JACK SMITH MEMORIAL

Los Angeles Times Harry Chandler Auditorium

January 12, 1996, 5:00 PM

Remarks made by Curtis B. Smith

                         As my mother wrote in a piece for the 8 Ball Final about 35 years ago, my father had a mistress.  She was the newspaper business.  Not the media

business.  The newspaper business.  And so, it was natural, as Bill Thomas said, for my father to cover his own death.  It was what he did.  What he may not have realized was that he was helping others understand and accept their own fates and understand that they were not alone with their medical problems.

                        My father, as far back as I can remember, had a habit of diminishing his own skills, accomplishments, and importance.  He told me on many occasions that he thought I was a good father and that he was afraid he hadn’t been.  I never decided whether or not he truly believed he had been a bad father, but I feel very fortunate that Doug and I had the parents we did.

                        Our parents successfully navigated the depression, World War II, several demanding careers, Los Angeles traffic, various medical emergencies and the high divorce rate in California to maintain a strong and supportive family which helped guide my brother and me through our youth and our sometimes trying adult challenges and mistakes.

                        We have both benefited from their skill in maintaining a remarkable balance between being available to us with advice, guidance and help when we needed it and not interfering in our adult decision making.  It must have been very difficult at times to silently watch us make our mistakes--some of which they helped pay for.

                        Our parents gave us the values we live by today.  Values such as having respect for and helping others, maintaining high ethical standards, working hard, and opposing prejudice of any kind.

                        Our father had a good sense of the absurd, and even to the end he had a sense of humor.  Two nights before his death, he was asking for his nightly fix in the form of “a glass of wine.”  My mother, my brother, and I had told him several times that the doctors would not permit him to take anything by mouth.  None of these admonishments had the desired effect of getting him to stop asking for the wine.  So, I decided to try another tactic.  He had a very attentive and pretty nurse.  I decided to lay the blame on her.  I figured that a pretty nurse could put him in his place.  I told him Cathy said he could not drink a glass of wine.  He turned his head toward me, thought about this new obstacle for a minute with that special quizzical look in his eyes, and with every ounce of energy he could muster suggested that Cathy could perform a certain reflexive verb on herself.  Being the professional she was, Cahty was amused.  Later that evening Cathy was performing a normal nursing duty when my Dad complained about his loss of dignity.  Cathy assured him he shouldn’t be concerned.  She said he could serve as her nurse in his next life.  He didn’t respond.

                        About the time I was in college, my father asked me to stop calling him and my mother “Mama and Daddy.”  He thought it sounded too juvenile.  He said he preferred “Mother and Father.”  I didn’t see anything wrong with what I had called them for my entire life, but in deference to him I tried “Mother and Father” for over 20 years.  I couldn’t adjust to it--it sounded too formal, too pompous, very unlike our family relationship.  So, on my parent’s 50th wedding anniversary, I told them I was going to start calling them “Mom and Dad.”  I have used those terms of endearment ever since and I think we all felt comfortable with them.

                        A few asides to Times staffers:  1) Al!  Dad wasn’t a compulsive lint picker-upper, but he was a champion whiner and, you’re right, he didn’t like to take out the garbage.  My mother can verify that.  2) Paul!  I’ll bet these comments come in just under 800 words, short enough to be over quickly if it’s boring.  3) The layout artist responsible for the first page of the news section.  My dad would have appreciated the humor of being sandwiched between Hillary Clinton and Paula Jones.

                        A special note from my wife Gail.  My Dad was fond of telling her that he would be happy if he could die with his teeth and his marbles intact.  He got his wish.

                        Finally, to paraphrase what President Pompidou said when De Gaulle died:  Jack Smith is gone--Los Angeles is a widow.

                        Oh, Doug! (Wait for Doug to respond.) I found Crispie!  (Wait for Doug to respond.)  He’s on Narda’s desk.

JACK SMITH TRIBUTE

Bovard Auditorium, University of Southern California

May 4, 1996, 10:00 AM

Remarks made by Curtis B. Smith

                         As our mother wrote in a piece for the 8 Ball Final (the Los Angeles Press Club annual magazine) about 35 years ago, our father had a mistress.  She was the newspaper business.  Not the media business.  The newspaper business.  And so, it was natural for him to cover his own death.  That was what he did.  What he may not have realized was that he was helping others understand and accept their own fate and that they were not alone with their medical problems.

                         Our father, as far back as I can remember, had a habit of diminishing his own skills, accomplishments, and importance.  He told me on many occasions that he thought I was a good father and that he was afraid he hadn’t been.  I never decided whether or not he truly believed he’d been a bad father, but I feel very fortunate that Doug and I had the parents we did.

                         Our parents maintained a strong and supportive family which helped guide us through our youth and our sometimes trying adult challenges and mistakes.  We have both benefited from their skill in maintaining a remarkable balance between being available to us with advice, guidance and help when we needed it and not interfering in our adult decision making.  It must have been very difficult at times to silently watch us make our mistakes.

