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.
