William K. Rutherford

   It's "funny" writing this ... in a sad way.

   Bill Rutherford showed me an obituary 10 years ago. Rutherford, then a managing editor of the now-defunct Arkansas Gazette, taught the introductory media writing course at the University of Arkansas at Little Rock where I studied as an undergraduate.

    He didn't show just any obituary. I guess he could've shown that class of undisciplined minds an obit from somebody famous, maybe a Kennedy or an Elvis or a Christa McAuliffe or a Cary Grant or a Len Bias; somebody that we'd know, that we could maybe relate to in some odd fashion; somebody to interest us in the value of an obituary, that final statement indicating a person had worth of sorts — enough to be written about anyway.

    Rutherford didn't pick any of those people.

   "Mister" Rutherford, as I've called him forever, picked an obituary he had written about his friend, a young intern who worked at the Gazette and happened to make a good impression on a veteran Arkansas journalist who had spent 35 years at the oldest newspaper West of the Mississippi while also serving as a Time magazine correspondent for nearly 30 years.

    To confess, I don't remember the name; but I remember the intern meant something to Rutherford. Perhaps he saw himself in the intern; after all, Rutherford started as a copy clerk in 1956, working his way up to managing editor at the Gazette until Gannett killed it Oct. 19, 1991.

    This feature obit reeked pathos for the loss of a promising life. This obituary showed me nonfictional writing can be beautiful in its own right. It made the thought of writing obits for a living not that bad.

    Of course, we had to write an obituary for the class, one of many papers required to pass the introductory course and get on to the real courses like reporting principles, editing and feature writing. But those papers didn't really strike me as inspiring; they were just something I had to do to get the "A."

    A few years later, I wrote for the campus newspaper, the Forum. Rutherford served as the paper's advisor, in addition to his duties as adjunct professor at UALR while working as managing editor of a daily and weekly newspapers in the north area of central Arkansas.

    Mr. Rutherford (I still couldn't call him Bill, though I reckon it would have been ok) helped me with an "ethical" dilemma — in a slightly frenzied state of mind while working on a master's project, I wrote a slightly humorous piece on 10 highly unethical and deviant things to do to free time for oneself and one's significant others during the final weeks of school. I prefaced the article by noting THIS IS ONLY A BRAIN TEASE, OK?! I ended it with an editor's note indicating the article was meant to be funny as I was under massive amounts of stress. I had covered my bases.

    Mr. Rutherford read the piece, complimented my creative thought process and told me it was ok to run the article if I wanted to. He then gave me a "Father Knows Best" look and explained in detail why I should think real hard about running an article that inadvertently recommended disabling automobiles with pure grain alcohol, pouring sulfuric acid on campus door locks and sending a highly contagious virus into the university computer system that would disable every connected hard drive — and those were the funny things.

    After listening to him talk, I understood how some people can't comprehend black humor. Instead of a joke, someone might have thought I was dead serious, and wouldn't that have been a shame if they really did one of those malicious deeds I championed in jest. Though I really loved the line about a sit-in protesting the discriminatory university practice of producing satisfactory work to receive a passing grade, I agreed: it would have been a shame to have someone steal the teacher's gradebook just to get a missing grade.

    We had a good laugh. We talked about his nephew Jay, my former next-door neighbor and buddy who had died in a car accident. We talked about school. Then he asked me if I planned to run the article — I killed it.

    A few years later, I saw Mr. Rutherford on a trip home from the University of Tennessee. He asked what I thought of the doctoral program and what classes I was taking. We talked about research and his interest in the Freedom of Information act. He grieved me about calling him Mr. Rutherford; I explained it's part of my upbringing. I didn't tell him I respected him too much to call him anything else. Perhaps I should have.

   I got a call from my dad while grading papers. He told me how the family was doing, and then he lowered his voice and told me he thought I should know Mr. Rutherford, "Skeeter" to his friends, had passed away Nov. 24, 1999. As an instructor, I tell my students no one passes away; people die. However, I'd like to think Mr. Rutherford passed away.
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