                         Our father had a good sense of the absurd, and even to the end had a sense of humor, his teeth and his marbles.  Two nights before his death, he was asking for his nightly “fix.”  My mother, my brother, and I all told him several times that the doctors wouldn’t permit him to take anything by mouth.  None of these admonishments had the desired effect of getting him to stop asking.  So, I decided to try another tactic.  He had a very attentive and pretty nurse.  I decided to lay the blame on her.  I figured that a pretty nurse could put him in his place.  I told him Cathy said he couldn’t  have any wine.  He thought about this new obstacle for a minute, with his special quizzical look, and with every ounce of energy he could muster, and our father was not prone to profanity, suggested that Cathy could perform a certain reflexive verb on herself.  Being the professional she was, Cathy was amused.

                         Even though our dad could calmly document his deterioration and death, there was one thing that rattled him.  He revealed what it was in his June 14, 1990 column.

Thursday June 14, 1990

JACK SMITH

Traumatic Hiatus: Taking a Detour to the Dance

Home Edition, View, Page E-1
View Desk

By JACK SMITH

I found out the other day what it would be like not having my wife; I don't think I have the mettle for it.

She woke me up at about 12:30 in the morning. She said she had a terrible pain in her chest. She was moaning and crying out and bending over. Her usual reaction to any indisposition is embarrassment. She doesn't like to think that anything could be wrong with her.

I was alarmed. I decided to wake up our doctor. He said to call the paramedics and have her taken to Huntington Memorial Hospital.

I called 911. A few minutes later a fire engine came. Then the ambulance. One of the ambulance men looked familiar. Big, good-looking man named Jim Goldsworthy. He said, "I remember you."

He was one of the crew that had taken me to County Hospital when I had my "arrhythmic episode." He said, "I didn't think you were going to make it." I almost didn't.

They took my wife away in the ambulance. I followed in my car. By the time I parked and went into the emergency unit she was already in bed with tubes in her arms.

The duty doctor, Dr. Roy Antelyes, said it was too early for a diagnosis. He said he was going to call our doctor, Tom Callister. I hated to think of that poor man having to get out of bed and get dressed, but of course that's his job.

Meanwhile, the duty nurse, Melanie Crowley, was being very cheerful. I don't know how they can be cheerful in those places.

Dr. Callister arrived and began examining my wife. He said they would have to make some extensive tests. It would take time. She told him the annual dinner-dance of her counseling center was Friday night (the next day) and she had to be there.

The doctor shook his head. "No way," he said.

He said the cardiologist would examine her in the morning.

I got home at 3:30 and went to sleep about 4. At 7:30 she called. "Were you asleep?" she asked.

Not only was I worried about her the next day, but I felt guilty when I had to do her chores. She is really overworked. First, I had to feed the cats. She feeds five wild cats every morning. They gather on the front porch, whining and screeching. I hadn't the slightest idea how to feed them. I found a large can of cat food and divided it between two bowls and put them out on the porch and withdrew my hands quickly. If that wasn't enough for them let the beggars starve.

Then I had to feed the dog. Then I had to make coffee. She had given me a list of last-minute chores pertaining to the dinner-dance. I had to go to Supervisor Ed Edelman's office to pick up a resolution. I parked at The Times, walked up hill to Temple and Grand, and found Edelman's office on the eighth floor at the end of a long hall.

Then I had to deliver the resolution to the Southern California Counseling Center, of which she is administrative director. She believes that the dinner-dance can not take place without her. Everyone was stunned to hear that she was in the hospital. She is not supposed to get sick.

Then I had to keep a date to talk to the Friends of the Center at a luncheon in Beverly Hills. By then I was a nervous wreck. Then I drove to the hospital. Because of new construction, the hospital is almost inaccessible. I had to park in a new parking structure and take a shuttle to the hospital itself. I carried a bouquet given me by the luncheon hostess. The hospital is a labyrinth. It took me 20 minutes to find her room, and it was guarded like Ft. Knox. She was in intensive care.

She was watching a soap opera. She said they hadn't found any heart damage but they had to do more tests. She said she was going to get out. I said, "No way."

The next morning she called me and said to stand by. She was going to get out. I was afraid she was simply going to put on her robe and escape. "Don't do anything foolish," I told her.

I had to feed the dog and the cats again. I was really beginning to appreciate her. The phone kept ringing. A deliveryman hammered on the door. Later she called and said to come and get her. She had talked her way out. She told me to bring her some underwear, a dress and some shoes. I found the designated articles and stuffed them in a shopping bag and drove to the hospital.

She was ready to go. "You're not going to the dance," I said hopefully. "You bet I am," she said.

I was frazzled out, but I had to dress in my tux and escort her.

They think she had a hiatus hernia, whatever that is.

 Thank you for coming.