like it was cold, but it was summer. His voice quaked. I offered to drive, or get out or go with him to wherever he had to go, but he just shivered and shakes and sweat ed and said, "No I'll get you home." I climbed out of the truck and he quickly sped off. The next day he was in the hospital.

On his return to work, we continued the routine of lunch and rides home. Similar conversations topics of past accomplishments, lack of goals, communication, and an increasingly desire to seek happiness.

Between his health and frustration, John decided to retire early. He was quiet about it and did not want any parties or cards. He just wanted to come in one day and slip out at the end of his shift.

So we said goodbye.

No, that's not the end. John kept in touch and would occasionally come down to have lunch at one of the few remaining eatery's. Even got him to join Facebook.

He seemed interested in my life's adventures and revealed in the acquaintances of old friends and lovers. I never embellished the facts, but he filled in his own gaps with a child like wonder. John could dream.

Then his cousin e-mailed me that John was in the hospital, and like I often do, I barged in to see him. He was wired up to tubes and bandaged, but his face lit up when I saw him. I just stood and talked to him, hat in hand, while he asked questions about the art shack and the guys he used to work with.

The next and last time I saw him, John had been moved to another room with more monitors and machines and tubes. Through the smile, he knew the future. It had been over 10 weeks in the hospital.

And so we say goodbye to a good friend. A good meaning guy. A guy who followed his father's footsteps into an industry which used him for 41 years, then spit him out.

The best compliment came that Saturday, the day after John was gone. The editorial page wrote a blip about John in the Weekend wrap up column. "He will be mourned." John would have been surprised. He would smile.

So smile for big John and know he can finally get to those watercolors and fishing he would retire to

Goodbye Old Friend.