The voice of the valley is gone . . . and I have lost another buddy.
Part of Tuesday evening, I attended calling hours at Dover's Toland-Herzig Funeral Home paying respects to the family of a good friend, Dick Farrell, who had lost his battle with Father Time. A sad occasion, of course, yet a celebration of a man who lived life his way, pedal to the metal with a soft underbelly that he was not afraid to show . . . if one knew him well.
In many ways, he was a man's man, a stereotypical ol' newspaper man who could smoke and drink with the best of 'em. He cherished interacting with others, loved conversation, held strong beliefs, possessed a humility allowing him "to agree to disagree" without affecting friendships, and remained loyal to his friends. Of course, he loved the newspaper business, but he recognized long ago that its future ran contrary to its past . . . to survive required a technological wizardry, and he was astute enough to plunge head on into learning the computer world.
Saddened by the changing journalistic era, he understood--and reflected upon--how the world as he knew it was changing. Ultimately, he left the paid world of journalism and began writing his blogs, visible on Facebook and Twitter. While many of his generation despised those social media outlets, he embraced them, permitting him to offer his perspective of the world through a newer medium . . . and for that so many of us are so grateful.
With that background now provided, allow me to describe the Dick Farrell I will remember:
I am pretty much a journalistic junkie who reads various papers and columnists. To this day, my favorite columnist is the long gone Southern humorist Lewis Grizzard. A weekly syndicated columnist, Lewis knew how to touch the common man. Often, he would make me laugh by writing a serious message while injecting Southern euphemisms into his work. I often told Dick that he was the Tuscarawas valley's version of Lewis. That would always force a smile and a laugh because Dick knew exactly what I meant: He was OUR voice of reason, common sense, and insight. Always aware that a newspaper's first job was to sell papers, he knew how to touch nerves with people. I suspect--in fact, I know--that he would play devil's advocate at times just to irritate people. His logic was that if they were irritated, at least they were reading his material. Translated, they were buying the paper!
Dick loved controversy because in his business that is what sells. I have to think that of all his columns--I should interject that I would love to see a publication produced that contained all his editorials over the years--he was most proud of his annual advice to parents of Little Leaguers. Every spring he would print it as his editorial, forcing parents to face their flaws in their ever-present attempt to make their kids stars . . . he humbled us all. Much to my pleasure, that exact column was framed and displayed in the funeral home. To me, it brought a tear because that was Dick, a guy who was getting his final say on the way out.
While I could share many stories, two will suffice to capture his charisma. A mutual friend and occasional golf partner, Max Nedele, shared this with me two years ago. Max made it clear that before he actually had met Dick, he had pretty much despised him because Dick used "to piss him off" with his editorials. A typical Tuscarawas County man, Max holds strong beliefs--where he got them is his business, but he rarely agreed with Dick. Upon meeting, working, and golfing with Dick for several years while both were in retirement, Max and his opinions gradually underwent a change. In short, he began to see a bigger picture, one that allowed him to understand a different perspective. As Dick's illnesses began to intensify, Max sat with me one afternoon on the Zoar Golf Club patio and shared that he loved Dick, that he was one of his best friends, and that he just could not stand to see Dick suffering the way that he was. If Dick were to hear that, of course, he would say, "Shut the hell up, Max, and quit whining around," and I feel certain that he would then wink at me. Their manly banter aside, the two cared for each other deeply, finding a friendship that was so meaningful to each . . . although they would never admit it to each other . . . man-code, you know.
My second story involves a recent summer evening I spent in the summer room of Dick and his wife Suzanne's home, visiting with the two of them. I was told later how much he enjoyed our interaction, but it was I who will cherish that memory. Our conversation was certainly friendly, humorous, and insightful as we discussed our lives, his family, his oxygen-deprived state, sports, golf, Max, politics, the newspaper business, and his distrust of Donald Trump. We laughed, commiserated, and griped--through our lives, the two of us certainly had a mutual respect for one another, although it was one that we simply never verbalized . . . man-code, you know. Bottom line, however, was that we both knew but did not want to admit that his time on earth was fading. When I prepared to leave, he walked to the garage with me, switching from his in-house oxygen tubes to his garage tubes, where we bid our farewells by shaking hands. My take was to tell him "to keep hanging in there" (a statement that seems so weak as I write today), and his words were his signature "God love ya." My truth is that when I drove away, I thought that might be the last time I would ever see him. A few weeks thereafter, he was admitted to the Cleveland Clinic where he fought his battle until his demise. I never saw him again.
So, today, he is gone. I write this with absolutely no intent to provoke sympathy--my heavens, no. Rather, I write this as a tribute to a man I enjoyed tremendously, a writing voice I loved to read, and a personality that reflected his way, whether others agreed with him or not. I am going to miss him, but believe me when I think of Dick Farrell, a smile will cross my face. What better compliment could a man offer another . . . man-code, you know.
